I haven't written a much as I would like to on this blog. Some things are just too sensitive. I've been going through quite a number of personal things and was in the midst of a work-related crisis for the past few months.
Well, the latter is mostly over now. I have resigned, effective January the 15th. Overall, it was an educational experience. Not to mention a frustrating one. The money was good, but not good enough to keep me staying.
The former? Well, there are some developments here and there, but no real solutions in sight.
I've written about these things, though. I keep quite a few notebooks around, and I find it unlikely I could ever put what I wrote down in public. Despite what people think, my life isn't THAT open for scrutiny. I may be blunt and forward, but I could keep my mouth shut if I have to. Namely, in situations where it won't JUST be my neck. And as a general rule, I don't like getting people in trouble unless they deserve it.
I actually envy people who can write about what goes on in their lives, without any inhibition whatsoever. I envy them so much more than writers with a wide vocabulary or impeccable grammar. I envy those who write little, but with honesty and forthrightness in their output, moreso than those who are technically dazzling and prolific.
This kind of courage is a gift. Or if you wish to look at it another way, it is a kind of recklessness and is a curse. However you look at it, it can't be denied that this sort of this keeps people interested.
Let me use Kris Aquino as an indirect example. I'm not a fan, (though my sister is) but consider the fact that nothing about her is secret, at least as most people are concerned. Even her sexual habits are a matter of public record. She's done a lot of things that people wouldn't hesitate to condemn in most circumstances. Nonetheless, she is able to hold our attention, for better or worse.
Good writing is often purely incidental or in many cases completely divorced from content. Just read any boring-ass Tom Clancy novel and see for yourself. Material gets read or gets attention a lot of the time from the power of the theme or the subject matter, not necessarily because the writing is good.
This even applies to all kinds of art and creative endeavors. Sometimes, having good content will make people think that you can...you know... WRITE. Which really isn't the case a lot of the time. But when even mundane subjects meet good writing, a kind of magic happens that is so rarely read these days.
I feel vulnerable enough as it is writing about some of the stuff I do write down here. It's just I really don't think I have the guts to do what a lot of people do when they bare parts of their soul that are just not meant to be shown to the whole world. They can bare how they've cheated on a lover, or how they were taken advantage of when they were children, or about all sorts of things they do that society would consider deviancy.
When it comes to a lot of things, I'm still pretty much a coward. But who knows? Maybe eventually I'll finally find it in myself to say the things I know, in the best possible way to say them. To write about what is most telling about one's self, or even anything at all, and to tell it well, is something all writers should try.
My Mother
Something occurred to me a while ago while I was chatting with a friend online
Dana Lutfi: watcha doin up so erli?
Arthur Piccio: early???
Arthur Piccio: hahha
Arthur Piccio: i had to buy meds
Arthur Piccio: i hate skype
Arthur Piccio: because my mother calls every time I'm actually listening to music
Arthur Piccio: ARGH
Dana Lutfi: looolz
Dana Lutfi: then dont go on it???
Arthur Piccio: i have to. she's my mother.
Dana Lutfi: :D
I dread these Skype conversations. She always tends to assume the worst about me. Every problem I have is because of my own damned fault and never because I was just unlucky (I don't need to be told this really). I also have to keep repeating points I already made because she already has her own ideas about what I should do that she wouldn't be swayed from. Everything is just open to enforced and reinforced misinterpretation.
This is why I've learned to never tell her if I have any real problems. Because she never makes me feel any better about them. If anything, she sort of makes it worse by over dramatizing things or willfully making the wrong inferences and drawing the wrong conclusions. The fun part is that these conclusions are ones that are outright ridiculous AND hurtful at the same time.
Typical Skype conversation. "Musta na da? Break na kamo ka miga mo?"
No prompting. No previous information given. Just an assumption of the worst based on no new information whatsoever. And the assumption that I don't know how to do anything right, of course. Even if the above situation were true, there would be more appropriate ways to ask this sort of question.
