heartshape

Forced
Claudine Lim
Obcompfreak


Coming home to a series of glitches isn’t exactly the therapeutic setting you think you deserve yet for some reasons you feel empty without the little misfortunes that fire up your otherwise bland existence.

At times you wonder how on earth you’re going to survive the upsetting course you only have half a heart to take. You’ve been playing the piano since you were three and would’ve definitely loved a taste of UP Conservatory of Music hadn’t your parents insisted on sending you to that prestigious Christian institution in Negros Oriental to take up (ahem…ahem…) Nursing. There are various reasons that propel you to excel and who knows you’re only here because you just wanted to step out of your folks’ shadow to show independence without needing to. But then again, maybe you’re just forced to live up to your family’s expectations or to choose what’s practical where money is a’ flowing.

You find yourself overran with subjects that you know are of little or no use to achieving your goals. You plead the conformists to please stop with the holistic education crap as they very well know that quite a number of students feel they could do away with the extra subjects on the prospectus, not to mention a reassuring cut on their tuition.

Your mood dampens when you are compelled to write something against your principles because it’s what your narrow-minded teacher wants to believe you’ve learned from him/her. Your flair for words becomes useless because as much as you want to give the divine (ha!) educator a piece of your radical mind, the last thing he/she wants is an opinion contrasting his/her own. You can always rise up to the challenge by roping in your own convictions. That is, if you’re strong-willed enough to see an unusually low mark on your grade sheet.

You rant about how your teacher’s soporific voice barely keeps you awake to understand the lessons, then the next thing you know you surprise yourself by laughing at another teacher’s corny bathroom jokes. You don’t know how it happens but you deliberately sit in front, make yourself noticed, and guess what, laugh (too unnaturally) at a funny story your teacher shares for the nth time. Your seatmate also laughs (too unnaturally) but unlike you, he’s just trying to be polite by giggling.

You’re finally free for the day. There’s still time to grab some Quesadillas or watch 1408 with your friends. But as you cheerfully amble along Langheim Road, you receive a text message from your on-and-off boyfriend, threatening you to get back together with him else he’ll kill himself (a.k.a. deliberately flunk his majors). Your sunny afternoon returns to its gloomy state, gloomier in fact than you when were inside the sleep-inducing classroom fifteen minutes ago. You know he’s faking it but still agrees to see him because, though you deny it, you still love him (cringe…cringe…).

You decide against eating and head instead to your meeting. You’re happy with your organization but you wish not to come face to face with co-members who think they’re all that when they truthfully aren’t worth an iota of attention. You coercively engage in small conversations (if you can call it that) but pray that the chitchat on boys and make-up or girls and basketball would soon end. You crave for brain-stimulating topics and gratifying talks but at the same time bear in mind to avoid morphing into a self-professed intellectual who, in all astounding wisdom, couldn’t seem to understand the words “Keep Your Voices Down”.

You’re done with your research, decide to skip dinner (again), and by the time you reach your apartment, your tummy’s uprising becomes unbearable. You inwardly smile at the silence of your abode and as you settle for a cracker, you start picking up your roommates’ discarded clothes and washing their used plates. The place would never be clean as you hope to be. And since they’re out for the weekend you realize how much you missed being alone. Sometimes you get tired of reluctantly cheering up to avoid frustratingly being asked “Okay ra ka?” or feign laughter to get your chums to shut up about your stern humorless expression. But at the end of the day you yearn for good company (who sometimes forces you to go out of your comfort zone) and perhaps a hundredfold of shame to fire up your otherwise bland existence.




*as published in the Weekly Sillimanian (September 26, 2007)

how Donna and I looked like SUSG tWS party hopefuls...

how Nutri-fit walker Jordan decided against snoozing and only Micah got to usher...

how we ambled along the pavement looking for ways to appease our tummies.

Coughing on a Wednesday

Poor Odie for having Category 1 Tuberculosis and poor tWS staff (a.k.a. the Union)for fearing for their lives. Poor me for having just learned about the airborne TB and silly me for being so ignorant. Odie's my friend but if he's coughing all his pathogens away and we'll be working in close proximity with him, and he turns out to be contagious then I'm filing a restraining order. haha! Talk about sensationalism.

