migblog

edit: if you don't want to read this, just scroll to the very bottom and read the first post of the comments box.

today marks the first year (of hopefully many) of my blogging to cyberspace.

precisely one year ago, i embarked on this journey of blogging. they say that writing's supposed to take you to places you would have never imagined, but i think it's such a paradox that when you do write something down, you've thought about it and imagined it. ah. well. the irony. i feel like i've barely taken a step with this whole writing thing -- i started off one year ago posting my writing excersises and supid goings-on. a year later, i'm still posting poetry pass-offs and even more mundane happenings in my life (with an opinion tacked on, mostly). i guess it just goes to show that either i'm a really crappy writer who doesn't experience growth, or that i'm a steadfast, stubborn, and firmly-rooted believer in, well, miguel.

a year ago i posted poetry and poetry and even more poetry. now i'm lucky if i even get to write a line or two in my spare time. i miss writing poetry, i miss the feeling of having to convey myself in wonderfully stupid and stupidly wonderful ways. the very fact that my hands are the brushes, the code is my paint, and your browser the canvas, it's very artistic, the whole poetry writing. and after writing a good, solid poem, i always feel relieved and less stressed. it's like therapy. it's like music. it's like baring my soul without anyone having to know it, and that is such a great emotion to feel.

i've been posting more and more about my life, my beliefs, and my idiosyncrasies. i think your audience would like to know just a little bit more about who they're actually reading, a sort of slice of yourself you offer up that you hope your readers will sniff and take a bite. and when they taste it for the first time, they'll get so hooked that they can't stop eating. it's a nice feeling to now that i have a readership out there -- whether you're one of my friends, or one of my online pals, or hell, if you clicked on the link from google that came up with your search string, great -- thanks for reading, guys, thanks so much. (and then again, you could have taken that either way -- either i was being extremely sincere, or i was being extremely sarcastic.)

with that, you see that i'm a believer in the fact that there's no middle ground when you're writing something like this. you have to express something, you have to say something and mean it. even if at the end of it all you just wanted to say "i like dogs more than i like cats" you have to convince whoever's reading out there that you really do like dogs better than cats. they're smarter, they're more loyal, they're more affectionate. (see? dogs are better already.) i don't believe in the gray area when it comes to expressing my beliefs, although there is an indecision most of the time that confuses me even more than it does anyone.

writing relieves me. (okay, so this isn't technically writing, but still.) i love the sound of the clicking of the keyboard as i type with only seven fingers total (i don't use my pointer fingers nor my left thumb), and i can still beat text twist and get a better score than a normal typer. one-handed style. i get a sense of comfort from the fact that i can channel my thoughts and my energy clearly and somewhat concisely onto this machine that can make me heard throughout the world. and that alone can make me sit and write so much more about the beauty of that statement.

my command of the english language is above average, i'd say -- i like to use big words like 'campestral' and 'banausic' and 'sagacious' as well as compound prepositions such as 'heretofore,' 'moreso,' and one of my personal favorites, 'nevertheless.' i guess it's that whole learning a second language thing. i grew up as a bilingual student, which has aided me immensely in my language studies. i kicked the sat ii's ass (not to brag about that eight hundred, but you know). i kicked the ap test's ass. but for what? really, it's a selfish reason: i wanted to get better at english so that i can make myself look good in a pool of people who have been speaking it all their lives, and still get it so wrong so often.

now you're probably thinking, 'what a narcissistic prick!' and well, you're right. but i have to say, you can't really get far in this world without having to be a little selfish and a little full of yourself to get ahead. and why not have a good time exercising your insecurity by belittling others at showing them what they can and can't do, right? ah. yes. the irony indeed.

now a year ago, i would write about my idealistic situations about love or how i liked what i believe. now, i've somewhat turned into a cynic with a knack for making other people feel better about themselves. i suppose it turns out much better for me if i do do that. i'm still an idealist. just now, i'm a cynic.

