Alice

Part I.

Down, down, down.

I fall into this abyss they dare call a world 

and ceaselessly grapple for something 

to hold onto.

Down, down, down.

Once, twice, no--thrice, do I hold out my hand 

and reach for nothing.

Nothing.

It's been two decades. My suspended soul has 

grown accustomed to the nothingness 

within and without.

With my heart in my hand 

and my mind in my chest,

I traverse and triumph this abyss

until---

Thump.

I hit something.

I can't see what it is (for my eyes have long ago been 

blinded by the dark), 

but I can feel it.

I know it's there, but what it is 

and what it's not, no name can be given.

Down, down, down.

All I know is this:

Every single part of me aches.

Tossing and turning, tossing and turning.

It pierces me and leaves me cold,

cold and thirsting for thine own blood;

crying and moaning

resigning to half-breaths 

and the sighs of the wind 

And yet, after the purge,

I seem to vanish into the air, the dust, 

the walls, the books, the little trinkets 

here and there

They cease to be, and be to cease.

I am who I am.

Who am I?

Am I?

Down, down, down,

into this hell of a rabbit hole. 

Le Manteau dans Le Café

“It was a pleasant café, warm and clean and friendly, and I hung up my old waterproof on the coat rack to dry and put my worn and weathered felt hat on the rack above the bench and ordered a café au lait.” – Ernest Hemingway

She breathed in.

The woman was standing in front of the quaint café just around the corner at the Rue Saint Honoré. Her hair was caressed by the wind, her long red coat hugged her until her knees as her boots put her on a pedestal. One mustn’t forget her large round sunglasses—it was a shield.

She breathed out. A steady stream of smoke whirled above her lips.

Her eyes stared at the café’s sign, “Café Flores” it read. She took one step and pierced through the door not looking left nor right but headed straight for the cashier, step by step, the sound of her heels distinct. “I’d like an espresso, please. No—“

“—sugar. As usual.” the young man nodded and smiled.

It was routine. She would be there every single morning on her way to work. Routine is healthy, she would justify. It’s a matter of discipline, focus, and hard work. That’s what she lived by, and that’s the way it’s always been. And besides, a good cigarette and a shot of espresso every morning couldn’t hurt a fly.

“Merci beacoup.”

The place was acceptable for many a café lover (or for anyone just simply looking for a comfortable place—who wouldn’t right?). It was ideal. The delicate rose gold lamps hung from the high ceiling as if God’s light consented whatever matters people were mulling over in that café. Plush velvet were the couches, drenched in pinks and creams pulled out from Wes Anderson’s sanely saccharine mind. Now, the walls gleamed with faces and faces from times and times ago; photographs that breathed old life. From the door, on either side of the place, were shelves of books—Hemingway, Woolf, Wilde, Austen—like guardians with their words silently tucked but triumphed within the walls.

I should be in by 9am. Hold the meeting by 10am. Run errands till noon. Meet with the buyers from around, hmmm, one to three? Yes, that would be good. Then finally, work till 7. Oh no, that’s not right—till 8. Then it’s back home by 9. She sipped her coffee slowly as she watched the other regulars with their own affairs.

Old Mr. Always-In-A-Green-Sweater has his nose in a newspaper, tobacco pipe in tow. He probably never reads the Entertainment section—why would he want to know what happened with Kimye when today’s crossword is about the World War?

Meanwhile, Ms. Herrington (otherwise known as Cat Lady) seems to be wearing a new pair of Prada sunglasses. This time, it’s a lovely cat eye shape in a deep tortoise brown, the green tint barely concealing her unfortunate eye bags. Poor her.

There’s the other girl who seems just about my age. Tall, lanky, almost the complete female version of that kid in Perks of Being a Wallflower. Heck, she’s the perfect front for the next Alessandro Michele for Gucci campaign. Hmmm, I wonder what his next collection will be. Ms. Wallflower sneezes. Bless you.

And then there’s that guy. The very epitome of the tall, dark, and handsome ideal. Is he my ideal, you say? Well, he could be if he stopped throwing his coffee cup in the wrong bin. Did I mention he tries to “shoot” it in? Curry, please. His linen shorts are great I must say…until he gets a latte stain on them every now and then.

The lights bathed the café and its inhabitants in the warmest glow and after peering them over, she glanced at her new copy of L’Officiel.

Table of Contents. Page 3: The New Balenciaga. Page 14: Metro Manila’s Finest Designers. Page 30: The Art of Style.

She flipped and started reading an article at random.

My work is my life. Every step I take in my career is an attempt to continue breathing. Without my work—this art that I’ve been conjuring ever since I could imagine—I am nothing.”

And what are your secrets to success?

Well, as I’ve said, work is art and I’m not just saying this because I’m a couturier. I believe that any kind of work requires a certain level of genius, of stamina, and of creative thinking. I mean, we don’t just go off and travel without a map right? Well, you could opt to get lost but how to make that adventure your own is up to you. It’s wit. And style, of course. Pardon me as I pull off a cliché Diana Vreeland: It’s not the dress, but the…

She closed the magazine.

At that moment, a tall man enters through the doorway and all eyes are on him. Sweater lowers his newspaper, Prada slowly removes her glasses, while Wallflower looks up from her copy of Pride and Prejudice.

