Harder to Breathe

(Maroon5)

How dare you say that my behavior is unacceptable

So condescending unnecessarily critical

I have the tendency of getting very physical

So watch your step cause if I do you'll need a miracle

 

You drain me dry and make me wonder why I'm even here

This Double Vision I was seeing is finally clear

You want to stay but you know very well I want you gone

Not fit to funkin' tread the ground that I'm walking on

 

When it gets cold outside and you got nobody to love

You'll understand what I mean when I say

There's no way we're gonna give up

And like a little girl cries in the face of a monster that lives in her dreams

Is there anyone out there cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe

Is there anyone out there cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe

 

What you are doing is screwing things up inside my head

You should know better you never listened to what I've said

Clutching your pillow and writhing in a naked sweat

Hoping somebody someday will do you like I did

 

When it gets cold outside and you got nobody to love

You'll understand what I mean when I say

There's no way we're gonna give up

And like a little girl cries in the face of a monster that lives in her dreams

Is there anyone out there cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe

Is there anyone out there cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe

 

Does it kill

Does it burn

Is it painful to learn

That it's me that has all the control

 

Does it thrill

Does it sting

When you feel what I bring

And you wish that you had me to hold

 

When it gets cold outside and you got nobody to love

You'll understand what I mean when I say

There's no way we're gonna give up

And like a little girl cries in the face of a monster that lives in her dreams

Is there anyone out there cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe

Is there anyone out there cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe

is there anyone out there cuz its gettin harder and harder to breathe

Excerpts from the Journals of Sylvia Plath, Ballantine Books, 1982

 

With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone, it is dead. But you can’t start over with each new second, you have to judge by what is dead. It’s like quicksand…hopeless from the start. (Lookout Farm, July 1950)

 

There are times when a feeling of expectancy comes to me, as if something is there, beneath the surface of my understanding, waiting for me to grasp it. It is the same tantalizing sensation when you almost remember a name, but don’t quite reach it…Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I’ll laugh. And then I’ll know what life is. (Wellesley, 1950)

 

So I am led to one or two choices! Can I write? Will I write if I practice enough? How much should I sacrifice to writing anyway, before I find out if I’m any good? Above all, CAN A SELFISH EGOCENTRIC JEALOUS AND UNIMAGINATIVE FEMALE WRITE A DAMN THING WORTHWHILE? Should I sublimate (my, how we throw words around!) my selfishness in serving other people – through social or other such work? Would I then become more sensitive to other people and their problems? Would I be able to write honestly then of other beings besides a tall, introspective adolescent girl? I must be in contact with a wide variety of lives if I am not to become submerged in the routine of my own economic strata and class. I will not have my range of acquaintances circumscribed by my mate’s profession. Yet I see that this will happen if I do not have an outlet…of some sort. (Northampton, September 1951)

 

~ My God, she wrote this when she was barely 19 years old. How I wish I could write like this.

I have the worst luck when it comes to floods. Although the place where I live does not get inundated that much, I seem to have the misfortune of studying or working in areas that do.

 

When I was still studying at the University of Santo Tomas, which we jokingly called an “archipelago”, I experienced wading through thigh-high water just to get home. It was so gross walking through the murky water, which stank of sewerage. Floating pieces of trash and God knows what would also sometimes cling to my legs like slimy fingers. There were times that it would rain so hard that I would be drenched to the skin even before I could walk a few meters away from the campus.

 

One of the most memorable times I had during college was getting inebriated for the very first time in my life. It was an especially stormy day, classes were suspended and there was a city-wide brown-out. Four of my friends and I dreaded the long walk home so we decided to stop by this little, hole-in-the-wall bar called “Tapsi.” The place itself was a novelty, combining native Filipino designs with spaghetti Western accents. Every time I enter that place I could almost hear the background music to “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly”…ah AH ah AH ah wang wang wang….

 

We had finished off three rounds of Budweiser before our meager funds ran out. The rain was coming down in torrents so we decided to lumber off to UST’s main building and wait it out. We were too tipsy to care that it was dark or the fact that the building was reputed to be haunted.

 

While two of my friends entered an empty classroom to sleep, I stumbled inside the office of the college paper. Chris, a dear friend of mine who was only an acquaintance at that time, caught me in his arms. “I’m drunk,” I said stupidly to which he answered, “Your are.” Since then we had become the closest of buddies.

 

* * *

 

Much later, when I was still with one of the major national dailies, I sometimes found myself braving the raging flood waters just to get to work.