It was worse when I was at school, because she kept comparing me to my cousins who were veritable overachievers in I-don't-give-a-rat's-ass. I was always being prompted to take up Nursing, a fad course that means nothing whatsoever to me and does not fit my personality and aspirations. Fortunately, she pursued this issue somewhat late, after I had already been enrolled in my course for over two years, otherwise I would have had a tougher time saying no.
It doesn't help that we have opposing world views. For one thing, I'm agnostic(something she's convinced isn't true I guess, because she asks me if I went to church when it's certain days of obligation or whatever) and she's deeply religious. She thinks the Philippines is a dump with no redeeming value, to be avoided at all costs, I think it's a country that could be saved and made great. She wears shoulder pads, I think they're hideous. The list goes on and on.
It's kind of awkward to say this, but we all feel this way sometimes. My mother can make me feel homicidal in a way no other person can. No other person I know can be as tactless or as ({un?}intentionally) hurtful as she is. I could be on top of my own world or in the midst of escape and it's all too easy for her to bring me back to her own version of reality where I am the constant screw up and where my poor non-believing soul is cursed to such an existence simply because I don't go to church every Sunday or read enough Joel Osteen books.
The only reason she can hurt me the way she does is because I love her. And the only reason she's so hurtful is because she cares. Or at least that's WHAT I HOPE the reason is. Only the people we actually care about can hurt us in such a deep way. I guess this hurt and aggravation is just the paid price for being valued and loved.
Dana Lutfi: watcha doin up so erli?
Arthur Piccio: early???
Arthur Piccio: hahha
Arthur Piccio: i had to buy meds
Arthur Piccio: i hate skype
Arthur Piccio: because my mother calls every time I'm actually listening to music
Arthur Piccio: ARGH
Dana Lutfi: looolz
Dana Lutfi: then dont go on it???
Arthur Piccio: i have to. she's my mother.
Dana Lutfi: :D
I dread these Skype conversations. She always tends to assume the worst about me. Every problem I have is because of my own damned fault and never because I was just unlucky (I don't need to be told this really). I also have to keep repeating points I already made because she already has her own ideas about what I should do that she wouldn't be swayed from. Everything is just open to enforced and reinforced misinterpretation.
This is why I've learned to never tell her if I have any real problems. Because she never makes me feel any better about them. If anything, she sort of makes it worse by over dramatizing things or willfully making the wrong inferences and drawing the wrong conclusions. The fun part is that these conclusions are ones that are outright ridiculous AND hurtful at the same time.
Typical Skype conversation. "Musta na da? Break na kamo ka miga mo?"
No prompting. No previous information given. Just an assumption of the worst based on no new information whatsoever. And the assumption that I don't know how to do anything right, of course. Even if the above situation were true, there would be more appropriate ways to ask this sort of question.
It was worse when I was at school, because she kept comparing me to my cousins who were veritable overachievers in I-don't-give-a-rat's-ass. I was always being prompted to take up Nursing, a fad course that means nothing whatsoever to me and does not fit my personality and aspirations. Fortunately, she pursued this issue somewhat late, after I had already been enrolled in my course for over two years, otherwise I would have had a tougher time saying no.
It doesn't help that we have opposing world views. For one thing, I'm agnostic(something she's convinced isn't true I guess, because she asks me if I went to church when it's certain days of obligation or whatever) and she's deeply religious. She thinks the Philippines is a dump with no redeeming value, to be avoided at all costs, I think it's a country that could be saved and made great. She wears shoulder pads, I think they're hideous. The list goes on and on.
It's kind of awkward to say this, but we all feel this way sometimes. My mother can make me feel homicidal in a way no other person can. No other person I know can be as tactless or as ({un?}intentionally) hurtful as she is. I could be on top of my own world or in the midst of escape and it's all too easy for her to bring me back to her own version of reality where I am the constant screw up and where my poor non-believing soul is cursed to such an existence simply because I don't go to church every Sunday or read enough Joel Osteen books.
The only reason she can hurt me the way she does is because I love her. And the only reason she's so hurtful is because she cares. Or at least that's WHAT I HOPE the reason is. Only the people we actually care about can hurt us in such a deep way. I guess this hurt and aggravation is just the paid price for being valued and loved.
