Had lovely lunch with my colleagues… and it’s quite a boost to hear wonderful things said about me with regard to work… and although, probably I should be hailed the best advisor that my company has ever had… i have never really thought of it… I have been working like a dog…it’s not something new really…
Dad called yesterday, reminded me to take things slow… it seems that I have been working so hard, it’s as if I really needed it, he said. But see, I want to chart and secure my future… it’s not an easy way though.. I’ve traded a lot and sacrificed more in order to live comfortably…
I know my dad’s proud of me. I have never asked a single peso from him right after he put me through university in Australia… And apart from the financial freedom that I am enjoying, it’s also knowing about my self-worth… that I can do more and a lot of people can benefit from my work… see, I am into humanitarian and development work, and when I travel in other countries and see how dismal their situations are, it humbles me in greater ways than I could possibly do… seeing the blank stares of people living with HIV and AIDS, feeling the triumph of the spirit in souls that have remised a beautiful and forgiving life, only affirms my value as a person and the value of my family and friends…
It is really life-changing. And I know I cannot change the world.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Flashbacks of the Love Paraiah
I am feeling love but I am not in love. Not romantically involved at the moment. The eternal love pariah. A self-proclaimed cross among Bridget Jones (for her pleasantly roundness and innocence), Carrie Bradshaw (for her intellectual weaponry and the love for fashion) and Charlotte York (for her never-ending well of hope, that one day she’ll meet the One) of the third kind. I felt a ‘love rush’ a few minutes ago for no apparent realistic reason. I was just going through some messages left in my phone’s inbox, and I know I have written this in my previous blog article, but hey, I am going to blab about it again now! Anyway, the experience was a ‘trip down memory lane’. Flashbacks of the love experiences flooded my very consciousness, while I was in the middle of a training with the People Living with HIV and AIDS here in India. I’ve really evolved into a more elaborate human being who could do multi-tasking in varying degrees of interests, from technical perspective to the must mundane ones.
I must admit that when I get hurt, I tend to become a self-centered, late-twenties, prematurely plagued by the mid-life crisis, self-important, egoistic, insecure bitch. Oh. That hurt. Cruel. Did I just say that to myself? Am horrible, in manner of Miranda from The Devil Wears Prada-Simon Cowell with a bit dash of the Axe Murderer. It was just a mere cyclical mechanism to feel the loathing pain all the more loathing and bleeding. Most often, I would try to make little conversations with THYSELF and convince that what a poor and pathetic creature I have become, over the many failed relationships. And self-acceptance that I was also to blame for all the heartbreaks doesn’t come cheap and easy. Meaning, it would usually take a cardiovascular activity like SHOPPING, in potentially increasing impulsiveness that would shame the Guinness Book of World Records for holding the fastest man to evaporate solid heavenly inventions called credit card and cash. But it was all worth it. The feeling of security and wholeness that I derive from the monochrome brands complete with all the trimmings and wrappings, surely overwhelms the weight that I have put on my financial setbacks and scary overdrafts.
Convinced though that I’ve worked hard and that the US$3,200 Raymond Weil Watch I gifted myself this season will make me a better person. Am nuts. Ran out of reason though why I bought that expensive watch. Lovely. Been staring at my watch since breakfast, which is fashionably placed on top of my Fendi vanity bag.
Must dash. Need to call my financial advisor in the Philippines a.k.a. Dad.
I must admit that when I get hurt, I tend to become a self-centered, late-twenties, prematurely plagued by the mid-life crisis, self-important, egoistic, insecure bitch. Oh. That hurt. Cruel. Did I just say that to myself? Am horrible, in manner of Miranda from The Devil Wears Prada-Simon Cowell with a bit dash of the Axe Murderer. It was just a mere cyclical mechanism to feel the loathing pain all the more loathing and bleeding. Most often, I would try to make little conversations with THYSELF and convince that what a poor and pathetic creature I have become, over the many failed relationships. And self-acceptance that I was also to blame for all the heartbreaks doesn’t come cheap and easy. Meaning, it would usually take a cardiovascular activity like SHOPPING, in potentially increasing impulsiveness that would shame the Guinness Book of World Records for holding the fastest man to evaporate solid heavenly inventions called credit card and cash. But it was all worth it. The feeling of security and wholeness that I derive from the monochrome brands complete with all the trimmings and wrappings, surely overwhelms the weight that I have put on my financial setbacks and scary overdrafts.
Convinced though that I’ve worked hard and that the US$3,200 Raymond Weil Watch I gifted myself this season will make me a better person. Am nuts. Ran out of reason though why I bought that expensive watch. Lovely. Been staring at my watch since breakfast, which is fashionably placed on top of my Fendi vanity bag.
