It should surprise very few of you to know that this issue of The Friday, Currently very nearly did not get written. In fact, I’d pretty much forgotten about my resolution to blog every week until my best friend Esther of The Disinterested Interpreter told me yesterday that she was “Looking forward to reading this week’s ‘currently.'”
So, thanks to Esther (whose blog you should all be reading), I’ve put on my writing music, connected to the strongest of my pocket WiFi sources, and am now writing the second issue of The Friday, Currently (less-twee subtitle: “What in the world am I doing with my life?”). Here we go:
C U R R E N T L Y . . .
R E A D I N G …nothing, actually? I finished Beautiful Chaos and fully intended to re-read the Jessica Hagedorn-edited Manila Noir anthology so as to tick off “Short Story Collection” from my 2015 Book Challenge list, but my reading has (hopefully temporarily) been postponed in favour of my nigh-narcoleptic need to fall asleep any time (and any place) I can…
…except for at night, in my bed, when and where I should actually be sleeping. My body never ceases to confuse me.
Anyway, hope to tick Manila Noir off of the checklist by next week’s Friday Currently, but don’t be surprised if I suddenly pick up (and finish) something else, maybe even a book I don’t own yet. (Because who lets an Everest-ian TBR pile stand in the way of raiding Fully Booked?)
W R I T I N G aside this blog post, a new song, despite the fact that I have a backlog of unfinished songs (which exceeds my backlog of unfinished/potential blog posts only slightly). The topic for this one is ever-so-slightly twee and may be a tad hipster-ish (I wouldn’t know. The idea popped into my head and I ran with it.). I’m really liking my pre-chorus, but am currently drawing blanks with the chorus.
Also, on Esther’s request, I’ve fleshed out a sort of accidental poem that I “wrote” (actually, said) yesterday. If my song is slightly twee, this errs more on the side of very:
My mum got married at twenty-four,
but had me at twenty-nine.
In between then, she struggled with
the biological hands of time.
Her husband wasn’t very, err, fertile,
and neither, to be honest, was she.
But, in the end, the Lord gave them a child,
and that “miracle” child was me.
(For the record, I’m pretty sure I usually write better than that. I think.)
L I S T E N I N G to Sleeping At Last, an artist I discovered using Spotify Radio. Fell in love with their (his? I think he’s a solo act now.) song Sun off of the album “Atlas: Space 1,” which in hindsight might be the reason the topic of my potential song is what it is.
W A T C H I N G The Lizzie Borden Chronicles, which my officemate Arra of The Style Reader introduced me to. As the name suggests, the show does not shy away from gore (that I avoid by fast-forwarding or else by bracing myself using spoilers), but it’s unapologetically campy and I’m a sucker for pseudo-historical dramas (I nearly started watching Mr. Selfridge.) with a bit of bite.
Also, Christina Ricci is my spirit animal.
I’m about four episodes in and while the body count is considerable (though, for someone who’s read A Song of Ice and Fire, far from high), the highbrow camp of the plot keeps the show somewhat “light.” If you’re a fan of Adult Wednesday Addams (or the adult Wednesday Addams that is Christina Ricci), I’d recommend the show, though prepare yourself for a ton of weird (and that’s coming from me).
T H I N K I N G (or maybe “worrying” is more appropriate?) about how tomorrow is going to be a really busy day. Also, having an internal debate on what might be the wiser “irresponsible paycheck-spending” purchase: getting more Uniqlo box tees or Scribe brush pens/calligraphy supplies?
(Of course, the wisest recourse would be to spend nothing at all, but TBH the Kuretake Zig brush pens are winning.)
S M E L L I N G the mojos I’m attempting to pick through for dinner. Only, I think I might have asked to have too many cooked. -_-
W E A R I N G my pajamas. I’ll leave it up to the readers’ imagination to fill in what those might look like.
L O V I N G my friend and fellow calligraphy-geek Kat B.‘s Kuretake Zig Brush # 22, which she got at the aforementioned Scribe Writing Essentials branch in Glorietta 5. I also tried her Wink of Stella and Fudebiyori pens, and they all feel lovely and look fantastic when she uses them (slightly less fantastic when I do, but whatever) and I can imagine myself using them to journal like my journalling idol Pepper and Twine (although maybe without the Midori Hobonichi as that’s slightly above my price point/journaling purposes)…
…until I remember that I can’t even keep up my resolution to write in my journal regularly (hence the existence of The Friday, Currently).
Oh well, a girl can dream (and rationalize her potential next pseudo-impulse purchase).
W A N T I N G those pens!! Now that I’ve started thinking about them, I can’t stop. Drat. Will see how much longer I can continue mooching off of Kat’s supplies, since I just bought a pack of Faber Castell Brush Pens from National Bookstore Glorietta Vibe and those are pretty good, to be honest (though not as soft).
A sample of my attempts at brush calligraphy.
N E E D I N G to get as much sleep as possible, considering I have a photoshoot tomorrow for College Collision, a battle of the bands hosted by UP. Stories Told, the pop-rock fusion outfit I’m in, has made it to the May 30 finals, and apparently part of being a finalist entails a photoshoot. The PR involved feels a bit like The Hunger Games, and I’ve yet to figure out if that is a good or a bad thing.
