“Vienna,” “Unwritten,” and the Blank Page I Call My Life Plan

(Source: unsplash.com. Image has been modified.)

“There's a moment you know you're fucked” is perhaps one of the most inspiring words I heard from the song from Spring Awakening. I haven’t been bothered by my quarter life crisis for a while now because I’m busy adulting and all that. I feel a sense of calm these past few weeks I haven’t felt straight out of graduation. For one, I think I’m contributing to society; and second, I’m no longer a complete parasitic freeloader. But the time soon comes where I’ll be unemployed again and wondering what the hell to do with my life.

            The good news is that I’m giving myself some space (I’m so single, I have to give myself a break). I no longer focus so much on mapping my life and instead awe at the green, green grass of freedom ahead of me. Yet of course, my quarter life crisis still hangs at the back of my mind and taunts me that my field of freedom is full of black holes, booby traps, and the waterfall of failure and self-doubt. In fact, I was just watching a contestant from The Voice, which mysteriously led me to pondering the lyrics of Billy Joel’s song “Vienna,” which then steered me to look at songs about quarter life crisis, which ultimately drove me to calm my nerves by listening to Natasha Bedingfield’s “Unwritten.”

            “Slow down you crazy child. You're so ambitious for a juvenile”; “Where's the fire, what's the hurry about?”; and “You can get what you want or you can just get old”—I don’t know about you but Billy Joel’s song is piercing me straight through my quivering, overly sentimental, whiny, chronic overthinking core. At the end of the day, I think it all boils down to me not wanting to look back on my life and see only the regrets or think I’ve wasted every second of it. I guess I wanted to strike while the iron is hot or at least, mildly warm. I know feeling lost is normal, but it’s not fun.

            So far I’ve been conditioning my worrywart self to feel all right with the fact that I don’t know what I want. I have no concrete plans and I want to revel at the idea that the rest is, in fact, still unwritten. Release my inhibitions; flip my hair; and all that jazz.

            A little side note: these feelings are—gladly, I guess—subject to change in the future. 

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Book Review: Trouble Is a Friend of Mine

Lately, I’ve been a woman obsessed. I started reading the Harry Potter series and I can’t seem to rest until I reach the end. But a review on one of my most favorite purchases from the recent Manila International Book Fair (MIBF) is a little overdue, but here it is.

            Trouble Is a Friend of Mine is about a girl named Zoe Webster who recently moved to a new place following her parents’ divorce. She meets Philip Digby, a guy constantly wearing a tux who scarily knows a lot of dirt about people. He, whose own sister went missing years ago, is investigating a missing person case, pretty much roping Zoe in his sleuthing.

          By the way, as a person who likes to read spoilers (yes, I’m a rare specie) and the last few pages of a book before actually starting the book, it would be a no-brainer that this review won’t be spoiler-free.

        Anyhow, I’m also going to say something that would shock most people so do prepare yourselves—I love this book more than I love the Harry Potter series. Gasps.

            Yeah, yeah, I know. My screws must be loose and all that.

           I like the Harry Potter series. A lot, actually. The good points for J. K. Rowling’s famous books trample this book’s completely. It’s just that my basis is mostly rooted on feeling rather than reason; but I digress.

         Now on to the review: this book feels like a movie. If you like a more concrete, factual detective story grounded on hardcore analysis, then this one isn’t for you. I know from the get-go that the plot might be a little too convenient for the characters so I basically started the book just expecting and hoping for a fun read.

            And it was so, so fun.

            I remember how people commented that The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak by Brian Katcher got a bit too unbelievable near the end, but the thing is, I don’t care. I like that it read like a movie where the characters sometimes get into crazy wild shenanigans and mysteriously out of trouble when need be. The same goes for this book where the clues are almost laid before them.

