The Secret Quest to Become a Legend

I spend most of the weekend sleeping with the weather perfectly suited to just snuggling in bed under a blanket with lots of pillows to keep company. I would wake up after a short nap, some three hours or so then go around the house and do some stuff like eat and use the bathroom and then go back to bed. In a few short minutes, I'd be sound asleep again. I found the exercise refreshing. Sleeplessness has been plaguing me for the last couple of weeks and my body managed to find the right moment to force me down, the weather cooperating.

Saturday was all sleep with some chat with friends, a few TV time. Sunday was another story. A person can only sleep so much after all.  I spent a lot of time watching TV and finally getting around to reading the whole of Ecclesiastes and The Alchemist. It has been years since I started reading both but I guess we get to do somethings when we are reading to do it.

Now, Ecclesiastes is famous for the poem which begins with "For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven." Personally, I love it because the entire book begins with verses, "The words of the Teacher, son of David, king in Jerusalem: 'Meaningless! Meaningless!' says the Teacher. 'Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.'"

As you know, I was a teacher and one of my regrets was that I was not able to quote this passage at the start of the class. It would have put everything I taught them and everything they learned in perspective.

The Alchemist on the other hand is famous for the quote, "When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you achieve it." It's essentially a fable on positive-thinking, fictional version of the book and DVD, The Secret. This one I have not had the chance to read or watch.

In any case, I found several complementary themes between the message of Ecclesiastes and The Alchemist. Both books by and large are telling you to live your life to the fullest, achieve your dreams, if you can but enjoy the ride if you cannot.

Ecclesiastes repeats the theme of enjoying one's self. "There is nothing better for a man than that he should eat and drink and find enjoyment in his toil." This is rephrased throughout the book, presented again and again, telling the reader to be enjoy himself for there is nothing else in to do. In context, this enjoyment is presented as a gift of God. It asks, "Apart from [God], who can eat or who can have enjoyment?"

All men will die, the book says, whatever you do, whoever you are. We all return to the same dust that we came from. It is only fitting that you should enjoy yourself while you can. In the end, "time and chance happen to [us] all."

On the other hand, The Alchemists, counsels the reader to do what he want to do for that is his life purpose. Everything will fall into place if and when he does it. The book calls it one's Personal Legend, something one must fulfill. This presents enjoying life as living out whatever one's heart truly desires. Living one's life in pursuit of that dream is living life where "every second... is an encounter with God." Again, the summit of all these is God Himself.

Now, in Ecclesiastes, life is presented as something rather bleak, rather unfair."[T]here are righteous men to whom it happens according to the deeds of the wicked, and there are wicked men to whom it happens according to the deeds of the righteous." Things just happen to you regardless of what you do.

As for The Alchemist, it does not say that the realization of the dream will be easy. "[B]efore a dream is realized, the Soul of the World tests everything that was learned along the way. That's the point at which most people give up." The journey is not all easy after all, but reward awaits the persevering.

In a way, this is a partial answer to the problem posed by Ecclesiastes. All things are tested and in the end, we may only get so much out of life, we might as well enjoy it while we can. We can try to persevere until the end but well, shit happens. Things don't go our own way and we have to let go.

Ultimately, Ecclesiastes puts an emphasis on the inevitable demise of man and his judgment by God. While it advises people to live their lives as they please, it cautions "know that for all these things God will bring you into judgment." In this way, it diverges from The Alchemist which focuses on the fulfillment of one's dreams or the attempt thereof  while one still lives.

I guess, what I got from reading both books is that I must do whatever I can to fulfill my dreams but in the end, it's what comes after that matters. All my dreams should be aligned to that.

Makes Me Wonder

It took a long time before I got to write again in this blog. Judging from the lack of comments, no one is left of my three regular readers. It can only be expected of course, having not posted any tissue-paper-worthy-scribbles here since November last year when I mustered that last of my what passes for my creativity in order to spew out my life-draining rant against my self-imposed hell.