The woman packed her bag and went to grab some tissue at the cashier on her way out; she always had tissue on her in case of emergencies. “A café au lait with a double shot of espresso, s’il vous plait.” The man’s low voice pierced through the wholeness of the café. He grabbed for his receipt and it fell to the ground. “Here, let me get that for you,” the woman kindly said. He looked at her, his new brown eyes meeting hers. She blushed and broke out, “What a lovely coat you have on.” His creamy camel coat wrapped him up so that he looked as powerful as he was new to the place. “Thank you, I like yours too. It’s a lovely café isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s perfect. We all think so.”

She smiled and turned away, away from him and the café she held close to her heart. The doorman opened and greeted her goodbye, a demain. The man watched her go as her reflection shone upon his jet black sunglasses: a head of disheveled hair, worn-out leather boots, and a long red coat with seams that seem to be tearing apart. 

I Hate Tabasco

           5:30am. My eyes open. Or at least I think they’re open. I float towards my bathroom barely even touching the floor. Give me a break, it’s a Monday. I then step into the shower and let the warm water go through my skin and my soul. Showers were made for this feeling, I swear. I start washing my face and make sure I’m squeaky clean (wouldn’t want a breakout to happen).

            The hardest part of my mornings is dressing up. I mean, whatever outfit I choose will be on myunsightly body the entire day (well, until I get home, of course). I head on over to my closet and take a look: culottes, white tops, high-neck sleeveless tops, black shirts, black pants, denim jacket, a 150-peso dress, more culottes…Would I want to look “conservative” today? I take the culottes and my button down polo. Too conservative. I throw those away and take my dress. I put it on and—oh no the fabric’s too thin—take it off. I put on a black top and jeans—too casual! Another black top, then a white top, another type of black top…until my entire bathroom is covered in all the contents of my closet. Unable to choose at least one single piece of clothing that would fit my mood, my thoughts and plans for the day, I throw my cares out the closet and grab a grey dress.

             6:05am: Ilanguidly take in my first (and favorite) meal of the day. Flocons D’Avoine Aux Baies (Verry Berry Oatmeal). A tablespoon of honey. Nice and heartwarming, the way I like it. I pick up my almost dog-eared copy of my favorite Hemingway.  Une Génération Perdue: “I thought of Miss Stein and Sherwood Anderson and egotism and mental laziness versus discipline and I thought who is calling who a lost generation? Then as I was getting up to the Closerie des Lilas with the light on my old friend, the statue of Marshal Ney with his sword out and the shadows of the trees on the bronze, and he alone there and nobody behind him and what a fiasco he’d made of Waterloo, I thought that all generations…” A thought suddenly enters my mind. Chew. Swallow. Chew. “…were lost by something and always had been and always would be and I stopped at the Lilas to keep the statue company and drank a cold beer before going home to the flat over the sawmill…” Wait what was that? Chew. Swallow. Chew. Somehow, for some reason, I wasn’t able to grasp the fleeting words of my dizzy morning mind; for although the oatmeal was warm, the thought had slipped into the cold breeze entering through the window. 

              ADMU. CTC 406. It’s chilly in the classroom; so chilly that the coldseeps through my skin but I have grown used to it. It doesn’t bother me anyway. There I am in the last row, at the very back of the classroom nearest the exit. My block mates, other freshmen, and the sophomores have all got their ears on our professor, Sir Arvin. Meanwhile, I hold my pen and copy notes…What did Martine Cajucom say on Scout magazine again? Oh right: if you feel like you need to leave, then leave. If it will help you grow as a person, then by all means leave. Independence sounds so thrilling; it’s as if you plunge yourself head first into this unchartered expanse, just going, going, going until you know where you are and you know where you’re headed. Am I sure about this whole JTA plan? She (my first cousin who is currently in Netherlands, I miss her) did say that academics here in Ateneo is so much harder, but Dayan (my Chem classmate) said that when some people get back they end up catching up on units. And after all this is done, what am I supposed to do then? What internships can I pursue that would fit the bill? Hmm, Sunnies? Preview, maybe? Where would those things take me? Publishing, retail, publishing, retail…Remember, the world now is smaller compared to my time. You have a lot of opportunities, you just have to look. Nothing will be given to you; you have to earn it yourself. Always think big, okay? And if you have any ideas, just tell me, and we can work something out—a partial derivative is a derivative of a function of two or more variables with respect to one variable, the other(s) being treated as constant. I write it down, but something slips away from my paper-thin mind. 

       
           After all my classes, I decided I deserved a drink. Non-alcoholic, of course—it’s a Wednesday for crying out loud. Milk tea from Coco would quench my irreparably parched soul. “Bye I’ll see you soon!” my classmate says. “Yup, I’ll miss you guys.” We were about to part ways when he said, “Where are you going?”

Oh, I’m going to Regis.

Alone?

Yup.

