Just Keep Swimming

Sitting on my deck sipping cold drinks and soaking up some sun, my roommate and I exchange stories. Somewhere between talks about the future, and reveling in the past, we talk about sharks. Sharks, she said, die if they keep stagnant.

My ears perk up when I heard this random fact. What in interesting concept for a life mantra. If we do not keep moving we risk the consequences. Sometimes, the direction isn't the most important part--but the fact that we are consciously making moves. Most of the time, wallowing in our current situations and remaining stagnant is the most dangerous thing we can do.

Side Orders

Looking at menus some haughtier places call their side orders complements. 

A friend once asked me what my philosophy was with dating. The choices being complementary or completion. Should love birds complement or complete each other. Oddly enough, I think those two choices are contingent upon one another. If something complements another, essentially doesn't it make it better. Okay, if I were a fry and my non-existent boyfriend was ketchup (or another dip of choice) wouldn't I be lacking without the addition of said dip? So the combination in essence is completion through complements. 

Also, what is this fascination with "letting relationships happen." Another friend told me, proactive searching for a significant other hinders relationships from occurring. Granted, when people actively search, they seem desperate, BUT I firmly believe everyone should pursue the love they want and deserve. No one sits around waiting for a burger to fall into his mouth. So why deprive oneself of another basic need such as love? 

So I ask, where is my waiter with my ketchup.

Insomnia

Being disillusioned is so bittersweet. Even though you're so relieved to have the veil of ignorance stripped away, you're left staring with translucent eyelids at the ugliest and most hurtful of truths. And I think I'm addicted to this feeling of having spontaneous epiphanies. I am purposefully delusional to achieve the high of uncovering a mistruth.. weird.

But the boundary between delusional and optimistic is blurry, buried, and drawn on outdated maps. When am I basking in the bliss of delusional ignorance versus hoping for the best or dreaming big?

So this summer I've fallen in love with reading again. In high school, we did this exercise where we read most ( if not all of ) the works by a single literary genius. I'm repeating the process with my new found love, Mr. Kurt Vonnegut Jr. In Breakfast of Champions there's an anecdote about this bird. Its owner decides to grant the bird three wishes. One, he is let out of the cage. Two, a window is opened. But at thought of defenestration, the bird panics and flies back into its cage. The logic being, if it flew away it had nothing left to look forward to. So by staying in the cage, the bird retains its power for hope and imagination. Behind bars, he has something left to wish for. Though physically behind bars, his mind is free to wander the possibilities of the outside world. 

Most of the time, I am definitely that bird. I refuse chances to get out of my cage because I want something to look forward to. But someday, I should probably learn how to fly. 

puwet poet.

I wrote this a while ago. I felt particularly broken that day I guess.

__________________________

&hearts. 

Imploded into bits, pieces of me

Ache and pine for new owners.

The blind world turns with haste

Unaware I am being pulled apart.

Its bottomless gravity entangles

The tiny sinews of my muscles,

Uncorks my bones from their sockets,

While my marrow oozes like dark red wine

And in a snap I fall apart.

A powerless arm for my mother

A stagnant leg for my dad

An upturned lip for each sister

And to my brothers go deafened ears

My guts lay on display for public prodding.

As my friends pick apart my half alive liver

They leave the dead half to the ravenous birds above

A semi circle of semi serious lovers

Throw my heart around for a game of catch

Their grips too loose or their hands too small

 My heart is doomed to fall

Between the grates of their fingers.

Then silent footsteps approach—

Their only warning a glow emanating both warmth and blinding light

The loving hands which hold the world

Take a reprieve and now cradle my mangled mangy heart

And in the lull

In the moment the earth stood still

The voice which commands the sun to shine

Whispers a breath into my black lungs

As quickly as I fall apart

I am whole again.

 

Every dog has its day

This post is way past due but I didn't have the right words until now.

Tradition, defined by its latin forefather 'traditionem', translates to "handing over, or passing on." Being a microcosm of the melting pot that is America, I carry on my back an odd concoction of traditions and customs. The Filipina in me shakes her hips at the vaguest notion of music. The newly formed American version of me stands proud and confused by the paradoxical yet patriotic act of flag burning. Although I am a gluttonous gourmand of any edible bits of information available to me, I fail to know all the traditions of both these backgrounds. But I was and always will be struck by the assumption that it is part of the Filipino (if not all of the South Eastern Asian cultures) to eat dog.

So I asked a few people why dogs are off the menu. Of course one answer pointed out the less than pristine habits of a dog. Being in close proximity to our canine counterparts, we see all their filthy idiosyncrasies--from autogenital licking, to drinking from the toilet, we are painfully exposed to the disgusting things that could be going on in our four legged friends. Although for me this is a compelling enough argument not to eat a dog there is a more salient reason for keeping fido kosher. In America, dogs are treated as a part of the family. Paris Hilton even goes to the extent of toting her Chihuahua, Tinkerbell, in haute couture bags. In the end, the consensus claims there's something wrong with sautéing man's best friend. 

I can't speak for all of the Asian cultures but the plight of the Native Filipino is close to my heart. Recently having visited my homeland, I again was exposed to the overwhelming poverty seeping through the streets. The smell of sewage in the air and the stench of corruption in the bureaucracies has left the countrymen and women  gasping for air. The daily minimum wage is a measly 400 pesos or roughly 8 American Dollars. While the cost of an average meal from McDonalds is 80 Pesos. I'm not a brilliant mathematician but I know there's a flaw in that equation. Although some controversy swirls around the methods of harvesting dog meat, the matter boils down to survival. The lipid padded derrières of most Americans don't know the meaning of starvation. Most exploit the funds intended for the disabled and impoverished. Most are blind to the reality  of the empty distended bellies half a world away. They see the traditions of America instead. They see the ideal of pulling oneself up by the boot straps. They praise the self made man.  But most of all they love their hotdogs.

The 233rd birthday of our nation was a spectacle. Like every year we had fireworks, flags and of course Nathan's annual hot dog eating contest. This year, to even qualify, contestants had to eat 32 hotdogs in 12 minutes. But in the end, the three time champion Joey Chestnut wins the competition eating a shocking 68 dogs in 10 minutes. Nathan's contest is just one of the many ludicrous competitions condoning gluttony. There are countless pie scarfing, pizza popping, canoli consuming contests in the nation for sport. Not to mention, the completely self-serving 'challenges' on the food network that urges chefs and bakers to fabricate buildings made of food. 

So the question posed no longer ponders the harm in eating dog. But I ask, which is worse? Eating a dog in order to survive another day? Or for one man to consume hot dogs enough to feed 68 people? To praise and promote excess, while most go without? 

To this day I have never eaten a dog, but who knows? I've got some time.