Must dash. Need to call my financial advisor in the Philippines a.k.a. Dad.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Single Ticket
My parents travelled abroad for much of my childhood, so as an adult I should be a naturally intrepid traveller: No fear of flying, an easy knack of speed-packing and a well-honed sense of adventure. But when I first set my heart on going to Italy and couldn’t find anyone to join me, the idea of going alone somehow seemed more sad than adventurous. How could I have so many friends, yet not be able to find someone to go away with? And how could I, an independent (or so I thought) gay singleton, be so intimidated by the idea of travelling solo?
According to a survey that I read somewhere, there are a quite number of adults who are currently single. The highest growth of singles is among the affluent, travel-hungry 25-34 age group, so I’m certainly not one-off, even if it does feel like everyone else is constantly being whisked off on vacation or mini-breaks by their latest love interest, or jetting away with a gaggle of friends in search of discount shopping and sunshine.
But travelling alone is actually very liberating, as I was to discover. People seek hugely different things from holidays, depending on their income, personality and lifestyle. One person’s dream break in an opulent five-star hotel is another’s idea of hell – intimidated by the staff and scared to even look at the mini-bar peanuts that cost almost as much as a meal out. Some people have a live-now-pay-later approach, while their travel buddy is scrimping and saving at every turn – a combination bound to end in tears.
My personal phobia is the kind of trip where you leave town with a couple of good friends and end up in some tourist resort in a Pinoy Big Brother – style gang, with arguments over borrowed clothes and endless discussions over what to do when.
So it was with doing exactly as I please in mind (and my heart in my throat) that I made the monumental decision to book my trip to Italy when, heading to Florence for a solo holiday.
I had a project for my trip when I was spending three weeks in Florence, one of Europe’s capitals of romance. Conscious that I might need a bit of direction in a city with so much culture on offer, and wanting to make friends, I signed up for an art history course. Next step was where to stay: I wasn’t flush – but didn’t want to go home to some empty fleapit hotel room every night, so I rented a room with an Italian family. At first, I felt very shy and could barely speak a word of Italian, but the family couldn’t have been kinder. I loved the fact that I had a key to the front door, rather than being just another anonymous tourist, and that I had a ready-made social network.
The art history was less successful. I soon realised I was never going to find a soul mate among the finishing-school types of my rather boring course, and I abandoned it in favour of just enjoying the city. Armed with tips from the family, I walked the city for days on end, planning a different route every day.
The initial pangs of loneliness and self-consciousness soon gave way to a sense of empowerment and freedom. I made a few friends. I hit the shops. I drank espressos in smoky little bars. I practised Italian on cute waiters. And wandered round museums in manner (I like to think) of a self-assured cosmopolitan gay singleton. I had fun!
I returned home with passable Italian, a real sense of achievement – and a fabulous collection of vintage mod-feel shirts.
Francis
According to a survey that I read somewhere, there are a quite number of adults who are currently single. The highest growth of singles is among the affluent, travel-hungry 25-34 age group, so I’m certainly not one-off, even if it does feel like everyone else is constantly being whisked off on vacation or mini-breaks by their latest love interest, or jetting away with a gaggle of friends in search of discount shopping and sunshine.
But travelling alone is actually very liberating, as I was to discover. People seek hugely different things from holidays, depending on their income, personality and lifestyle. One person’s dream break in an opulent five-star hotel is another’s idea of hell – intimidated by the staff and scared to even look at the mini-bar peanuts that cost almost as much as a meal out. Some people have a live-now-pay-later approach, while their travel buddy is scrimping and saving at every turn – a combination bound to end in tears.
My personal phobia is the kind of trip where you leave town with a couple of good friends and end up in some tourist resort in a Pinoy Big Brother – style gang, with arguments over borrowed clothes and endless discussions over what to do when.
So it was with doing exactly as I please in mind (and my heart in my throat) that I made the monumental decision to book my trip to Italy when, heading to Florence for a solo holiday.
I had a project for my trip when I was spending three weeks in Florence, one of Europe’s capitals of romance. Conscious that I might need a bit of direction in a city with so much culture on offer, and wanting to make friends, I signed up for an art history course. Next step was where to stay: I wasn’t flush – but didn’t want to go home to some empty fleapit hotel room every night, so I rented a room with an Italian family. At first, I felt very shy and could barely speak a word of Italian, but the family couldn’t have been kinder. I loved the fact that I had a key to the front door, rather than being just another anonymous tourist, and that I had a ready-made social network.
The art history was less successful. I soon realised I was never going to find a soul mate among the finishing-school types of my rather boring course, and I abandoned it in favour of just enjoying the city. Armed with tips from the family, I walked the city for days on end, planning a different route every day.
The initial pangs of loneliness and self-consciousness soon gave way to a sense of empowerment and freedom. I made a few friends. I hit the shops. I drank espressos in smoky little bars. I practised Italian on cute waiters. And wandered round museums in manner (I like to think) of a self-assured cosmopolitan gay singleton. I had fun!
I returned home with passable Italian, a real sense of achievement – and a fabulous collection of vintage mod-feel shirts.
Francis
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