 

The sad fact about being in media is that, literally, you have to be at the office “Come hell or high water. Heck, if there was a military coup or a natural disaster, then you had to on the job all the more.

 

One of the worst experiences I had was hanging onto dear life to the high fence that encircled the Intramuros golf course in Manila as waves – yes, waves – of flood water crashed against my legs. The current was so strong that it threatened to carry me away.

 

Another time, my officemate and I went home together. After walking for almost an hour, we were lucky to catch a ride on a bus that was already bursting at the seams with people. It was better than getting wet, or so I thought…

 

A “tight squeeze” is an understatement when describing the conditions inside the bus. The passengers were so packed that I was literally plastered to my officemate who stood in front of me.

 

I began to feel an unpleasant tingle (spider sense tingling) when I became conscious of the guy who stood behind me. He was young, probably a few years younger than I was. At first I could feel his belly press into my back every time he took a breath but then I felt “something” throbbing against my butt. I tried to squirm away and managed to put my bag between us however he managed to place himself again directly behind me. I wanted to tell my officemate but the thought that he was bound to do something drastic, like punch the bastard, kept me silent.

 

I breathed a sigh of relief when we finally got off. I was still a long way from home but at least I was out of that uncomfortable situation.

 

* * *

 

Last Friday, in the aftermath of the super typhoon Yoyong, I was part of a team that visited Calumpit, Bulacan to assess the conditions of people affected by the floods. What we found there was a testament to the uncanny capability of Filipinos to shrug off their problems or find lighthearted moments in the face of disasters.

 

People waved as our vehicle passed houses completely submerged in water. The concrete highway was elevated so we were safe from being mired in mud. The residents smiled for our cameras and struck poses. Others shouted greetings as a humungous tractor carried them over the flood. Some were having impromptu street parties and were consuming large amounts of alcohol.

 

This last group almost caused a ruckus when they demanded relief goods from us. We hadn’t brought any since we were there to coordinate with the municipal office first. When we failed to give in to their “request” they doused us with water.

 

Sigh…all in a day’s work.

I really don't know why the designers thought the mausoleum motif is cool for our new office. It is bad enough that our elevators look like black marble tombs, they had to add this little "accent".

To shiko, since this is too long for the comments page, I put all my thoughts here. Thank you for giving me something to think about.

To everybody else, read shiko's post first before this. I'm sure all of you will benefit from the mental calisthenics,  which her written work inspires.

* * *

Laadeedah, whew, talk about stream of consciousness…

 

Anyway, I found this discussion really interesting so I took the effort to sit down and really think about it. Hindi siya pwede isang basahan lang so I went through this probably five times before forming any ideas of my own…so here goes…

 

At the start, you were talking about compromise, which is, as your dictionary defined, “an agreement involving concessions on both sides.”

 

However, in your following question: “Should you compromise your values in order to get along with other people?” you inadvertently mixed up the noun form of the word (i.e. relating to the abovementioned definition) to the verb form of the word which has an entirely different meaning - “a committal to something derogatory or objectionable; a prejudicial concession; a surrender; as a compromise of character or right.”

 

I think this is the source of your confusion. The noun form of compromise is “give and take” while the verb form is “giving up”.

 

So, let me rephrase your question: “Should you sacrifice your values in order to get along with other people?”

 

Personally, I would never compromise my principles or values just to be socially acceptable. My principles and values define who I am. Besides, popular opinion is not always right.

 

For example, you are a person who abhors cheating. However, during a particularly difficult exam, your classmates all agree to cheat. Would you give up your abhorrence for cheating just so that you are “one” with the people?

 

Another example: You believe that the President of the country should be well-educated, must be dignified in manner and respectable in all aspects. However, 80 percent of the population voted for someone who is not. Should you then castigate yourself for not going with the majority?

 

In short, I don’t give a damn what other people think. Nonetheless, let me qualify that by saying I do listen to other people’s opinions and make necessary adjustments as long as they are within reason. I think this demonstrates Aristotle’s Golden Mean or the noun form of “compromise”.

 

Ergo, never compromise your personal ideals, values or principles for the sake of conformity but be open to reaching a compromise whenever and wherever possible.

 

Capice, bella? ^_^

 

Post Script

 

My dear, sometimes when both our minds and our bodies are tired, we are not so concerned about keeping our facades or “day faces.” Hence, the person that we hide so carefully from the rest of the world finally emerges.

