MussoLOLen is Always Right! |

When I chose to leave graduate school to pursue my financial independence, I promised myself I would maintain my vigorous reading habits and read at least several pages of a book everyday. Doesn’t matter what book written by which critic or which author, as long as I read something to keep my mind sharp and critical. One of the few friends I made in grad school told me flat-out that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with my plans. When I asked why, he said something about how the changes in my priorities will leave me too tired to crack open a book after work. I wanted to prove him wrong because I hate it when people tell me what I can and cannot do, but eleven months later, I have to concede defeat and admit that he’s right. Which I also hate doing. (Incidentally, that friend stopped talking to me after I told him about my decision to leave UP. Not a single word from him after that conversation. So sorry I’m no longer smart enough to be your friend, Marius.)

Even though I have complete control over my work hours (12 noon until whenever), work habits (breaks every hour), and office attire (whatever I slept in last night), I do have the workload of someone with a “real job.” When the day is done my brain cannot tolerate anything more intelligent than a well-written sitcom. I do still read actual books, but very rarely and only in coffee shops; I find that my mind is too inattentive to read more than several sentences when I stay in my bedroom. Once, I tried reading Horkheimer and Adorno’s Dialectic of Enlightenment, because Marxists make me feel bad about spending my money on clothes and makeup. While I had no difficulty making sense out of the language used (yes!), I did have to keep pausing after every page just to kind of let the information sink in.

I live in constant fear of becoming a bimbo because I feel that my academic intelligence sets me apart from everyone else. I know how arrogant that must sound, but let me clarify – I don’t mean to say that my perceived intelligence makes me think I’m better than anyone else. I simply feel more comfortable knowing that I can easily form an erudite opinion when I watch movies, read books, and when I encounter current events. If not, at least I have a theoretical paradigm to consult and help me decide. These days, I wouldn’t be able to articulate why I think a particular novel is good, much less discuss its underlying themes in great length. As for my lifestyle, I’m way too bourgeois to classify myself as a “Marxist”; I’m still sharp enough to see through the veil of ideology covering my eyes, but I don’t do anything to pull it off my head anymore. Hell, I bought a condo, didn’t I? I’d rather learn how to do my own makeup because current events depress me, and I have no idea who I want to vote for in the coming Presidential elections. God help the Philippines.

Clearly, I want to be happy, but I also want to stay “smart.” To slow down my descent into bimbodom, I’ve decided to impose a belated new year’s resolution: I must start and finish at least one novel for every month of 2010. Since my weekends are also spent working, I no longer have the luxury of time to spend hours on cultural theory. I am, however, an insomniac with several hours to kill before I finally fall asleep. This is when I will get my reading done.

My reading list so far:

Blindness by Jose Saramango (I finished this a few days ago)
Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie
Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut
Porno by Irvine Welsh (Anne’s, borrowed a few months ago)
The Baron in the Trees by Italo Calvino
All the Names by Jose Saramago
The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman by Laurence Sterne

I realize that a random reading list of novels won’t exactly help me reclaim my “intelligence”, but hey, at least I’m reading actual books again. If there are any novels you think I should read, feel free to comment with your recommendation! But please, no American writers. I’ve decided to minimize my consumption of American culture because I already spend countless hours watching their TV shows and movies; I don’t need to become any more colonial than I already am. Yes, I am aware that Kurt Vonnegut is American, but Slaughterhouse Five is one of the few unread ones I have on my shelf. Might as well get started. :P Also, no Murakami and Gaiman – I’ve already read everything they’ve written.

I got this in the mail this morning and it made me smile. I still hate that I can’t write, but I feel a bit better knowing that I at least inspire good writing. I love you.

I just said the loneliest “I love you” I’ve said in a long time. First time was when I was in this bad, one-sided relationship which I suspect the girl was keeping alive simply because she didn’t have a reason to dump me without looking like a total bitch. This time, though, it’s with someone who loves me back; probably more than I can imagine.

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“I miss your smell. When you left I couldn’t wash the sheets because I didn’t want to lose that completely – you. And it fucked me up for a long time because I’d wake up and I’d smell you and I’d think you were there, and my heart would break all over again.”

- Hank Moody, Californication, s01e05

I hit the pause button on my media player just so I could scribble down these lines. Sure, it may not be literature with a capital L, but this passage was simple and raw in a way that I found utterly beautiful. Every time I stumble upon writing that stops me dead in my tracks, I ask myself why I can’t come up with anything remotely as good. It’s not because I’m too busy – while my old day job ate a lot of my time and energy, I still managed to find ways to capture my working class angst in words. It’s not that my life has become any less exciting either; it’s still very eventful in ways the Internet can never know. As I was basking in the jouissance of this passage, the answer hit me out of nowhere.

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