Stories of the Last Muse

Moving out soon

2006-01-11T19:44:00.000+08:00

I'm moving out soon to a new and better home. I'm excited already!

Lost

2006-01-04T07:01:00.000+08:00

I am lost now.

Cry

2005-12-15T11:42:00.000+08:00

Morning. It's early to be awake.The world is foggy outside my window. It's still early but I could tell that there is something going on in the air. Time hasn't erased that familiar pain in my chest.

I am blogging again for the need of it. I know I've been selfish for shutting you out of my world. To those who sent me emails asking me to write again, Thank you. But I am utterly selfish when I am happy. My happiness is not for other people's consumption. Happiness isn't always a familiar feeling to me so when it comes, I guard it carefully and hold it closely to my chest so no one can steal it. It has become a part of my being in the past months.

I couldn't bear it when there are real tears. I held them for as long as I could until my nose got hurt. I guess I've set my defenses so low that I could feel it building behind my eyes. Today I couldn't stop them from streaming down my face. I couldn't help but wish for something or someone to save me. But even Messiahs lie.

On this day last year I was in Tagaytay with someone surreal yet wonderful. He said he would never leave but three days later he flew to another country. I guess it's true what my friend said, Love is just a moment.

I am trying to feel better but the pain won't go away. It's like a wraith that follows me. My tears want to break free.

Now I can only hear a mantra that says...

Tired children cry.

Another chance

2005-08-18T06:21:00.000+08:00

I've been tossed like a cigarette butt-- used up, burned out, and then ground into the dirt. It was probably one of the most loathesome sensations I've known that I will never wish it upon anyone. But this feeling is inevitable since a man and a woman continue to coexist. If one has had his heart torn asunder and mended, then the process is repeated. Perhaps it's one of the most inevitable things that happened to me. The might of a man. Once I am stricken by the a subconscious whim, I become a hopelessly romantic shell of a woman.

The heart. It is gullibly hopeless in its headlong pursuit for recognition. The history of my heart can be traced from flinging itself into the world of deception in which it struggled to convince my mind that it received what it deserved, that the dogma implanted into the mind is a cushion against worldly forces that can easily crush it. In this pursuit, some perished and some survived.

When I love, I give all. Sometimes I give too much that I forget to live. Petty follies of youth or idealism of a young woman. There are times when my love becomes incoherent and mindless but love it is, nonetheless. Those who were with me surely know what I mean. But I am not really unconditional when I am loving. I ask to be loved back or to be recognized or to be appreciated, at least? I ask things that are very affordable, most people even give them out for free.

The only thing that I detest the most is betrayal. I feel betrayed now by the person who once became the center of my world. Maybe the pedestal where I stood was not high enough for him. There was no recognition, no public declaration of love, no signs of pride for having me. Strangely, I managed to stay for two years. It was my heart who stayed. I couldn't blame it for I thought it found the unprecendented happiness and fulfillment on the solid ground upon which it stood. As it turned out, the foundation only appeared strong. I was the one who left because I never felt that I belonged in the first place. Two years was enough.

A few weeks after I left, he declared his affection for another woman. I don't think I fell short but the phenomenon is hard to explain.

I am with someone now who loves me more that I love him. Is that a good thing? I don't know. It's been so long since I felt my love reciprocated. The thing is, I am now afraid to give all. Sometimes the mind is unfair too, because it shackles the heart so tightly. Maybe it's the stigma of previous relationships that made things harsh and made the heart seems helpless.

I am hoping that this will be my last pitstop. I am giving love the chance to tame my heart once more because I believe that everything deserves a second chance... and a third... and a fourth....

Afterall, love is only for the brave.

Leave

2005-08-15T20:20:00.000+08:00

I'll be changing URL again soon. I want to be able to write freely and maintain my anonymity. I'm afraid this blog is too familiar already.

Sonnets from the Portuguese, 14

2005-07-24T19:59:00.000+08:00

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only.
Do not say 'I love her for her smile—her look—her way
Of speaking gently, for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'—
For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may
Be changed, or change for thee, and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,—
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Hiatus?

2005-07-19T01:10:00.000+08:00

I never intended to stay on a hiatus. I guess I just didn't think of anything to write. Not for one whole month, believe it or not. It's a sleazy excuse but still an excuse.

I've reading tons of books lately, I don't know why.

I will be writing again. The entire month which I coincidentally spent on a hiatus gave me a lot of stuff to write about. Tomorrow I will have an entry.

In the meantime, I have to sleep.

Lips

2005-06-19T16:42:00.000+08:00

my lips, originally uploaded by The Muse.

Here's a haiku that I wrote last night.

Have your lips ever
Adorned words of poetry
If not, they should have.

Right.

Wish I could write vertically

2005-06-16T13:00:00.000+08:00

Few weeks ago, my half-sober friend, akira, candidly mused that the latest entry he read on my blog was crappy. He was referring to this not-only-crappy-but-sappy entry. Well it gave me a hint to write out my mind, and put a permanent halt to my attempt at capturing lyrical imageries, which, more often than not, turn into a travesty, even a parody in a literary form. He had a point. No wonder I lost the drive to write. I couldn't even write!

Last night I was observing the skyline over cold milk (0% fat, mind you), in the hope of forming some lines out of a "spectacular" view from my window. I scribbled a few characters on paper but what was supposed to be a poem or maybe a prose became a practice sheet for my signature, which can be a good thing since I am getting sick of my current signature anyway.

This morning I woke up taking random curses that came into my mind. Dammit I still feel the same up to now-- toxicated, that is. On my table stands Jose Cuervo, half-emptied (or half-full) pack of Marlboro Lights, four empty wrappers of chocolates, a tetra pack of sterilized milk and a bottle of mineral water. What's ominous about it is, I don't even remember consuming any of them. I remember reading Malayan Horror Stories though, and even brought Malayan witches and gnomes in my dream. Good thing I didn't develop my usual female fears of the unknown.

I called the Royal Porcupine this morning out of a whim. It needed a new haircut so didn't say much. Later I sent a message comparing its voice to the morning sunshine-- of course I am good at making it feel better. Well I haven't really given up on it being a cloaked and faintly menacing stranger. I'd like to keep it in its place. In the meantime.

Contrary to the claims of Goeeyman, I've never really been elusive these days. Confessional memories come in handy once I open my mouth. The more outre, damaging, and abusive the past is, the better. The urge to tell-all is pervasive, but I make sure that I wont walk in regret later. So much for being honest.

I got this line from a book I was reading. It's the protagonist's mom's motto.

"Nice men did things for you; bad men did things to you,"

I leave it for you to ponder on.