W I S H I N G that I’d started this earlier.
F E E L I N G like I could use a “lights out” right now, but I am committed to the cause of The Friday, Currently, so we press on!
W O N D E R I N G (and yes, I know this is a new one) where the boundary lies between a “quirk” and a full-blown complex?
My sort-of business-partner C (not to be confused with my friend Cheeze or my co-intern Ciarán of Lonelygirl’s Brazilian Adventure fame) and I have a sort of smug, playfully-hostile friendship (Think Tenth Doctor and Donna Noble; in fact, one of the other “codenames” I considered for C was “Spaceman.”) that can sometimes devolve into us ranting to (or at) each other about the latest developments in our quest to navigate being twentysomething in all its glorious awkwardness (awkward, perhaps, more on my side than his). In one of these Facebook “business meetings-slash-bantering sessions,” my propensity to be borderline mother-y towards people I care about–not in the least the people I care about quite a lot (*coughScough*)–came up in conversation.
In response to my tl;dr word-vomit, C replied, “Good luck finding your Oedipus, in that case.”
(Leave it to C, being the unapologetically smart–not to mention downright snarky–bugger that he is, to to find a Classical Greek reference in my crushing “quirk.”)
After invoking my customary reply in cases such as this–some variation of “I hate you.” or “Why are we friends again?”–and accusing him of hitting “way below the toga” (hardy har har), we eventually reverted to business-slash-craft (Given the literary in-joke, it shouldn’t surprise you to learn that C is a writer.) conversation. But the thought stuck.
If pressed to find a word to describe myself, the word “tender” would be nowhere near the top of the list of candidates (“Manic” probably hits closer to the mark.). On occasion, though, I find myself almost compelled to be the person who asks if someone would need tea/medicine/a break/sick leave/food, despite the fact that I am often the person who has to be reminded to take any or all of those things. I expect to be rebuffed, more often than not, but even when I am, the thank-you’s I get for even thinking to act in a manner so stereotypical it sets feminism back fifty years make me feel the warm fuzzies you usually get marathoning cat videos on Youtube.
(Imagine my downright euphoria when a person actually accepts my little offerings or complies with my well-meant nagging.)
Don’t get me wrong: waiting on people hand and foot is not my idea of a good time. In fact, I can be extremely judgmental towards the apparently defenseless (except babies, small children, and the extremely elderly), finding them unbearable. My own mother, arguably the woman I love most in the world (I’d ask for a raise in my allowance, Ma, but you’ve stopped giving me one. Hehe.), rarely receives the standard definition of “tender loving care” from her daughter, and she herself will testify that trying to go all “ooey-gooey” on me when I’m sick or sad or in pain usually engenders the same results as trying to pet an angry cat.
(Touch me and die.)
I believe in sucking it up and taking it like a woman/man, but there are times–especially when I really really really really really really like someone–that I can get borderline ooey-gooey. Sure, my delivery is almost always harsh–“Are you okay?” is frequently followed by some brusque piece of advice such as “Eat, now!”–and occasionally snarky, but, well, err…
Who am I kidding, right? *sigh*
I’d be the first to admit that when I act like this I can be (I am) extremely overbearing, can (and do) come off as hypocritical or hyper-critical or downright arrogant. But while I understand the myriad liabilities, I’m realizing that there’s a part of me likes feeling that I can be needed, a part that isn’t necessarily healthy. After all, few of us are truly so helpless and lacking in common sense that we need to be nagged into living a better life. Left to their own devices, the people I’ve “helped” would have probably been able to help themselves just fine. But it feels safe, expressing my love this way–somehow more intimate while being less so, like I’ve gotten my point across while still remaining acceptably subtle. Because you can’t chalk up a bouquet of flowers or a serenade to “Just because I care,” but with mothering you can.
Maybe I do have the world’s first Iocasta Complex, expressing my “love” as (s)mothering.
(I’d rather call it an Emma Woodhouse complex, if it’s all the same to you.)
People outgrow complexes, though. I’ve read enough child psychology books to know that most people move on from their Oedipal or Electra stages. And I guess, regardless if this is truly a complex or simply a weird character quirk (me compensating for something else, as people do), I’ll outgrow this, or find a couple of Knightleys (both platonic and romantic, maybe) to tone it down for me.
(Or this could have just been one massive humblebrag, in spite of my attempts to make it sound otherwise.)
I’m not in the market for an Oedipus (or a Frank Churchill), and I’ve learned enough about life to know that the ordinary trajectory of my kind of behavior–falling for “stray cats” of men and trying to rehabilitate them with the power of luuurve and some none-too-gentle hints–is about as feasible as the fairytale definition of happily ever after. Whether I like it or not, Iocasta (though maybe not all of Emma) is going to have to go someday. And so maybe next time, I’ll try a little less tenderness. Or at least be less meddling about it. My guess is that, as with everything else in this awkward journey of being a twentysomething and trying to figure myself out, the answer lies in some undiscovered middle ground that I’ll eventually stumble upon.
Until then, though, this has been this week’s Friday, Currently (although technically now it’s Saturday, whoops) and I remain, yours most sincerely,