            A very significant part of this story is Digby himself. Zoe might be the main character but he literally drives the novel. It’s funny how some people find him to be an impossible character since he seems to know so much more than probable and can basically get away with anything. There can’t possibly be a person in real life that age who’s that kick-ass smart. But like I said, I don’t really care. If you’re more into realistic novels, this really isn’t for you. 

You see, when I think of Digby, I think the likes of Artemis Fowl, Elliot Allagash, and Archie Costello. Brilliant guys who know how people work and can easily manipulate a situation to suit their interest. Do they perchance exist in real life? Hell no. But are they interesting to the bones? To me, why yes they are.

As for the impossibility of Digby’s character and how he can eerily get out of sticky situations, I don’t think so. Because if I rank him with all the other devious characters I’ve mentioned, he’s basically an infant. He’s not an ultimate pro at reading people; oftentimes, he makes mistakes and just happens to be a really good guesser.  He sometimes gets out of trouble because he can act like he knows his salt even when he doesn’t have a clue. He’s both similar and dissimilar to Archie in that sense.

Archie is a master manipulator who mentally bullies and psychologically torments people. If he were in the shoes of Joffrey, I’d fear for Westeros. 1He’s so bloody confident and knows people so well, you’d think he’s a mind-reader. Yes, like Digby, he acts like he knows dirt even when he doesn’t got any. But unlike Digby who’s sympathetic and ultimately a good guy, Archie is apathetic and practically devoid of emotions. Archie is a villain in every sense of the word.

Digby may seem like an impossible character, but he’s not the most impossible character. He hasn’t reached Allagash and Costello status, which is why I like him. He’s got the brains of Archie but still has a heart.

Some say Zoe seems like a bland cookie-cutter character that doesn’t seem to have any motivation, but again, I beg to differ. She goes along Digby’s plan because she’s rebelling in her own way and likes the sleuthing part deep down inside.  Like Archie, Digby is a very alluring character and it doesn’t seem that hard to imagine why Zoe wants to be strung along in some of his schemes.  She’s a good girl who finds herself tempted by trouble, and doesn’t appear to have a lot to lose (well, except her chances of getting to her school of choice). As mentioned, maybe it’s just me. I usually relate to characters not a lot of people relate to. I find that the way you like a book is really a matter of perception and preference.

But damn, I reiterate, this book was fun. I laughed out loud so much; my sister was convinced I’ve gone nuts.

The tiny speckle of romance wasn’t so bad either, considering I shipped them from the beginning. Digby also reminds me of Death the Kid, and shipping Digby with Zoe feels like some kind of wish fulfillment.

            There are negative points, though, like the casual sexist remarks and the girl hate going on between two of the characters. The good news is that it’s been pointed out the sequel’s going to mend this issue of mine. The bad news is that the sequel hasn’t been released yet and I don’t think I can handle the wait.

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A Fish Out Of Water (Part II)

             Perhaps.

“To live”—this is mainly the answer to most of my quarter life and existential problems. A very wise quote from Natalie Babbitt’s book Tuck Everlasting goes like this: “Don't be afraid of death; be afraid of an unlived life. You don't have to live forever, you just have to live.”

            The perpetually baffled cynical skeptic that lives inside me asks: “But how?”

            I know, I know; it is a scary question only I can answer. It’s scarier because whereas there’s probably only an average of four possible answers in a multiple choice question, the answer in living can sometimes be none of the above. One YouTuber by the name of danisnotonfire once mentioned in his video that there’s this fear in freedom. Because unlike a board game where the finite options are literally set in front of you, there’s an endless list of roads for you to take in life. And the fact that there are many is frightening.

            Most philosophical views say that the world doesn’t give a penny about us, that time won’t stop and death won’t wait patiently for us mortals—that they don’t care. The only problem with this is that we care. And I personally care too much.

            There’s an understandable pressure to living your life to the fullest, to pursue happiness and self-actualization, and basically not lead an “unlived life.” Yes, the world doesn’t care about us; and yes, we just have to just keep swimming. But even though the answer is within me, as a life guru would say, I still throw in questions like “But what if I care about the world?” or “But what if I can’t swim?”