Later for more pieces of crap.

.

A little bit of everything...

2005-06-09T14:13:00.000+08:00

It's cold and foggy outside my window. June air permeates through my curtains. In the background are rising buildings beneath greens of the earth and short of reaching hues of nimbus clouds, or so it seems from where I am. Pigeons probably flew up the Northern sky so what remains are rusty wires hung through mid-air. I look at my bed-- nothing special about a cold morning away from home. The morning ambiance is more than enough to start a novel, which I am sure I could not start anyway.

* * * * * *

She was supposed to be a beautiful June bride, if it were not for her callousness and pride. I could not call the whole event a solemn ceremony, it was more of a masquerade. Nah, it was more of a shenanigan than a masquerade. It was an ostentatious display of pomp and luxury without coherence. The groom was not only undershadowed but looked slovenly. I should know. The entourage was full of popular people in the city, most of them are unknown to me. There was my mom and her sister of course. The rest were nothing more than broken bodies with pretentious faces. The bride looked okay but she was more endearing five years ago when she told me that she would like to be a bridesmaid at my wedding. That didn't come true of course since I am still single and don't have plans to get married anytime soon. Well the bride was obviously proud on her wedding day not because she got her man but because there were many people who witnessed and shared her lavish lifestyle. She's the closest girl to me in the family (at least when she was still single) but now, I barely know her. She put on a different face, something that money can buy. I pity the groom, I bet she couldn't buy him love.

* * * * * *

The plan was for him to get out of that very compromising situation. He said he needed my help and my advice. I refused at first because I don't honestly believe that we could maintain a platonic relationship over the period of "therapy." It doesn't work for me, at least not yet. I volunteered another guy to help him with his dilemma but he had an issue about readiness. I don't want this to be personal was my first rule. He obliged at first so I went on with role as his "adviser." I talked with him, sent him SMS and e-mails, bought him books and invited him to the church to listen to the Gospel. I am not sure if he did that out of sincerity but as time passed, he resorted to flattery. He began noticing small things about me, how tantalizing my eyes are, how full are my lips-- things like that. Then it escalated to, I love the scent of your hair and the sound of your voice. Then I noticed that whenever I talked, he paid more attention to my lips than my words... I got distracted and stopped talking.

Weeks after that, I confessed that he is inlove with me. I dreaded that to happen.

I think I will never be good at ministering people.

* * * * * *

I haven't been reading lately. Thanks to the internet that provides alternatives for bored souls like me. If it were not for this, I would have already finished all my books on my shelves.

* * * * * *

Last night I received and exchanged a few messages with the same anonymous sender from Saudi who have been sending me SMS for a few days now. The conversation went like this:

Anonymous: Hi. Miss ______, I know you are busy everyday attending to your business daily. I like your style but when you will meet me, I think you should wear blue jeans and white shirt. You'll look better and more beautiful in blue jeans rather than black.

Me: Huh? Where did you see me wearing black jeans? Are you the prince? Why don't you call me?

Anonymous: You mean, you are waiting for your prince charming? I will only call you if you promise to always blue jeans from now on.

Me: I will only wear blue jeans if you will tell me who you are.

Anonymous: I will call you but not now and after you have promised to wear blue jeans. I will spend my life with you. Tsup! Bye.

Me: Oh, i remember you now! You were wearing this handsome suit the last time we met! I suggest you wear that often with yellow tie. You look good in it!

Anonymous: Hahaha! Now I love you already Miss ____, You are very smart and very funny. I like that about you.

After sending more messages and after getting "Check Operator Services," I realized that I was texting someone from abroad so I read the book I was reading instead.

After a few minutes, I fell asleep.

So much for a boring ending.

Note: I just don't feel like writing these days. I'm afraid if I write It'll be as mediocre as this entry.

Bliss

2005-05-26T06:17:00.000+08:00

Bliss. Sometimes it just comes.

He will always be elusive to me, though he always wondered what made me drawn to him. Eventually, he learned to stop asking. I will never be able to explain to him anyway.

He reminds me of good things. Subtle. Small. Simple. Like watching a film, checking out a book at Powerbooks, having coffee, dining out-- simple pleasures of a simple life. I've always wanted that kind of life-- devoid of complications, devoid of ostentation.

He is still beautiful after all this time.

The world has so much to offer me but I only want one thing-- to be with someone who gives me absolute bliss and takes me into the state of euphoria without effort. He does that. He just makes it come naturally.

He looks at me purely and loves me greatly.

I will be on the road again soon, but I will always long for him.

He is, afterall, my home.

She takes her home

2005-05-02T10:40:00.000+08:00

When I die I'm going to dance first in all the galaxies... I'm gonna play and dance and sing. - Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

My roommate woke up this morning with tears in her eyes. She could hardly utter a word. From that look I knew something was wrong because I never saw her cry like that before.

As I write this, her grandmother is dying but she is waiting for her to come home. I got up of my bed and listened to her. She tighly hugged her pillow as she struggled to utter something to me. She wanted to go home today but she was short of budget. There was helplessness in her voice. She asked if she could borrow some money for her plane tickets and apologized for waking me up early. I felt for her. Her helplessness reminded me of my own years back, when my grandmother passed away. I said not to worry about it and told her to gather herself so she could catch the 9AM flight.

While on my way to the bank, I thought of lola who died without saying goodbye. My grandmother was with me almost everyday of my elementary days because she was a teacher at the school I was attending. We went to school together every morning and took lunch together everyday for eight years. When I got into trouble (mostly my fault), I ran to her. When a boy from the second grade (I was in grade one) pinned me down to the ground which caused a cut on my lower lip, she called him up and asked him to remedy my injury. The boy was stunned, cried and transferred to another school a year later. When boys at school challenged to fist-fight with me, I'd report them to her so they'd back off. During recognition rites, she was the one who'd pin my ribbons and medals. I was always first in my class and that alone made her so proud.

I was in first year high school when she passed away. On the morning she died, I visited her before heading for school. It was my daily ritual. She was preparing to go to the hospital because of the extreme pain in her heart. I knew she suffered a lot days before that but didn't know that the pain became unbearable for her. She told me that she wanted the doctor to take the pain away and asked what I wanted as pasalubong when they return in the afternoon. I just asked for money. Right after she arrived at the hospital, she had a massive heart attack. A few hours after that, she died.

