Category: X-Young Love

This is it, I’m moving back home

Rhiza13 Comments

And my blue room is waiting for me!!

It’s going to be one super busy and stressful week. I still have a lot of packing to do, calls to make, transfers to schedule, bills to settle, loadss of cleaning up, last minute shopping, changing ISP, aghhh. I just want this week over and done with already!

But I’m going to hold on to this picture in my head, my room waiting for me back home. And Mommy’s cooking. And Isaac being in the room just above mine. And being around human beings again! And yayy someone’s coming home soon too! <3 And and annnnnd, September is here can you believe it?!

Dude. Things are sooo looking up. :)

But I’m going to contain my excitement and go through my loooong to-do list now. Be back once I’ve settled back in.

Blue has always been my color

Rhiza15 Comments

I’m moving back to Caloocan in about *counting the days in my head* two weeks (wow, time flies!), and with the construction of my new room happening this week, I had to pick a color to paint my walls with. Why thank you, Carrie Bradshaw, for having such a fabulous (fictional) apartment for inspiration. Yesterday, I finally chose my color swatches, deciding on a color that’s familiar and comfortable, not to mention I love: Blue.

Check out these photos of Carrie’s renovated apartment in Sex and the City 2. (Segue: do writers in New York City really earn so much that they’re capable of keeping a pad as snazzy as this one?)

carrie-bradshaw

carrie-bradshaw2

My love affair with blue

Growing up with two brothers, my juvenile interests leaned towards boy stuff — watching PBA, collecting basketball cards, playing roller blades, engaging at pusoy dos marathons with my brothers, wearing lose shirts and baggy pants, and preferring non-feminine colors like black and blue. I was 16 years old when, taking over my Lola’s room in the second floor of our house in Caloocan, I decided that I wanted to paint the room blue. To be overly redundant, I asked my Mom to buy me blue curtains and blue bed sheets and pillow cases. Turning 18 years old, my parents threw a debut party for me, and it didn’t take me a minute to decide my color motif. Perhaps the only blue thing that I wasn’t crazy about in college were UP’s blue books, lol, can I just say that those little exam booklets were the bane of my college existence??!

Blue books aside, it came to a point when blue, to me, became a safe zone, hence, when I started moving out of life’s little comfort zones, I started exploring a bit on my color preference too. Pink, brown, red, green, purple — my color dateline, in that order, representing eras of my life. Invite me for coffee and I’ll share my color story with you. ;)

And now it’s blue again.

You know how it feels like when you’re back with an old love affair after exploring and testing other options, realizing that he is still the love of your life, maybe you didn’t even stop loving him after all? Forgive me for the tacky illustration, but that’s how blue is like to me. Home, puppy love turned love-of-my-life, the color that I want to wake up to in the morning, surround me the whole day, the last thing I see before I close my eyes. I’ve seen all the other colors, but it all comes back to blue. I can’t wait to see how my blue room is going to look (and feel) like.

I’m getting to know a whole new version of myself lately.

That version of me who welcomes the idea of settling down, who chooses the warmth of the familiar over the thrill of taking risks, who prefers being surrounded by family rather than party-loving friends, who labels things according to whether they’re temporary or eternal and chooses only those which will last.

Choosing blue, somehow, feels like a representation of all that.

And and and.. I’m doing that thing again where I over-analyze on trivial things like color preferences and being all melancholy again about getting old(er) and wondering again about things like, if they say quarter-life ends at 27, does this mean I’m, at this point in time, having mid-life crisis?

What’s my point again?

I forgot.

Oh, and thanks, Carrie Bradshaw.

Life is too short to be so afraid of Friday nights

Rhiza

Friday nights are supposed to be spent with someone, I always thought. I call it “Friday night sickness,” the cure for which would be a bunch of friends for company, or, in the absence of companions, an impulsive shopping spree with lots of cash to spend. At one point in my life, I considered being caught dead alone on a Friday night as one of my greatest fears, next to my macbook crashing and not being able to have babies.

