BOOK REVIEW: The Subtle Art of Not Giving A F*ck

I think I found the book The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck on instagram, propped up beside a lovely coffee mug with a tear-jerking caption that can make Michelle Obama cry. Somewhere around 2016, this book is a hit because number one: it appears on every book website I visit, and number two: damn, the F word sounds nice. Haha.

This is probably the first book that agrees with my rather careless life decisions. Am I REALLY careless? Are my virtues malleable and therefore easily persuaded? Or maybe something more: that I wouldn’t pay attention on my make-up because I have to update my résumé, or I would deliberately pick ukay-ukay than any high-end clothes shop because I don’t know… its way cheaper?

Then it dawned on me: we all have different filters in making decisions. Mine is self-improvement and happiness—EVERYTHING ELSE DOESN’T MATTER. I have known POVERTY since the day I was born, so I would rather be broke and happy than to be rich and miserable. Fuck it all. Therefore, maybe I was never really reckless jerk at all.

No copyright infringement intended 

Sorry Paris Hilton, I don’t want to be you. Please don’t get offended. I mean, I can’t be you because I can’t stomach the horrors of blind dating and fake flattery. YOU CAN. Who likes to be anybody’s trophy girlfriend? It sucks.

Choices, the value of suffering, and finding your self-identity by NOT giving a fuck at all—these are the things that might get you mind blown within 146 pages. It’s really short, actually, given that I’ve read it on PDF. But it’s worth reading, if you are willing to get your ego crushed so new perspective will blossom.

 I could kiss the author right now. Seriously.

BOOK REVIEW: Gapo by Lualhati Bautista

Mostly, novels have two possible outcomes: the good, and a tragic. The resolution may disappoint us, making us understand the frailty of human—on the other hand, there are stories that positively sheds a light of hope for the readers. In the end, the “absoluteness” of some conclusions are far more predictable than others.

The book Gapo, by Lualhati Baustista is way beyond that. Talking about the love-hate (and rather exploitative) relationship between Filipinos and Americans, it made me see that having no change is worse than a tragic ending at all.

Gapo by Lualhati Bautista talks about the tale of Magda, a prostitute in Olongapo, and Michael, a half-Filipino whose heart is seething with anger for Yankees. After a series of struggle between those them, and the clashes of their ideals, Magda still tragically becomes pregnant of her “boyfriend”, which later reveals already a married man.

This circular story sinks hopelessness deeper that after reading, you must accept that reality is so much complicated that what it looks like. No force on earth cannot change the way of Olongapo. No wannabe hero must dare to solve the problems of a sick society. The Filipino-American relationship roots deeper than the garbage exports and lustful Yankees being thrown in our land—for it is ingrained in our mindset, that terrible and disgusting colonial mentality.

I also like the commentaries in-between: Bautista talks about unfair quality of export products, how we are so accepting of their substandard products, and how Filipinos can almost die for the elusive American dream. There’s also a lot of subplot that makes the story alive, like Modesto, Jun, and William.

Overall, the only round character capable of shifting viewpoints is Magda. At the end of the novel, upon knowing that she’s been pregnant again by a Yankee, she ended seeing Michael’s viewpoints. She finally understands that illusory fairytale that every prostitute wants are just blinders that makes Americans more exploitative, and Filipinos more abused and beaten. 

People and Choices

“Neither of those men realized your worth,

because you failed to value yourself highly enough.

A man does not know a woman’s value.

She is the one who determines her value.

The higher you price yourself,

the more he will realize what you are really worth…”

( Woman at point Zero, Nawal El Saadwi )

------- 0o0o0o0 ------

When people walks up to you, their first impressions of you will stick in them. Some may be satisfied by what they see, others not. Some lunatics might follow you around, know every corners of you and even chase who you are and why do you act as such. It doesn’t stop. The extent of a man’s determination to know your soul is both pitiful, charming, and impressive—all at the same time.

But there will be a time when you can’t hold the game anymore—that you need to put your foot down so the truth will eventually spit out. It’s not that you’re whining, nor demanding; not even in the slightest hint that you are being cruel. It’s just that in relationships, people must know where they stand. Who you are in their lives. Which parts are real and which are lies.

People without labels are only better off in their separate ways. At least, they can play their dangerous games without hurting each other so much. 

ESSAY: Convincing myself

(Pardon me some few words of unrhymed poetry. This is made as a diary, not a creative assholes used by English majors to intimidate and isolate the general public haha)

Part of me wants to believe that its for the best. I mean hey, I am the first one who told me that I want to love someone who is completely whole, absolute and emotionally secure. As for their case, I know I can never get by to people who can NEVER be satisfied with anything. In the first place, they stole me my intelligence, wit, and personal identity, which can take YEARS to rebuild and recreate--and I must admit, him playing in the dark signifies the dependency of his love. It actually feels safe to live with him, with all that chivalry and sensitivity, but then, is that the price that I must pay for that blissful feeling? A loss of character? A life unworthy to everyone? A running contest living for vindication?