I tried to write one or two posts in the time between that and June this year. There were stories worthy of posting, happy experiences in fact but I just did not have the heart to put everything down into writing. My inkwell was dry. Work had cracked the bottle and it all dripped away.

For a long time, I lacked the desire to get a new one and fill it up again. Something came up which moved me to write again. It's something I had not expected and I had no one else to tell so I just had to write it down. Thankfully, no one's reading.

Nonetheless, I hope to get back to writing senseless stuff. Serious stuff gives me headaches.

Goes Whichever Way

In Braavos they have a saying, "Valar Morghulis!" It translates to the Westerosi "All men must die."

I used to not fear death but I feared dying. The way in which I would pass on into the next life or into the void, whichever you believe, is a very scary prospect for me. I do not wish to die suddenly nor do I wish to die a slow and painful death. I pray that I would die peacefully at a right age when I have done all that needed doing, not yet a shadow of a man but not before I passed my prime. This is a new thing for me. Before, I was ready to die at the age of 25.

After college, I had a five-year plan which included me teaching at the university while I study to earn my Master's degree. I only got to fulfill half of that plan. I got to teach at the university but I fell short of earning my Master's. I guess by the end of the 5th year, I should have gone on ahead and sought a different thing to do but I careless with time and had no real plans so I just deluded myself with the idea that I could still fulfill my plans, if only a little later. It never came. Three years later, I found myself without work at the university but I got in another job in some telco.

It was a bad experience. I had planned to fail. With no safety nets, I was thrust into another job, not a bad job but one that I needed more than they needed me. The change in the working environment was not that difficult to getting used to but I got bored so soon.

It appears that working in a company is purely clockwork. Once you got around knowing what needed doing, it was just that day in and day out. It was worse since I got assigned to business support which meant I just prepared reports generated using some parameter change in some existing script or program. It made me very unhappy. I was doing something a lot easier than what I used to ask my students to work on in class.

So I decided to find a different work and another one came up. Some former colleagues in the university where tapped to be part of this US-based, start-up. It was exciting, they say. We're the pioneers of the company. We're setting the pace and are building the company.

I guess, the word 'pioneers' should have tipped me off. The pioneers, well, they did all the hard work for the future generations and we did all the hard work. The first six months passed like years for me. I wanted out after only half a year.

The pay was good though. For the first time, I was able to build up my savings. I actually had money in the bank that did not get drained down to the maintaining balance before every pay day. So I decided to stay. I sold my time and soul for cash. I can never get the former back and I just pray I have enough strength to get the latter back.

Part of me died everyday I went to work but the people are good and I was not about to leave while there were tasks that needed doing. I was still a dutiful man, if barely. I did what was asked and I did it with as much as I could put in it. However, I no longer cared. I just waited for the payday. Sure I got up everyday and did what I needed to do but I no longer put in my heart or what's left of it. I had nothing more to give. I am burning out. I am a dying ember.

I wanted out but I let myself be remain until now because I do not know where to go next. I no longer know what I want to do with my life. All my dreams have faded away. I have allowed myself to die before my prime. I have become a shadow of a man. It does not matter whether I die at any moment. The world will never know, it will not care.

I made wrong turns along the way and somehow decided that I should just let life drag me along instead of trying to find my way again. I guess I died six years ago.

Looking back, I believe I died at just the right time.

I hope one day I get to live again, though.

Puppy Sick Infatuation

I am infatuated like I'm in highschool, staring dreamily at the object of my desire. I wander off in bouts of lengthy daydreaming, remembering stories of pure fiction with me and my crush in it. It's intoxicating and most of the time, I feel heady, drunk with my own passion, swayed by my own desires.

A friend spoke truth when she said that love begins with a decision, a act of the logical mind to allow one to feel something for another person. From there, the flood gates are opened. You will have to wrestle with the raging emotions in order to regain a semblance of order, to get a foothold and take stock and remember who you were before all the disaster.

