The Cringe Journal: January-February 1985

The year I began to feel like a human being. I got comfortable in college, I owned my nerdiness, and I figured out that writing is an act of revenge.

I had forgotten nearly everything in this journal. It reminds me how much I have always relied on my friends to keep me sane and alive. With them around I did not even have time to dwell on family unhappiness. Friends really are your chosen family. I miss my school friends.

7 January 1985

8.57pm

I always feel queasy discussing personal problems—family problems, I mean—because they’re all mundane and trivial banalities.

9 January 1985

7.54am

I think I know why I write. I write because I want something more, and even if I don’t know what it is, I want it very badly. I think that all writers write because they ache and writing is their way of fighting it. Writing is a form of revenge: you make the world pay you back for all the pain you ever felt, for making you yearn for beauty and giving you ugliness, for letting you feel what love is like and then denying you the experience, for giving the life that could’ve been yours to people who aren’t worthy. A writer isn’t born with the passion to burn words into paper. First she lives a lousy life and takes all the shit the world can give, and when she’s gathered up enough frustration she learns to be a writer. If I were to write my autobiography to this very day it would provide the plots for half a dozen tragedies.

But today I climb out of the womb. I am someone else. I no longer care what the world thinks of me, whether people think I should walk around with a paper bag on my head. All I want is revenge.

11 January 1985

11.45pm

I asked ___ to come to the party with us, just so we wouldn’t look too abandoned. I begged, wheedled, bribed, threatened, bulldozed, and grovelled until he agreed. Somewhere in the middle I started to cry. Really. It was the worst possible time to ask him because his schedule tomorrow is so crammed he can hardly breathe, but he finally broke down and said yes. Actually I’d forgive him if he begs off tomorrow. In that conversation I learned that my friendship is as important to him as it is to me. I am relieved because I love so few people and he’s one of them. At this very minute I would gladly offer him my services as housemaid for the next three years.

13 January 1985

9.53pm

It would be alright if I died this instant, I’d go to the crematorium content. I had a great time last night, proof of which are my sore feet. Anyway if I do die I leave everything to ___ because he broke my record of five consecutive years of wallflowerdom by dragging me out to the dancefloor. I don’t know how to dance, I’d never found it necessary to learn how.^[1] It was fun. Afterwards we spotted some classmates of his (He’d refused their invitation, then ___’s, but he did me this favor. That’s what you call friendship.) I moved off because I thought he’d be embarrassed to be seen with me, but he came looking for me. I love that guy.^[2]

I did not realize until today the benefits of a platonic real friendship. I would not exchange it for those heavy romantic entanglements that make your life hell.

I am not repulsive. Anything is possible.

14 January 1985

2.30pm

The last time I saw W was last Wednesday. He was trying to start a conversation but I cut him. Today I learned that he’d been in a bad car accident and will have to spend the next three months in a cast. I feel a little guilty for not being civil to him, I might’ve delayed him for a while. You know how accidents are, a split second could’ve saved him. On the other hand if I’d talked to him I might have accepted a lift and been in the crash.

20 January 1985

8.01pm

Are long hair and glasses the stereotype for socially awkward smart females? In this TV sitcom ^[3]the resident brain has long hair, wears glasses, and writes. Come to think of it I am a stereotype. I am not pretty. I hardly ever get invited anywhere. I read everything I can get my hands on. I know a lot of long, cumbersome words and I use them. I laugh at things other people can’t grasp. I would rather be alone than condescend to morons.

21 January 1985

11.29am

After having dirtied my hands rifling through volumes which have not been touched by dust rags for at least ten years, I have come to the conclusion that no one has made a definitive study on the relationship between the psyche and the colors of one’s dreams.^[4] Maybe there is no relation, but someone should’ve written something about it and spared me the trouble.

22 January 1985

6.49pm

Nothing spectacular happened today but for some reason I was absurdly happy all day. I dropped by BA to see ___. On my way back I saw ___ and she told me about W’s car crash. It’s really very funny (Don’t be cruel, Jessica). He had just dropped someone off when two jeepneys collided in front of his car. One of them spun around and hit his car. It could’ve hit the rear or the passenger’s side, but no, it had to fracture his leg.

