Can I stay at your Place

Well, I’m still unemployed. I stopped writing resumes and cover letters a week ago. I’m waiting for my landlord to evict me since I can’t pay this month’s rent. Of course, I’m exaggerating, but not too much. I have one month to get my stuff together, otherwise I’m going to be knocking on friends' doors. I’m now considering printing a slew of resumes and hitting restaurants and cafes. Something, I vowed not to do since the overprized snobby tea house left a bad taste in my mouth.

On to good news, the Academy I applied for contacted me again. Apparently, I passed the surprised grammar test that I was certain I failed. Whew! Now, I’m on the second stage of the interview. I have to do a lesson on passive and active verbs and, demonstrate them to a grade six student. This should be easy. The director also mentioned something about a Math test. I’m not sure about this one. I don’t have anything to lose, so what the heck, bring it on.

stillness and a full tank of gas

She knows the way a new city hides her sadness. No rinds on square pavements to slide happier times, no concern eyes that reflect pity as they hand out comforting words they don’t believe. Here, no one knows the taste of her tears. The ocean accepts them as offering and the city of glass shatters them in fragments.

Three words changed the position of the sun. She’s aware of time, of shifts between lovers, of loss. She has seen the single image on his library computer stored in an instant replay, the saved newspaper clippings. Six months powered by ten—how many times will the moon move under the shadow of the earth under these time intervals? Can she compete? Is this wise? A game against time is a game she’ll eventually lose. This is all too familiar—she’s a replacement part bought too soon.

This is two hours worth of writing. Arrrggghhh. Nothing is coming out today. Nada.

This is the first time I’ve allowed myself this much time off, the first time I am unemployed since I was fifteen. I’m enjoying myself. I’ve been spending heaps of time with friends and Jason, catching up on movies and reading books. But I do feel like I’m starting to get lazy. I’m lost without markers. The great thing about being unemployed is that I realized that I am cut from the same mold as my Lola (Grandma), in that, I like having a schedule, having a million things on my plate. This is sooo cool, I’m going to be a tyrant old woman with coconut oil lacquered hair that will drive everyone mad. Weeee!!!!

behind the scene

waiting for the bus

All these pictures are taken by Ariel Kg

Found

I found this letter in April at the back stage of the Old Auditorium. It seems that B still loves this person. I love the anger and frustration of the lines, "soon I won't live in the same city you do anymore. That would be a problem if I cared to see you again. I don't." I equally love that the person B wrote to, printed and folded this letter six times so that it could fit into the pocket of his/her jeans.

I'm thinking of sending it to this site

Please Direct me to the Packaging Manuals

Looking for work is a practice in selling yourself. I started looking about two weeks ago, minus the one week Asuka and Tomomi were in town, so that makes it, one week of typing cover letters and resumes, one after another. I’m treating job hunting as a job. I get up early in the morning and do half an hour of yoga, have breakfast and then, the exercise of selling myself starts. I try to be creative in listing the selling points that make me valuable. Leave out the things that make me who I am. Like the way I trembled and cried while I watched the footage of Negros’ sugar can workers. Or the way, my heart flutters when I meet my Lover’s eyes across a crowded room. I leave these out. They aren’t marketable. I look at myself and ask: could I join the consumer game? Everybody’s in the business of selling. The sooner I learn how to package myself in store bought traits employers want, the sooner I’ll be able to get a job.

Step Right Up

Words written on achromatic paper, carbon bleeds on your fingertips. The words are too serious, self-consciously bland—unimaginative—packaged for consumption.

“What did they do to our children?” A woman writes for Adbuster in respond to the recent aggressive advertisements which target children. A child by the age of two could identify 12 brands. Nothing is sacred, everything is marketable. Twelve year old models with glossed lips are adorned with Tommy’s school wear.

I don’t know what is worst, twelve year olds pretending to be grown up or grown women with hello kitty complex. The botox.ca billboards that are on every major intersections stare at me, “Don’t you want to be hot?” Hot fades in my vocabulary.

I’m not aware when the transition happened. I was once a fashion pusher. I victimized many and they loved me:
“Caramel Kiss. It’s gorgeous on you.”
“Honey Blonde. It looks soooo great on the pillows.”
“Curls bring out your playful personality”
“That is sooo COOL.”
“Wow, that is hot!”
I sounded like a flamboyant gay man. But they gave comfort and I made people feel beautiful, even though their husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends hated it. I was good. Really good. Maybe I could fall back on that as a career. Shall I do it?

memory cards and too much time

12 months

Jen left today. I watched her cycle away from 1986, pulling her trailer. Watched her outline softened, turned to a dot, and finally disappeared on the bend. How many more times do belongings have to be put in a bag, carry it across whatever ocean, drag it from one continent to another. Reminding ourselves that everything in this bag is who we are. Everything in this bag is me. This is me. This is me. Everything in this bag is me. Repeating it till all the words are blunted, over and over to smoothen the corners, to cut a groove in my mind—I will be okay—this is me. This is me. This bag is me. Everything in this bag is me, the weight of my experience, are rolled and folded in this bag. Everything that I need I have in this bag. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is not me.