Random Quirk #1: “My Dear” Versus “Dear”… And Pet (?) Names in General

I have a lot of odd little quirks about myself that amuse me. I have no idea if this is worth publishing, but I dunno. For some odd reason, I want it published. Maybe this is the same kind of feeling most teenagers get when they want to post a selfie.

Forgive me, but I’ll follow the trend of the me-generation, just this once (or maybe not. I’m actually considering turning this into a series, hence the serial number included in the title).


I feel uncomfortable calling people and being called “dear.” And yet somehow I love calling people and being called “my dear.”

I dunno. I’ve always just associated “dear” with grandmothers and old people in general (but mostly grandmothers). And whenever someone my age calls me dear, I’m like, “Why are you trying to imitate my grandma?” Not that she actually ever called me “dear.” Actually, I can’t recall if she had any particular nickname for me. I think she just called me Kim. Or maybe she also called me “my dear.” LOL, now I feel guilty for not remembering.

Anyway, so there’s that association. And then there’s also this weird question that pops into my head, “Is this person actually calling me a dear? Am I truly dear?”

I dunno, dude, I guess I am, in the sense that all people are dears, technically. All life is precious, all humans were created equal. We’re all here for a reason, we’re all special. Most importantly, Someone holds each and every single one of us very dearly. And so therefore, we’re all technically “dears.”

But then, why call me a dear? What did I do to make that part of my identity? Aren’t dears supposed to be sweet, helpful, loving, gentle, innocent? Don’t tell me you actually think I’m like that. Don’t I always mess up? Am I not constantly too cold, too cruel? I know the truth of it. I’m not much of a “dear,” really.

But I love being called “my dear.” Because it’s not about me being a dear, which I’m not, but it’s about you thinking I’m that way. It’s about me being your dear. You hold me dear, even if I might not deserve it. And I don’t know, that’s when I feel the endearment of the term. That’s when I feel the weight of the love in it.

Aside from that, “my dear” is just so much more personal. If I call someone that, it’s not just me being  nice, it’s me being personal. It’s me saying this is how I think of you. It’s me saying, yeah, I actually do value you. I really don’t use pet names without meaning them, obviously.

However, I’m more lenient with the use of “my sweet.” I simply find you sweet, cute, awww-worthy. Doesn’t mean that I exactly cherish you yet.

The only pet name I throw around is “dude.” And that’s technically not a pet name, but for me it means camaraderie. Actually, to a vague degree, it reminds me of the three values of the French revolution – egalite, liberte, fraternite. Equality because I call both males and females that, people I’m close to and people I’m not close to, and everyone and anyone regardless of their background (except people older than me, of course, and people who have authority over me who I’m not close to yet). Brotherhood – or, well, in this case I’ll use the term camaraderie –  because when I use it, I intend it to mean that I’m on their side, and they are on mine. We are on friendly terms. Freedom because “dude” is a very informal term, and I consider it an invitation for people to relax and let loose around me. You are free to be yourself around me.

“Bro” pretty much means the same thing to me, except, of course, heavier. When I use it on you, that most probably means I’m trying to be understanding, and this is especially true in times when I don’t understand you. I usually only use it when I feel like one of us is being emotional, and I need to keep the situation cool. It’s not so much as to remind you that you are my “bro” rather than me reminding myself. “Keep calm, Kim. This is your brother/sister. May your words and actions be seasoned with grace and love.”

I also really like pet names that are sort of like nick names. Let’s use Kimberly, in my case. It’s not really my name, and I formerly hated it because I felt like it was too girly for me. But I dunno, it’s sort of grown on me. And now I actually like having people call me Kimberly. Or Kimmy. Or Kim Cam. Or Kimmy Cub. Or anything like that. I actually like it WAY more than being called “dear” (lol at my constant aversion of “dear”), because it feels so much more personalized. Like you’re not forgetting that there’s a me that you’re calling. I don’t feel like an object that a statement is being directed at (which is an exaggeration of the feeling I get when people use general pet names on me, i.e. dear), rather I feel like my identity is recognized, and then playfully manipulated to reflect the “softness” of how another person sees me. It is the marriage of the objective reality that is Kim and the subjective perspective of how another sees me.

Okay. I realize that I might have over-read the meaning of things. But sometimes even the smallest things have such huge weight, you know?

What Happened?

I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a storm

I’m shouting at the windows and you won’t even take the earphones out.