I must admit that I was smitten when I got a first look but I let it pass and months later, I got a second look, and a third, and well, shit. I kept looking. Then, one day, I decided to let myself feel, the same way I felt before. The feeling I swore I would not allow myself to feel again. I took a chance. I made an effort.  I spoke first and we talked.

At first, it was small talk but later we were sharing personal things. A little superficial of course: brands of clothes, toiletries and the like. Later came the safe family stories then the embarrassing personal stories. Still later some secrets. I wonder still, why I felt I could share those things that day but I guess I kind of figured it was not a big deal. At least, not when I am sharing it with this person, the one I decided I would like.

Well, we shared stuff. Openly speaking of things I would prefer to tell my confessor.

It was through this sharing that I realized that we were traveling on the same path but are on different parts. Several miles apart with only our talking as the means of connection. It would be next to impossible for us to walk together. Perhaps in another quantum universe, we are together, happy, content. Here, though, we're happy and content in our separate ways and I am made less so with my foolish decision to feel something.

So I decide every night to move on tomorrow but I cannot. I wake up convince I have moved on but I have not. I look forward to Fridays when we could meet and hate every other day especially the weekends since we cannot talk. At least I don't have any excuse to send a message but I make things up and I guess out of courtesy I get a reply.

I know I should not assume anything of the times I got words of encouragement when I complained about work. Kindness is more common than we are led to believe. I know that even though that time, when I was the only one who needed to work late, we both stayed online and chatted until I got offline. I really felt down that time and I know that it was a sign of friendship.

What am I saying? Nothing. Just rambling really. I just needed to get this one out.

Not All Grain that Fall and Die Grow and Bear Fruit

Let me put on my faux psychologist hat now and talk about the victim mentality and how I have become a willing slave to my work after being repeatedly raped and abused and cared for in a systematic or to be precise in an organized chaotic matter so that I am left confused and submissive. Every single day, I die a little death and as I put myself to sleep, what remains of me is more of a husk wanting to be used more and more the next day.

To be clear, my work is not willfully doing this to me. Work after all is just work. It's just that it turned out that this work has become for me an abusive monster.

It's not that the work is impossible but it's just the way it's setup. I thought that working from home would give me a lot of free time to work on other interests. Instead, what is supposed to be a simple 9 to 6 job became an unbounded cornucopia of tasks which ate up all my time. The problem was as my workplace is the same as my home, time became a meaningless element. So long as I was online, it appears that I am still duty-bound to work.

I wake up everyday looking forward to the end of the day when I would no longer have to work but then what is the end of the day for me? It appears that the end of the day comes when I am no longer needed or no longer online. It does not happen that often of course as I may be called up to go back to work.

So I just go through the motions of the day looking forward to the time when I can peacefully go offline. When I do, I am plagued by concerns of what was going on and whether I could relax or would I be receiving a call to haul me back to work.

Every activity at home which once provided me with comfort and joy are now tainted with being part of the job. Work never ends while I am at home. Work ends when I am without and that does not happen very often now. By the time I go offline or when weekend comes along, I am just too exhausted by the weight of having to force myself to go through my work.

The pay is good. I cannot complain about that. However, I feel like I am becoming less and less of who and what I want to be. I am becoming a soulless automaton.

I just do not know where to go.

The Late Great Highschool

Back in the day when grades appear to matter, I was lucky enough to have exuded enough character to be tagged as a potential do-gooder, leader type. Of course, it was all a matter of personal taste among the teachers, for which I am eternally grateful that I was not relegated to the backdrop and was in fact grouped with the smart kids. Like all those who were trained in the archaic theories of education, my school decided to make me into all things I am not and would not want to be. I was made to sing, to dance, to act on stage instead of focusing on and honing my greatest strength which was slouching around.

Anyway, I cannot really complain. It removed a lot of shyness from me and put in a lot of shame. To this day, I have not the courage to speak up when needed having been shamed into silence. Sure we got freebies, like grades, in exchange for being forced to sell tickets to fund whatever project the white penguins could think of.