I have fought far too many devils and died a million times in the name of being "worthy". If you will be my another social casualty, then let it be, for the books and ideas and lifestyle I have given to you will always be a part of you. As for my case, I think that is enough; my semi-self in your breathing, pieces of me intact in your choices, my limbs and bones in decision-making, and my heart in every word you say (even with other women).

This is probably the most irrelevant thing that I must say, but your career will take you back to me anyway. In any other way, crossroads will reappear, loopholes will refreshen, but time will only orchestrate the perfect timing of everything. I hope, by then, that your attitude will change, whole altogether, without being overly dependent on one women whom you will circle your world into. God knows that the weight of your world is heavy, TOO HEAVY, for a woman of five mouths to feed, an ideal mind to keep, and a depressing life challenged and always lacking in material wealth. Haven't you realized the stretch of our living? You in a mansion and comfort, while I in a struggling home. I don't even know why you convince yourself that I am a good idea.

God only knows if this must stand against all. Right now, for this matter, with the persons involved circling in this society, with all his friends and enemies, particularly in his state of mind, we both need some peace of mind and thinking lapses for personal bloom.

P.S.,

That simply proves that you don't value yourself, and that you only get validation from other people that can say positive, and most probably lies, things that reflect your worth.

(originally posted on facebook notes, dated March 24, 2016)

Book Review: Kung Alam Nyo Lang by Ricky Lee

Ever had a children’s story that has an underlying creepy lesson inside? Maybe, you have made familiar with your favorite story when you were a kid, never knowing it’s more than a bedtime fairytale? With the Ricky Lee’s latest venture, Kung Alam Nyo Lang, four childhood stories of coming-of-age will send you the chills of adulthood… in a child-like setting.

Avoiding spoilers, I tried (so hard) not to give away too many details of the book.

Ang Nawawalang Diyos

            A cliché story of discovering yourself by finding God (and not Nemo), the story spices up with Carlo’s two pets, his dog and cat. Since this narrative is already dime a dozen, it seems just the “click bait” of the book to reach the common audience—but for me, it’s my least favorite.

Ang Sayaw ng mga Letra

            I didn’t see the ending coming. Depression can seep in with years of neglect and denial. Inches away from the ending, it urges you to look at mental illnesses in a different light.

Si Inggo at ang Santo Kuwatro

            Reopening the issues of bullying, it teaches us power of word of mouth. It helps you realize how it can move people—it can haunt you, inspire you, surprise you, and yes, it can also be twisted for personal glory.

           

Nang Mapagod si Kamatayan

            The defamiliarization of immortality is genius.

                         Even though my PHP 350.00 only lasted for 2 hours (excluding the time I prepared for my midnight coffee), trust me it’s a good read. In fact, my emotions are running wild as I flick through the pages. It’s the type of dark stories that make you see a flash of light. Giving us a tinge of hope, it signals the readers that emotional warzones of growing up has a rainbow.

People change with time. There are things that happened to a person in his childhood and years later they seem to him alien and strange. I am trying to decipher that child. Sometimes he is a stranger to me. When you think about when you were 14, don't you feel a certain alienation? 

- Gunter Grass

BOOK REVIEW: Boys are Dogs by Leslie Margolis

When we were young, prepubescent problems seems like forever. Add the idea of parent’s separation, moving to another city, not seeing your friends anymore …and dealing with boys. Luckily, here is a book for sixth graders that teaches them how to train them, like a dog does.

Boys are dogs by Leslie Margolis is about Annabelle, an 11-years old student who just moved in as a sixth grader at Birchwood Middle School. She carries with a lot of changes going on about her. Her mother got a new boyfriend. She moved to another state. She switched schools, where she has barely no friends at all. One more thing: she has a new dog she needs to train. Only with a puppy-training book on her hand, she needs adjusting with a dog who eats up and chews on everything, and dealing with schoolyard bullies at the same time.

She has learned that training her dog Stripe, who eventually becomes Pepper, is not really different from standing up from boys who calls her names, snatches her homework, and steals her friends’ tables in the canteen.

Having a catchy title, not to mention derogatory for some, this books is clearly for young women—dealing with a pack of wild dogs called boys (her words, not mine!). The story is entertaining and easy-read, plus the humor is witty.  Contrary to a casual girlhood crush relationship, the theme is quite different, especially in developing the reader’s confidence department. It teaches a strong wit among the newbies in school. The simplistic vocabulary is impressive, because the story is relevant and classic difficulties of a child. Reflective as she is, Annabelle proves that emotional struggles can be solved slowly, through his puppy-training book.