I made my way from Berchmans to MVP, and trudged to Leong with my backpack and jug in tow. The sky grew darker and the clouds hovered above us and cast a thin blanket of the unknown that was yet to come. Did I forget anything? I check my bag again: wallet, phone, lipstick, my Math stuff (finals coming up!), calculator. Do I even have cash on me? I can’t walk in there empty-handed. Luckily, I did have some money—300 pesos would do. I walk and walk, my right hand holding my bag, my left holding my jug. Walking and walking, I pass by different people. They’re mostly in groups—barkadas, couples, old-time friends, new friends, friends with a future that they aren’t even aware of, boys and girls laughing, girls talking about girl things, and I walk through them, through them. And there it was again: the thought. I reached the footbridge to Regis and on it, I looked straight ahead not looking left and right, not looking at anyone, although I was aware that there I was suspended above all of Katipunan, feeling smaller and smaller with every step I take. I couldn’t shake the fleeting words in my mind away, I couldn’t, I couldn’t. Left, right, left, right. I reached Coco and sat at the table by the wall, alone.

          I dropped my bag on the chair and got my wallet. ­No, maybe I’ll go to the restroom first. I dropped my wallet in my bag and opened the door. Or I’ll order first and then go to the restroom. Yeah. I got my wallet again and headed for the counter. “Nicole!” I see my block mate bestie whom I haven’t seen in a while because of all the school work overwhelming us and consequently killing every ounce of life left in us. I hug her tightly. She was standing right in front of the large menu plastered on the wall. I was listening to her, but my eyes would dart from her to the menu: Coco Milk Tea, Winter Melon Mountain Tea, 2 Ladies, 3 Buddies (milk tea with pearl, pudding, and grass jelly). “Yeah Lit’s been so hard, we have another paper due this week.” Matcha Slush with Salty Cream. Lemon Yakult (what?). Black Tea Latte. “That’s why I can’t go with the block later to study for Math,” she says. Hmmm maybe I’ll get the usual Wintermelon. No, no, I think I’m craving for some milk tea. But I don’t want pearls so… "Okay, I gotta go now. Bye Nicole!”

I walked back to school with my drink now in my hand. Milk tea with no pearls.

6:00pm: Cousin’s birthday dinner. At home, I greeted my grandparents, my titas and titos, and all the other relatives and friends with a kiss and they would smile and usually say in return, “Wow you’re so big na!” I’m polite throughout the party. I always am. I listen to conversations, chime in if I have to, and smile, smile, smile. I look around me, and there I am in the middle of everyone, set apart, apart—their words and laughter buzzing through my ears and dissolving into thin air. “You’re cousin, he has a girlfriend na! I see his posts on Facebook, haha.” The usual tita talk occurs. “Yes well, he’s old enough. He’s turning 20 this year just like Nicole,” my mother points out. “Nicole, you’re turning 20 na ba? Akala ko 18 ka lang!” my lola exclaims. And with those words, my smile slowly faded but I was trying, I was really trying to maintain it, trying to laugh along—I had to. It faded and faded, and suddenly there was this rising feeling inside me, tugging at every corner of my soul, at the corners of my smile, the corners of my eyes, the corners of my polished outfit. Rising and rising, it was a push and pull—a game of tug of war—and I was losing.

Thankfully, my smile was intact.

10:30pm. I walk back to our house. It’s late and I was extremely tired from the long day. Unconsciously, I open the refrigerator and look for something to eat. Something sweet, maybe. I grab a Twinkie and wolf it down in a minute. I think I want more. A pack of Oreos with peanut butter. I hate it dry, I like it with milk. Something salty. Something savory. Crackers with blue cheese. And then gouda cheese. I grab cold leftover pepperoni pizza and leave it half-eaten. I drink water. I come back for the half-eaten pizza and pop it in the toaster oven. I realize that I hate cold pizza and I hate it bland without any type of sauce. And so, I look in the pantry, find some Tabasco and drizzle that all over this half pepperoni pizza. I then realize that I hate Tabasco—it lacks the kick that hot sauce should have, it’s boring and it just plainly sucks. Where is the freaking Habanero sauce? I want more.

I climb into bed with a stomach so full that I don’t think I’ll be eating for the next few weeks. I close my eyes and shut myself out. The day’s events started rushing into me: The studying, the rough morning, having to choose what to wear, choosing that grey dress, only having 300 pesos, walking alone to Regis, talking to my friend whom I love dearly, walking back and studying for hours on end for a test that I doubt I’ll remember in the future, talking to grown-ups, trying to be one, trying to smile, listening to everyone around me getting girlfriends and boyfriends. I close my eyes even tighter. It’s rising now, making me feel uneasy as I try, I try to fall asleep. The school year’s ending and I’m turning 20 soon. Yes, in about six months, my teen years will have ended. And what have I done? What have I done with my life so far? I close my eyes, I close them. But I couldn’t anymore. And it all came rushing out.

I cried.

What if I am part of this génération perdue? What if I choose the black top that I love instead? What if I talk to my seatmates during Math class? What if I walk to Regis with someone and maybe get to hold their hand? What if I say what I want to say during parties? What if there’s actually Habanero sauce in the pantry but it’s just that I don’t look hard enough?

I breathe in and breathe out, not knowing what to do. Maybe it’ll be like this until I’m twenty, or maybe not. But I guess I’ll just have to wait for tomorrow, the next day, the day after that, when chances are either grasped or missed again.