            The truth of the matter is I could live an unlived life; we all could. I perchance might pick the wrong letter or trek the wrong road, get desperately lost, and be stuck in my own labyrinth forever. They say “forever” exists in love but I think “forever” exists in my existential crisis.

            As long as I live, until I find contentment (a sound if I find contentment), I might always—chronic overthinker that I am—look up at the ceiling late at night and ponder on my life choices, driven by the dream I long to grasp and nibbled by my inhibitions. I shall keep swimming, but where I go—

            I seriously, for the life of me, do not know.

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A Fish Out Of Water (Part I)

They say when you have a crush; every song seems like it’s about the object of your affection. I feel the same, except mine is about the fragility and brevity of life. Sitting on a bench for hours without the usual comfort of music from tiny pods, I sought companion from my thoughts. There I was, “adulting” as some of you might call it, and I was questioning why, what, or who I was doing it for.    

            Films and books show that the vivacity of life was brightest in your teens, but I was no longer a part of that age spectrum. It’s strange that I equate the feeling of a fresh graduate as that of a ghost who newly passed—like I was stuck in a world that was no longer mine to trek, lingering and lost, unable to see the light. Now, everything I watch holds meaning, everything I see and read feels truer to me than ever before.

            Although I thought I was more like Little Women’s Beth and Amy, each day I’m becoming more and more like Jo, awkward in her skin and wanting to change but not knowing how to. I have never felt more spiritually closer to a character than I have with Valancy from The Blue Castle by Lucy Maud Montgomery, a single AF woman stuck in a dreary hole who feels like she hasn’t fully lived her twenty-nine years of existence. Nowadays, I couldn’t even properly listen to Nina Nesbitt’s song Way In The World without wanting to bawl.

Then I saw on TV this talented woman probably in her 60s who had been trying to pursue her dreams since she was young, and I thought to myself: what if I only get to reach my dreams forty years later? And what if I never do? Will I be like Jo if she never went to New York or Valancy if she hadn’t broken out of her shell?

I’m almost broke and the future I planned for myself, as a child—travelling the world, buying a car, etc.—has never appeared bleaker. The formulaic ladder of life (study, work, marry, and die) hits me right between the eyes, and I wonder if that’s all there is to it. I ponder on where happiness comes in or if happiness is the goal of our existence. The top on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs is self-actualization, and he says that not everyone achieves this. Will the life we lead be meaningless if we don’t reach this level? Will its value decrease if we waver or lose our way in the pursuit of happiness?

            I’ve recently watched characters (*ahem* Margo Spiegelman from Paper Towns and Age of Youth’s Kang Yi-Na) who easily hop around their comfort zones, make whatever they want with their lives, and advise others to do the same. While the idea of living wildly sounds tempting, the deed of actually taking the plunge is shrouded with fear.

            I’ve always known that after wearing the cap and holding your diploma, freed from the syllabi and lesson plans of school, is a world where it’s now your turn to decide. They say to live your life to the fullest and to hell with that metaphorical circle of comfort. But it’s not easy deciding to sway from that layered brick of normality or the school-job-marriage-death equation. Because it’s unclear what happens when you do.

            Sometimes I find myself wanting to quit at life and becoming a useless burrito, wrapped in my blankets and sheets of angst and self-doubt, because the pursuit of happiness and living a meaningful life seems pointless. Then I squeeze my existential crisis and realize there’s hidden gold coins to putting our existence under heavy scrutiny. Because it means we care, that we acknowledge mortality and the impermanence of life.

Perhaps the answer isn’t increasing your comfort zone to the size of the galaxy, going wild and haywire as a means of living your life to its maximum potential, or forfeiting the whole race because we’re all going to cease to exist anyhow.

Perhaps the answer is just living.

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MIBF Haul (aka I'm a broke bookworm, nice to meet you)

(My cellphone camera and photography skills both suck so I compensate by an even worse photo editing attempt.)