When I crossed the street I was almost run over by a yellow pickup truck. Naturally it just happened to have ___ at the wheel. That’s the second time he’s nearly maimed me, first time was last semester when he was driving the green car.

The lecture on Das Kapital was very very lucid, and despite the technical nature of Marxian theory, extremely interesting. The speaker was a Jesuit philosophy professor who obviously loved his subject. A lot of people were yawning, but you couldn’t help but learn something.

The stuff I used to think was tedious (existentialism, Greek tragedy, Romantic poetry) nows fills me with something like exaltation, and I mean the works: chills down my spine, tears in my eyes, the feeling of suddenly seeing the light. I am realizing more and more what a barbarian I am. When you find out how stupid you are, that’s the sign that you are learning.

23 January 1985

6.24pm

This happiness is strong stuff. I’ve been absurdly happy for 36 hours and I’m still in what Alfred North Whitehead called the stage of romance: I am stunned by being and moved by the reality of the real. I am educating myself, reading the classics, trying out new things, and just being more of a human being. I am applying for a grant to the annual summer writers’ workshop ^[5]and I think I have a pretty good chance of getting in.

26 January 1985

10.51pm

Spent the other night typing Time Warp and the stained glass windowmaker story for my Creative Writing Center application.

29 January 1985

11.42am

The reason I haven’t written is because I AM writing—finishing a short story I’ve been working on since Sunday at 7.30pm. For the first ten pages the words literally flowed; I didn’t want to stop, but I had to go to bed at one because I had classes the next day. January 27 is hereby declared lucky. I finished my first passable story, Time Warp, on that day a year ago. The new story is completely removed from it in method, content, and tone, though both of them deal with pain.

30 January 1985

7.34am

Finished the story last night. I think it’s the best I’ve done so far. I have a loooong way to go. You can only go so far on raw ability (“talent” is too pompous). I must get to work on my novel if I am to finish it at all. I feel a bit sad about ending the story. It was so exhilarating, knowing you were on the verge of something good. Now I’ll have to start over. Again.

31 January 1985

7.54pm

Bad morning, good afternoon. Woke up 30 minutes late, feeling not quite depressed bu almost. When I got to UP ___ presented me with the Communist Party newsletter, from a friend whose father is in the military so he confiscates the stuff. I got paranoid instantly and thought cops would immediately smell it in my bag and haul me off to Bicutan. I asked ___ to keep it for me because who’d suspect her? At 10 English 3 was cancelled so I went to the library to work on the lecture summary. I felt listless and drained (post-story depression) so I went to sleep. At 11.30 I had a Coke and 10 million peanuts and listened to ___ contemplate suicide and we’re not even close.

6 February 1985

10.33pm

I feel strange—kind of a cross between uneasiness, embarrassment, and elation. In class my Psych teacher started discussing life in general and he asked us to talk about anything. When I finally spoke something went wrong—my words felt strangled, and I had the sudden urge to cry for no reason. “I’m a Comparative Lit major, and what bothers me is that when the people I went to grade school with ask me what course I’m in they go, What?? They seem to think it’s such a nothing course—you read a few stories, analyze a little…Then when they ask me what I’ll do after college I say I’m going to write. They don’t seem to understand, they go, “What if you can’t write?” It occurs to me that other people worry more about my future than I do.”

He talked about how creative people need to be free of material worries, and how their efforts transcend the ordinary. It felt exultant to have somebody explain me correctly.

7 February 1985

12.20pm

Library basement. Slept for about 30 minutes at a solo study table. Woke up with a stiff arm and a crick in my neck. Been feeling sleepy all morning, I don’t know why. I feel so lazy—it’s probably the heat, feels like summer already. Has the earth’s axis shifted?

Last week there was a rumble involving ___’s fraternity and I don’t know if he was in it. Now there’s a war on, with both frats waiting to pounce on each other. I don’t like fraternities: it seems to me that guys join them because being in one increases the probability of being in fights. Besides, if people want to practice brotherhood they can do it without the nonsensical hoodoo that goes on. All this “all for one, one for all” is really superficial. You don’t need an invitation to be friends, do you?

8 February 1985

9.35am, Main Library

This morning someone tried to recruit me for an underground movement.^[6] I said no. At this point I’m too preoccupied with myself, and while this may sound callous all I really want is to be left alone. Sure I’m curious about Marxian theory, but my only purpose in asking is to know. Just know. I’m not going to do anything with it.