Main photo: DigitalVision Colormos and Moment Mobile, Kevin Schafer

Growing Up a Fashion Girl

      

      This is an essay I’ve written about a year ago. Forgot all about it so I decided to put it up here on ze blog! Although I’d love to revise this (this really needs a lot of work haha), I want to preserve my thoughts and feelings at that time. Cheers to fashion!

      Like all teens, I had my friends come over all the time. We would follow the routine—watch a movie, take some photos, have pizza, and maybe even bake. One time, two of my friends were laughing about something, but I just couldn’t catch their drift. Oh well. A little while later after a hearty viewing of Lizzie McGuire The Movie, they were laughing about something they stumbled upon on the internet. I couldn’t relate, and so I just smiled and brushed it off. After a couple more of the same instances wherein I would just nod along to their references, my friend commented:

      “You’ve been living under a rock!” 

      I must confess: I got hurt. I got over it quickly and just let it slide. She’s just kidding, I told myself. Moments after, while we were probably laughing at something on Tumblr or YouTube, my friend found my collection of photos on my desktop. She browsed through them, and her face lit up as if seeing something for the first time. She looked up at me, and said: “You have your own world.”

      This world of mine was sprawling with runway shows with different species of women such as the Balenciaga babe, the Lanvin lady, the D&G ditz, and even a Jean-Paul Gaultier gal. (insert something all continents blah blah) They were all clad in the finest of fabrics and the most glittering of jewels (they had a change of wardrobe of course when Fall/Winter came around). Aside from the bam bam sound of their mighty heels, one could hear the faint laughs of models backstage, and afterwards, the sound of Monsieur Lagerfeld explaining how “Sweatpants are a sign of defeat. You lost control of your life so you bought some sweatpants.” Brimming the halls of these catwalks were the curious street creatures who were just as interesting as the collections themselves. Their colourful layers were quirky and witty, sweet yet snappy. As they pounced the streets, their capes and Celine bags moved boldly, and so did the world we all lived in. It was an overwhelming spectacle. And I’m glad that it was all just a click away. (Thank you, STYLE.com.)

      On the other side of the universe lied a very chill but sometimes crazy, Chatime-fueled planet wherein girls such as my friends banged their heads to The Jonas Brothers. They would snap photos with digicams---side swept bangs hung loose, tongue out, and were all wearing the uniform of choice: denim shorts and tank tops. The glorious voice of Hannah Montana can be heard everywhere because nobody’s perfect and you gotta work it. The Biebs and Breezy were also battling over who could steal more hearts. And curating Facebook albums was a full-time job.

      When my friend took a glimpse into my world, she lifted a screen that revealed a shocking new place for me: reality. It was a reality to be different from everyone else because it just so happened that I was in their world.

      Different. I was different.    

      I was a young fashion girl (just in case you haven’t grasped that yet) caught in between swarming peer pressure and freeing passion. I chose to play it safe and achingly chose to lock up that precious part of me away from everyone to see. And so I wore denim shorts for a while whenever I went out with friends. I also listened to Jason Derulo and to every other artist that told the DJ to drop the beat. My attempts at “blending in” became a routine: go on Tumblr, watch viral YouTube videos, stay updated on the latest #hashtags and slang words, and keep your fashion mouth shut. That was my stream of consciousness, the daily grind in this world. However, the silence maddened me and I caved in.

      Why did I need to repress myself? Why should I hide who I really was? These questions may sound like a coming-of-age film, but that was the truth. Conformity, in all its communal spirit and assurance, was not as comforting as it should have been. If Coco Chanel withdrew from society’s standards of dressing, created a nouveau look, and clearly got away with it, then why can’t I do the same? Why can’t I wear layers of bangles? Why can’t I put a turban atop my head? Printed pants…a little jewelry, perhaps? Throw on a cool jacket in crazy colors, and I’ve gotten myself a revolution.

      Revealing my passion was a careful process, just as a caterpillar undergoes metamorphosis. My cocoon cracked open, bit by bit, and the wing excitedly peeped out from underneath. The first step was to allow my clothing to truly represent me. Goodbye, tank tops! And as I cultivated the art and practice of dressing up, something blossomed out of it: style. Having style just doesn’t involve putting on a little black dress and calling it a day. It’s something innate that runs through the veins, and to be fully aware of such DNA only means that one truly knows one’s self. Next, I became vocal about fashion. (True story: I once tried to hide the fact that I was taking sewing workshops from my friends.) My favourite designer, my favourite collection, and even my favourite models began to be topics of conversation with my peers. I could have been the next Tim Blanks! Through my newfound confidence, I finally shared my passion to the public, posted photos on Instagram of my latest sewing projects and even started a blog to share my thoughts and ideas. Word’s out: I AM A FASHION GIRL.

      The warm rush of happiness, however, was accompanied by a sort of loneliness because I was still living in their world, lest I forget that. I was still different. There they were, and here was I. Bieber and them. Fashion and I. Thus, certain difficulties and challenges came in tow. In the mall, I would feel the stares of people as I pass by them in my moody long skirt and equally androgynous top. Why was she wearing a hat? One person asked my friend. Wooow, dark lipstick! Looking funky today, huh? Aside from the comments, there was also the invisible riff between my friends and me. Now, of course, there was an established mutual respect between us, but they didn’t know who Nicolas Ghesquiere and Raf Simons were. They couldn’t share with me their thoughts on the latest it shoe or bag. Was I the only one who didn’t like Prada’s sandals? No answer.