But seriously, as his illness is still level 1, he's no more dangerous than a kid with acute gastritis. He's under medication so there shouldn't be a problem as regards health issues and airborn diseases PROVIDED that he's getting enough sleep and eating the right kind of food.

Donna and Mich are gradually talking Odie into maintaining a healthy lifestyle, Kim is warning the Ed board to have their chests X-rayed, and some staffers are whispering, albeit in the open, about possibilities of acquiring TB. Apparently, Dirgy's killing himself if he contracts his Editor's celebrated illness. And until Odie steers clear of his midnight routine and strictly follows a balanced and guaranteed eating habit, I'm flying as far away as possible from the chamber.

Especially since I'm coughing myself...

No hard feelings Odie!!!

US...

Posted Tuesday, March 13, 2007

So there goes my year as a tWS Business Manager.

Did I like my job? I guess so, what with last minute trips to the OIP and weekly visits to the Business and Finance only to find out that the papers have not yet been signed, or the employees whose signatures were urgently needed were on leave, or the last request for petty cash replenishment had not yet been approved (and its been two weeks already!).

Challenging.

But I’d rather not rant about my B&F triumphs and disasters or I’d die of grief caused by too much what ifs. I’m just relieved that my work is over, and happy to have emerged in one piece thank you very much.But just when I was beginning to miss everyone at tWS who brought color to my otherwise pathetic school year, the last of my to-do things brought me back to reality, telling me “Your work isn’t over yet, punk, so slave away!”

Did I mention that I liked my job? Either way, it was definitely not a job well done. Something was always up and it annoyed me as hell that I couldn’t give one hundred percent effort in what I did. Couldn’t prepare the snacks on time, couldn’t get the money I needed, couldn’t find out when the B/F employees were going to be on leave (again), etc…etc…I hated writing columns (no surprises when the final output proved as smelly as dog poo). But I loved the lampoon column I wrote with Jordie, which just confirms how I sucked at the real thing and excelled (I think) at lampoons. So sad…

Wondering where to get funding for surprise activities (trans. Those not included in the budget) was always a challenge. And worrying about what to feed my fellow tWS babies always left me in a tight spot.It was just a job done (half done, actually). Neither great, neither terrible. And I’m not even sure if it was done out of fear, respect, or boredom. Yes, there was love, but there were times when I wanted to quit and relinquish my position to someone more deserving. Only my pride (I have lots of it) kept me from bursting. And only the people I worked with kept me from falling apart.

*************************************************************

I owe this position to Mich who cheerfully recommended me to where I had been these past two semesters. I do hope with all my heart she doesn't consider appointing me a mistake. But, it was indeed worth a tinge of regret...heheIf it wasn't for tWS, I wouldn't have known Kim, my kabsi, for who she is - the patient, understanding workaholic who'd rather not sleep just to finish all her chores than stay around and do nothing. The same Kim who thought I was a Masscom sophie almost three years ago. I wouldn't have gotten to know Odie and Micah, two of the most spiritual people I know and two of the smartest individuals I am proud to be friends with. I know they're good eggs but somehow I can point out where their cracks are.

Speaking of religious individuals, how can I forget John Steve and his "bitaw" tendencies, supergirl Rochelle and her juggling prowess, and word and number demi-god Nino, also known as Mr. Kris Aquino, or was it Inigo?Who would've thought Aiken and I would cross paths once again not as talkative campus ambassadors but as serious [huh?] tWS staffers. The second semester paved way for Aiken and his Beyonce-Lea Salonga singing voice, I'm just glad I lived to see the amazing talents of The Diva.I'm thankful for a lot of things actually. Thankful and amazed to have known the only paper boy with a kick-ass car (with a super cool sound system ready to substitute even the most effective massage chair anytime). Well, Paul, may your technology/gadget-worshipping and hopeless-romantic City of Angels-loving days never cease.

