#for nj

[queenxiifaith-blog]

I know I can be hard to deal with at times, but if you stay with me, the end result will be very worth it. :))

[annaxbolina]

The Callous Side of Friendship.

"You know, alam mo nang sobrang close na kayo ng kaibigan mo if you can invade their personal space," I muse as I watch Melle shove all her stuff to the foot of her bunk bed to make room for me last Saturday afternoon. I've been pondering on this theory a lot lately. Watching the behavior of my social circle, it's occurred to me that true friendship--aside from the general protocols of love and loyalty, et cetera--entails a certain amount of disrespect and familiarity. I don't think it's the real thing until you can insult each other without feeling insulted, until you can demand a ride home from them instead of groveling for one, until you can reach over the table and see their french fries as fair game. Think about it. Anyone can do you favors. Anyone can haul your ass out of hot water, or sit in it with you. Anyone can put their arms around you as you stare out into nothingness, tears falling down your cheeks.

Or okay, maybe not anyone, but you get what I mean. You're expected to be nice to people. It's called being humane. You're probably willing to go out of your way to help a mate through a trying time, but I'd like to see how many people you'd let bulldoze you around and yet still love them to pieces at the end of the day. Melle's heard most of this before, so she asks what brought this on again now. I shrug and reply, "For me, big deal na na in-on ko 'tong electric fan mo nang di nagpapaalam. I used to get annoyed when Jed comes into my room and turns the fan on without asking first. When I go to other people's houses and they don't turn on their fans, I don't ask them to even if it's sweltering. Di tulad ngayon, na in-on ko lang nang basta." She frowns at me. "Abnormal ka."

Maybe I am. I'm a privacy fanatic. I don't even let my grandmother see the inside of my room, for Chrissakes. It stems from my being uptight and guarded--I'm selective about who I let see me with my walls down. Courtesy is a lady's armor, and I only shed it and transformed into my rowdy insane self around certain people.

But can you really call that abnormality? Case in point: I don't think you'd be willing to fart in a closed car with mere casual friends. They're just not close enough for you to allow yourself that level of misbehavior.

The kind of kinship I'm talking about is comparable to being married, or being with your family. Sharing drinks, sharing clothes, sharing a shower...it's all up there with sharing the air you breathe with their aforementioned gas. I thought, if you had to be polite around someone, then you weren't really close to them. Sure, you still have to mind your pleases and thank-yous, but there is an intimacy in the exchange 'Fuck you!' 'Oh please do.'  that you won't find in 'Thanks so much for all your help!' 'Don't mention it, dear!' Time wasn't even an issue. You could know a person for years and never drop your guard around them, never ask them a favor without feeling that you have to first write out a formal request on letterheaded stationery. Or you could hang out with someone for a short while and find that you have absolutely no problem with them stealing your mashed potatoes. It's the hiya factor. (Tsk, Filipinos.) Hiya to a certain extent is good. It keeps you in line, like an Emily Post etiquette book inside your brain. That is exactly why I say that when you're losing this hiya, this need to put your best foot forward, this formality, that's when you're finally getting to see a person without all the sparkle, and on the flip side, when you're finally letting the other person see you as you are too. And isn't that revelation only meant for the most kindred of friends?

Anyway. "May papagawa ako sa'yo habang nasa CR ako. Palitan mo yung punda ko," Melle orders, further cementing my theory. Dutifully I climb up the bed and strip her pillows bare, then fluff them up and dress them in pink and purple pillowcases. I notice the corner of her fitted sheet has come undone and move to fix it, and then I find the empty Sky Flakes wrapper wedged between the mattress and the wall. "Ano ba yan!" yelled the girl whose only uncluttered part of her room was her bed. I crumple it up and toss it down. "Wag mong galawin yan!" "What is that supposed to be, a talisman?" "Hindi. Bakit ba, nag-hyperacidity ako kagabi eh!" "Well then, dispose of it now!" "Ba't ka ba nangingielam?" "You asked me to fix your bed!" "This isn't your dorm, it's my dorm!" "Change your own fucking pillowcases then!"

I chuck the pillow and it hits Melle squarely in the face. She surfaces laughing and dances out the door to prepare fecalysis samples for the both of us, the Sky Flakes wrapper completely forgotten.

And I, of course, a living example of my own theory, go back to changing her bloody pillowcases.

_______

3rd of December 2011.

And yes, you read that right. Fecalysis samples. Maybe one day I'll write a piece about how Melle and I keep having adventures involving toilets...

[annaxbolina]

"Oh, nothing. It's just that there's a knife between my ribs, and someone's turning it like a rusty key in a doorknob."

But it ends today. Enjoy it while it lasts.

___

He backed up when he heard the vehement string of curses explode out the bathroom door, followed by a hiss of pain. Tentatively he leaned into the doorway and called her name, the question echoing off the ceramic walls.

A moment later, she stormed into view. He took in the scowl creasing her brow, the nauseating smell of the school's hand soap clinging to her uniform. A red pocketknife hung from one wet hand. The other was held at an awkward angle away from her body, dripping fingers clenched in a fist.