      Amidst the struggles that came with loving normcore (and watching too many fashion documentaries), one question arose and demanded an answer: Why? Why bother with trends and shows when others don’t appreciate them too? Why wear weirdly proportioned outfits only to be mistaken as a manghuhula? The sneering and the eyes, the judgement and the frowns… I had to make sense of it all. And upon reflection, with my hand on my boxy tee-bearing chest, I realized that this was all out of love. It was as simple as that. I was (and still am) in love with fashion---and not for the reasons people may imply. The glamour and the luxury never held any true power for me. The real power came from the stories behind the clothing. A Dior couture dress, though seemingly simple, is actually designed by Raf Simons after a rigorous process of studying the house’s archives. The artisans then interpret the design, create and shape it with fabric as a sculptor breathes life into clay. There is something magical in transforming inspiration as banal as oil spills or corals, into something wearable and comprehensible by a woman. And I liked that idea---the philosophy, that cracks on the street, the waves of the ocean, and the stitches of a dress can hold a lot of wisdom. I guess I wanted to be a part of that. I wanted to view the world in a different light, and wearing the fashion of the times gave me the spectacles to do so.

      Now, I still believe in the power of fashion. And I don’t think that will ever change. My peers greatly respect my passion and direction, and always encourage me to be as fasyon as I could be. However, there will always be people who judge you based on your outfit in the mall. I don’t have the gizmo to zap everyone’s brains to make them all appreciate the art of clothing. What I do have is the respect for anyone’s opinion, because I won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. It’s also safe to say that I’ve reached the optimal level of sartorial confidence, and I have social media to thank for the democratization of fashion (woohoo bloggers!).  In this journey of living up to who I am, I’ve met a lot of fellow fashion folk along the way whom I proudly call my friends. The Philippine fashion scene, I believe, has found its niche in modern society, and I could only hope to contribute to its growth in the future. But right now, I am simply me, still living under that same old “rock”. The only difference is that I wear my heart on my sleeve…and it’s looking brighter than a Balmain blazer.

(Main image: Photo by Dimitrios Kambouris, Getty Images)

The Table in the Middle

     
     Everyone knows the freshie stereotype: bright-eyed, (initially) over-enthusiastic, and lost most of the time. Admittedly, that was me during the first half of the first semester. Case in point: on the first day of school, I went to Sec B thinking that B-305 referred to that building. I had to run to Berch and was almost late for my first class. I not only had the “I’m a freshie and I’m lost” thing down pat, but I believe I definitely looked the part. Every day I had my Jansport backpack in tow, along with my lunchbox tote bag. This complemented my newbie attempt to look “college”: a cutesy skater skirt, white shoes, and the perennial crop top. I was also sporting a haphazardly cut bob—I was basically that teenage Dora the Explorer that nobody ever noticed.

During the first half of the semester as well, I had trouble finding a hangout place where I could chill to fill in awkward breaks and minutes in between classes. I find people hanging out in the Zen Garden. They have intimate conversations, play music, or sometimes there’s this one person who is shamelessly asleep on the bench. Along the Kostka corridor which is lined with benches that face each other (they now have tables!), people are on their laptops, are wearing headphones, or are trying to take a nap. There should be a Do Not Disturb sign along this place, I swear. And then there’s Gonzaga—filled with barkadas catching up with each other, seniors who don’t give a damn, and other students who are in it for the strong wi-fi signal. Go up to the second floor of this turf, and you’ll find a completely different world. People are less rowdy but are still as spunky as the ones below. In the elevated part of the second floor, you’ll find KFC, Chicks Rule, and The Galley. This is the little haven that I found for myself.   

            It was yet another day. English was my first class, but I still had a lot of time to spare. I head on over to the second floor of Gonzaga, my new place, I had thought to myself. But what was I to do? Was I supposed to just sit there, take a nap, and wait for the bell to ring? Was I supposed to buy food and pretend that I was hungry? Not sure of how to kill the tick-tocks, I resorted to my phone. And boy, was the wi-fi fast! Facebook, Instagram , Twitter—I went through social media like the world would shut down if I didn’t. The bell had finally rung, and I dash off to class in Berch.

            Days had passed and I started to explore this new territory that I had luckily found. I tried out The Galley, ordered the best-selling Lifesaver since I was a first-timer. On one day, I had gotten a French breakfast at Café France—a warm cup of coffee, and a croissant a la Gonzaga. I was vicariously living in Paris, except the music in the background was Journey and throwback OPM songs blasting from a radio nearby. Sandwiches, croissants, more sandwiches, and more double-taps on Instagram. I was a perpetually hungry nomad with nothing but a cellphone as a companion.

            There were times wherein I really needed to save money, and so I would awkwardly whip out my baon from my lunchbox in true freshie style. My food was nothing much: Rebisco crackers, a banana, and probably some leftovers from dinner the night before. I have my yaya to thank for including a stash of tissue. While I eat and mindlessly browse through my social media sphere, I glance at the people around me. There is always at least one couple being sweet to each other, and I can’t help but feel a pang of envy. There was that one couple who always bought from The Galley together; they hold hands. There are groups of people who can’t get over a joke that one said, who rant about their profs and grades, and those who just enjoy each other’s company. There’s that kuya from one of the food stalls who proudly sings every line of the songs played on that radio station.