Although I wasn't able to bond with them, Pearl, Sesi, Eugene, and Marvin were as important a part of the Weekly family as all of us were. Should Pearl and Sesi abandon the hopes of becoming RNs, betcha big bucks they could swiftly earn their way to Broadway or Hollywood. The combination of Marvin's photos and Eugene's Photoshop skills truly explained why they were the heaven-sent Portal imports.But before them, the office was graced by meisters Claro (his pictures are the Man!) and Jeruel (di lang pang-lay-out, pang sinugba pa...hehe). Alongside Office master Jan Q they labored, but still managed to have fun like the lovable character Gong Gong created by, and not in the image of, my other tWS kabsi Joseph, who, in all his white glory, didn't need to apply powder on.

Skimmer wannabe John Boaz once told me I gotta choose on which side I render my loyalty. And as often stressed by the loquacious (as in super) Marianne, the Union always knew how to party. How I wish she and Of Beer and Pen blogger Dirgy tie the knot and have little Mariadirgys running around the living room. hehe...If it weren't for these people, I wouldn't have discovered Santander!The truth is I love the Ed Board as much as I love the Union.Happy vacation to those who drank Tequila and Tanduay with me - special mention to Bullfrog Jordan who hasn't even tasted beer and, ohmygosh, SANG, and Donna, whose rendition of Video Kill the Radio Star could've topped the Weekly charts...

The Amazing Award goes to Dirgy who despite red eyes and empty Tequila bottles remained sober and alert! Geek ba na?To those who helped me puke it all while enduring the nasty smell of my insides (again special mention to Michelle and Odie), you were the best. Daghang salamat.To those who understood my being an Obcompfreak, a bright clean future awaits…hehe…

Support the John Boaz-Marianne-Dirgy and Jan7-Donna love teams.

Kampay everyone...

Posted December 5, 2006

Spending Mich's birthday at Santander, Cebu where the white pebbles meet the clear blue sea couldn't have been better than battling harsh Balinsasayao terrain. I've come to love my tWS family and now understand Mara's immeasurable devotion to the publication.

There's a memorable spark where crazy spontaneity meets anal retentiveness.

Unsay concept sa Koreano for NOT ordering our food upon submission of the snacks requisition? Hadn't I made it clear that his job entails, aside from managing tws transactions, purchasing snacks for post mortem meetings? unsay concept niya for asking - no, more like telling - me to just get what I want to eat?haller!

Mess-merized
Claudine M. Lim
Obcompfreak


I hate mess – from untidy lockers and junk-infested drawers to confused dispositions and disorganized lives. While most college bums prefer the ordered chaos of their rooms, I find myself rooted to a spot where I could write my to-do list (with notes to self and proposed budget for the month), fix my things, and wipe away dirt from the nearby end table.

People will never understand my unusual aversion to unattended dirt. Candy wrappers left on the carelessly painted floor, or clothes crawling out of the hamper, closet, or drawer, piling up to outstand Mt. Fuji, are my primary sources of eye strain. Dust forming animals in dark corners, gaining profit from its zoo business at unreachable, taken for granted areas (under the bed, at the back of lavishly decorated cabinets, or near the shoe rack) will never give me the clean, healthy fun I know I deserve.

Who am I kidding? I’m just like any normal human being (my friends doubt it but hey, this is my column, and I’m free to write anything I want) who practices hoops with crumpled papers on the trashcan, who loves writing notes on clean textbooks, and who sometimes leaves empty junk food wrappers on one of Sted’s tables.

But I really hate mess.

Can I say that everything gets messy? And this isn’t even about politics. In a blink of an eye, people get zapped and dumped on a big heap of mess – things that transcend literal mess, going beyond the outmoded garbage on the sidewalks or the accumulated dust in our living rooms.

Sometimes it bothers me when I listen to people whine about messy grades or messy relationships. How much more if I get involved with their messy lives? Trust me; playing audience to a litter of tall tales is definitely not one of my reasons for living. I throw my own wrappers, dust my own furniture, and clean my own space. It is as simple and as figurative as it sounds. I bear my own burdens, nurse my own insecurities, and solve my own problems.

But then, I do have to admit I get disappointed when I complain about anything under the sun; “anything” being the contributors of my messy state of being. I mumble about plummeting grades and chronic absences, distracted colleagues or unfinished projects, and condemn the world.

It seems so easy to spot the mess other people make and the racket of filth they leave behind, but when it comes to our own rubbish, we refuse to acknowledge it and end up yakking about the injustices of it all. We busy ourselves trying to muddle with other people’s mess that we fail to reprimand ourselves for creating a junkyard out of scraps, for stacking problems instead of sweeping them away immediately!

