headspace

I. 

I need more life experience, I think.

II.

I put a finger through the new hole I found in my jeans. There's still blood spatter on it (the finger, not the hole) from when I picked at my lips until I drew red. 

III.

This morning the stitches loosened on my denim shirt and I don't remember where I put the button that came off. 

IV.

God. His voice? I can't remember. I haven't heard it in two years, three months, three weeks, and a day. Not in person, and not in my head, because I've forgotten what he even sounds like, and I deleted his stupid carousel song a long time ago.

I'm doomed to know what date it was the last time I saw him only because it was a funeral. The truth is I've stopped counting the days. 

V.

My favorite way to wallow is to lie very, very still in bed with the lights off and watch the colors change on the ceiling, mirroring the skies outside, their warm hues slowing turning cold. 

VI.

Is there anything more passive than waiting? I'd certainly like to know. 

VII.

Consciousness is hard.

VIII.

Last week I remembered being thirteen and reading the personal, rambling entries William Beckett would post on his blog while on the road promoting Fast Times at Barrington High. I remembered when he posted the lyrics to "The Test" and "After the Last Midtown Show," not knowing at the time how much they would shape the way I'd walk the earth. 

He was twenty-three and full of poetry. I was transfixed. 

I remembered it, seven years later, only realizing then how utterly young he was. At thirteen, twenty-three seems like forever. At twenty? Not so much. 

I blame him for changing less and less. 

I don't need roads

Let me start this post off with an indignant proclamation—nay—vow:

I will never, ever, ever teach.

God, that felt good. Okay.

"In need of enlightenment, break free."

Long ago I decided that teaching as a career is not for me. It's a noble profession, sure, and I have a lot of respect for it. But it's just not who I am—I don't like crowded rooms, I don't like public speaking, I don't like routine, I'm not even a scholarly type of person. I'm a bad student! Most of all, I just don't like it. Thinking of doing it makes me want to pull my hair out. 

"Okay, okay," you're saying. "We get it. What's your point?"

My point is, my parents won't stop forcing it upon me. When I was looking for jobs this summer my mom kept suggesting being an online English tutor to ESL students. They keep bringing up some friend-of-a-friend's kid who's in Korea doing the same thing, but in a classroom. And tonight, during dinner, my mom turned to me and said, "Your aunt is asking when you're gonna be graduating." I waited for her to continue, hopeful and intrigued. "Because apparently there's a high demand for English teachers..."

I tuned her out. Closed my eyes. I've had enough of this.

It's a stepping stone, they say. If I wanted to work overseas, I needed to compromise. I had to start somewhere.

Yeah, I know that. Trust me, I do. But taking some dead-end job is not it. My dream isn't even specifically to work in a foreign city. I just want to write. (And open that independent press! It took me years to come to this epiphany, and I've never been more determined and excited about anything. It's my be-all and end-all.) If I want a career in publishing, then I'll start at the bottom of that chain and work my way up.

I've told them time and time again that if I can't make it work doing what I love, then I'll find my own way around it and take other jobs I can actually see myself in. Fuck it, I'll even work in a bookstore making minimum wage if I have to. But first I have to believe that I'll make a spectacular landing where I'm supposed to be, because I'm good at it and because I have a chance. Because I didn't go through five years of UP education to wind up behind a desk with a mediocre monotonous non-career.

Hey, I'm a millennial. Being idealistic despite the heavy dose of good, old-fashioned hand-me-down Gen X realism ingrained in my veins is my birthright.

I understand that they had to sacrifice a lot in order to be where they are now, and sometimes life took a different route and made their choices for them, and I appreciate that. It just doesn't mean that I have to go through the same process. It's just frustrating and dispiriting, is all.

Support me, I want to tell them. Know me. Believe in me.    

It's scary how easy it is to fall into a dull, bleak existence that you never even asked for. To take that dead-end job to begin a journey you hope would go somewhere, only to have it lead nowhere and never get to leave. You'd make a living. But you wouldn't be living.

I remember being in third grade and telling Mrs. Gonzales that I wanted to be "an author." She scowled at me. "'Author' is not a job, it's a title," she said snippily. "You want to be a writer."