But I don’t want to knock on your door

Because I know that with one swift movement

Your playing cards house will founder

And you’d be under its weight even more

Than you were when you let the roof lay on the back of your head

And mold your spine like a wilted flower.

“What’s wrong with you?!”

I want to scream it until my lungs are raw

Until I’ve got no voice left

And even then, scream in silence with my coarse lips

And begging eyes

You used to be such sweet sunshine

What happened?

 

What happened? I see you and I want to cry. Just traces of you means wounds for me. I said I didn’t care. But I was just tired. I was so, so tired. But I’m pretty sure you’re tired of hoping that I still did care. I’m sorry.

You’ve been like that ever since we parted ways. I can’t help but feel guilty. I feel like I could have taken you with me. I could have taken care of you until you could stand up on your own.

“I won’t always be here to catch you when you fall.”

I was telling you to be careful. You weren’t. Yes, every inch of this tapestry of pain was stitched into your skin by your own hands. But I could have pulled the barbed wire thread away from you. If only I wasn’t too proud to care. Now I have to endure the sting of seeing you sewn like such wreckage, unable to undo each ravaged suture because that would tear everything apart again. And so you keep on stabbing, and looping, and pulling, like a mindless machine left to run until it breaks down, because the spool of wire just won’t quit retching.

But seriously, what happened to you?

And more importantly, what will it take to save you?

I want to break away and save you. Do something I know is impossible. Just show up at your quadrangle or something and kidnap you. Take your hand and never let you go again, no matter the cost of that. No questions asked. No hesitation of “what next?” No fears of “this is so incredibly impractical. My parents will have my head for this.” Give you part of my life – because there’s way too much joy here for me alone, and knowing that you have none and I just can’t give any of mine to you just makes it miserable.

I wish I could keep you. Wipe away the tears at night, fight by your side during the day, make sure you know you have something to wake up to. If only I had the power to pluck you from your situation right now… protect you from the black vines you’ve allowed to grow around you, wrap around you like a boa, like death.

Dear God, why can’t it be that easy?

You’re just so far away. And even if you were near, you still wouldn’t hear me. You still wouldn’t listen. I’m just praying that right now the music in your earphones is playing too loud for you to take – and that just wakes you up enough for you to throw them off. And then maybe, if you haven’t deafened yourself yet, just maybe you’d hear me. I’m praying with all I’ve got that you’d hear me.

The Facebook Fast

From yesterday up until next Sunday, I will not have any access to social media.

It’s not that I’m going away or anything, or that I’ve been barred from it. It’s simply that I’ve decided that the best way to spend my time would be anything that didn’t involve squandering it on social media. I should get out more in the world. Read. Write. Draw. Jog. Swim. Take pictures. Talk with my family. Renew my faith. Meaningful stuff like that.

But yeah, a dare was involved. Haha, I hope that doesn’t dash the purity of my intentions (think of it as a launch point. Sometimes we need something totally external to push us to do the something we’ve always internally wanted to do).

Here are my rules:

  1. No form of social media will be permitted (especially Facebook and Twitter. I don’t really use my Instagram, but I’m banning that too).
  2. Social media will be banned across all devices and platforms (won’t use it on the desktop, the laptop, my phone, or the iPad)
  3. No matter what, I will NOT go online. I have a phone, people can text me if it’s really that urgent.
  4. My ban starts at 12am October 19, 2014. It ends at 12am October 25, 2014.

I have yet to come up with some sort of punishment if I don’t follow through, but I can’t figure anything out right now. I’m open to any suggestions (just comment below, if you feel like it). Besides, I feel like having to swallow my pride will be enough of a punishment.

I don’t want to be a slave to technology. It’s a mindless tool, and that’s all it is. It is not life. There are bigger, better, fuller things out there – and that is what I intend to indulge in. If anything, these few days away from social media is freedom, it is me exercising my willpower and my sovereignty over my accounts.

I’m not saying it would be easy. I thought it would be, but now that I’ve spent a day without checking anything, I’ve felt myself itch to check my notifications, to thoughtlessly scroll down my feed, to unintentionally click, toggle, like and share. Already, my feed is filled with empty, unexceptional, powerless images and texts. That only means that Facebook has read my patterns and willingly extended the staircase of my descent to the hollow, stupid side of the internet – the side filled with content that exercises absolutely no part of the mind, nor the heart, nor the soul. All it is is glue; glue that just holds you down, glue that just drags you deeper and deeper into more glue. I almost fear that next thing I know, I’ll be falling for false sales pitches, following the paranoia of some almost cult-like neurotics, or rotting in front of cat video after cat video after cat video.

