Swollen, Red, Itching

I hate my skin. I hate, hate my skin. It's a Filipina syndrome to naturally want whiter skin. But I don't hate my skin because it's brown. I hate my skin because it's so damn sensitive. I have mild photosensitivity and atopic dermatitis, which basically means I have skin asthma.

When I was young, I was allergic to dust, sand, grass, the sun, and countless other things. I went to play at a neighbor's house, and I came back full of rashes. I just learned from my mom that I would turn really red and hot when I was a baby and they didn't know why. Every summer, I'd be like fried lobster--red and bloated--because I would insist on swimming with friends and siblings even if I knew I'd suffer in the end.

My dermatologist said if I didn't outgrow an allergen by seven, it would stay forever. I outgrew everything, except my allergy to the sun. Ironic, isn't it? When people find out I'm allergic to the sun, they get looks of incredulity. They don't believe me. They don't get it how a person, a human being, can be allergic to the sun--something we are all exposed to half of our lives.

Well, you swell, and you blister, you itch, and you suffer.

When I was younger and it was bad, I'd get bed-ridden sometimes, because my body would be too heave for me to lift. Eating was a pain. Opening my eyes was a burden. I'd become Chinese--my double eyelids would disappear. I'd itch all over, and if I scratched it, magsusugat siya.

It was better, for a year or two. Though it happened again during high school while I was walking from school to a nearby mall--something I've done countless times before. I'd get attacks once or twice a year.

Then came junior year in college. Since February, I've been getting allergies every week. New allergies on top of barely-healing ones. The last one happened when I went to the COA FormSem in Caliraya. My whole arms were affected, and I had blisters--something that has never happened before. When I got to Batangas, I healed, mainly because I was cooped up in the house everyday.

But I'm back in Ateneo. And today. Just today.

I have fudging allergies again. And my arms are swelling, reddening, and itching. I hope they don't blister.

Oh, I forgot. I'm also allergic to commercial sunblock. Though I found one recently that was okay--something for babies. I used it today. And fudging hell, I have allergies.

Because Philo will wait

procrastinate |prəˈkrastəˌnāt; prō-|

verb [ intrans. ]

delay or postpone action; put off doing something : it won't be this price for long, so don't procrastinate.

Proxy Server Refused Connection.

Good thing I didn't take that as a sign that I should just give up and not update my blog.

After 1234949578094385 years, I've finally decided to visit my blog, sign in, and post. A number of things brought about this near-impossible occurrence; well, actually there were two. Two conversations with two different people made me want to go back and write again.

First conversation: friends reconnect with friends. It made me realize that I actually missed writing. I've visited the blog page a number of times and just stared at my unaligned header. I never got the courage to sign in though, even if I am always in Gmail and the power that is Google allows me to also sign in Blogspot with just one click.

I was afraid to write. I was afraid to pick up memories and narrate them. Restore each one piece by piece, sentency by emotion, punctuation by bated breath. Fear of failure kept me from doing what I want.

But what my friend told me, though not in explicit terms, was that I had nobody to fail. You write because you can. I write because I want to write.

Second conversation: when need necessitates want. It was an inevitable conversation with Sir Larry that actually pushed me to blog again. When you're English/Literature teacher asks you if you still write, what deep shame you feel if you answer you don't.

And talks of orchid trunks, roots, gusts of wind, and pollen drew me back to the writing I love: evocative, daring, and personal.

So here I am, back and ready. Hopefully for long. I'd still keep hitting that refresh button to post this, even if the effing proxy server refuses the connection.

Even though he can inspire change

Obama is not a god. So people should stop hailing him as one.

If I could have, I would have voted for him. As did billion others. As do those who cannot, by virtue of their not being American, but who want to.

Obama is good. He is great. But he is not god.

Back Home

Monday, October 20, was spent running around campus for meetings, then running around my room trying to clean and pack, then hauling the stuff I have to take to Batangas to the lobby. Almost two hours was spent waiting for my ride. Another five or so spent waiting in my Ninang's Makati office, having my first facial (mother-freaking-ouch!), reading an old Philippine Tatler, playing Freecell and Minesweeper, and texting Claudia. An hour and a half gone on the road, with me sleeping half the time.

And then. Finally. Even if it's overdue by a week.

I'm home. :)

First thing I did was look around. I haven't been home for more than a month and my mother never fails to rearrange the furniture when I'm gone. Surprisingly, the rooms were the same as the last time I was home. Only the new lcd computer monitor (shiny!) and printer were new. Then I realized the bathroom door's stained glass was different. Very uncharacteristic of my homecomings. Whew. For a while, I thought something was wrong.

Now, I have unlimited (but slower) internet, my own room and TV (although I rarely use it now), my own bathroom, and my own time.

I'm home. :)

Hey.

I wrote a post. And it contained a bizarre number of things. Frustration. Sadness. Grief.

And some technical glitch just wiped it away.

My Purple Camera

...is alive once again.

I remember asking my parents for a digital camera as a graduation gift. They bought me a purple one. The color was one of the main reasons we bought that camera. (side note: it has got to be something when your own parents buy stuff in your favorite color for you) The first time I used that camera was during my high school graduation. I stashed it away in my pocket, and Camyl and I helped fight away boredom, because really, we didn't pay attention unless it Iwas our class, by taking pictures of us, our shoes, our diplomas, and anything else one can think of.

After then, I always brought my camera with me. It was with me during the first night I stayed in the dorm. It was with me during the first day of classes in Ateneo. It was with me when I drank my first glass of alcohol. I had many firsts with that camera. It became an integral part of me--an extension of who I am. I invested myself in that camera. People who remotely know me can tell that it's mine just by it's color. I loved my camera, and I showed my love for it by using it almost every waking moment of the day.

And then they kind of stopped. I don't know when it happened, but gradually, I stopped bringing my camera with me. It was as if taking pictures, capturing memories, wasn't as important as before. It became a burden; so I dropped it. For the past few months, my camera has been rotting away in storage. Sometimes, I would bring it and take pictures, but I wouldn't do anything. I'd just turn it off again.

Maybe part of the reason why I stopped is the influx of new technology. Barely two months after I bought my camera, its market price was slashed off, and new ones were out with roughly the same price and double the features. But to stop just because of that is too shallow, even for me.

However, barely a week ago. I brought my camera out again. Very suddenly. I don't know what pushed me to take pictures and upload them in Multiply againg. I must have had a reason, but I forget it now. What's important is that I'm taking pictures again. I've missed this. Too often digital technology have deprived us of truly savoring a well-taken photograph. I may be no professional, but I do know when I've taken a good picture. My technical criteria are not that hard to pass; what I really look for is meaning. May it be a shot of a beautiful scenery, or papers in disarray, or a smiling friend--the important thing is that the picture has meaning for me.

Just like my purple camera.