I was not immediately informed about her death because I was in school. When I went home later that day, people gathered in their house. There were our neighbors, and our relatives, most of them were crying. When I saw my grandfather, I broke down to tears and ran to him. Your lola is gone, was all he told me and he placed his head on his palms. I could not contain the grief so I locked myself in the CR to mourn. At fourteen, I already understood how it is to lose a loved one but didn't know how it feels until that moment. She didn't even say goodbye before deleting a big and important chunk of my life. It was my first heartbreak and my heart shattered for her. She was very closed to me that it took me years to get over her death. I still mourned for her even when I was already in college. A red rose reminds me of her because she liked the scent of it. My Kom II compositions were all about her. She was always mentioned in letters from and to home. She was hard to get over with. It was my longest heartbreak and it made me fear death.

My roommate thanked me for lending her a sum for her plane tickets. Don't worry about it, you need it, I smiled and went back to my bed. After she packed her things, she headed to the airport.

Alone in the room, I thought of these lines from a popular movie, City of Angels:

I believe there's a place where the restless souls wander, burdened by the weight of their own sadness. They wait for a chance to set the wrong things right. Only then can they be reunited with the ones they love. Sometimes, a crow shows them the way, because sometimes, love is stonger than death.

I hope she'd be able to say goodbye to her.

Gossamer wings, angel hair, soft sunshine

2005-04-26T00:12:00.000+08:00

(Pain made me write this, if only to ease it slowly.)

It hasn't rained for quite a time now, and the summer heat makes me want to go back to the time and place where everything was almost perfect.

This is the beginning of his goodbye.

Grasses at twilight flowed softly and peacefully in the wind, making a drastic opposition to my emotions. My heart was racing beneath misty air and smoggy skies as I struggled to conveniently place myself in front of him. His face was full of astonishing intelligence while mine was momentarily transfixed by the irony of our circumstances. He probably wanted to tell me that everything will be fine but didn't. I curiously stared at the melting candle on the table to remind myself that flame could make it cry. I began to shiver, like what I always feel when I am threatened by something or by someone. Good thing the temperature was 16 degrees so the obvious shivering was justified. I wanted to touch the flame to mitigate the cold but instead I wrapped myself with my sweater. He covered his hands with my jacket. The cold continued to seep through our bones so we decided to light some sticks of Marlboro Lights. Puffing out smoke somehow eased the tension around us. We were very familiar with each other yet we were like strangers who were stranded at the same place at the same time. I began to feel uneasy. I felt that there was nothing to say, so we could not feel anything. Hurt was getting inevitable.

I waited for him to start the conversation but he dwelt in silence, fiddled with smoke rising on air, hummed a song he heard earlier that day, and glanced at me from time to time. He did that several times, as his lips made brief trysts with the mouth of San Miguel. So did mine. I consumed a few bottles in the middle of silence and for the first time, the taste of beer was euphoria to my tongue. We both found comfort from it as we were about to engage in the hardest conversation about the us.

He thanked me for making him feel loved and cared for all through the days. To be in that place with me was a gift. I told him that it was my real nature-- loving and caring that is, so he didn't have to think of it as an effort from my part. He smiled. I was almost stoic. I'd like to go to back here ten years from now, just to reminisce everything about you, he said. I told him that maybe I will visit there when I am ready to experience the place again. He nodded. He understood what I meant, as he always understood me. He wanted to live in the dream of finding me on the same spot when he comes back. He said that the whole place was all about me-- from road, to flowers, trees, fog, wind, weather, restaurant, coffee, beer, smoke. It was the place he specially dedicated to the woman he was about to let go.

There was no turning back. Even tears could not hold him back. Not even the most beautiful love letter that I wrote, nor the sonnets which I recited to him. Things were flashing rapidly before me. Smog started to rush over our heads. The sky changed its colors once more. The band wailed Annie's Song, the first song he sang for me. Three meters away from us was zero-visibility. The earth moved closer, wind pressed my chest, the thought of him leaving crumpled my heart and the coldness of the night made it all the more unbearable. My eyes brimmed with tears. No, not again, not this time. Please don't take him away from me. Not this person.

Finally, he told me that he had to leave.

You will always be the woman who made me complete. I am sorry, I cannot stay with you. I wish I can fight for this love. If I could, I'm gonna fight until the last drop of life that flows out of me. It was not a lie. He left not because he didn't love me anymore. In fact, he loved me so much that he had to give me back my life. He had to leave because of reasons that only the two of us could understand. He could have carried me with him but he chose not too. I wanted to tell him, Stay please, just for a moment, I am not ready to live without you. Let me first adjust to the world before you go, but I couldn't. The painful part was, it was not even about my pride. It was about something greater and more profound than our togetherness.

Yes, it was the most painful goodbye. What followed was uncertainties of a life without him. I was still tremendously hurt although I long prepared myself for that moment. He helped me prepared for it too. He was someone who always wanted the best for me that he even gave up his own happiness just to see me happy someday. He shared in my laughters all right, but he also shared in my tears. At that moment, we both felt the same loss, the same intensity of grief, the same helplessness, the same level of understanding that it should be done, and the same humility before our God. We knew each other for only 48 days yet he had given me so much of himself and left so much of his heart, left memories of his gossamer wings, angel hair, and soft sunshine over the sea and mountains.

It is unfair of you to leave me here but I will try to go on. Someday when we are at this place again, I'll be the one who will leave and you will be one who will cry because of my leaving. Those were the words I uttered to him at NAIA moments before he stepped into the terminal. I may not be with you when you cry, but I will be with you if you choose to believe that we are with each other, in our minds and in our hearts. Leaving you is beyond what I can bear at this moment but I have to. Please forgive me. He had tears in his eyes. Then, he walked away and disappeared beneath tourists and jetsetters. I stood there, silent and numb. My world shattered. I wanted my tears to freeze but they just kept on streaming down my face. I didn't know how else to grieve. Crying was the only way of grieving that I knew.

Heavens cried with me. Rain poured out heavily as if to sympathize with me. I wanted him to stay so badly but I remained still. It had to be done.

The next months were torture. I felt that cities we've been to were empty places. I felt that I didn't belong to anywhere. The road cried out for his presence, the sea longed for him. Clouds were still, pen remained untouched. My verses waited for his return. I wanted to migrate to another area yet it seemed too impossible because I saw his face everywhere. I felt remorse for letting him go just like that. I felt that I should have asked him to stay instead. I remember telling him that if only our circumstances were different, I will do missions with him anywhere in the world. But he was right. We had to leave each other in order to live.

It's been four months now since I last saw him. His last email was in January. It said that he visited Aceh to comfort tsunami victims; that he'd been sharing the Gospel to people around Bandung; that he gave a series of speeches to Muslim communities; that I should not worry because he was fine and hoped that I was fine too; that he was sorry for not fulfilling his promise to be there as my best friend; that we had to stop communicating because it started to consume hi whole being; that he wanted to see me happy someday, that I should continue to strive for excellence as I always did; that he believed in me as he always said he did; that i take care of myself and until we meet again, he closed his letter with words, Nouri San.