Still, I have very happy memories of highschool and factoring in the fact that I was bullied in my first year, it still was the best years of my life. Since my good friend Doctor Immortus has regurgitated another HS memory pearl, which this time is not something I wished died with the last pope, I decided to pour out a few of my best, funny, happy memories of Highschool.

I guess my favorite year was my second year. A lot of things happened that year and I was blessed to have been put in the same section as the really crazy and unruly kids in school.

It was the year when during Health class, our teacher clad in porn-nurse outfit made us stand out of the room. Lacking the strength to strap us down herself, she later called our adviser to make us stand under the hot afternoon sun until the Flag Retreat ceremony forced us to seek shelter from the prying eyes of half the student populace who failed to see as they were chained to their seats.

The cause of such inhuman punishment was nothing more than our silly game of throwing munggo beans at each other. Somehow, it became addicting to throw a fistful of small, hard beans at another person and then frantically pick-up those same beans before the other got the chance to do so. After which, you just had to throw the diminished number of beans on hand and repeat the cycle.

Somehow, it was all worth it.

It was also the year of Professor Chicken Hawk who was reported to be gay who preyed on young dickheads which is how you can describe most highschool boys. The reports are varied from the tale of him being a corner-parlor-pederast, the type that screech and shriek instead of talking, to that of his showing the impressionable, Catholic schoolboys an album filled with other boys in their underwear.

Somehow, my peer group managed to be at the top of the list of rumor mongers. It did help that our good friend, the authority lapdog, General Jaepen Sur decided to share in one of the then in-season 'open forums' that '[Callistus] and company said [this miscarriage-causing horror of a tale].' Yeah, some shit like that.

Sure enough, during one of the time-consuming activities when they did not want us to learn anything important like math, science, grammar and literature, we were summoned to the dreaded Office of the Directress. It was like the topmost in the hierarchy of Offices where screw-ups get summoned.

So we were there, all five of us who mattered, seated at the long table. Our crone of a Directress, wobbled like a pole balanced on a hand to the head chair. She began to make us feel at ease, asking us in kind tones what we heard or knew about Professor Hawk. We gave calculated, non-specific snippets of stories at first which she kindly swallowed as whole truths.

Now, being schooled in interrogation by Barney and the Teletubbies, our Directress decided that she had a meeting to attend to and had to leave us to ourselves. She left us a pad of paper on which we write what we heard and from whom we heard them. Any half-wit would of course not leave me and Doctor Immortus to write something which will be taken as official affidavits of sorts but our Directress being more of saintly lackwit did just that.

It was a very happy hour indeed. General Athena was the default secretary, having good penmanship and being the only female in the group. We wrote our fictional account of what we do know and from whom we heard those said stories. They had enough smattering of truth to be valid. With Chancellor Jaepen Matos being part of the group, it had enough stamp of authenticity that the white and gray penguins would have sworn on the sheet of paper if no bible was lying around.

Falcon Red was also with us but he was a little more timid back then and just wanted to get out of the office fast. Now, he's like this filthy rich lord of unwashed peons that I always smile whenever I recall him hurrying us up to get it over with.

It was also the year when after some talk on another topic which was so important to skip regular class instruction, we were served snacks. It was a surprise as we were not charged 100 pesos beforehand. In any case, the one who distributed the ensaymada and zest-o decided that the most efficient way to do so was by throwing it across the room to whoever needed bread and juice. We were served refugee-style and this did not sit well with one class adviser. She gave her class an earful on begin barbaric and uncouth.

There were other stories from other years. I'll write them some other time.

Y-Stuff

I've a group of friends with whom I'm close enough to tell them really gritty stuff. The kind of stuff that would make my grandmother, bless her soul, cringe in shame if she were alive. These days, if she only knew of the stuff I tell my friends, she'd claw her way up from the grave and bitch-slap me. Having recently passed through the veil, much to my sadness and regret, I would rather she remain at rest in the bosom of the Creator, as they say. So for this and succeeding posts, I will never divulge specifics on any of the stuff I tell my friends.

