Jolt to the heart on a Thursday afternoon.
I was listening to Chopin earlier with RealPlayer, and I had my headphones on with the volume quite high. Suddenly the piece ended and was followed quickly by Three Days Grace. My heart almost jumped to my throat before lowering the volume.
Jeez. I shoudn’t be joining rock and classical in my playlists.
Confession.
So I watched Raise Your Voice today. It wasn’t too special, but it was nice. I mean, I’m not a fan of Hilary Duff or anything; I’m more a fan of art schools like the one featured in the film. Plus I really love Oliver James’ British accent. I couldn’t get over it in What a Girl Wants, so how do you think I was just listening to his voice earlier–even if he was trying to comfort Hilary?
I like his eyes too. To quote Chantal Kreviazuk in Feels Like Home, “Something in your eyes, makes me want to lose myself…”
Whew. But of course no one can top James Franco, who is a package of all the cool things in a guy. Even if Mark Wahlberg is soo awesome in movies like The Italian Job and Shooter and–though I haven’t watched it yet, I bet it’s great–Max Payne.
* * *
Boy am I excited for photography next sem. I was… observing Patricia Evangelista’s photos earlier, and I loved the lighting of her pictures. Really neat.
I’m excited for a lot of things next semester, actually. I mean, I’ll be working on my majors–photography and developmental writing–plus technical electives and two general education courses. I do have my anxieties, though. All that pressure and challenge… But I guess that’s what I live for.
No regrets, I promise. Just sadness.
My keyboard
I haven’t really played in a long time. Sometimes I wonder when real musicians play: when they’re wallowing in misery or when they’re experiencing joy? I bet it’s both. Perhaps even when angry. (most especially for drummers)
But me? I usually play when I’m sad. And when no one is around to listen. I don’t know why I consider playing the piano such a private thing. Maybe because I lay my heart out through the music, and it might bug me that others would get to see what’s in me, even for a few minutes.
I was just listening to this little girl on youtube , and I suddenly felt the old pain. The desire to have continued my lessons. When I was a kid, I didn’t feel the appreciation for music that much. Maybe for singing, but not for playing the music.
When I had the drive to study pieces on my own, I thought I owned the world. I thought to myself, here’s the ticket to finally being able to play. It wasn’t entirely free–only at my expense of time, energy, and effort–but no one had to scold me for not practicing every night. No teacher had to make me fit for a recital. I didn’t have to be so nervous, because the only audience I sought was myself; I was playing for me alone.
It agonizes me, though, that as I am limited with skills, I can’t ever just play by ear like most accomplished musicians can. The only things I can play by ear are very simple tunes. Things like Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, or some of my favorite songs. But they wouldn’t be so thick with drama–with all those extra keys to press.
I don’t like living with regret, which is why I won’t allow myself to feel sorry that I got that grade in one of my subjects, and why I don’t want to dwell on the fact that even if I want so much to play full versions of Chopin and Bach, I won’t be able to because I can’t read notes.
There’s no way to escape the road I’ve taken, and I just have to live with this.
For once… Why can’t I be content.
Beware: An absolutely egotistic, self-absorbed, senseless, and seemingly (okay fine, REALLY) boastful entry follows.
What is it with grades that make them matter to me so much? How can other people live with satisfactory, or even low, ones and not grieve over them?
That sucks you know, that I struggle so much with getting good grades; that I care so much it would be enough to make me breakdown if I get completely low ones.
It’s kind of the way older people who work equate their salary with their usefulness or something. It scares me that when I’m done being a student (technically: being within the walls of formality), I’d equate myself with my paycheck and not my genuine ability. Besides, at the present state, I am obviously not factoring in my talents in the equation.
I’m afraid because although I really want to become rich someday, enough that I’d be able to donate money to some health/environment/welfare organization or even sponsor a child, I do know how to be realistic, that I understand I might wind up poor. I do know how to look myself in the mirror and tell myself, “Face it, you’d have to be super lucky to achieve something like that someday, and how lucky are you right now?”
