Running on "Empty" (Blog 19?)

Disclaimer: Forgive this work. Its messy, and confusing at times because the focus isn't at all clear until the end, if ever it is clear. Like always, questions, suggestions, grievances, and violent reactions are welcomed.


For the last four years, give or take a few months, a big chunk of my time has been spent stuck sitting on the ever-menacing plastic with which college classroom desk chairs are made. Fine, not all classroom chairs I’ve encountered in college were plastic, some were metal, and others were made from wood. Fact of the matter is, I’ve had my behind on one of these chairs for a long time. It’s an incredible feat really, given that I’ve only lived for a little over twenty-one years. I’m not going to do the math for you on that one, I’m a historian by training and I don’t do those things. Trust me, you wouldn’t want me to anyway. I don’t even remember the first time I actually encountered such four-legged entities. All I know is that it wasn’t even in the same country; you can only imagine the variety of desk chairs I’ve sat on.

I finished high school in the Philippines, the land of Pansit, Lechon, and about eighty million Hispanic-Asians. Trust me, had I placed a picture of myself with this essay, you’d see what I mean. With the risk of going mildly off-topic, the explanation for all of this confusion is that the Philippines is a hodgepodge of Chinese, Malay, and Spanish cultures, hence my Asian features and a very Spanish name. For us back in the Philippines, college was the obvious next step after you graduate high school, none of that taking a year off scenario that some “western” kids go through. But unlike some of the people I knew, I was quite looking forward to college. I had gotten tired and bored with high school. It was the same old subjects every day with mind-numbing intensity. My only respite being the mandatory, school and government sanctioned, military training that high-school students went through in the Philippines. At least then we got to move around and, at times, shout orders. I couldn’t wait for a change of environment.

The two years of college I spent in the Philippines was full of ups and downs, overflowing with experiences, some I would like to forget, others I’d treasure forever. I incurred the wrath of my parents’ anger several times for things I should not have done, like smoking, drinking, staying out late. I also did some things of questionable legality (at least under Philippine law), some of which my parents learned of and was punished accordingly. On the other hand, there were good things about those two years. I met some of my most significant friends in those two years, people that I can count on, trust my life with. I also learned to love someone (or at least I think so) and I learned what kind of person I was looking for in my life (kind of). I also learned to appreciate people for who they are and not for what people say they are. In essence, I grew up in those two years, more than anyone could ever imagine.

On the advent of my junior year, I moved to the United States, to New Jersey to be precise. Why? I really can’t say why, at least for now. It would require a whole other essay, a very boring one at that. Let’s just say I moved for the opportunities that were in store for me in the United States. I enrolled myself in a small university, only half-an-hour away from New York City. The change was incredible, new country, new school, new people. I was forced into a crash course in the American system college education. Instead of the 24-27 college I was used to taking per semester, I was literally only obliged to take 12 credits per semester to maintain a full-time status. It was incredible! I couldn’t believe all the free time I had. I spent the first two months of my first American college semester bumming around the town I moved into, walking through parks, hanging out (although by myself). It was fun for a while, but things got old pretty quick when you’ve got nobody to share it with.

By around October of that fall semester, I found myself an on-campus job. It didn’t pay much, but eight dollars an hour then wasn’t something you’d scoff at, and at least it was at school. I got along with my co-workers quite well, perhaps because of my willingness to be at work. They didn’t know that I just couldn’t stand being alone. As funny as it sounds, though my academics kept me busy and intellectually hungry, it was this job that I though of as a safe-haven. I didn’t expect that I would meet the kind of friends I had met years ago back home working for the school rather than in my classes, as was the case in the Philippines.

I never consumed myself in the college life that movies and television glorify. Sure, I’ve enjoyed some of its benefits, like crazy college parties filled with stupid, reckless abandon that would rival any rave. But that was rather rare for me. Sure, I had my fun with friends, crashing at some of their houses (apartments) more out of necessity than convenience. But now, more than ever, I pride myself with the academic work I’ve put forward. Perhaps it has something to do with all that growing up I did in Manila, perhaps it’s the tangibility of my future has brought me to embrace my current duty. I don’t know. But this life, this college life, from two different worlds, was my sanctuary. Its something I know, something I can navigate.

Now, I’m at my final semester. I can clearly see the seducing finish line, with all its promises for the future. The idea of finally living in the real world, finding a real job, moving and living in a real place, was right over that hill. I could smell it, I could almost touch it. But as I run towards it, with all the energy and excitement I thought I had, I sputtered. I stumbled. I stopped. All of a sudden, I’m exhausted. There’s an imposing letter “E” flashing on my internal dashboard. I hadn’t noticed that before, I must have been running on low for a while now. It’s a wonder that I can actually type these words on my beaten-up computer and its struggling word processor. But here I am, spewing the last few gasps of coherent thought to who ever might read this. I’m only a few weeks short of finishing this all out, finally leaving college and going for the next step and suddenly I’m stuck.