            The bell rings, and it’s off to English again.

            People always tell me that I look like a junior or a senior (I never got that “sophomore” remark, ever). And it’s probably because I’ve always looked mature for my age. Some even get shocked when I tell them that I’m just a freshman. “It’s because you don’t seem lost,” one orgmate told me. I guess I could attribute this to my ability to easily adapt to my surroundings. If I’m lost, I’ll ask around and find my way. If I feel clueless, I’ll keep my head held high and act normal. I quickly try to feel like I belong, and it actually works. I sometimes find it rather strange when people itch to be in a group 24/7. Some students just have to be with at least one friend all the time, but of course, the more the merrier. Some enjoy being in large crowded spaces with the good noise of chatter and laughter; like the first floor of Gonzaga for example. But some would prefer to have it differently, and I fall under that category.

            Today, I arrived in school around 15 minutes before my first class was to start. “Oh gosh I don’t think I’ll have time,” I think to myself. I climb the stairs and go to the second floor of Gonzaga. My spot has changed since last semester; I now stay by the tables right in front of the Fine Arts Department. I dash to my spot—it’s the table smack dab in the middle—and put my stuff down (they’re there when I come back; no one ever bothers to touch them). As usual, I take a pee break in my favorite CR ever. It’s the one right beside the staircase with the really friendly manang who most probably already knows my face since I believe I am her no. 1 customer. I greet a hearty good morning, do my business, and put on my lipstick for the day. Right after that, I head downstairs to the chapel. Go and do good unto others, be loving and kind. Be thankful for everything that comes your way, the Lord tells me. It’s three minutes before my Math class, so I take off and run.

            And no, I did not have time. I was not able to get into my morning grind of re-reading my favorite Virginia Woolf novel, The Voyage Out. I believe the main character, Rachel Vinrace, misses me dearly. At times, I bring an issue of whatever magazine I find interesting for the month. L’Officiel was the last one I recall, and I was fixated on all the details of every outfit upon every turn of a page. Spring/Summer season is going to be exciting, and I can’t wait to channel my inner Gucci girl that’s been screaming inside! If I’m not reading, then I’m writing. “Note to self: DO SOMETHING WITH LIFE,” “Omg he looked at me,” and “Who am I?” are some lines that my mind peruses onto my journal. I do all this with my coffee tumbler to keep me company. Even with “Faithfully” on full-blast, the pungent smell of grilled whatever, and the girl next to me who is fast asleep, I just carry on and do what I do.

             We all have that need to belong. We all want to feel content, to fill the gaps in our day with hellos and goodbyes, with hugs and kisses. We want to spend every minute assuring ourselves that there is nothing void in our lives. However, I believe that there is something in nothingness, such that there is solace in silence. I look forward to another morning tomorrow in my nook by the FA Department on the second floor of Gonzaga. And maybe I’ll bring Hemingway instead.

(Main image: Illustration by GraphicaArtis/Getty Images; Jorg Greuel/DigitalVision)

6 Cool Spring/Summer 2016 Campaigns

 

   
      Nothing represents a collection more than a great campaign. And probably for those who aren’t really into fashion, these ads are just another marketing strategy to have you coveting and buying the pieces. On the other hand, we fashion girls know that these beautiful images are not just ads—they’re stories meant to convey the kind of life that inspired the collections to begin with. Here are 6 interesting S/S 2016 campaigns to remind us that fashion is more than just clothes cooped up in a store.

1. Chloé

      This French fashion house had “spirited optimism” in mind when they created this season’s very bohemian campaign. Wandering around in flowy blouses, ombré silk dresses, and gorgeous fringed bags, the #chloegirls prove that being carefree can be stylish. 

Photos from chloe.com 

2. Miu Miu
      Featuring four up-and-coming actresses, Miu Miu’s campaign aligns with their rebellious, cool girl aesthetic that aims to defy the norm. Matilda Lutz, India Salvor Menuez, Julia Garner, and Millie Brady are the brands fresh new faces. Lensed by Steven Meisel, each girl’s strong sense of presence commands attention. They’re definitely the ones to watch out for!

Photos from miumiu.com

3. Balmain

      If the names Claudia Schiffer, Cindy Crawford, and Naomi Campbell, don’t get your fangirl-self hyped with excitement, then we don’t know what will. The big three strike it up in sexy dresses and ruffled jumpsuits while flaunting their long legs (ugh, #goals). What a great way to reminisce the era of the supermodel!

Photos from facebook.com/balmainparis and balmain.com

4. Valentino

      Since the collection was inspired by African tribes, it was probably a no-brainer for the campaign to be set in Kenya. The visually arresting images feature models clad in prints and peacock feathers as locals depict their way of life in the background—proving that culture and fashion are intertwined. (Fun fact: the crew braved a dust storm for these images!)