Annabelle changes a lot through the chapters, turning herself into a “dominant dog” for Pepper and Birchwood boys. The other characters as well, has learned how to adjust to changes. Her stepfather Ted whom he calls “Dweeble” has managed to talk to her—though not entirely successful in keeping a connection to her new daughter. Then Jackson, an eighth grader who calls her “Spazabelle”, soften a bit until he gets along with her. Mia and Sophia, on the other hand, finally grows into young women who has their own eye candies. Clearly, this is a coming-of-age book full of problems and self-discoveries.

While some stayed the same, but the entirety of the story expects a lot of coping and growing up. It is light-hearted yet not boring until the end of the page. Young readers can relate to the theme of the story—the glories and all its mishaps.  

An Open Letter of a Survivor

Dear Divine Intervention,

        Teach him not to invade other people’s affairs, outburst when things are not going his way, and cage up people’s wishes—through his dominance and influence—due to his selfishness and greediness in fortune and limelight.

        A quarter, or even the tiniest part of his opulence is never my need nor desire; sympathy to his victims is the wood to the fire I’ve been trying to fuel for over a semester. A fire that warns me whenever I had to fight. This time, this same flame I will thrust against him; for I have been challenged by this bitter and frustrated man.

        He’s a man of DESPERATION, and I once pitied him because he always talks about bitterness, not until I was disenchanted by his soft façade, realizing the fact that he’s exploiting his merciful features for the society to sympathize his life.

       

        Always remind yourself that just like everybody else, you are also human. Like you that is trying to copy the rest of who we are, you will, someday, CRUMBLE.

Sincerely, 

The girl you played fire with

Reading and Modern day Sorrow

Reading and Modern day Sorrow

We read to weep but why do we need it when we have our own lives to deal with? Ah, it is the exasperation in blindness, the burst of thoughts, the orgasm of possibilities, the trapdoor of the magical act. This is the escapist key to pleasure Eden. Gossips are what we aim for, for we aren’t satisfied yet in our OWN lives—we like another one.  Sometimes more happy, more enriching, more adventurous and sometimes more deprived, sadder and uglier but yes, we all like to live a million lives. People are never satisfied with a single existence; that is why we escape to the concepts of afterlife (which I believe in, which makes me another escapist) and reincarnations to make themselves believe that after bodies got rotten, our existence doesn’t just stop there.

We need a continuation of our own drama, even though it hurts because we are so used to suffering that we associate it always to living—heedless of its naiveté. So unconsciously or subconsciously, people connects “living” with “suffering”. It is the hurt, sacrifice, bleeding and choking that makes us feel human. To suffer is human.

I find people saying “they hate drama” every once in a while—but then, aren’t we living to suffer? As Buddhism claims, life is full of suffering. People who complains too much are so spoiled and laid back that they forgot they will die eventually. I call these people dehumanized, for they are no better than a computer that abides at your command. They are not human anymore, for their feelings have degraded into a worthless machine incapable of thinking and appreciating a treasure that’s already in front of them.

Acting like a machine, however, doesn’t make them one. People will eventually receive their own taste of free fall, hitting rock bottom and being beaten several times. When it finally comes, the dehumanized would think that they would survive just by their heads. NO! The safest way to get along with this foolishness is not logic, pen and paper, or back and white; but of hearts, acceptance and forgiveness. It is not dictatorship that wins the people, but free will. Solve equations and draw blueprints every day, huddle in your small room for security, but remember: life is much more enriching when you let your guards down, walls collapse to taste the sweet air tender against your cheeks of the Grand Canyon of unsolved mysteries.

Through reading, we can be a royalty, a victim, a criminal, a conman, a clown, or maybe a fool. I find it fulfilling that these simple pages and thin strips will make you strong, thick and rich. Again, we read to discover a thousand lives—like a ghost floating, a guardian angel, a spectator of a show you’ll never get a part at. Swim and puddle at the thoughts of your mind.

The Parable of Deaf Parents

Let’s say, you have deaf parents.

For 20 years or so, you are raised that nobody is calling you out when you slam the door hard, sing so loud the neighbors are complaining, turned up the music in the highest volume, or even make sex sounds (haha). All of which sprouts from the fact that you have deaf parents.

Then, in college, you traveled far and got a roommate in your apartment. With the same habits that you have grown accustomed to, you STILL slam the door hard, be loudmouth, and turned up your music extremely loud. Your roommate got angry with it, you don’t understand why! You believed that you are not doing anything wrong! Again, all of which sprouts from the fact that you have deaf parents.

It works the same way with negative, toxic, demeaning, criticizing, cruelly teasing people. I have heard stories of dysfunctional families who discredits a family member’s opinions, lash out harsh criticisms, or simply be apathetic to one person. Turns out, when they acculturate to a bigger tribe—hence, the workplace or school—they are the selfish, greedy, overbearing person who disrespects people’s emotional boundaries. Where did that come from? From their environment.