But come to think of it, life would be utterly boring without the presence of the undead, the unstoppable, and the inevitable grime. There’s nothing more exciting than the occasional Filth Festival that provides a little exercise to the brain, body, and soul. Nothing beats the tremors that run through your spine upon encountering an unexpected dilemma, and the victorious feeling after finding its solutions.

There’s nothing more intimate than helping a friend cry and curse over an estranged loved one; there’s nothing more jolting than a failing mark or a broken nail. There’s nothing more fulfilling than helping people tidy up their lives despite promises of not meddling. There’s nothing more reassuring than looking at the faces of those who are willing to support you no matter how disgustingly chaotic (or freakishly neat) you are.

It dawned on me that my friends and I often bond over the mess we’re in - various circumstances that disappoint us, or just things we want to change, things that need dusting. It amuses me how we complain, curse, and cry over dirt. Because in the end, we simply sweep them all away.

Pride in mockers' paradise
Obcompfreak
Claudine Lim

We love Silliman.

We all do. Anyone who thinks otherwise may step out of this institution.

But then again, those who declare that this campus by the sea is nothing but a sprawling reason for an allowance or a laid-back respite from mind-boggling complexities may have not yet realized the value of this 105-year-old university. They probably haven't had the chance to appreciate Silliman enough to defend its glory, or at least, stand proud when the school gets scoffed at.

But being Sillimanians, we don't often stumble upon Mockery's guile. Perhaps we are not as exposed to these negative feedback as those who actually eat them for breakfast. After all, we belong to a prestigious institution and we often get recognized. No student usually graduates without someone believing him or her lucky for being a Sillimanian.

Usually.

I had no clue as to where Silliman's influence extended or how illustrious it was until I joined the Corps of Campus Ambassadors and started guiding university guests around campus. As student frontliners, we introduce outsiders to the sights and sounds of the Silliman campus, and advertise, promote and persuade them to experience the vitality of the Via, Veritas, Vita that we privileged Sillimanians enjoy. We tap their curiosity by sharing a part of Silliman while seeing that they feel at home. And most importantly, we tell them (without getting paid, mind you) why we love Silliman and what makes us proud to be here. Now that requires a significant amount of pride.

Telling visitors how we thrive in this 56-hectare haven, and bragging the school's achievements in the name of Silliman Spirit might seem effortless. But facing different people from all walks of life requires flexibility to adjust to various interests and personalities, uncalled-for circumstances, and impulsive (and sometimes deliberate) criticisms. It is not easy.

In our past tours, we have been bombarded with phrases like "56 hectares lang?", "It's not really that big" or "Ang liit lang naman pala ng boulevard n'yo" after we just showed off Silliman and the rest of Dumaguete's treasured spots.

For the love of this institution, we dare not taint its name by retorting, even if its critics go overboard in mocking Silliman and making fun of our attempts at telling something about our school.

Before, I would wince at every nasty remark (who wouldn't if somebody announces to the group that the spotted deer at the Center for Tropical Studies are your cousins?). If those alone made me feel like I got stabbed at the chest, how much more with heavier comments like "Hindi naman talaga magaling ang Silliman" or "Okay lang, nothing interesting" after a wearisome two-hour campus tour?

I was not used to hearing snide comments about Silliman, I wasn't experienced enough to just overlook those who deride our endeavors, and clearly didn't have enough grace to handle pressure. That was then.

I realized that we can't help encountering know-it-alls, be it students or professionals, who always have something to say; intimidating and pointing out mistakes, never tiring of joking around. We would always come face-to-face with bullies who seem to live for watching anxious people squirm. Unfortunately they're everywhere, but it's just through practice that indifference to these creatures becomes an art.

In time, maybe you'll have your chance of standing proud, of finally appreciating Silliman amidst the criticisms. Sooner or later, you'd have to defend its honor, and doing it while keeping your cool is never easy.

But since most people say Sillimanians never turn down a challenge, perhaps someday, you could surprise a few detractors by subtly (and wisely) making them regret why they ever mocked Silliman University.