But I realize now, as I’ve been spending more and more Friday nights by myself, that it’s not so bad spending nights like this just being quiet, watching droplets of rain trickle down glass windows while cars pass by in the background like little bokehs, and listening to the hushed voices of lovers and friends chatting inside coffee shops.

It’s Friday night, I’m alone, and I’m in love.

In love with life, in love with NOW, in love with the promise of things to come. I want to remember these days, these Fridays I get to spend alone. I want to dry them up, like rose petals placed in between the pages of a hard bound book, and preserve them until they’re old and yellow and forgotten. And then maybe one day, accidentally or on purpose, I’ll come across these memories, remember how it’s like, and laugh at the silliness of it all.

Tonight I realize that I need to chillax and learn to not be so afraid of being alone.

(Thoughts that are too long for twitter. Posted from my mobile phone.)

The sad thing about movies

Rhiza2 Comments

I like watching movies, often by myself, sometimes in the company of friends. See I’m not that autistic! Like the other night, I watched Sex and the City 2 with Joni and Maemae (don’t you just love repeating one-syllable names twice?), and okay, I confess I already saw SATC2 by myself last week but thought I’d watch it again because I like watching movies more than once like that.

If my life is a movie

Photograph taken one October day at Universal Studios (LA), 2008.

Anywayy, J, M, and I — we love talking and analyzing movies (and TV series) whenever we get together, among other things. We can dissect Lake House to no end and still have more to discuss the next chance we get. Sometimes, we would talk about fictional characters as if they’re our friends, and contemplate about their fictional lives with a passion. And that’s just the thing with movies. They move us, wimmen (maybe not all, forgive me for generalizing), into feeling as if we’re somehow involved, making us analyze our own lives in comparison.

But what really makes me sad (or frustrated) about watching movies is the element of time.

In movies, 20 years is something that can be jammed into a 4-minute video montage ala music video. (Think Ellie & Carl’s life together, my most favorite 4 minutes in the history of Pixar). In movies, you only have to endure 2 hours to know what’s going to come out of a story. Letters sent back and forth over a period of three years while trying to keep a long distance affair (ala Dear John) are made to look endurable. Ten years in Carrie Bradshaw’s life becomes a mere 2-minute narration.

In movies, it’s easy to just insert a blank screen with the words “after [so-and-so number of] years”, and conveniently leave out those years off the story altogether. But truth is, that transition, that part which gets cut off from the movie, is the most agonizing of all.

I kinda feel like I’m in that part of my life right now — that blank screen. I know I’m heading towards my “somewhere, someday,” but waiting and working for it is soo agonizing that I sometimes wish I have a golden thread so I can skip through parts, or, just like the movies, pull out that transitional blank screen. Except that this is real life, and one life can’t be all defining moments happening one after another, it has to have the long monotonous moments in between too. I mean, sure I don’t want to skip through 10 years of my life and miss out on actually living it. It’s really just the transitions that make me anxious and impatient.

And this, my friends, is what I mean by Hollywood’s way of making me over analyze things. And frankly, I’m quite not sure yet if that’s a good thing or not.

Also, I blame this to the hormones, poor defenseless hormones. And the coffee.

Thank you, Delgado Place

Rhiza10 Comments

I don’t know if it’s a girl-thing, but I have this peculiar ability of attaching memories to places. I remember places by the way they once made me feel, or by memories I thought I already forgot. It’s a curse and a gift at the same time. Curse, because even when I don’t want to remember what happened here or there, I can’t help but do. Gift, because that also means that I get to contain memories in places, hence avoiding those places will ultimately make me forget and help me move on.