 

At first, I had difficulty relating your Ibsen quote to the rest of your post. But then I stopped listening to what you were saying and instead, tried to hear what was making you say those words…

 

What if you were to realize that you don't get along with more and more people because you continue to stick to these values?

 

Is it not too foolishly idealistic to stick to your values at the cost of social harmony (and, let's face it, your own sense of belonging within your society)?

Or is it even more foolish to sacrifice your values -- not all of them, just a few, just enough to make the choice harder -- just to salve that lonely hungry ache inside your heart?

Would it be a contradiction of the nature of virtue -- which should be modeled to inspire others to observe and imitate -- to celebrate it only in isolation?  Or is this last question already irrelevant?

 

That “thing” which compels you to ask your questions is most evident in these words that I have highlighted.

 

It is your loneliness that is speaking. It is your solitude that makes you feel far removed from the rest of society, from the rest of the world. You are so conscious of being different from the rest of mankind. Perhaps it is your heightened sensibilities as a writer or your enhanced awareness of people, of life and all the things around you that make you feel you are both a part and apart from this world.

 

"The strong must learn to be alone."

 

That is it, isn’t it? You know you are “strong” because of your talents, intelligence and all the things you have been blessed with. But, in spite of these, you feel so alone.

 

Your real question is: Must the strong learn to be alone?

 

I feel that you are beginning to doubt yourself and the things you have always valued. Perhaps you are also asking: Should I give them up so that I would not feel so sad, so lonely?

 

Am I making any sense? Do I read too much? Presume too much?

 

I don’t know.

 

Or maybe I understand you better than anyone else because there are times that I feel the same way.

 

“If the same tears fall, do we share the same dream?” as Ricardo de Ungria would put it.

 

If we ask the same questions, do we arrive at the same answer?

 

Not all the solitary are sad.

 

Not all sad people are solitary.

The following is inspired by the film Storytelling (specifically its first part entitled “Fiction”), which I watched on VCD the other night. The film itself is a trifle weird for my taste but nevertheless, it gave me something to write about. ^_^

 

A walk to remember

 

It was 9:30 p.m. and city had just settled into the evening lull. It was dark underneath the LRT railway, much darker in some places since there were no streetlamps. The last train rumbled past over our heads, signaling the lateness of the hour.

 

Our cab whizzed through the deserted avenue, skirting stinking heaps of refuse left in the middle of the road. We drove past closed shops, an empty marketplace, dilapidated apartment buildings, and for the first time that night, I felt a frisson of doubt.

 

“Rommel, are you sure this is the right place?” I asked as I looked outside the cab window.

 

“Oo, naman. I’ve been here so many times before,” my companion answered as he turned to me with a reassuring smile.

 

I smiled weakly back at him before turning to the window again. I never ventured to this part of Manila until that night, even during the daytime. To me it was foreign territory, a place where the straight-laced, Catholic school-bred colegialas fear to tread.

 

Suddenly, the darkness was broken as we entered a brightly-lit strip. The shadows seemed to crawl back within themselves under the illumination of dozens of neon signages. We had reached our destination.

 

A few minutes later, Rommel instructed the driver to stop by the curb. We got down and quickly moved to the other side of the road. All the while, I was glanced furtively around me, paranoid that I would bump into somebody I knew.

 

Rommel pulled me to an establishment with heavily tinted windows. Except for that and the pot-bellied man guarding the door, it looked like a restaurant from the front. A brightly-lit sign hung overhead. CLOUDS, it said.

 

We paid an entrance fee of two hundred and fifty pesos each. It was a weekend, Rommel explained, so the rates were higher. With a deep breath, I followed him inside.

 

A walk in the Clouds

 

The first thing that I noticed about the dimly-lit bar was that it was small. This created an atmosphere of intimacy, making the place all the more exotic and exciting. There was a raised platform on one side of the room, with a large mirror wall as backdrop. On it, a man dressed in tight, spandex briefs and knee-high boots was alternately twisting and uncoiling his body in a slow, sensuous dance. Rommel and I took one of the tables surrounding the stage area. We were so close that the distance of the man dancing in front of us was just the width of the table.

 

I watched in fascination as the male dancer performed, his wiry frame moving to the music. Lean muscles and limbs flexed under the colored lights. He wasn’t a handsome man; his face, nondescript. Occasionally, he would face the mirror wall and watch himself as he danced.