I kept myself busy for months because I wanted to forget him. I think I did. Then yesterday, out of nowhere, he sent me a message asking for my photos because he wanted to see how I look now, and whether I still remember him. He also requested to hear my voice because he forgot how I sound. I didn't reply. I stared at the messages for long, my mind was pounding for reasons. How could he do this to me? How could he bring me back to the past? How could he remind me of my solitude? How could he crush my heart once more? How could he make me cry again?

I guess I haven't really let go of him. I felt that I haven't wept for his absence that's why I still have tears to shed for him..

Heavens did not cry with me this time. Perhaps it is an indication for me to move on. This time, Goodbye will come from me. Maybe only then will I be free.

I gathered solid remnants of my past with him but I only have a few. We deliberately didn't take pictures us and of our travels because I didn't want to have our memories immortalized on glossy paper.Everything resides in our hearts now. I carefully reviewed our notes and memorabilia, cried for the last time and sealed them in a box. They will stay there until time washes them off my memory.

Today I let him fly away.

We will meet again someday, I don't know when, or where or how. Maybe at a Thai restaurant, or at a coffeeshop, or at the hotel lobby. Maybe the road will bring us together again, just like the first time we met. I don't know. But right now I say goodbye to the person who made me understand life, faith, selflessness and true love.

Farewell to the best conversationalist known to me, my confidant and my best friend.

The road is now ready for my feet, the sea eagerly waits to embrace my return. Without him this time.

Live.

2005-04-21T00:03:00.000+08:00

Breathe.
Just breathe.
Calm down chaos.
Rest.
Relax.

Let me take over, i know whats best for you. I can fix it, help it, stop it, break it, kill it. Just let me tell.

Tell what?

How to live.

You don't know how to live.

Maybe not, but i know how to survive.

What's the difference?

Living is breathing, experiencing each moment as something golden, living is taking nothing for granted and granting everything to yourself. Surviving is just that, it is existing without happiness, without love, it is the knowledge that someday you might get to live.

What is the use of such knowledge?

The knowledge of future life keeps me from dying, it helps me to survive, you might say they are connected-- living and surviving, maybe that's why they're mistaken for the same thing.

How do you know when you're living?

I don't know yet, ive never lived. I only survive, remember?

Sariaya Splendor

2005-04-19T13:08:00.000+08:00

I will probably give up anything that I do now to be cushioned again by the serenity of Sariaya. If there were one place where I wanted to be immersed in the enormous coalescence of Earth, Water and Sky, this would be it. Perhaps because it has people who are more closer to nature, therefore more natural, compared to natives of other islands who are already aroused by sophistication, some of them have savoir faire in their ways and therefore a bit cunning already.

Sariaya reminds me of the reality that I am, afterall, just a speck in the universe that awaits for its effulgence to unravel before my astonished face. It is where I want to become a writer or a novelist. It where I am driven to write about the weals and woes of people and their prosaic lives.

It is where I am reminded of the queer style that urban life offers me and those contrived, theatrical faces that burgeon right in front of me, if I am of any use to them. Sariaya did not give me the attention that I longed for, and I am thankful for that. It feeds my quest for anonymity and makes me more ecstatic. The city could not handle my unavowed self, it digs deeper and further until what is left of me will only be a strap of mystery.

I wonder if Sariaya fisherfolks still wonder how a ship can travel across China and the whole of Asia in a span of days. I wonder if they still think of me as a lady of colossal imagination who can think of such. Ignorance is blissful. How these men regarded me as a different creature suprised me. I wanted to give them a more complex explanation for our differences, like I am a product of the urban life they never experienced. If they just knew, I also want to be in their place just for once, so the complexities of my life will go away even for a time.

My friend Al Fay always talks about preaching Islam to farmers and fisherfolks in the outskirts of Mindanao. He said it gives him more satisfaction that pursuing a Psychology degree at a good university. It saddens me that he relates to me not as a budding preacher but as a philanthropist at heart. It saddens me because it reminds me that my desires for a provincial life are nothing but my attempts to escape my own reality.

the longer road

2005-04-15T06:56:00.000+08:00

This is one of the moments when I just want to shut everything out because giving more tolerance to circumstances only reminds me that I am stuck in this small space. I am a claustrophobe, remember?

My life meanders from one thing to another despite my feeble attempts to control it. It has the tendency to disperse, get flaccid, to scroll and festoon like the frame of an ornate mirror, which comes from the line of least resistance. I wanted my life to be neat and simple like the basic white dress with sequins lining much praised by fashion magazines, or the brass bracelet that adorns my bare skin.

I think about the complexities of my life when I am confronted by a serene environment, or a quite moment like now-- when I stay up at the front of the computer in the ennui of the night. Sometimes my life surprises me.

The last time I was in Boracay, I had hoped to resolve some of my issues. I had visions of my life in technicolor, free at last from chains of the past. But because of too much idealism, I instead envisioned myself as a Boracay splendor, golden-brown in sarong bikinis, striding with laughing teeth into the aqua sea, carefree at last. But when I looked again at people in pretentious cape or in a fluttered bed sheet, I realized that I was only a transient for two days. Smiles ebbed. No wonder idealists always end up disillusioned if not dead.

I guess I stayed in this phase longer than I intended. For the record, my transience at the place where I live now extended up to one and a half years. That does not normally happen. Also for the longest time, I haven't been with someone whom I could parade as my boyfriend. There is also very little development with regard to other areas of my life, and I am still impatient when dealing with brushes and oil paints.

To give me a clearer idea of how my life has been going on, I browsed my Friendster network for the first time in months.

Boy, I am surprised with what I found out!

Not so long ago, an incredible saga formed among four characters-- me and three not-so-very-interesting earthlings. One of them was this girl who was number one on my so-called Hit List. Well now at 30, she is married. Funny how I felt when I saw her bright disposition on her pictures together with her husband. She has a new life, and I am still in a pothole. Perhaps I have already forgiven her without really forgiving her.

Then there was the schoolmate of mine who is now married to the man I dated seven years ago. I have no opinion on the girl but I remember the guy to be really confident about himself. He was only 24 when we dated. He is now 31 and very much married.

Then there were my highschool friends who are already married, if not carefully planning out their weddings with their future husbands. I do not want to hate them for reminding me that my life is dull in contrast but they are overly happy, to the point that it became the reason to envy them.