But then again, it isn’t about luck, I guess. It’s about determination, self-esteem, self-respect, and the ability to see things as an opportunity.
Perhaps everything I lack in the right amounts.
I got two of my class cards today (out of the six I need). I was kind of dreading getting them, because I know nothing can go perfect and that I’d most likely get sad over them or something.
Like I always do.
Still, I needed a sad excuse to get out of the house (refer to previous entry), and while I was out, I had to accomplish something.
The good thing about knowing I wouldn’t get my way, is that I hardly expect now. I don’t have an expected grade at the start of the semester. I don’t even try to imagine what grade I’d get as the semester progresses.
But none of those preparations of expecting the worst helped heal the blow I received earlier.
How it hurt that, no matter how hard I try to escape that grade, every semester, and in at least one subject, I always garner it. It’s like trying to outrun a mountain lion; it will always win against me. Like there’s no escaping it, because maybe I was cursed to be this way. Maybe it’s some type of gift from academic hell.
I declare this post as seemingly (or really) boastful because I know that for most people, my troubles and anxieties are stupid, and I am foolish to think that there is a possibility I’d ever be happy, like those other students who never fail to get unos every semester. It crushes me that I always lack something, anything, in achieving my goal. For this semester, at least, it was to avoid receiving that grade.
That grade is a dos, which would probably be heaven for anyone but somebody like me. Why can’t I achieve the one thing that would be perfection for me, when others have it so easy?
It pains me to see that ordinary people can achieve the grades I want (without a dos). Not that I’m extraordinary in any sort of way–it’s just that the ones who get the grades I envy are the people who I wouldn’t expect to be so good.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t care, that I’d be like other people who didn’t give a damn. But it’s hard. I was just wired this way; I instantly regret it when I let myself flunk all over the place (not that I’ve seriously done so), especially since it’s probably the only thing I am capable of: studying and getting “good” grades.
Plus, sometimes I feel like it’s the only thing that matters to my parents. Like it’s the only way they’ll see me and truly appreciate my existence…
It’s quite far-fetched, I know, but who can know for certain? People are different..
Of all the things to forget!
So there I was, with my chocolate chip frozen mocha, my notebook, and my eagerness to write. I stared at my surroundings for a while, relieved that I’d finally been able to escape the dullness of my house. It was getting too comfortable, and yet too stressful staying at home. I’m on vacation (or at least, I am supposed to be–I keep saying that), so how do you think I feel staying at home with my father, who is such a control freak I can’t stand it, because he keeps making me clean the house and watch ANC?
I mean, I like writing news, even broadcasting news, but I don’t particularly like watching news. Or reading it.
How I hate the world when he keeps his tabs on me too much. He has to always scold me for not waking up early. For staying up way late. For not doing anything productive, like washing the dishes or my clothes or his car or the dog, for crying out loud.
And he has to be so… furious that I don’t eat and sleep right. Well, I’ll give him that. As a parent, he has the right to be angry. Wait, no, he has the right to be concerned. Not angry. But seriously, I don’t think it matters that I stay up late reading, or blogging, or simply surfing the net. At least I’m not texting late at night.
Whatever. Apparently, since I’m the only other person vacant enough to stay home (my brother still has activities, and my mom still has work.), I’m the only one he sees, and since I’m the only one he sees, he notices my being idle and is irritated with it.
I can’t say, though, that I like it better when we’re all together at home, and I’m not technically the only person he sees. This is because a) I feel like I’m being magnified more, what with his compulsive need to compare me with my sibling, and b) I get entirely no privacy when everyone’s here.
I can give you a few reasons for that last statement.
1. My dad or my brother keeps looking over my shoulder wondering what I’m doing in front of the computer (that’s the most irritating thing when I’m using the computer). I could use the laptop in my room, but it’s the SLOWEST thing on earth, and by the time things load on the screen, I’m usually either frustrated already or sleepy. Or I’d lost the interest. But I guess that’s the way to turn off the desire to use the Internet: use an uber-slow desktop/laptop.