Somebody has hardwired their behavior, one way or another, to be insensitive of the common etiquette that isn’t really common to deaf—or should I say, unresponsive—parents and guardians.

People imitate from what they see, hear, or experienced. The grace, etiquette, and polite vocabularies are insufficient because in the first place, the upbringing they have has a total LACK of it. How can you exude something you haven’t seen yet?

What I’ve realized is that, nobody has ever shown them politeness, social decorum, diplomacy and grace. Their social influence thinks that it’s “normal” to have fun at the expense of talking loud publicly.

CRUELTY SHOULDN’T BE ANYONE’S STANDARDS FOR NORMALCY.

Why do I believe that? I know there is a better support system out there. Rather than succumbing myself into useless lies and exaggerations of other people and swallow it as my truth, I would get direct experiences and try my best to draw a conclusion out of it. I never incline to unreliable resources. I don’t defend what I don’t know or haven’t heard yet. I take my time to solve a problem, even a year. I never believe in gossips until I experience it myself. I may get hurt, that is already taken into account, but at least I know where I get my source: the world.

Get experiences from the world. Not from Facebook. Or advertisements. 

I'm tired being a woman.

I'm tired being a woman.

But I am born with a vagina, so I have to deal with it.

I hate the way they assume you like boys at the tender age of TWELVE. OR NINE. MAYBE YOUNGER.

I don't like the pressure of being pretty, of wearing petty make-up, or being graceful. I constantly rant at the futility of it all as I read Miss Temptation by Kurt Vonnegut or Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. We are aiming for beauty, yet we know that we are judged for it. I am intensely against the petty "girl clothes" and "tight pants" while at the same time, embracing the "Don't judge me" rationale in our heads. The living irony of modern feminism is getting questionable, even suspicious.

The inexplicable theories of "Why He Doesn't Call" or "Why Do Men Cheat" on magazines and dumb newspapers makes me feel that my vagina is just worth a penny... maybe cheaper. The vicious cycle of bigotry and sexism is making me gag. Not to mention, being a woman means you have to keep up with "dating strategies" and "blah blah talks" of arrogant men, if you want to call them one.

I'm tired being a woman. It is a moral and social responsibility. It was never easy.

HOW CAN BEAUTY BE A CURSE? https://www.quora.com/How-can-beauty-be-a-curse/answer/Mable-Clark?srid=htASM

NOTHINGNESS and everything in between

Taking strides on my early 20's, I have already given up on people with soft facades but demented characters. These are some moments when you know injustice bites most.


I cannot give you your happiness.

You assume that you might get some of the sparkles in my eyes, the glamour of having me next to you, latched on your arm while some stranger looks at us and you are proud that you have me for the time being of your satisfaction.

No.

I cannot give you your success.

You assume that your ways are my ways, and you believe that you can measure me a yardstick that measures others as well, that you PREDICT that the rulers of this insane world has the same insane meter stick on an insane rat-race and knightly pipe dreams. Everybody is rich and nobody is happy. You also believe that you can emulate what I do, so you can be happy as well. Hearts can't be carbon copied; each is as authentic as the grains of sand. The charm you are looking for is always elusive, and you always think that you can have it all. The problem with humans is they consider themselves superior, that they know everything, and they can rationalize it all.

No.

I cannot give you your freedom.

Even The God you pushed away hasn't given you anything because YOU claim that you can do it all by yourself. The eyes that you use to see the world is a vicious one, you don't want to be unheard, to be ignored, to be unworshipped. YET, you don't want to be understood, because being understood means that we have found a way to connect with you--and for the first time, you have felt human. You don't want to be a human being, as far as you let us know.

The ESCAPE is so vast within you that you believe that the universe is yours, and that you believe that you are misunderstood because you are so smart the world doesn't understand you; but what if we do? What if inside, we can see you as a lonely, frustrated loser squashed into an environment that you have to feel hostile with.

I cannot give you everything.

BECAUSE you are empty. Empty shells aren't meant to be filled, because they are hollow. You are the black hole in the vast, colorful universe, getting what you want from us. You destroy everything you touch. The boredom, anxiety, loneliness, frustrations, fear, anger, vengeance and paranoia reeks through your eyes that you are an EMPTY SHELL forever and ever. You trample our spirits just to feel you are better. We are not allowed to talk back because you are the KING, and we are your dominions. You talk in metaphors so nobody will understand you; but our "ignorance" tell otherwise... and everyone can see it, they just over interpret it and give dumb excuses for your kingship. Or your Abuse. Or your Words. Or your Intimidation.

You are a winner in body but desolate in soul.

I cannot give you my heart in exchange of your spiteful soul.

There's too much at risk.

Sincerely,
That Girl