Photos from facebook.com/valentino

5. Gucci
      Nope, these aren’t stills from a Wes Anderson film. And yes, the grandma-chic aesthetic of Alessandro Michele shows no signs of discontinuing. The cinematic photos of Gucci’s campaign make nostalgia as sophisticated as ever with the models enjoying a day out in Berlin (and looking totally nonchalant in those very 70s outfits). Looks like history does repeat itself…

Photos from Gucci.com

6. Dolce & Gabbana 

      There’s only one word that could sum up this season’s Dolce and Gabbana collection: Italy. Domenico Dolce (as the photographer) and Stefano Gabbana (as the creative director) tried to capture the very best of their homeland—family, friendship, food, and a whole lotta good vibes. Aside from the sunny prints, sharp tailoring, and summery Sicilian separates, another thing was put into the spotlight: selfies (to remember those happy moments!). #ItaliaIsLove.

 Photos from dolcegabbana.com and facebook.com/DolceGabbana

To Bae or Not to Bae

I do not have a boyfriend.

But that’s not the reason why I am utterly and wholeheartedly annoyed at the word bae. How can one not cringe when the word is probably as ubiquitous as a Kardashian? It’s sprawling the world, festering every mind of every millennial (and even those above 30), like a virus that its welcoming hosts actually harbor and enjoy. My first encounter with this bug of a word was in Pharrell’s hit single “Come Get It Bae.” I would hear it on the radio, and being unaware of the word, I would sing come get it babe! It was not until a few Instagram encounters that I had a slight grasp of its meaning. Out of nowhere, my pun-addicted classmates began to use this word that I have never heard of. One picture was of this picturesque landscape: “Down by the bae”, was the caption. My cousin posted a photo of herself on vacation, and the accompanying caption read “baesic”. Even the most ordinary photos get the same treatment, whether intended or unintended by the user. Another friend of mine posted a Halloween photo (they donned a Risky Business look), and the fifth comment goes “What a bae”—how unexpected.

The word’s history can be traced back to the 1500s when it was used to refer to sheep sounds. Its rise in popular culture though, began as early as 2005. According to Whitman of Visual Thesaurus, it originated from African American English, in the same way that boo was formed. It found its way into rap songs and later on, into the greatest validation of pop culture success: memes. In 2014, when Pharrell dropped that single featuring Miley Cyrus, everyone wanted to come and get it.      

At present, what does this word exactly mean? How can you clearly explain it to the next tita who asks you for its definition (with its pronunciation being her primary inquiry, of course)? Type in bae on Google and results vary from the obvious internet slang, articles, blog posts, and even a very out of place aerospace company called BAE Systems. The word could even be Bachelor of Agricultural Engineering, if you will it. But alas, one must resort to the ever-reliable Urban Dictionary. The top definition states: “The most fucking annoying way to say girlfriend, boyfriend, crush, or any other sort of significant other”. While others might argue that it’s simply an acronym for “before anyone else”. The last entry described it as the word “used by ghetto people to address their significant other because they have found themselves too lazy to pronounce the entire word "babe".

As simple and straightforward as all the captions, comments, and definitions are, my problem is this: I still don’t know what bae means, and that’s why it makes me cringe. It’s difficult to pinpoint a clear-cut definition mainly because the word’s been thrown at different people, in different settings, and in different contexts.

I try to hack this term’s elusiveness by scouring the web for instances wherein I could probably understand (at least a little bit) why the word is used. I end up at memecenter.com, the “best collection of funny bae pictures”. There are pages full of those badly edited photos of couples, screenshots of text messages to the bae, hundreds of gifs, and even squirrels, cats, and dogs (because apparently, cuddling bae is like cuddling your dog). One recurring theme that I notice though, would be sex. Words associated with sex are explicitly mentioned in most memes, and are only subtly referred to in some—but I am 100% positive that they are talking about sex. Case in point: one post was of a screenshot of texts between one bae to another. “Bae come over :)”, the text read. “I can’t I’m on the rocket to Mars,” bae replies. “Aw, but I’m home alone :(“, the next text says. The screenshot is then followed by a gif of a rocket abruptly landing from the sky. There’s another one of similar innuendos, but instead of bae coming from Mars, bae is just “swimming” but eventually dashes off when he finds out that his bae is home alone. This last one made me crack up the most: A girl texts “Come over,” but unfortunately, bae says he has “gotta watch the house”. A gif of a house being transported upon a large truck implies that bae will get to see bae.

With the majority of the word’s users being the youth, it’s not surprising to discover how sexually aggressive this word can get. I’m only 19, and I can understand how people my age feel when someone hot af passes by, or when your TV show crush pops up on screen. Although infatuation and lust are typically taboo (they’re definitely not things to bring up during a Sunday family lunch), they are definitely universal. And maybe the word bae eases things up a bit. It allows one to express sexuality without being too explicit and R-rated. It even makes sexuality humorous, which is probably what we need in this overwhelming modern society. So does this word dissolve sexual tension? Well, I guess it depends on how well you could cope with “not being able to see bae”.