Its possible that I’ve completely exhausted myself. Looking back, it hasn’t exactly been an easy four years. I’ve been sleep deprived for about four years, averaging a solid four to five hours per weekday. Some days I get less. You’re not a college student if you’ve never pulled an all-nighter, I’ve had a few of those. I’ve read thousands upon thousands of pages, whether it be historical texts, literature, or the occasional writing manuals that told me how to write certain things. I’ve written countless pages of material for courses. The quality varied from totally made-up from the thinking throne (ie the toilet) to graduate level works. Within all of this, other things have occurred. I’ve moved several times (moved from a country once, moved from houses twice), lugging my belongings through long trips. I’ve lost a few friends and gained a few others (this too is tiring, let me tell you). I’ve even fallen in love and had my heart broken (the latter happened twice). Its been a crazy four years. But I don’t think that’s it. At least that’s not all of it.

Its not merely exhaustion that’s led me into this emptiness. I’ve worked through so much with great fatigue and I don’t believe that I’m in this rut because of it. It has to be something else. Perhaps it’s the one thing that I haven’t considered so far. Maybe I’m just afraid, afraid of all the things that lie in store for me. Afraid of the promise of a real world. Afraid because, soon enough, I wouldn’t have the safety-net that college provided. Afraid because it’s the soon enough, there’s no turning back.

The Nagging Question of Essay 4 (Blog 18?)

I've gotten some great suggestions from my fellow colleagues, and I really appreciate them all. I've got several avenues to choose from, and I think all of them are viable essays, not unlike the failed attempt in essay 3. Liz and Nicole suggested to write about getting over this "hump" of getting through this (this being writting another essay, or probbably more about finishing out college). They (i think) they both touched on one of the topics I was seriously thinking of writing about, this whole emptiness and "uninspiredness" after 21 years of life... I think theres something there... i"ll have to write it out.

Angela also provided me with some insight of things I can write about work, school, etc. I was trying to figure out what to write about so I had try it out...


Heres a brief sample, this may or may not be part of the essay:

Where I work there’s a decent sized room that’s hidden from the hustle and bustle of our front office. It never gets contaminated by the drama of irate customers or the numbing sensation of a slow day. It’s a white rectangular room, decorated with marks of countless hours of office-recreation on the walls. Three of its four walls each have a door that leads out to other places, but they really only lead to more work, hence it’s not important. The fourth wall has two large, rectangular windows that make available to those inside the room a view of the incessant flux of the world outside. In spring, the windows are a vehicle for temptation, to go outside and bask in the life that nature brings. In autumn, it echoes the fiery heat of summer through the colors of the soon to be falling leaves, while heralding the coming of winter with its strong, cold breeze. Apart from the doors, the windows, and the single water cooler, the rest of the walls were covered by two rows of lockers. In the middle of the room are three long tables, each with enough space to be actually occupied in all directions. Around these tables are chairs that disappear and reappear in random fashion. There’s nothing extremely inviting about the room, perhaps the only reason for it is its isolation from the drudgery of work. Anytime one’s on break, its in this room you can find them, sitting on a chair, chatting with others, whether they were on the clock or not. It’s a sanctuary of sorts, where deep conversations are often had, regardless of the audience that may or may not walk in through the door. It’s a haven for people who just need to talk, there’s always someone there.

Essay 4 Ideas

Its nearly the end of the semester and I'm seriously running on fumes by this point. I didn't realize that the semester was gonna be so tough. Senioritis plus paper-intensive classes have driven me crazy. In any case, the reason for the previous explanation is this, I have no idea what to write about. Perhaps I've exhausted all my material, or maybe, I'm just exhausted, period.

Maybe I can write about this entire semester. How I can see the finish line but I'm slowly running out gas.

Perhaps I can write about the CAS lunch room. There are so many things that go on in that room. I have no clue.

Camera

Disclaimer: I realize that this is somewhat short, but this is where I stopped. I can't seem to squeeze anything out for now. Hopefully this will suffice. In any case, as always, reactions, grievances, and violent reactions are appreciated.

The background shows a grayish lake. The ripples on the water show signs of the passing wind that was blowing that day. It makes the water look like wiggling gelatin. My niece would have liked that. The lake is bordered by grassy banks that were presumably manmade. On the far bank of the lake is small field with trees the mark out its boundaries. Some trees have already shed their leaves, while others still have them, clinging on to their branches. In the foreground is a bench. It occupies the right-half of the photograph. The bench’s edges jump out from the relative grayness of the grass on the ground. On the bench are two figures, one male and one female. They both have white baseball caps on. The woman’s medium length hair pops out of the space between the cap adjustor and the rest of the cap. She has her head turned to the right, as if saying something to her partner. I wonder what it was she said. I’m sure it’s better than what I can think of. The man has his left arm around her. They look content, though I really can’t see their faces. I felt happy when I took the photograph. Perhaps they were happy too. I didn’t ask. How could I? It’s not like I knew them. But that doesn’t really matter. The question I’m dying to answer is this: Why did I take this photograph?