"I had a feeling that was you," he said cheerfully. "What happened?"

"Accident. My hand slipped while I was cutting up a cardboard box." The alibi came easily to her lips, like a weapon handed by an attentive squire. For once, it was true. She unclenched her fisted hand and held it up for his inspection.

There was a gash on the side of her index finger about a centimeter long, as precise and straight as the groove left by a skate on ice. The halves of skin around it had begun to pucker away from each other like two plates along a fault line, making the wound red and swollen.

And deep. No sooner had she released the pressure on the cut than it began to bleed anew, crimson blossoming across the paleness of her skin. Hastily, she curled her fingers back.

He winced in sympathy. "That's gotta hurt."

"Just a bit," she replied, with a look of jaded, sardonic boredom. "I've had worse."

Her words hung in the air for a moment, and despite the subtle glare that accompanied them, their meaning was lost on him.

"Be careful then," he bade her, ever the gentleman, ever clueless, as he turned to go.

She kept her eyes on him as he returned to his friends, watched him offer his arm to one, watched her claim it as rightfully hers. She drank him in as though she would memorize what he looked like as his mind erased thoughts of her. Only when he was completely gone from her sight did she pull back into the sanctuary of the bathroom to rest her burning eyelids on the cool tiles.

He walked on, oblivious to the fact that he had left her behind nursing a wound bloodier and more painful than a simple cardboard cut, in a place that was far more vulnerable than her finger, and unaware that the knife responsible was in his own hands.#

_______

Cool story, bro.

Dated one afternoon of Vaudeville propsmaking, during USTNursingWeek2011.

[annaxbolina]

Mortality and Insignificance.

Valar morghulis.

In this world, George RR Martin is God--he giveth and he taketh away. And sooner or later, the constant, casual slaughtering of men will grant you immunity from emotion. That is inevitable. Gone will be the days of practicing character favoritism and mourning every hero who dies. As you get tangled in the webs of the story, you will experience pain so excruciating that you will emerge as stoic as an Unsullied soldier.

For Martin is a heartless author, and he teaches you to be a heartless reader.

That was meant in the best possible way.

No name-dropping here, but most other authors set too much store by their characters. Now this is understandable, but the disadvantage here is that the plot becomes too invested in the characters and not in itself. Pretty soon, the whole fandom revolves around one or two people and everybody else gets pushed to the side. We get to love some characters very well while the others simply fade into the background, producing a cast made up of Mary Sues and fillers, and a storyline that's ridiculously predictable .

George RR Martin, again, is the man who dares break the mold. There is no room for attachment in the ASOIAF world, thus none either for predictability--just another secret that sets The God apart from the others.

He lets you into their skin, but not their minds. There's always a glass wall preventing you from knowing exactly what the people are thinking, thus stopping you from ever sympathizing with them fully. So when Martin goes on a killing spree, you find yourself saddened, but curiously detached. You'll grieve for a moment, take a breath, and soldier on.

There's no time to cry for your fallen champion, not when there are half a dozen others waiting to join the fray in his place. There are no sides, no ultimate savior with the weight of the world on his shoulders. This is the magic of Martin: it is the plot that spins the characters, not the characters who weave the plot.

And because even the greatest kings are only pawns, why should any of them be given monologues and supernovas when it's time for them to die? Admit it, there are times you hate Martin for unceremoniously killing off characters you've come to love. You ask, how can someone who's a large part of the story die at a single swipe of a sword?

Yet in the end you appreciate the perverse beauty of these simple exits. It's a welcome break from other fantasy stories where the authors all need an overdecorated and symbolic stage for every death scene they write.

With Martin, it's like this: Ser, your part is done. Die. Move on. Characterization parsimony at its finest. It's humbling to know that no matter how legendarily men lead their lives, they are still mere little mortals in the cosmos.

Because when you evaluate the grand scheme of things, each character is simply that--a character. You cannot help being attached to them, but you still see the insignificance of each person in relation to the whole picture. Take any player away, and you remain assured the rest of this game of thrones doesn't crumble along with him.

In fact, it only makes the suspense in the snake pit all the more heated.

___

Because when I labored through the Red Wedding, this all happened to me.

October 2nd, 2011.

[annaxbolina]

You cross my mind at random moments And lazy afternoons I wind up smiling, daydreaming, And singing out of tune And my heart keeps doing cartwheels Whenever I say your name Life got a whole lot sweeter And it’s all because you came Your voice plays on repeat in my head Like a love song’s refrain I’m officially hung up on you In a way no words can explain And for this burst of inspiration I have you to blame Life is infinitely more beautiful And it’s all because you came With you, I see in Technicolor, And forever’s suspended in time The worst days become bearable Because you’re the reason for this rhyme And this crazy world we live in Will never be the same The stars in my sky shine brighter and it’s all because you came. =)

___

Because You Came. Born in the most boring trigonometry class ever. June 3rd, 2008.