Bye Delgado

Exhibit A. Sometime in 2006, I had to avoid Greenbelt for one whole year because I had to forget a college boyfriend. Typical, I know, but effective nonetheless. Exhibit B. In 2007 when my Dad died, I had to avoid being in his office for a couple of months because it’s impossible to be there and not cry over the reality that we’re never going to see him there ever again. Exhibit C. In my last day in New York in 2008, I had to ask the cab driver to pass by 34th street on the way to the airport. Just one last ride through my most favorite spots in Manhattan, I thought, because I knew that after that ride I would start to forget. And that time I didn’t want to forget just yet.

In the past 5 years that I lived in Ortigas, Pasig, my moving from one apartment to another was characterized by some huge transition in my life — my Dad’s death, that big career move, a relationship that ended badly, etc — as if it’s become a coping mechanism of sorts. Consciously or unconsciously, I wasn’t quite sure. I just know that for me to be able to transition, I had to start over in a new place, akin to flipping a fresh new page in a notebook.

Six is the number of apartments here in Pasig that I moved in and out of in the span of 5 years. Anyone can beat that record? If moving is a degree in college, it would’ve been time for me to graduate by now. But I guess it’s not time to graduate from this moving around just yet.

In all this apartment-hopping, Delgado Place was where I stayed the longest. Not only was this low-rise condominium the prettiest and the most secured I’ve ever lived in, it’s also the one place that actually felt like second home to me. The guards and caretakers have become an extended family. “Adobo To”, that karinderya (eatery) across the street, has become my most favorite lunch hangout.

I loved living here. I honestly believed I would stay longer, that this was going to be my last stop, but hey, life’s funny that way. Often, the things you thought you were so sure of, you find out later, are just mere phases in your life. Nothing is certain, I learn over and over, so you’ll have to be ready to pack-up, leave the unnecessary baggage behind and go when God says it’s time to go.

Tomorrow I make my 7th move. I have been feeling sentimental about it the past two weeks, boxing up everything in this room that once made it feel like home. But I’m almost ready, and excited to make new memories in the next city I’m going to conquer.

“..and with that, we say goodbye to Delgado Place,” Mae tweeted after she & Joni spent one last night here in Delgado with me. Glad to know I’m not the only one sad to leave this place behind.

So yeah. Thank you, Delgado Place, I just had to say (and blog). It was lovely spending 2008 and 2009 under your roof.

Christmas is the Saddest of all Holidays

Rhiza19 Comments

Today they put up Christmas lights in our condominium’s lobby. And as I lingered in the lobby tonight on my way out to get coffee, I suddenly remembered my mom and how she shed a tear or two as we passed through rows of lanterns displayed along Ortigas extension a couple of weeks ago.

Christmas lights are evil. (I don’t know why I even thought of putting up those little light bulbs in my room.) They’re among the first indicators that Christmas is near, along with Christmas carols and the much-coveted Starbucks planners. And it’s sad, and torturous, to be reminded of Christmas.

Don’t you just think that Christmas is the saddest holiday ever? Or is it just me?

I think there’s something about it that makes people feel melancholy, inspite of the holiday rush and the shopping frenzy and the colorful wrappers and gifts. It’s.. Sad. Like you just want it over and done with, get what I’m saying?

If I wasn’t blogging this thru my mobile phone, this is the part where I google and link back to that study that claims that suicide rates shoot up during the Christmas holidays, and maybe try to make sense out of this feeling I get whenever this time of the year comes by.

Don’t get me wrong. I like Christmas, and I acknowledge it to be the day in the year when we celebrate Christ’s birth, when we remember that salvation came to mankind in the form of the Father’s only Son.

And well, I love that I can spend nights like this with a good book while sipping Toffee Nut Latte at Starbucks, something you can’t do any other time of the year. (I just kinda wish they’d stop playing all countless versions of Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer already.)

It’s just that.. I really think that it’s the most melancholy of all the holidays, Christmas, and I’m kinda wondering if someone else feels the same way too.

Any other human being who feels the same way? Pls. Let me know. Let’s have coffee and be sad together. My treat. I need 5 more Starbucks stickers.

[Posting with my mobile phone]