And then there were those friends and former classmates who just drifted apart, or disappeared like smoke. For some reasons, not one of them bothered to contact me for my whereabouts. Tsk. I feel sorry about dead friendships.

I am now waiting for my moment to shine. My fingers are crossed that it will not be too long. I am giving myself two years to find my place under the sun then I will get married a year after that. That is the final plan.

In the meantime, I have no time to lose. I need to move on to the next phase.

N.B. By the way, I think I am still a lousy writer

Grazie, Papa

2005-04-07T22:11:00.000+08:00

"Have no fear of moving into the unknown. Simply step out fearlessly knowing that I am with you, therefore no harm can befall you; all is very, very well. Do this in complete faith and confidence."

-Pope John Paul II

It was probably my delicate heart that subjugated the remains of the shimmering grace that resided in me, or was it because the man who made me cry was simply bigger than some righteous men combined?

I first learned to correctly pronounce his real name at the age of seven. "Voy-tee-wa," my mother corrected me, as she spelled Karol Wojtyla on the board. The real name of the pope became general information among members of the family when I was small. I grew up in a Catholic family who respected him as the leader of our Church.

My late grandmother playfully told me stories about my very early encounter with the pope. It was February 20, 1981 when the pope's plane landed on the grounds of Iloilo City. It was my first birthday, and we lined up at the airport only because it was my birthday. I was a baby girl in silky ruffled dress with the Love-In-Tokyo pony-tailed on my curly hair, which swung on left and right because of my grandma's eagerness to see the pope. I was ignorant of the stampede around me and of the vociferous crowd who yelled, "John Paul II, we love you!" to which he responded, "John Paul II, he loves you!"

Lola said the pope cradled and kissed me on the forehead because it was my birthday and he kissed birthday kids at that time. I delightfully listened to that story, with my eyes widened. I felt giddy about the fact that he touched my forehead. Since then, I regarded myself as blessed among all kids and I kept him close to my heart.

I was attending a Christian convergence when somebody announced his death. To say that I was surprised was an understatement. It didn't take a minute before I could sense my face glisten with melted pearls that sprung heavily from the well of my eyes. Those were the most spontaneous tears shed for the man I knew only from my periphery if not from afar. The man whom I considered as the Great Communicator (and not Ronald Reagan), who conveyed his message without using the eloquence of the Gettysburg Address, or deliberately being laconic as Urbi et Orbi. Those tears fell for his heart that throbbed not only for my nation but for the least fortunate among my brothers and sisters.

Finally, I cried for a great man.

As a diplomat, his charism stood out without resort to pomp and glamour, but contented in his deepest sincerity that drew a myriad of believers and unbelievers alike. He did not agree for the sake of being agreeable, but unfailingly stood by his principles which were principally anchored on God's Words. He traveled far and wide without ass-sniffing Swiss guards but with his trusted aids and his white robe. His simplicity and humility were, for some, synonymous to the glimpse of the divine. He was firm in his convictions, unmoved by animadversions, took all sophistries against the Church with gentleness and with high regard to the dignity of the critic. He was that, and all.

I looked at the world through his eyes and I feel ashamed of the selfishness that clouds my heart. The only difference between him and the rest of mankind were his true love for the people and his enduring obedience to the Word. I do not have those. At least not yet, for I still regard some of the people as society's nuisances. But this man made me bewildered, as he lived not in a relentless juggernaut but in selflessness anointed by God. He did not regard iconoclasts and non-Christians as unbelievers but as brothers whose flesh and blood were worthy of self-sacrifice. He was never a walking contradiction, and stood by the standards of his Master, rather than the standards of world.

Amazingly, he was also revered and respected by maelstroms such as Fidel Castro, and the Dalai Lama, and was even referred to as "brother" by his Turkish assassinator. He bellied up Communism not by swords and blood but by prayers and love. He was very critical of Marxism, yet also frowned on capitalism. His love for philosophy probably taught him how to live life in moderation and his love for theology taught him to make God the center of his principles.

I grieve, not only for a great theologian and a servant of God, but also for a fallen poet and playwright. Unknown to many, he was a child of poetry and literature, thus the passion that burned in his heart. He knew how appeal to people's emotions being a poet whose sensitivity crawled beneath flesh and bones, but penetrated deep into the mind and the heart. A poet by blood, a servant of God at heart, a mind of a theologian and a philosopher, a tongue that spoke eight languages and words of encouragement and of hope. He was an amalgamation of small and bigger things that resulted to something greater than I can perceive.

For some unknown reason, I still grieve for him until this moment and I can only do this much to him.

I could not remember a time before I knew him, but I remember a time before I knew my brothers, my teachers, my younger cousins, the love of my life, and even the president. He was there since I was born, if only I was an onlooker to his life. Ever since I heard and understood the first Catholic mass, I already heard his name being prayed for. For 24 years I heard his name uttered and prayed for not because he was the head of the Catholic Church but he needed God's grace through prayers to reach out to the desperate and give hope to the discouraged.

I could not keep the sadness that I feel. I grieve through these words. This reverence will never be enough for the man whose love for the world transcended all religions and races.

Truly he would be missed. In everything that he did for us, all I can tell him is this:

Grazie, Papa.

May you shine on us from above.

life remains a great teacher

2005-03-26T11:09:00.000+08:00

Midway in our life's journey, I went astray

from the straight road and woke to find myself

alone in a dark wood.

- Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy

Finally, I am disturbed by my inadvertence to blog. If it were not for the lack of anything worthwhile to do, I won't write an entry. I don't want to think that I have lost my passion for writing. But it will never be me without my liaison with words.

Ideas nortured, friends changed, wisdom invigorated, storms formed, travesties rose and in one month, life for me became more animated.

The trip to Sariaya was my latest tryst with Earth, Water and Sky. I wrote about it some weeks ago but lost the draft to a roast chicken dish. Perhaps because I did a draft, which I don't normally do. The au naturel of my entry happens in a flick of my emotions, devoid of wisdom's intervention, devoid of technicalities. So that article which I carefully drafted was reduced to nothingness, and after realizing that I lost it, I felt like a soldier in a battlefield, rising to revelry, for nothing. So, I opted to refer to my memory for snapshots of that trip, which remind me of a world outside the clutter, traffic and dexterious fumes of the city.

My most awaited Ega Sai season came during the first week of March. It was my first time to watch the much revered Seven Samurai by Akira Kurosawa. I will no longer question why the film is Steven Spielberg's and Mel Gibson's favorite film. Res Ipsa Loquitur. I was astounded, mystified and in awe of such masterpiece, and secretly wished local filmmakers could emulate Kurosawa's standards of perfection and conscientious effort to bring a beautiful movie into the immortal screen. The film was way different from the master's Dreams creation that consecrated Vincent Van Gogh's works in an enigmatic way, different in a sense that it appeals to my emotions and artistry rather than the deep recesses of my mind. Seven Samurai definitely remains in my list.