2. My mom keeps entering my room.
3. And thus, always makes me clean it.
4. I mean, if she doesn’t enter so frequently, she wouldn’t have noticed them. (!!!)
5. Plus, I get to keep nothing away from her. Well, at least for when there were still classes, she always uncovered my exam and exercise scores. Why? Because she kept entering my room, meddling around with the things I had on my desk. I guess it’s sort of my fault if I had them lying around like that. But I am not the most unorganized, unclean, and messy person around here. With the exception of my dad, I’m the most organized; I’ve already put away my notebooks, exams, exercises, and handouts in 6 different long envelopes, arranged according to subject, of course.
6. Okay, enough reasons. Back to my point.
The only thing I like about everyone being here at night is that they usually come home with stuff. Food. For instance, today both my parents brought home goods some students gave them during (for my dad, thesis; for my mom, some sort of topic proposal) defense sessions. Dad had a small cake, my mom had cookies, spaghetti, a salad, a Red Ribbon cake, Toblerone, etc.
I think it’s the only kick I get out of having professors as parents.
Anyway, these were some of the thoughts I had while I reflected being out of the house. I soon had the urge to write.
I rummaged around my bag to get a pen.
Rummaged again.
And again.
I nearly laughed at my stupidity. I had the setting right, the notebook, and the keen interest to write down my thoughts.
And yet, of all the things to forget, it had to be a pen. How do I ever expect to be a writer, when I don’t even have a pen with me all the time?
Quizzing myself.
So I found this neat site with cool quizzes (thanks to a friend’s blog), and I tried to answer them. Here are some results. Man, they were hard.
The hell.
I’m on vacation. At least, I’m supposed to be. I accept the fact that I need to transcribe so many taped interviews where I can hardly understand what the people involved are saying, because I got myself in the situation. My being a student assistant to the Department of Development Journalism calls for such clerical work.
But my dad meddling with my schedule? Damn it. I hate that he keeps looking over my shoulder checking out what I’m doing. So what if I want to post pictures in my Multiply site? He’s the one who said I should fix/arrange/organize/sort my files on the desktop. I’m uploading pictures because I want to share them to others, and keep a copy of it somewhere on the net. Is that so wrong?
Plus what is it with me not being allowed to stay up late? I still have things to do, and what does anyone care if I want to do them at night?
Earlier I was so impolite because he was being so much of a control freak. I mean, seriously, WHAT DOES IT MATTER IF I WANT TO STAY UP LATE? or if I WANT TO UPLOAD PICTURES AND LISTEN TO MUSIC?
I wish he’d back off. I mean, God, I’m not a kid.
Endless, a very silent whisper.
After my last requirement, which is a newsletter to be done by group, I still have a ton to do: clean my desk and set aside my notebooks and handouts, arrange my files, plus transcribe interviews (for my job), delete lots of text messages, reflect on the semester, etc.
Guess things don’t really end.
I’m supposed to be on vacation already!
I am so sleepy.
I want to sleep.
But I still have to revise my articles.
Tell me, did I make the right choice to major in journalism? When this is the one subject that always makes me squirm and struggle and just kill myself already?
And all the deadlines… trespassing all over my vacation…
Okay, I should not be complaining.
I want this. I actually do. You know something is meant for you when it challenges you to make the most out of your efforts.
There is probably nowhere else in the world I would be than Development Communication and Development Journalism.
Reduce My Drive!
Drive: noun, urgent needs, often physiological/basic, that may hamper learning. (e.g. hunger, sleepiness, thirst, etc.)
Only I would eat cake at this hour.
So right now I’m making visuals for our Learning System Design tomorrow. I’m so tired, I don’t know when I’ll be able to rest. I still have a thing on Sunday morning. *sigh*
