Disquiet/Disconnect

Those who had ever been in a couple would probably understand what I’m talking about.  That feeling of utter disquiet one has in those particular moments of disconnect one feels with one’s other half in a relationship.  Suddenly, the person whom you’d totally connected with on so many levels is just disconnected from you in a lot of those levels.  Sometimes that’s just exactly what it is—a feeling.  But when you’re in it, it’s as tangible and literally pressing like a one-size-tight jacket worn on a day that is turning out to be a little more humid than expected. 

I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what triggers it, but I can give it a couple of jabs, based from experience.  Maybe a knee-jerk reaction to the following things: a rash comment said haphazardly which the other person easily forgives but not quite forgets, thoughts too strong to pull away from that it totally distracts you from the moment and from the person you’re with, an awkward moment that happens randomly, just randomly.  Whatever the permutations are, it results to that state of disconnection that’s just bewildering to one party or both. 

Like I said, it could just be a feeling, a transient state of reality that just happens the way El Nino happens—it’s a phenomenon that just happens and happens as part of a cycle.  Two people cannot be connected at all times, after all.  I guess the weird part comes in when you attempt to reconnect, or recover from the moment.  Friends could afford to say ‘meh’, and part ways knowing that equilibrium could be restored the next day or the next week or whenever they’d meet.  I think it’s a lot different with lovers (particularly ones who are fresh into the relationship), because to them, every moment together should count (or maybe that’s just me).  When it happens though, you throw in all sorts of lassoes and hooks, hoping one of them would catch and draw her back in, and along with it, the moment.  And it feels really strange when nothing happens, nothing latches on, and all you have is this hard, white, smooth blank wall. 

Anyway, I hope you don’t think I’m overthinking this too much.  After all, the purpose of my posts these days is to exercise my writing, which means I get to expound on single thoughts and feelings to full 500-word write-ups.  I do hope they’re making sense, anyhow.

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Anyone who knows me knows I love cleaning.  Awhile ago I’ve just begun with the second floor, with the view of a complete floorwax of the entire house, as well as the general rearrangement of things—mostly lessening clutter and establishing particular places for particular things.  I have to admit I’ve been out of touch with the house for awhile; for example, I feel rather lost whenever I cook because I’m not very familiar with the way the kitchen is set up.  Anyway, expect more updates on the cleaning in the next couple of days.  I intend to finish that soon, since I consider it a prerequisite to cleaning up what I see as the general clutter in my life, currently.  

The Second Day

This is actually a cheat post.  I was supposed to post a 500 word writeup to this blog as part of my new morning regimen but as it is, I haven’t.  Then again, I am making up for it, aren’t I.  I will not make a habit out of it, I promise. 

The second day of forming a habit is always hard.  Yesterday I found it so tough to get up, put on my shoes and start my usual 30-minute run.  In any case I chose a destination: the nearby Rainforest Park, which turns out to be a 20-minute jog away, at a slow but steady pace.  I’m looking for a lap pool I can swim at—I enjoy the water way better than land.  Anyway, it turns out that the city-run Park is, pretty much your usual, badly-inspired theme park (e.g. the ubiquitous dinosaurs, all-too-colorful stone benches, etc) or low-end clubhouse.  Anyway, my comments might be harsh but the good thing is, most of the Park is under construction.  As our current mayor and his wife are both architects, here’s to hoping that the renovations turn out well. 

The swimming pools were these huge kidney-shaped pools made for kids, with towering slides; not really for laps.  The smell of chlorine was pungent, overpowering.  The water had clearly not been replaced for awhile (it had an milky-blue color to it) despite the rather steep fees they collected from patrons (P80 for Pasig residents; P100 for non-residents).  I could get a better deal from the Olympic sized pool at the Philippine Sports Complex, which is around P40+ pesos.  That pool is cleaned Tuesdays, weekly.

Second days are tough.  The romance of that new beginning, or the concept of creating a new habit for yourself is gone, and you’d have to face the rest of it one day at a time.  All the excuses surface: like, running should not be done daily but every other day.  What’s the point of keeping a blog that nobody will read.  And really, who will check up on you if you don’t follow through?  But how do I get to that target weight, or how do I sharpen my writing skills if I don’t push through?  So you keep going and going.