The Game gets going. This time, I am a fueled player and now more aware of other players' moves. The chessboard remains still, the scenario unchanged. Yet from where I stand, I plot my strategies, plan out my attack, the blitzkrieg idea never leaves my mind. But this is a fair game where you win by outwitting your opponents. A visionary could easily reach a check mate in a few moves. As Sun Tzu said,

"With careful and detailed planning, one can win; with careless and less detailed planning, one cannot win. How much more certain is defeat if one does not plan at all! From the way planning is done beforehand, we can predict victory or defeat."

Still, others try by sheer luck and gambles on maximum risk and seldom they get lucky. The Game gets exciting as days pass by. I am looking at my ultimatum and I can't wait to get on the road again.

Yesterday, I came across a chatter who happenes to be a physician. He is in his 40s, has a shaky marriage, has two kids, well-educated, well-endowed, depressive and cynical. No wonder I easily guessed that he must have liked the master stylist in any philosophical genre, David Hume. The perennial skeptic influenced him to believe in the non-existence of God. He eagerly preached about Hume's perspectives in "Of Miracles," wherein he posed four arguments on believing in miracles, to wit:

(1) witnesses of miracles typically lack integrity;

(2) we have a propensity to sensationalise, which prompts us to uncritically perpetuate miracle stories;

(3) miracle testimonies abound in barbarous nations; and

(4) miracles support rival religious systems and thus discredit each other.

And in "Of a Particular Providence and of a Future State," Hume hid his arguments in a conversation between two characters, who displayed three arguments on the idea of God, namely: First, our knowledge of God as creator is restricted to the effects that we see in his creation; since the world (the effect) is imperfect, we cannot conclude that God (the cause) is perfect. Second, justice in the universe is restricted to the imperfect justice that we see around us. Third, the singular and unparalleled nature of the universe prevents us from making analogical inferences about the creator.

Yet inspite of these almost sound arguments, I asked him if he was happy with his life. Obviously, he isn't. Then I told him that I dabble into philosophy, too and in fact, Friedrich Nietzsche remains to be my favorite philosopher save for his daring announcement on the death of God. He asked, "What did you gain from reading philosophy?" I smiled, and said, "Cynicism," but of course there's more to it, I added.

Perhaps it was too much for him to understand my idea of bliss, which elation I derive from a personal relationship with God, that's why he bargained to change the topic. I have been an atheist, all right, but I didn't flaunt it like he did, as if it was his crowning glory. What was there to be proud of when everyday of my life I was consumed by extreme depression, too much idealism and emptiness? Atheism became a fad among my friends and I reckon it's the same as with this doctor. I don't expect "normal" people to easily understand my moral principles. In fact, I expect for them to scoff on it but I return the sarcasm with a shrug. Truth reveals itself in time. Even Pontius Pilate pondered on Truth when he asked his wife, Claudia:

"Veritas. What is truth, Claudia? How do you know truth?" She patted him on the shoulder, and whispered to his ear, "You will never know truth, until you hear it."

I sealed the chat with a prayer that people would eventually be enlightened. If not, I wish for them to leave my principles alone.

Sunrise, Sunset

2005-02-23T13:50:00.000+08:00

Al and Lolo Pat, looking at the horizon for something I could not see.

Amazing how time flies. I was only a small kid when I first visited Cadiz City in Negros Occidental to be with our relatives. Now, after 15 years since my first visit, new faces evolved. There is Al and Ester, my third cousins who would give honor to the family.

For the kids, the sun has just risen. I probably am at 9 or 10:00 in the morning. For my lolos, I wonder if they ever think of dusk, weakly covering their horizon.

How to Control Anger (A Biblical perspective)

2005-02-23T00:20:00.000+08:00

Conflicts take many forms, from children shouting and punching on the playground to the most sophisticated international intrigue in times of war. The "hot spot" for not getting along with others could be at home in our family, in our romantic relationship with someone, on the job with a co-worker whose personality isn't the best fit.

I get angry when I am reminded by the past. Not that I will to be angry but the tiny spark of anger when triggered can consume my being in a matter of seconds. Most of the time, it takes hours to pacify me.

Since I became a born-again Christian, I mistakenly believed that since Jesus lives in and through me, I will be able to avoid confrontation with others. But, I realized that that God is still continually working on me to make me conform to His image so He does not prevent every argument from happening. Those He allows, He provides a way through them with grace.

I know that God never intended for me to spend my energy seeking for ways to avoid all tension, especially with the person I care for. Jesus wants us to know what to be prepared for: "I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world" (John 16:33 NIV).

Someone told me that when we are rejected, "put down," humiliated, unjustly criticized, or otherwise threatened, anger is often aroused. Threats challenge our self-esteem and makes us feel so vulnerable that anger and aggression become ways to fight back. Sometimes when we are threatened and made aware of our own imperfections we respond in anger toward those who fail to meet our expectations of them. This directs attention away from ourselves, hides the fact that we are hurt or threatened, and lets us feel better at someone else's expense.

According to psychology, hurt and anger almost always go together. 'Seconds after the event which arouses the hurt feeling, another feeling skyrockets into awareness—anger. The anger comes so quickly and is so apparent that it is easy to miss the hurt which comes first.

So how do I defuse the emotional bomb once I sense the countdown to explosion has begun? I pray so hard, for I can only overcome anger by the grace of God. The power of Jesus Christ is the answer. (Philippians 4:13) He is the only one who can control your emotions and channel them in the right directions. It is also crucial to remember that anger is not intrinsically wrong. (Matthew 21:12-17) Anger in response to sin and its ill effects is a form of righteous anger, but when it crosses the line into nursing a grudge, or retaliation, or mean-spirited vengeance, it is not honoring to God.

A key principle for handling anger is found in Ephesians 4:26-27: "Be angry, and yet do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and do not give the devil an opportunity." Lately, I always see to it that every argument is settled before I go to bed so that when I wake up in the morning, the sensation of weight on my heart had gone.

THREE WAYS TO CONTROL ANGER

1.) Don't be concerned about making yourself heard. Be a good listener first. You cannot hope to defuse the intensity of both sets of emotions until you can calmly listen to the other person's point of view. (James 1:19-20)

2) Be truthful, as much as is loving under the circumstances, and don't seek to avoid the heart of the matter. It is always better to deal with the issue directly, rather than sidestepping or burying it. Colossians 3:9 explains the reason why you should speak honestly. "Do not lie to one another, since you laid aside the old self with its evil practices . . . ."