I have a camera. So I take photographs. No, not your typical digital photographs but your archaic, black and white, printed from film, photographs. It’s a tedious task, developing film. There’s a long list of procedures that range from pouring chemicals to washing the film in a special water-flowing canister. It’s almost mundane, perhaps the only thing that keeps me going is the end result, a developed roll of film. The unfurled roll of film would have to spend sometime in a drying cabinet. The wait is almost unbearable, I’m always anxious to see what I was able to immortalize in film. However, enlarging and making prints from the developed film is just as tedious. Gauging how long the enlarger should expose the expensive photographic paper requires so much attention that one can spend a good half hour fiddling with test strips. Even then, there’s no guarantee you’d end up with a print worth keeping. Despite all of these, I keep coming back, even if my hands are dry from all the chemicals I touch, even if my eyes complain every time I move in and out of the dark room. It’s tedious, laborious, and at times frustrating, but I keep coming back, I keep taking photographs.

I realize that this doesn’t answer the question. It didn’t mean to, at least not yet.

Photography is a wonderful media for capturing memories. Family gatherings are never complete without somebody whipping out an old photo album while reminiscing about the good old days. But I rarely take that kind of photos, at least not with my film camera. It’s always been a little bit of an artsy relationship I have with my Nikon FM10. The good ones that come out are better suited in a gallery than in a family album (although I don’t think it should be in a gallery, it’s not good enough, it’s just the kind of photographs I take). Perhaps one may call it art. I call it therapy, but what do I know? In any case, if it is art then maybe the old saying “art imitates life” may be applicable in answering my query. But as I look at the “Bench” photograph, I think, there’s nothing in my life that the whole composition imitates. It is easier for me to conceive that I take photographs, especially the “Bench” kind of photographs, only because I can take such photographs.

However, there might be a whole different “imitation of life” aspect in this photograph. Sure, it’s not an imitation of my life, but who’s to say it can’t be an imitation of a life I want. At the risk of sounding voyeuristic, perhaps I vicariously live off from the photographs that I take. I re-examine the photograph and I find an eerie speck of sadness to the whole composition. Perhaps it’s because of its black and white nature. It’s very possible that the couple themselves were unhappy. Fact of the matter is, under the sweet undertones of a happy couple sitting in the park enjoying an afternoon off, is a tainted view on life.

Ok. So, like many of our colleagues, I too am not so sure as to what I want to do with this essay just yet. To be frank, I was a little too preoccupied in finishing my final draft for essay 1, but that's not really an excuse. In any case, I was able to write something out that maybe worth something. Then again, that's not for me to judge. So here it is, and please bear with me. Questions, comments, grievances, and violent reactions are appreciated. :)
-Josemaria


I have a camera. I take photographs. No, not your typical digital photographs but your archaic, black and white, printed from film, photographs. It’s a tedious task, developing film here, enlarging them over there, washing prints somewhere else. It doesn’t help that all of this was done with little or no light. But I enjoy it, despite the dry hands that results from all the chemicals I touch. I enjoy it, despite the constant painful vision adjustment that happen when I move in and out of the darkroom. I enjoy it, despite the fact that when I look at my photographs, it’s not always what I want.

The background shows a grayish lake. The ripples on the water show signs of the passing wind that was blowing that day. It makes the water look like wiggling gelatin. My niece would have liked that. The lake is bordered by grassy banks that were presumably manmade. On the far side of the lake is a blur of trees and lamplights that shade and illuminate visitors respectively. In the foreground, on the near bank of the lake is a bench. And on the bench are two figures, one male and female. He has his arm around her, while her she’s directly looking at him. They look lovely. They look like they’re in love. If you think about the picture, it seems like a happy one. What’s sweeter than spending time with your loved one on a nice afternoon in the park? But that’s not the real question. The question I want to answer is this. Why am I taking that photograph?

An Oversized Sweatshirt, A Green Purse, and A pair of Jeans

She turns the knob and walks through the door, taking sluggish steps towards one of three long tables in the center of the room. Her blue, oversized sweatshirt engulfs her normally thin figure. Tries desperately to push her sleeves up to her elbows but she struggles in vain as it falls back down the moment she moves. She is carrying on her shoulder a large, dark green, multi textured, leather purse with the edges of a laptop protruding from its opening. The laptop is not the only item in her purse. She reaches in and struggles for a second with her purse, only to pull out her simple, grey, cell-phone. She drops her purse on one of the tables and flips her phone open to receive a call. The cell-phone covers almost all her ear except for the little stud earring that glinted for a very brief second. On her other ear was an identical stud. She smiles and starts to talk to the person on the other end of the line. She sits down on one of the chairs and crosses her legs. Her lightly dyed denim jeans look quite used, with frayed pant legs from months of being stepped on by her shoes.