What do I tell my friends? Let's just say that I tell them really bad stuff I should really reserve for my confessor but heck, if I can tell some ordained, impersonal, doubtful-if-chaste guy these things I should as hell can tell my friends. Unlike the priests and their seals, I could not keep my friends from spreading all the crazy shit I have been telling them over the years. I just naively trust in their keeping my secrets.

Not too naively, I do not share all my secrets and I do not share to all my friends.

Then, there's a graduation of secrets and friends. Some secrets can only be shared to certain friends. Take for instance this one time in band camp, when this really bad thing happened. Well, not that bad really but something equally bad and I was so guilt-stricken that I felt like my mind was swimming the whole day and I needed to talk to someone to get it off my chest.

So I scrolled down my contact list until I came upon the name of my old rogue friend. I immediately sent him an SMS saying I needed to tell him some deeply, disturbing act which shook my very core. It went against my real self, the soul of my soul, so much so that it rocked my reality.

Looking back, I should have used my altered perception of reality in order to remake the world according to my will but as it seems, my will is not that strong in the first place. If I had been strong, I would not have gone through doing the reality-shaking act that I did.

In any case, my good friend, Prince Zuko was kind enough to agree to hear my confession but as he well knew that he was not the top man in my usual list of confessors, he asked if I had the chance to tell the Red Mage Jenna or the Waterbender Katara. I replied  with the answer that needs no explanation: "It's a guy thing."

In our Art, Prince Zuko orginally expressed it as 

GuyThing = (sex || drugs) && violence

In a later conversation, he expressed it as

GuyThing = (sex || violence || pride)

The last one being more accurate. The key elements of the Y-chromosome, he calls them. I guess these explain the old rhyme.

What are little boys made of?

Snips and snails, and puppy dogs tails

That's what little boys are made of !

Anyway, going back to my story, I did get to tell my friend about my dastardly act and he listened and objectively gave sound, if not morally conservative advice. In a nutshell, he said that what I did was not for the general public and specifically not for me.

It was one of my better confessions. I got off with an admonishment not to do it again as I was improperly equipped with something called a conscience. Of course, in typical guy fashion, I got high praises for scoring big in the grand scale of stupid things that guys do.

Good stuff.

Hi My Name is Callistus Netromedev...

and I am a sex addict.

I guess this is the first step: admit that I have a problem.

It was three weeks ago. I was lured into a supposed meet up where all my family and friends were waiting for me. There they told me of their unconditional love and how they accepted me for who and what I was but I must also face my problems. I was hurting myself and my loved ones by continuing on my self-destructive path of sex addiction.

They were all there. My mom was crying , my father was trying to remain calm but spoke with his voice breaking. My kuya was there speaking in the crisp, serious but caring tone he always had when talking of sensitive matters. Even my estranged, mad sister was there, taking her time off her anger management therapy in order to stand there silently judging with eyes showing nothing but scorn.

My aunts and cousins were there as well. Though, I think the latter were there to sponsor the food. That in itself was touching. My aunts were half-hysterical when they tried to remind me of the true Christian path and how I was so far out they feared for my soul.

There were close friends as well. Most of those who were at my birthday lunch celebration came to express their support of my rehabilitation. Some even gave testimonies to evidences of my addiction. By the time my third blocmate began sharing her knowledge of my leather implements, my eldest aunt had hyperventilated, half my cousins scrambled to get her to the hospital.

This terrible event did not prevent my HS friend from divulging my outrageous stash of porn DVD's which I accumulated from way back. By now, my mom had to excuse herself having felt her blood pressure shoot up.

I was mad. Angry mad that is. Not mad like in the context our elementary principal understood my classmate when he called her a mad teacher. It was funny how our principal coerced my classmate to admit that it was he not our principal who was mad, a tale for another day.