This may come to no surprise to anyone, but—here it goes:

I went to this year’s Manila International Book Fair.

I read literally the first book I grabbed in National Book Store, and boy did it not fail me. There are random categories in my head where I shelf my books and the two of my favorites are the Books-I-Thought-I’ll-Hate-But-Didn’t, which Rainbow Rowell’s Eleanor and Park belongs to (because damn, that book is so good, I consider Park one of my top fictional boyfriends) and Books-I-Knew-I’ll-Love-And-Did, which the first book I read from this year’s haul is placed in.

So without further ado, here’re the new entries in my bookshelf (or at the corner of my bed because I’m hella lazy and would probably forget to shelve them properly for a good solid week or two):

1.     Trouble Is A Friend Of Mine by Stephanie Tromly

I think I’ve mentioned before I have a humiliating and particularly peculiar attraction to the likes of Archie Costello and Elliot Allagash. They’re calculating and brilliant to the bones, which is, dare I say it, really ho—cute *coughs* I mean. Philip Digby is like a toned-down nice guy version of Archie Costello, which is honestly a good thing.

(Source)

Of course, this one is not without faults. One of the characters (a few, actually) comes off a bit sexist; and there’s some girl hate going on. I only hope the sequel actually strays a bit from that path—and I hear it just might, so here’s hoping. Also, if you want a strictly realistic young adult novel, then this one probably isn’t for you. I saw someone commenting the same in Brian Katcher’s The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak about how it got a bit too movie-like and crazy at the end, which I was verily alright with.

Nevertheless, the book promises Veronica Mars meeting The Breakfast Club; and the mention of John Hughes movie alone made me snatch the books faster than I would a soft-baked cookie. I’m glad I did because I shipped the two characters in my books so much; it hurts. 

(Source)

Guys like Costello, Allagash, and even Artemis don’t always have a solid love interest. Hence, the pair I ship is like a slightly warped glimpse of what that would be like. I would probably do a review on this soon, because it was so, so good. I pretty much declared that sentiment every few minutes or so and laugh out loud enough for my sister to tell my mom I’ve gone nuts.

 

This image is as blurry as my future.

2.     Outlander by Diana Gabaldon

BookTuber Sasha Alsberg aka abookutopia greatly recommends Diana Gabaldon’s books. While I might not be entirely sold on the premise, I thought to give it a go. Besides, the last time I saw the first book in the series was when I was in a large bookstore in Singapore completely and utterly *gasps* broke. 

3.     The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe and The Suffragettes

For someone who likes reading horror, it’s definitely weird it took me this long to read Edgar Allan Poe’s works. But then, I saw this little gem with an incredibly seductive price that I finally bought it.

As for The Suffragettes, it’s the Suffragette film trailer that made me figuratively give my privileged self a bitch slap and realize that voting really matters. And that it should never, ever be taken for granted. I think it only follows to read about the details and take a look at these brave people’s trials.

4.     Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery

I read The Blue Castle and loved—still do—it to pieces. It was about a single AF woman Valancy who feels like my soul sister. She’s twenty-nine and her life pretty much sucks; somehow, I have an eerie feeling this is a peek of my future. Then, things go the Last Holiday for her and she finally lets go of her inhibitions and start living—all while thinking she might be near death.

Now I thought the author is super cool and I better be reading more of her books. That was when I stupidly realize the author is Lucy Maud Montgomery, who just happens to write one of the most beloved characters of all time: the infamous Anne Shirley.  So yeah, I scoured far and wide for a gorgeous softbound of this lovely book, by which I mean I squirreled my way amidst a mad crowd of hardboiled bookworms.

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Seriously, though, book fairs are like feeding fest for vampires, except bloods are books and we, bookworms, are headstrong booklovers who will claw their way to find the perfect book. In layman’s terms, I’m calling this book fair and my book haul a success.

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