 

I took a second to analyze what I was feeling at that very moment. What were my physical reactions? Was there a quickening of breath? Erratic heartbeat? Tingling in the belly? Surprisingly, none of the above. I felt as if I were watching something out of a dream. I felt that I was removed from myself. Totally weird.

 

After the first dance ended, Rommel and I ordered some beer. While we waited, I took the time to covertly survey our surroundings. There were only two females in the entire room, including myself.

 

The audience was entirely made up of men, who at first glance wouldn’t give any indication that they were gay. In fact, if I didn’t look at the stage I could convince myself that I was in a bar where the exotic dancers were female. What gave the spectators away was the intensity of their gazes as they watched the show. Following their line of vision, you would discover that their eyes seemed to be locked to that most interesting part of the male anatomy.

 

Aside from the performers, there were “GROs” stationed near the entrance. Barely of legal age and much better-looking than the dancers, they had higher asking prices. On some occasions during the night, the garishly-dressed gay host for the evening would approach our table with one of the “boys” in tow. They would smile charmingly, an invitation shining in their eyes. Of course, our answer would always be “no”.

 

The Incredibles

 

And so that was how it went that night, one guy after another went onstage in various stages of undress. Some kept their pants on; the others went all the way. But I am getting ahead of myself…

 

The third dancer of the night was a dark, burly man in his late twenties. I could almost imagine his resume: stevedore or construction worker by day, exotic dancer by night. He came on stage wearing only a red cloth tied at the waist.

 

This man danced to the music of that Meatloaf song, “I would do anything for love,” his skin glistening with a sheen of sweat and baby oil. His fingers found the knot on his waist and the red cloth fell away…

It was the first time I saw THAT part of the male anatomy up close and personal. Dark with a shiny bulbous head, it jutted straight out like a spring board. My first reaction was to whisper in Rommel’s ear: “Is that real?”

 

He turned away just long enough to give me an amused glance and say: “Of course, it is!” Honestly, I thought it was a prosthetic, the way it stuck out like that. Rommel laughed. He was surprised that I had reacted that way. Other girl friends that he had brought to that place became almost hysterical when they had their first look. I, on the other hand, took it with aplomb despite my naiveté remark.

 

Questions poured out of me and Rommel answered each with patience and the knowledge of one who KNEW. Where should I look? How do they keep it that rigid all night? How do you know if a guy is “gifted” or not? Blah…blah…blah…

 

Later we watched in awe and horror when the guy lit a handful of candles and dripped hot wax all over himself. And for the finale, he extinguished the flames with his tongue. Gaaaah!

 

Before sunrise

 

Shortly before midnight, Rommel and I were joined by another friend of ours, Mikael. To my utter amazement and amusement, I found out that Mikael was actually more the prude than I was. He covered his mouth in shock whenever one of the men onstage did the Full Monty.

 

The presentations got a little wilder as the night deepened. Our favorite part was when three guys covered only in shaving cream performed. They were some of the cuter and more “gifted” ones. One of the guys stood directly in front of our table and stretched his body taut by reaching his hands to the ceiling, his thing pointing straight at us.

 

Finally, I called a halt to our evening of debauchery. I was expected home and I already had my fill for the night…perhaps my whole lifetime. By the time our evening ended I had seen at least 20 fully naked men and 20 more semi-nude ones.

 

On the cab ride home, both Mikael and Rommel celebrated my “initiation”. They promised that soon I would be ready for more exotic fare.

 

Uh, right.

Strength is the capacity to break a chocolate bar into four pieces with your bare hands - and then eat just one of the pieces Judith Viorst

I never met a chocolate I didn't like. Deanna Troi in Star Trek: The Next Generation

Seen recently on a tee shirt ~ EMERGENCY ALERT: If wearer of this shirt is found vacant, listless, or depressed, ADMINISTER CHOCOLATE IMMEDIATELY.

It's not that chocolates are a substitute for love. Love is a substitute for chocolate. Chocolate is, let's face it, far more reliable than a man. Miranda Ingram

All I really need is love, but a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt! Lucy Van Pelt (in Peanuts, by Charles M. Schulz)

Exercise is a dirty word... Every time I hear it, I wash my mouth out with chocolate.

I could give up chocolate but I'm not a quitter.

Put the chocolate in the bag and nobody gets hurt.

In the beginning, the Lord created chocolate, and he saw that it was good. Then he separated the light from the dark, and it was better.

Man cannot live on chocolate alone; but woman sure can.

Chocolate: luscious, lumpy, load of love......