I was embarrassed, shamed! My family and friends conspired to accuse me of something they had no right to accuse me of. Sure I had thousands of pesos worth of pornography and sex toys but that was my business. They had no right to bring it before everyone and judge me like I was some pervert.

I stormed out.

My closest friends went after me and convinced me to stay. It took awhile before I calmed down. At first I was so angry and ashamed that I was speechless but after sometime, the anger went away and only the shame remained.

I began to cry. I went back to the place. I apologized to everyone who was there. They all came to me and hugged me or patted me on the back. All of them telling me they forgive me and they love me.

That was three weeks ago. Now, I can admit to everyone that I have a problem. I am fixing it.

Well, that was a nice story. At least I hope it was.

No group of family and friends came together to give me an intervention. I had been hoping something like that would happen. Like in one of those feel good movies or even comedies on TV or dramedies like Dr. Phil's segment on Oprah or his own show which I never got to see.

This confession was elicited from me by a friend during an online conversation. I just commented on his Facebook picture saying that he looked like a pornstar. In truth, there was nothing sexual about the picture at all. Only a third of his body can be seen and he was fully clothed and was in what appears to be a mall.

I only got the pornstar vibe from his expression which was akin to the pseudo-ecstatic-borderline-pain expressions petite women have in porn... Somehow, he captured it perfectly.

Anyway, during chat he observed that I was always thinking about sex. To be fair, I may have been talking to him about guy stuff a lot. As another friend defined 'guy stuff': it's sex or violence or pride. In our conversations, well, you take your pick.

So, I told him, "Yeah well, you see, I'm a sex addict."

"Really?" He replied, clearly incredulous. "Who's you're partner? Yourself?"

I was quick to admit. "Yep. Just like you."

After a few seconds, I realized I was mistaken so I corrected myself. "Sorry. I have one more than you."

Trudging through the Muck

Here you are again, following the Old Patterns.

You are foolish to think that you have broken free. You thought that you have cut the strings and are no longer humming another's tune, are singing another's song, are reciting dialog from some hackneyed playwright's script. Yet here you are, mouthing the oft-spoken words, singing off-key and droning a tune you could not keep out of your head.

Ignorance is indeed bliss, but the grace of ignorance is not one granted you. You are cursed rather, with the gift of intelligence. Not enough to spit on others but just more than the average so as not to be so easily lulled by doing what needs doing, focusing on at most three things, with a hobby on the side. To make it interesting, the gift was laced with poison.

The poison is called mediocrity.

What a lovely poison, it is. Meaningless yet satisfying like a one night stand. The orgasm is undeniably and truly mind-blowing. However, the afterglow is as warming as the dying embers in the depths of winter. It is bad enough to make you realize that it is not what you are looking for but good enough that you just keep coming for more, wanting to drink the oily water like a human dying of thirst.

It is a sad thing to have been made to believe that your minimum is well more than what most of the others can call their best. It makes you stop trying. After all, if you had wanted to, you can always do better, a damn whole lot better. Though, it becomes unnecessary. Your worst remains better than the rest.

Sure you meet others along the way who are equals or those who are superior to you. You know that when you meet them. It is an uncanny ability given to people who have been cursed by the same intelligence. You are able to measure the worth of others. You see them and you tell yourself, how you could do the same if you wanted to but the poison lingers in your body and you just want to have one last taste before kicking the habit. Then you're back to the rock bottom, catatonic like the crack addict that you have become.

After sometime of crawling in the shit, you get an epiphany, a realization. You become reborn like the phoenix, finding new resolve to start over, get things in order. Hell, you even find yourself a god and all things are nothing when you have your god with you.

You begin to get up and walk up straight. Always aiming higher, always doing better, then just like most mountain  climbs, the trail begins to plateau. You just walk on and on and on, and you get no higher. Tired, you take a seat on a rock to regain some strength before proceeding.

You dust off your clothes and feel something in your breast pocket. Something you thought you left behind but which somehow, some subconscious stray thought had kept that item tucked in your pocket, that small vial of sweet, poisonous mediocrity.