the events of the past year haven't made my transition seem strange, really. i got in a relationship, started college, went crazy, fell out of love, went crazier, pursued higher endeavors in learning and sociability, became madly infatuated, was totally surprised about serendipitous events, felt the backlash of what one year can do to friendships, survived (and still am surviving) the loss of a dear friend, bit my tongue so many times, and kept my mouth shut when it should have been open. you would think, after all that, i would write so much more, i would write so much about how the day went or how i feel at a certain moment or how good it feels to be back in berkeley. all those things, i've documented somehow, but at the end of the day, it's only a sliver, a microscopic detail of the rest of the person you probably know as miguel. there's so much more out there, as my apt roommate said, there's so much. and it's true, for both the world and myself: you barely know me, yet you continue to read. and you barely know the world, but you continue to live.

sam, a very good friend, once told me that he was glad that i'm a prolific writer. i would be the first to disagree that a) i'm not prolific, and b) i'm not a writer. i'd like to think of myself as both someday, but not now. not like this. if i were prolific i'd turn out works upon glorious works full of thought and meaning and opinion like a cheap whore turns tricks (thanks to becca). and if i were a writer, i would be able to make you laugh and cry and smile and frown and get angry and be afraid and feel, feel, to the very core of your being. i would be able to take you places you've never been, make you feel emotions you've never felt, and at the very end, when the moral of the story presents itself in the denouement, or as the theme lays itself out in the climax of the piece, you would feel a rush -- a rush of what, i don't know, maybe of blood, or of relief, or of madness -- and you would remember that feeling forever whenever you reread those words.

i think i've talked before about how i prefer the tangibility of paper and ink, and how that, to me, is much more meaningful than any keystroke or mouseclick. my penmanship on a page that was previously empty, now with almost indecipherable scribbles, would relay information that my brain would try to remember as i read through the events of the past year. but this, this page, where i'm typing at approximately eighty words a minute, gives me a voice. i get to say whatever i want, and you don't have to listen. fact is, though, you do, and i appreciate that. (and then the irony presents itself again, where you could have chosen to read that or not. life is funny. comedy central is funny. therefore, comedy central is life.)

the wonderful thing about this is that i can talk about anything and everything or nothing at all, and people will still read it. or, for my sake, i will, because i like seeing what i wrote. i don't remember half the stuff i've spouted off about. and looking at the page itself gives me thrills, since seeing the wonders of html four-point-oh for the first time a few years ago. the information age has given me, the measly little idealistic cynical weird filipino kid, a voice, a poster to put on the currently rotating bulletin board that is the internet. it's my way of saying 'here i am, look at me, and deal with it if you don't like it.'

paradoxes and irony aside, writing in this makes me feel safe. i can tell you my most profane secrets, or my most superficial thoughts, and it won't make a difference. i am who i am, and nothing can change that but myself. this just reaffirms that for me, and it's a big reason why i keep up with it. i like it. a lot.

i think i've talked a little too much for my own good. by now, if you're still reading, your eyes have probably drifted once or twice, or you've been distracted by something else and therefore wouldn't be reading these very words. just remember, folks, i love you all, thanks for everything, and here's to more years to come, assuming everything goes great, of course. life will treat us well if we want it to treat us well, i'm sure of it.

i told you writing takes you on a journey. this would be one of those really large off-tangents in a conversation. but you'll somehow come back, full circle, to wherever it is that you began. and that's why this is so much fun, because it feels as if i've spoken one part of the conversation, and now it's your turn to talk.

to my one year of blogging, then, ladies and gentlemen: to more years, to the future, to more emotions felt and more experiences logged. to you, my readers; to me, your writer; to the world who is my untapped audience; to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; to freedom, to joy, to justice, truth, and love; to friends and family; to lovers; to roommates; to enemies and bad company; to good food; to riches and rags; to movies; to poetry; to ink; to baring my soul; to the past, present, and future; to this, the here and now.

here i am. look at me.

and deal with it if you don't like it.

edit: say happy birthday to my blog by leaving it a present in the comments box. it'll love you forever.

posted by Open Source Food @ 11:03 PM