And, universe help me, I do. My whole life since I was eight has been leading up to this. I'd be a fool to take a detour now.

I take my chances alone

Shilpa Gupta, 24:00:01 (2012); photo taken at the Singapore Art Museum.

A few days ago I realized that I've stopped imagining my life beyond this point in time. When I think of the future, I think of shallow, meaningless things like film release schedules and upcoming fall television. It's like reality and true milestones and my goals and dreams (publishing! writing! that independent press I'm setting up someday!) have gone into hiding. My guess is that I'm so unsure of the approaching months alone, can't even see a future past December yet, that I can't begin to fathom the coming years at all.

I'm really trying, here.

I started my internship at Scout magazine this week. I sent an email to apply months ago and thought nothing of it. When they didn't respond, I shrugged it off. Oh, well. Until two weeks ago, on the 10th, when they finally wrote me back. They said they loved my portfolio, and that they wanted to see me. Before I knew it, I had an interview set for the next Monday, on the 17th.

Fiel's Firsthand Guide on How Not to Handle Your First Job Interview 

The Hinge Inquirer offices are situated on a pretty quiet practically-suburban intersection in Makati, in a clean, glassy building that almost looks out of place in the neighborhood. I got there with fifteen minutes to spare, wearing the nicest clothes I own in an attempt to look presentable. Which immediately proved pretty futile, because while I sat and waited, various employees walked in and out, and they all looked young, hip, and normcore chic (is that an acceptable way to use these terms?). A few minutes past one PM, one of the magazine's editorial assistants went to meet me and took me to a makeshift room comprised of four work cubicles, where the art director and the other editorial assistant were waiting.

Okay, actually, it went pretty well. I was cool and composed, I maintained eye contact, and they were really nice and welcoming. They said they were impressed with what I've done with Elision, particularly the Julian Casablancas interview, and they looked through the physical copies I'd brought. (The art director even asked me, "How old are you again?" One of his co-workers answered for me: "Twenty. She's twenty. What were you doing when you were twenty?") I got to talk about it a lot, from its conception to scoring JC to getting it printed. Then they asked the usual things, like why I wanted to be an intern there specifically and what I wanted to learn and what I could do.

The only hitch was when I was instructed to pitch possible features for their October issue on the spot, during which I took two minutes stuttering out a jumbled mess of barely connected words, trying to illustrate a half-baked concept. When I flash back to it I still visibly cringe. Not my best moment.

But, as you can see, I survived. We worked out a schedule and other necessary details, and there's not much pressure, because I'm taking the opportunity purely for my own interest and experience, and not for a school requirement or anything. I left Makati feeling validated, excited, and determined.

I Get to Work

I should really learn to commute to Scout and stop taking cabs from SM Makati, because my poor wallet will be drained if I don't. (Next time, self, I promise!) Anyway, like I said, I had my first day over there yesterday. On Sunday I was nervous and filled with dread, wanting to skip out and read all day instead. But it would soon become apparent that all the worrying was for nothing.

This time I wore jeans and one of those nice slim-fitting tops, so I could fit in and look nice while still being myself. (Not all my entries about work—work!!!—will include vague descriptions of outfits, because this is not The Devil Wears Prada, but I felt that the ones I've written here are important because they can be symbols and agents of change and character development in me. Or something.)

I arrived at 11 AM and met with the editors again, one of whom showed me to my desk. I. Have. A cubicle, you guys. I've always been wary when it comes to the idea of being a "yuppie" and being stuck in a white collar environment, so this was definitely strange to me. But I found that I was happy to be in that cubicle, to have this temporary place of my own right in tHE OFFICES OF A PUBLISHING COMPANY WORKING FOR A YOUTH CULTURE MAGAZINE OH MY GOD. I was more than happy, I was elated!

The rest of the day was pretty normal after that, and mostly I just sat around on my phone and iPad making use of my mobile data (because I was too shy to ask for the WiFi password, of course). I tried to get some reading in, and I was advised to think of features and other things to pitch for both the magazine and its website. The managing editor, with whom I have been exchanging emails, introduced herself to me and she was so warm and even whispered, "You write great," as she went back to her desk. Self-esteem boosted!

