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This is Sad
Monday, September 24, 2007

Nearing completion, the call center at EDSA Central no longer teems with my topless, hard-hatted, bigotilyo adversaries and now gives shelter to throngs of technical supportlings. As their ilk is wont to do, they crowd outside the length of their building in their thick jacket-I.D. strap combos, perfecting their ritual of smoking with baggy-eyed wistfulness. Their presence makes me no longer dread going down that particular sidewalk. In fact, I sort of look forward to it. They are fascinating creatures, and I harbor clean, equal parts of pity and envy towards them.

On one hand, I am more than glad to have the jobs that I have. They interest me, require good bouts of lunacy and the skills my Comm education has tried its best to equip me with, and pay pretty damn well, all told. Plus, my stint of a stint as a corporate communications copywriting cocksucker a few months ago has ascertained my inability to do monotonous, set-scheduled work. I am happy not to be a drone, happy that I am not bolted to such precise clockwork just to earn a living. And dear god, my nights are mine. Since I can’t say the same for the supportlings, I am thankful for the distance.

Now that I’ve stated the obvious—

On the other hand (and the following statement has annihilated many a sap), I want to know what it’s like. Goshdarnit, mister, i sure as heck do. It’s not just their opportunity to make inane phone conversations with harried Americans that I am jealous of, though I admit that trying to be eloquent to a mouthpiece is a sincere dream of mine. Seriously. But anyway, it’s also the said smoking ritual that I have a hankering to try out. I want to trudge out of the building with the same degree of lethargy, want to join a cluster of kids billowing smoke and bitter commentary about the pointlessness of their profession, understanding that the breaths between each lament signal thoughts of all the useless crap their salaries will so graciously provide.

Key word: kids. I suppose my moronic envy lies in the fact that these technical supportlings are mostly my age. That that sidewalk is pretty much a college hallway, although more smattered with the kind of people I can get along with. In terms of their scruffiness and palpable sense of irony, anyway. When I pass them on my way to and from the MRT, that scrap of sardine steel that takes me from one beloved, nutty job to the next, I always think that I look just like one of them. My daily tasks are quite different from theirs, yet if I pause amongst them and light one of my own cigarettes, nobody’s going to wonder. This thought, for some reason, can comfort me for some time. And will then dissipate when I recall that I am not part of this specific faction of the young and the weary.

I believe this is my long-winded way of saying that I need to start dating again. (Of course it is, Margie. You didn’t think you could inject enough relevance into this tripe, did you?) A warm body is all I need to keep me from overromanticizing socio-economic phenomena. Or at least stop me from eyeing that hot, scruffy, endearingly tired-looking call center guy and asking him out for breakfast.

posted by marguerite @ 10:56 PM


Matter Over Mind
Thursday, September 20, 2007

Saving this blog from atrophy, one naive observation at a time!

When a blog goes dormant, it is due usually to one of two things—a dearth of things to say, or a goddamn glut. Currently, I fall under the latter, far too busy picking bits of my brain off the floor from the past few weeks’ events. This morning, for instance, I learned that thieves (the same group or brand new bastards, we can’t tell) had paid us a visit yet again and, their pickings limited by the new iron grills and alarms clamping our house down, made off with my cousin’s bicycle. The Bicycle Thief, you say? Hah-hah. Hah. Now go jack off, film freak. (But please, please, give me your number before you go.) This latest theft has brought on another round of fear and frustration for the household, obviously. Now watch me scurry off for that bit of brain. It has slid to a corner and is wriggling with glee.

But I am generally fine. In between this month’s mindfucks and their corresponding aftermaths, I am able to write, read, and work as usual. It’s just really difficult or inappropriate for me to make my thoughts public recently. But I knew I’d have to put something in here eventually.

Hence, a song!

This baby has gotten me through a good deal of shit the past two years. One of those remedial “speeding down the highway after a particularly strange night/hideously early morning” songs, because I’m such a cliché that way. Download and enjoy.

Forget Myself

They're pacing Piccadilly in packs again
And moaning for the mercy of a never come rain
The suns had enough and the simmering sky
Has the heave and the hue of a woman on fire

Shop shutters rattle down and I'm cutting the crowd
All scented and descending from the satellite towns
The neon is graffiti singing make a new start
So I look for a plot where I can bury my broken heart

No, I know I won't forget you
But I'll forget myself, if the city will forgive me

The man on the door has a head like Mars
Like a baby born to the doors of the bars
And surrounded by steam with his folded arms
He's got that urban genie thing going on

He's so mercifully free of the pressures of grace
Saint Peter in satin, he's like Buddha with mace
He's so mercifully free of the pressures of grace
Saint Peter in satin, he's like Buddha with mace

No, I know I won't forget you
But I'll forget myself, if the city will forgive me
No, I know I won't forget you
But I'll forget myself, if the city will forgive me

Do you move through the room with a glass in your hand
Thinking too hard about the way you stand
Are you watching them pair off and drinking them long
Are you falling in love every second song

Do you move through the room with a glass in your hand
Thinking too hard about the way you stand
Are you watching them pair off and drinking them long
Are you falling in love...
Are you falling in love...
Are you falling in love every second song

posted by marguerite @ 6:43 PM


Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Thieves broke into our house, gassed me while asleep, and took off with my laptop, cellphone, iPod, and wallet, among other things. Please delete my cellphone number (0926-673-8388), and if you could message me your own number, I'd appreciate it. You can contact me at weepy.devotchka@gmail.com or YM me (the_urgency) for the time being. Thanks.

posted by marguerite @ 9:08 AM


the girl

Pasig City, PH.

Damned the man, saved the empire.




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