3) Speak in love with words that build up the other person. The classic problem most people experience is that the very moment when gracious words are most required is also the moment that kindness is the most difficult. Again, the grace of the Lord must operate through you, and you can prepare to let Him work in advance of an argument. (Ephesians 4:29)

In any conflict, you should know that the outcome is not in your hands. You cannot force someone to listen or forgive or change. Only God can work in his or her heart, the same way that He works with you in patience and unconditional love. (Philippians 2:13) You can only be responsible for yourself and your relationship with Christ.

In certain cases, you may be left with great hurts. You may be someone's emotional victim. God understands this pain, but He counsels you to let Him handle the offender. (Romans 12:19)

Whether you face conflict that redefines your spiritual existence or whether you deal with the routine disagreements of everyday living, the reality of Jesus' healing love is the same—and it belongs to you.

Poetry Reading at Likha Diwa

2005-02-17T15:45:00.000+08:00

All poetry aficionados are invited to our poetry reading on February 25, 2005 (Friday) at 7:00 PM. It will be held at Likha Diwa Cafe, Gulod (UP Campus), Quezon City.

If you are interested to read a poem, please email your personal details and the poem you are going to read to mga_makata@yahoo.com for approval. You may also contact Marc thru 09198477472 for more details.

Poems are either in English, Filipino or any Philippine dialect as long as you provide an English translation of it. Everyone is encouraged to read their original compositions. If you are reading a poem by written by someone else, you are required to credit the author/poet.

This is for free.

Walking around

2005-02-07T23:30:00.000+08:00

I'm just walking around.

And tonight the journey continues.

How To Resist Temptation (A Biblical Perspective)

2005-02-02T14:17:00.000+08:00

Rev 12:9 (NIV) The great dragon was hurled down--that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray...

When I was growing up I could not avoid telling a lie. I thought at first that lying why I was late was too mundane and won't hurt anyone anyway. Later on, one thing led to another. As the LakLak song goes, "Nagsimula sa patikim-tikim..." Then telling lies became a habit, and then a lifestyle.

It was not only lying that I had a problem with. There were temptations that came my way too easily, because I did not even exert an effort to resist them. I was trying to rationalize that I have my choice, that I was responsible enough for the choices I made. Until the first line of The Purpose Driven Life struck me to the core-- It is not about me.

Indeed it is not about who I am, or what I've become. In the first place, I have no control of everything that is happening around me. I am not in control of my life. All the while it is the Enemy working through me. I thought my discernment was strong. But my perception changed when I took the biggest leap-- to change my life.

I never touched the Bible for 24 years but I knew that I would, eventually. I was only waiting for the right time. True enough, the time came. Sooner than I expected. The timing was perfect. But, the decision to walk with Jesus was never easy. Many times it reduced me to helplessness. Ultimately, I faced my enemy.

It is written in Job 7:1, The life of man upon earth is a warfare. Clearly, there is a battle between good and evil. Everyday. Everyone, therefore, must guard against temptation and must watch in prayer lest the devil, who never sleeps but goes about seeking whom he may devour, find occasion to deceive him. No one is so perfect or so holy but he is sometimes tempted; man cannot be altogether free from temptation.

1 Corinthians 10:13 - No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it.

Everyone gets tempted to sin; no one is exempt. However this does not mean that we have to submit to every temptation that is thrown at us. God's word promises that we will never encounter a temptation beyond what we can bear. For every temptation, there is a way out.

HOW DID I RESIST TEMPTATION?

1. Word Power vs Will Power

Psalm 119:9,11 - How can a young man keep his way pure? By living according to your word. I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you.

Many attempt to resist temptation only to find that the power of temptation is often stronger that their own will power. David found a power greater than temptation and greater than will power. According to David, we can stay pure if we keep God's Word in our hearts and by living according to His Word.

The Temptation of Jesus Christ

Mat 4:1-4 (NIV) Then Jesus was led by the Spirit into the desert to be tempted by the devil. After fasting forty days and forty nights, he was hungry. The tempter came to him and said, "If you are the Son of God, tell these stones to become bread." Jesus answered, "It is written: 'Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.'"

The Word Power is always effective. I actually learned to use the verse whenever I fast. I repeat this verse several times so that my hunger will be taken away. The promise continues to amaze me.

Why does will power always fail? Mat 26:41 (NIV)- Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the body is weak.

2. God's Grace vs Religious Rules

Titus 2:11,12 (NIV) - For the grace of God that brings salvation has appeared to all men. It teaches us to say "No" to ungodliness and worldly passions, and to live self-controlled, upright and godly lives in this present age.

Religious rules based on "human commands and teachings" have no power to stop sin. In Colossians 2:20-23 it is mentioned that human commands such as "Do not handle! Do not taste! Do not touch!" are all destined to perish with use, because although they have an appearance of wisdom, they lack any value in restraining sensual indulgence.

3. Humility vs Pride

James 4: 6,7 (NIV) - But he gives us more grace. That is why Scripture says: "God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble." Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.

We have seen that grace gives us power to say no to sin, but how can we get more grace? Grace is something that we do not deserve. We can only get it by humbling ourselves before God and thru prayers.

4. Resist the Devil

James 4:6 - Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.

After we have humbled ourselves and submitted ourselved to God, we must then resist the devil. Most of us have not even made an honest attempt at resisting temptation. We cave in immediately without much of a fight. "Well, I'll quit doing that next week." "Why struggle now when I know I am going to do it again anyway?" "It is just a matter of time, and now is as good a time as any." But temptation feeds on weakness and bent desires. We need to start struggling to see what holiness is all about, to see if we will like it in eternity with God. We will also see just how strong we are and what we are made of.

Heb 12:4 (NIV) In your struggle against sin, you have not yet resisted to the point of shedding your blood.

Do Not Despair, You Are Not Alone

1 Pet 5:8-10 (Phi) Be self-controlled and vigilant always, for your enemy the devil is always about, prowling like a lion roaring for its prey. Resist him, standing firm in your faith, remembering that the strain is the same for all your fellow-Christians in other parts of the world. And after you have born these sufferings a very little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to share his eternal splendor through Christ, will himself make you whole and secure and strong.

In conlusion, I will reiterate what C.S. Lewis said: "No man knows how bad he is till he has tried very hard to be good. A silly idea is current that good people do not know what temptation means. This is an obvious lie. Only those who try to resist temptation know how strong it is. After all, you find out the strength of the German army by fighting against it, not by giving in. You find out the strength of a wind by trying to walk against it, not by lying down. A man who gives in to temptation after five minutes simply does not know what it would have been like an hour later. That is why bad people, in one sense, know very little about badness. They have lived a sheltered life by always giving in. We never find out the strength of the evil impulse inside us until we try to fight it: and Christ, because he was the only man who never yielded to temptation, is also the only man who knows to the full what temptation means--the only complete realist."