Anyway, at 1pm I attended this orientation seminar to become a volunteer for the Red Cross at the Rizal/Pasig/Pateros Chapter.  I figured the other day that while I have nothing to do during the bum months (with mostly a lot of “figuring out” to do) I ought to go through the list of things I’ve always wanted to do but couldn’t do because I was reviewing or working.  I’m taking the Basic Life Support Course, and if I pass that, the Water Safety and Rescue Course.  There are a couple of other free courses, like Disaster Management, Care for Mothers and Infants during a disaster, and other courses along those lines that I’m going to be looking into. 

It’s interesting to note that the Red Cross Founder’s first experience in setting up a group to give first aid (during a battle, in which he along with mothers, children and elderly cared for 30,000-40,000 wounded and dying) was an utter failure, as not one survived.  They ended up basically easing their patients way to the next life—handling their last will and testaments, possibly acting as de facto couriers, delivering letters to family and friends and lovers of the soon to be deceased.   That would have turned out to be a horrible second day for the founder, but after a couple of hundred years, the Red Cross is here, active and inspiring people like me to get moving and make a difference in the world.  I hope I do :) 

And The Trekking Resumes

It’s the fourth day of being officially “funemployed”, and while the game plan really is to carve a cozy little niche in my bed for two weeks to a month and watch DVD’s in the intervals between carbonite freezings, I’ve decided to start my bum-days with a more structured regimen.  Like for example, writing a 500-word composition daily to brush up on my writing.  Earlier, I did a 45-minute run.  I’ve just finished cooking breakfast for everyone; tortang talong, and, modesty aside one of the best dishes I could cook. 

I started this blog—TheCityTrekker—to write about the excitement of living in the city, of pursuing dreams, to take note of the nooks and crannies that hold secret treasures for that every now and then jolt the late 20-something from yuppie-zombiefication and generally to document the good vibes I came across.  You must have noticed that I haven’t written anything in over seven months.  It was a hell of a year, quite the roller coaster ride.  Getting oh so fucking close to getting my fucking life goal, then experiencing the crushing and rather irrevocable results of, well… not.  I shall probably fill you in with the details of that along the way.  But more or less, if you are 20-something, you’d most likely understand what I’m saying.  I’m glad to report that I’m still alive and functioning after that ordeal, and strangely enough, I came across some surprising blessings along the way.  To be specific, I met a girl (hereafter referred to as S, or the Stranger) who happened to see something in me when I was at my lowest, darkest point in my life.  It’s partly because of her that I’m making an effort to try and place a bit of structure back into my life, and systematically fighting the bad vibes to get back into my feet rather than stick to my plan of living in my bed. 

I Googled the word and it turns out that Trek is an Afrikaan word which means “a long, adventurous journey undertaken on foot in areas where common means of transport is generally not available”, and I could not have found a more apt word to describe where I’m at.  I have to admit that for the past three years, my life was transfixed on that one goal I was talking about, and part of the reason I stuck to it was because it would pretty much set my life in one direction.  Had I attained that goal, I could be one of those arrogant 20-somethings who could say I won’t be feeling lost about my career, that I had attained something quite significant before I reached 30, that the aspects of the rest of my life would flow and follow and start like clockwork.  Arrogance, yes.  There was an arrogance in knowing I would be more or less, better than everyone.  And how I reveled in that knowledge!  It was like boarding The Train that would bring me to the heights of greatness and happiness.  No more worries of “who I am and who I want to be”, or “what to do”. 

“A long, adventurous journey undertaken on foot in areas where common means of transport is generally not available.”  You can say that again.  Around New Year’s, I received news that not only had I not passed; I was barred from ever pursuing that goal ever again.  I felt crushed; not only did I feel like I missed The Train, I felt like it had run me over the way it did poor Anna, hooting and tooting away with three years of my life in tow.  In a sense, that was the easy, programmed route.  And it’s just not available anymore. 

I’d been depressed about that for the longest time, obviously.  But now, thinking of that word, trek.  I’m walking on foot, finding my way.  No compass, nor knowledge of orienteering.  No cars or trains or buses to get me there.  No easy routes, no easy answers.  Trek implies moving forward despite not being guided by an itinerary.    

For the most part, it’s what I have to do now.  One step forward.  Then another step forward.  In the English language, trek actually means: “a long arduous journey, typically on foot.”  While I do agree that this journey could be arduous, I’d like to prescribe to the Afrikaan definition that says it’s an adventure.  An arduous adventure, but an adventure nonetheless.  Fuck The Train.  I want adventure.  Come with me and look for it?