7.51pm

Spent the whole morning reading The Method of Zen by Eugene Norrigel. Also borrowed a book of Zen stories and a more recent translation of Boccaccio. Also read St Julian the Hospitaler by Flaubert. Then I went to the Creative Writing Center to see if the list of qualified applicants was ready. It wasn’t, but the man knew who I was, so I guess I have a chance.

11 February 1985

8.21am

Last night I had no homework to do and no urge to write so I watched Falcon Crest. Towards the end of the show I heard my mother screaming in the living room. I went out and came upon a scene straight out of a horror movie. My father was standing over the door to the veranda, holding a kitchen knife while a snake was slithering in under the door. It was about a foot long, gray, the width of my index finger. My mom was hysterical and my sister was freaking out. My father ordered me to get a bigger knife and a flashlight. I was very calm, in fact I found the whole thing hilarious. After much ado my father cut off the snake’s head and threw away the corpse. I even cleaned up the mess, very methodically, while my mom and Cookie had palpitations.

Naturall I couldn’t sleep after that. I don’t know how I’ll ever get any sleep in that house. I hate that place: dust, traffic, and now, snakes.

8.19pm

Yesterday I was accepted to the summer workshop. X was really happy for me, he says it takes most people years to get in.

14 February 1985

6.45pm

___ was in a lousy mood. She started contradicting everything I said. I hate to admit it, but hanging out with her isn’t going to boost my social standing or my ego. She just loves to generalize about matters she knows nothing about. She likes to dwell on the fact that we are not popular because we are plain. Christ, I really get pissed off at her sometimes. When I’m disappointed, instead of condoling with me she says, “I told you so.” Sometimes I think she enjoys seeing my hopes dashed. I am imaginative, she is overly pragmatic. Maybe that’s why we’re best friends: we cancel each other out. That’s one thing about best friends: they don’t necessarily possess sterling qualities, they just fit. You can hate your best friend, but you’ll never get rid of her because you’ve been through too much together. Don’t get me wrong, I love ___. I suppose it’s too much to ask that she be less dour.

16 February 1985

9.48am

Am in one of my buoyant periods. I’m always happy when I spend Friday or Saturday in the library. Maybe it’s because everything—almost everything—I want to know is within reach. Or maybe it’s because I get another reprieve from boredom. Yesterday I spent the whole day at home, and while it wasn’t so bad it wasn’t good, either. Last night when I finally got around to writing after postponing it all day, I started pulling out my hair again. My wastebasket is disgusting, fully of clumps of hair.[7]

If I can read two books a week for the duration of college, by the time I graduate I might no longer be a barbarian.

24 February 1985

5.07pm

Yesterday afternoon ___ and I went to St. Theresa’s for the launch of an alumni group called Teresa Makabayan. We were the youngest people there, and we got a lot of double takes (Who IS their plastic surgeon?), but I was so proud to be there. Miss Mariano our registrar was there and she remembered me. The meeting was fun and typically Theresian: while reading the statement of principles, the women were quibbling over adjectives, grammar, rhythm and genders.

25 February 1985

7.04pm

Yesterday I attended a rally for the first time in my life. No, I have not suddenly developed a social conscience. I only went because my favorite teacher told me to. I went with ___, there were about 60 of us, all first-timers, and after each slogan we would break out in giggles.

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^[1] I seem to have forgotten that I had taken dance lessons during my gap year.

^[2] Awww, I had a Duckie (see Pretty In Pink).

^[3] Does anyone remember Square Pegs?

^[4] Does the fact that you dream in black and white mean something, or just that you watch shows on a black-and-white TV?

^[5] The UP Summer Writers’ Workshop, which was held at Kalayaan Dorm. Everyone was very kind to my J.D. Salinger-ing story, except for one or two bitter teachers who dismissed it as bourgeois bullshit, and two National Artists for Literature: Prof Francisco Arcellana and Prof Gemino Abad wrote encouraging notes on the margins of my manuscript.

^[6] There was a lot of recruiting going on in the last days of the Marcos administration.

[7] I had trichotillomania, the uncontrollable urge to pull out my own hair. It’s a wonder I didn’t become bald. I don’t do it anymore.