Another aspect of bae that simply cannot be dismissed (ever!) would be food. Yes, food—that  basic necessity for survival, glorified through hi-res photos of french fries, burgers dripping with cheese, red velvet cupcakes, ice cream, and of course, pizza.  You’re not a millennial unless you have this crazy obsession. Whenever I’m online, there is an 80% chance that I will come across a tweet saying, “Pizza is bae,” or maybe, “This midnight snack is bae huhu.” Apparently, the whole world thinks that food is bae. As I continue this investigation—my hunt for definition—I strike gold. On Instagram, there is this account with the handle @cookingforbae. Since bae is typically associated with feel-good vibes and fluttering hearts, I clicked on the link thinking that the photos would be your usual food porn. However, I was served the exact opposite. What welcomed me were low-res, downright ugly pictures of cooking gone wrong. I could hear Gordon Ramsay screaming in my head. I later on learned that the objective of the account is to represent people’s “hopes and dreams [that] sit at a table [and are] then crushed by the nightmare that is bae’s cooking.”

So, in essence: food is love, and bae is love. Therefore, food is bae.

In relation to pizza being elevated to boyfriend/girlfriend status, I guess I can understand where this is coming from. Humans feel high degrees of emotion every now and then (just imagine the scale of emotions that we, the youth, feels…). We all get excited about everything, and when we do get depressed, it comes down to a level wherein our Twitter feeds sound like the apocalypse is coming. We enjoy verbalizing what we feel, what we stand for, and even the littlest things that we think of—that’s what Snapchat’s for! And so, maybe bae is just like our proliferating world of social media: it allows us to democratize our intense emotions because let’s face it, they can get pretty overwhelming. Pizza is bae. Three words, but it does say a lot.

On the other hand, this whole @cookingforbae movement (they’ve got 147k followers, by the way), could be an inconspicuous representation of how, in modern society, food can be an important aspect of relationships. I hear countless stories of how my cousins and friends randomly receive food from their boyfies. They get uber kilig, and naturally, I get uber jealous. So could this be that food is all the more an expression of love and affection? Well, according to the plethora of memes, bae likes food more than flowers.

“Yeah I would bae, bae it up. She is a legend. You kidding me—‘Hit me baby one more time’. That’s like one of the greatest songs ever written.”

That was Justin Bieber’s response when he was asked about Britney Spears during a game called “To Bae or not to Bae” at an interview with a radio station. He said the same thing about Jennifer Lawrence: “Bae for sure.” The most evident and probably most popular use of the word bae is as a term of endearment. For the lucky young ones and twenty-somethings who are blessed with a significant other, bae is usually used to refer to that special someone. This dating term is interspersed in tweets, Instagram posts, to even the most ordinary conversations IRL. On Instagram, search for #bae, and you’ll be presented with over eight million posts (mostly of girls in provocative clothing, but mostly of dating nonetheless). There are videos of couples going ice skating, beach selfies, and photos of awkward teenagers expressing their love to the whole IG universe. On the other hand, Twitter is prime breeding ground for bae, with Kim Kardashian blazing the trail (thus declaring the word everlasting): “Me & my bae out today…”, one tweet reads.

Though bae puts a stamp on your special someone’s ass (signifying that he/she is your property) just like the words boyfriend/girlfriend, what makes bae unique is its casual and less overwhelming tone. If ever I do have someone special (and hopefully I do), and we were not on the lines of “serious dating”, I would probably settle with the word bae. It does the job without being too terrifying.

Maybe that’s why millennials have become total advocates for the term—because we are still young for things to be taken too seriously. Being young after all can be quite vulnerable. It is a time wherein everything and anything can happen, and probably, there are some people who just don’t want to feel tied down to a single person. This is not to suggest that cheating on your boyfriend or girlfriend is fine. It is also not to suggest that commitment is wrong. However, for those who just want someone special, for those who want to feel kilig but not in a heavy Nicholas Sparks kind of way, then being someone’s bae is the best route. It gives us that option—that in-between longing—because maybe, we as a youth have the tendency to be indecisive, and so we need something that’s just chill. According to baewatch who commented on an article in The American Reader, bae takes that ambivalent side of love that we can’t quite articulate and makes it “kewt and trendy”.

Now, the question is: what’s with bae? Why did it replace that other word, babe?

To be honest, I’m not so sure. Although babe has been memefied in the form of the Rachel McAdams “Hey Babe” meme, the word has never reached bae cult status in terms of popular culture and trends. Pizza is babe. Ian Veneracion is babe. When babe comes home…I guess these permutations just won’t work out because the word hasn’t been used in such contexts. On the other hand, what makes bae extremely popular could be explained by its versatility—even single people like me can use the term and not in the romantic kind of way. Heck, it is also used to refer to a friend; making bae all the more multifaceted since it can be used in the platonic sense. It is amazing to think that this day and age has used this term to make love and affection universal and accessible to anyone and everyone (well, maybe not to your tita).

On the contrary, did bae even replace anything to begin with?

With all the thirst, food porn, lovey-dovey connotations, and its nuances as a term of endearment, maybe bae is something new. It could be that it is simply a word derived from a bunch of other words like babe, boyfriend/girlfriend, or boyfie, and was then given its own genetic spin based on this modern era’s ever-changing preferences (cuz we are erratic af). As a result, it’s this hybrid created by this generation, for this generation. There may not be a singular definition right now, and I’m not so sure that there ever will be, but we’re definitely onto something. So bae it up, if you want to.

REFERENCES 

MAIN PHOTO:
Photo by Hulton Archive/Getty Images
Photo by Oli Kellett/Photonica