I stand by my belief that it’s only right to dabble into the knowledge of each of these things – that’s how you get well rounded, anyway. But I do not want to make it my direction – because it isn’t even a direction.

So I’m actually very thankful that my brother said I couldn’t do it. Because maybe if I sunk in any deeper, then I really couldn’t have. But now I’m free to do the following:

  1. Write for my blog – I’ve neglected this blog a lot. It’s called a wordstream, and yet nothing’s been flowing. Forgive that, I intend to fix that
  2. Write for AoM – my collab with Angel; it’s a fictional series. I MAY release more details in the future
  3. Write for ToD – my own novel. If I accomplish anything meaningful, maybe I’d talk about it more
  4. Brainstorm for NaNoWriMo – 50,000 words in 30 days. Game? Totally game. I just need something to friggin’ write about. Actually, just now, this very instant, it occurred to me that I could possibly just write 50,000 more words for ToD. It’s already at 90K though, so that might be too long @_@ But then again, I did say that I intended to write a prequel for it – you know, to straighten out the background of everything? So I might work on that. And just add everything together so that I’d eventually get 50,000 words.
  5. Read like crazy – I just checked my Goodreads. I am 29 books behind schedule. Haha, I am so screwed. I’m pretty sure I won’t finish 52 books, but I’m crazy enough to hope. Realistically speaking, I know it’s impossible. But I’m not going to tell myself that. I’m going to run after that 52 like as if it’s just within my reach. How hard could it possibly be?

Falling and Catching

Note: It’s just really, really weird that I find the time to think and write about stuff during finals week. FRIGGIN’ DURING FINALS WEEK. Oh well, I suppose it’s my odd way to cope.

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(Credits for this image go to Cyanide and Happiness)

When I first saw this, I laughed out loud.

But then it made me realize something. We have friends, family, people who we trust to catch us when we fall. And they’re usually ready and willing to catch us, should that happen. But then sometimes we fall in ways that we don’t expect to fall. Sometimes we fail in aspects where no one was expecting us to fail in. And sometimes, like the guy above, we stupidly fall in a direction no one would have considered us falling. And so sometimes we don’t get caught. And sometimes we crash.

It’s not like it’s the other person’s fault, though. They never had the intention to let us down. They had their arms stretched out like a safety net for us. It’s just that, well yeah, they didn’t know how large the safety net had to be, what it had to encompass, how far it had to reach.

And I think that’s why it’s important to be open about your plans and everything. Tell people where you’re headed, so that if you fall, they know how to catch you.

But should something completely unexpected happen, and you end up running into the ground and getting all bruised up, understand that it was a matter of circumstance. No one saw it coming – not even you. So get up (and most probably those who failed to catch you before would help you stand now), figure out what made you trip, and keep more alert for it. And I guess falling isn’t so bad sometimes. The worm’s eye view often holds a very mind-opening perspective for all of us.

Gonzaga Down

I haven’t posted anything in ages, but that doesn’t mean that I haven’t been writing. Well, I just haven’t been pumping out anything that I want to publish, really, lol.

Anyway, so today was day one of our finals week (time flies, doesn’t it?), and surprisingly, that gave me the time to write (somehow the setting and the feel of everything was just perfect for it). I came to school at a beautiful hour of the morning, and I was all alone, so the need to write just came.

This was written in Gonzaga Down (therefore the title), one of the big cafeterias on campus, notorious for being the least likely place to have an existential crisis (or any other deep jazz like that). And yet, it’s been the setting for a lot of drama and complexities and philosophizing for me (at least outside, because you’re directly facing the zen garden. Actually being inside the cafeteria is another matter). And I guess this poem sort of summarizes that.

I haven’t lifted this pen and spilled this ink

For as long as I haven’t eloped to think

Quiet left and silence forgone

The whole world turned noise in the face of the sun

Gentleness fights to be heard

In this throng of meaningless words,

Of keyboard-clacking and chair-grating;

Of static oldies and ventilation droning

But if I can hear with my eyes

And listen to the humble pebbles and azure skies

And morning birds and winding paths

And rolling leaves and green grass

Then the whole world stills

And my mind wanders as it wills

It rolls in the cool soft earth

And as I sit on the concrete, I find rebirth