When they went out to have lunch they asked me if I wanted to join them, but as you probably guessed, I politely declined and said I'd already eaten, which was only a half-truth. I didn't think I could handle my first friendly work lunch right then. But now I kind of wish I had, so I'm making a mental note to accept their invitation next time. I just hope that they extend another one!

Later I got tasked to tape together proofs for the next issue (in its entirety! it was pretty cool to get to see everything before anyone else). I'm left-handed and a true-blue klutz, so obviously not the best at keeping things straight, but I got a system going and got it done efficiently enough, I'd like to think. Then right before I left at 4 PM they asked me to proofread and edit some of the articles, which made me feel pretty damn official. (So was getting to listen in on them discussing ideas for the October issue. It sounded exactly like Steph and me discussing Elision conceptualizations.)

Some fun tidbits about proofreading:

• They've been making the unfortunate mistake of italicizing song titles and putting album titles in quotation marks when it should be the other way around. There was a repeat performance in this issue. Ya girl sort of passive-aggressively wrote, "I read in The Elements of Style that you put song titles in quotation marks and italicize album titles" in the margins. 
• 
  
• One writer wrote "LeAnn Rhymes" in his article; the editor tried to correct it to "LeAnn Rhimes." I knew better, though, and set it straight with "Rimes." Never thought my childhood obsession with her cover of "How Do I Live" and the fact that I own (and treasured) her Best Of album would ever come in handy.  

And, finally, some other notes to self: Bring a nice jacket and don't let your shyness get in the way of your poor bladder. Come on!

So, I never thought I'd ever say this, but I had a great day at work yesterday.

In other exciting news,

I got a really, really nice email from Satchmi today. About my writing. And incredible opportunities. And I can't wait to see what it entails.

I still have trouble seeing into my own future. I still don't feel one hundred percent these days. But the past two weeks have been helping me get some of my idealism back, bit by bit. Somehow I am living my future. It's been raining so hard lately, but I find that I don't have much about which to complain.

Don't worry. I haven't run out of things to say.

love will tear us apart

Yesterday I saw Hannah Fidell's 2015 film 6 Years, which features raw and brilliant (mostly) improvised performances by Taissa Farmiga and Ben Rosenfield, the script having been not much more than a 40-page outline. Executive-produced by Mark and Jay Duplass, it's a coming-of-age drama wherein the disintegration of a young couple's (you guessed it) six-year relationship unfolds, brought about by a cascading sequence of disagreements and diverging life choices as they navigate their final years in college.

Movies that make me wistful are my favorite kind. In the opening montage, and throughout the film when they're not busy biting each other's heads off, viewers are provided glimpses of the dynamic between Mel (Farmiga) and Dan (Rosenfield), and it is all kinds of intimate and ideal, at least on the surface. The small details add up and make you want to root for this twosome to thrive: They were next-door neighbors. They've been together since they were fifteen (my estimate). They lost their virginity to one another. They're comfortable and secure and beautiful and untouchable.   

This was immensely helped by the crazy good chemistry between the two leads. I swear, their sheer togetherness jumped off the screen so naturally it began to make me feel intrusive, like I was watching an actual longtime couple instead of a pair of actors.

As individuals, both Mel and Dan are completely fleshed out and true to life, each with their own personalities, dreams, differences, plans and paths, lives outside of their relationship, and tons of flaws and bad choices, and they both go through character developments separate from and in sync with one another. I suspect this is a result of the improvisation techniques, because their reactions feel more real and their actors are more invested and injected into them this way.  

At its low points, 6 Years is predictable at times and offers no resolution to each conflict presented, ending on a vague interrobang of some sort. But at its best, it is a well-shot and thought-out progression of a doomed romance, taking its time to show you how its foundations crumbled in extremely painful ways, every intense moment leading into another until it's clear as day. And still you can feel the love linger. You find yourself wanting to shake the characters and yell at them, snap them back to attention, because it makes you care. The denouement is abrupt, but with enough thought it's very satisfying.  

Compare Celeste and Jesse Forever. It reminded me somehow of Jeux d'enfants, but that's just me.    

It's not perfect, at particular scenes even hideous, but it's human, which is the most we can ever hope for sometimes.