I'd be glad to receive prayer intentions from you. Please leave a URL or an email so I can get back to you.

a piece of me

2005-01-30T23:57:00.000+08:00

Out of sheer admiration of my lips. Or so he told me. Thanks Philippe! Visit his photos here.

Mixed emotions

2005-01-28T18:39:00.000+08:00

I had mixed emotions right after I chatted with him online. Partly, I am angry at myself for being insensitive about what he feels whenever I talk to him about another person.

Could it be that I am still selfish after months of making things better?

So I decided to paint. I just painted, without direction. And here it is.

I call it, Playing with Colors.

la mesure d'amour (feb 2004)

2005-01-26T20:07:00.000+08:00

What is the measure of love?

Do we measure it in mornings we found in each other's arms? In sunset stroll? In midnight-trips to movies? In cups of cafe latte, capuccino or white mocha? In miles we walked along the streets and malls? In inches we stepped? In things we promised? In truths we learned? In the frequency of my leaving and coming back? In laughters we shared? In tears we shed?

How do I measure love?

It hasn't continuously rained for three months. I think it did, about three days or so, and sprinkles of water from my window dampened some of my books. But yes, it hasn't rained for months. In fact, summer is near. By April, plants will start to wither and what should be fresh and green will be dry and brown. Ah, Summer time. I wish it'll always be summer. I wish I'll always feel like summer.

But right now I am thinking of September last year: gloomy days, law school, running nose, sea of names of those who were online, Starbucks coffee, movies, silent nights. You said, "I love you." I admit that made me shiver. Why is it that the most unoriginal thing that people say make me shiver? Why is it always that thing that I love to hear from someone? I always think that "I love you" is only a quotation. You did not say it the first time and neither did I, yet when you say it we automatically speak the same language. Three words that can change two lives together. I worshipped those words.

Love, doesn't it demand expression? Love cannot make a person to sit still and to be silent. It will always acclaim and proclaim things and people that made it possible. It breaks into the highest note that smashes glass windows. It liberates. It is a big game that can make you lose 21 grams, and you are the game. But how can you stay at a game when the rules keep on changing?

The whole set up reminds me of Alice who is playing croquet with flamingos. In Wonderland, everyone is a cheater. Everyone cannot stand not to lie nor cheat. That is Wonderland. Love is Wonderland, isn't it? I love how Christian tries to win Satine's heart in Moulin Rouge by singing, "All you need is love... Love lifts us up where we belong... I was made for loving you baby, you were made for loving me... Just one night, just one night..."

And love succeeds there. Pretty easy. Pretty fast.

Yeah love, a precise emotion that requires a precise expression and a choice. But what if you don't feel precise? What if you cannot make a choice? Oh it is so terrifying, I can shove it right at the bottom of the trash bin and pretend to be better. I'll find ways for love not to see me. I rather speak in a sloppy language and do insignificant gestures than let love find me again. Cliches, cliches, and still I say it's all right. Millions have been there, millions have done that. What's important is, nobody ever died of a broken heart. So, things will be better soon.

You held my hand just last night and this morning, things are already different. How fast time flies. I wish I could run after it. Nature is fecund and fickle. One day I leave you, the next day I come back. I'm always like that, I always escape. One day I tell you that I will never see you again, the next I'll tell you sweet nothings. I know I am wrong in that chronology of events.

Where did I go wrong?

Love frightens me but I am stubborn, I always plunge. You said that I love challenge, yes that is true. But love is not a challenge. Love is what I feel, something that always renders me defenseless. Loving you frightened me because you made me feel that there is infinite pleasure and time that has no end. What if they are, in fact, limited? My past tells me that time always ends, that love always ends. Probably you are right, in quantum physics it is right, all the romantics and the religious are right. Time is boundless. But in reality, we wear watches and we always check our time.

Now I cannot see you through that door. It has swallowed you. You are gone forever. I want to bang that wall like that Inquisition searching for a saint. I want to know if there is a secret passage towards you.

Love, it hurts. Now I know why I am always terrified of it.

Fragments from the past

2005-01-26T19:50:00.000+08:00

Meeting you for the first time was like stepping into the cold waters of a river in another country-- visited for the first time, on the first day, and it numbed my feet. It was not exactly what I was hoping for. In fact, I was not hoping for anything. All I had with me was boredom when I entered the room and I would have remained undistrated if it were not because of your silence. The only thing I asked you was, "Have we met before?" You said, "I'm not sure." Then you smiled.

You said I was beautiful and you liked me. A lot.

You were paranoid because you thought he was watching us.

I told you that you are beautiful but you probably didn't hear it.

You wanted me to leave because you wanted to concentrate. I left the TV on when I stormed out of the room.

You forgot about me.

I was already beginning to forget how you look like but I remember other things about you.

The World Wide Web says you had something to do with Sari-Saot.

I am fascinated and it condemns me to a period of longing especially when rest is impossible. I only gain satisfaction when I see you or when I hit the keyboard and type something about you. Sometimes I just want to see you smile. But, when you are far or scarce, I learn to scavenge for scraps of you-- you walking with me, how you smiled in the middle of one summer night, your inability to take some rest, your struggle to reach perfection-- until a new day brings me another hunger.

If I close my eyes, I can feel you crafting sleepwalking beautiful people. If I open my eyes, I can see shadows flitting between the winds. Is it nothing, or is it you?

I tried to leap away and free myself from thoughts of you, but I stumbled and fell flat by your feet.

I have been fine with this anticipation of a broken heart. Well, I am not too broken to have your heart.

He couldn't understand that I want to catch a glimpse of you.

I didn't hear what you whispered to me. The moment was suspended when you kissed me.

I am at the mercy of false memory but I remember well how you looked at my eyes when you touched me.

I want to walk away from you without stumbling over my own feet.

I wonder whether you imagine how you ran your fingers through my hair while kissing hers.

Before I empty myself completely, I take this one last dare to court your destiny using my patched-up heart as bait, my soul wagered to the core. One last offering of my mind before I let go of it.

I am made up of the broken down images of you.

Looking for a kind-hearted person to adopt Colin

2005-01-24T21:20:00.000+08:00

I'm looking for someone who is willing to adopt my rabbit, Colin.

Reasons why I want to put place Colin for adoption:

1. My housemate is allergic to rabbits or anything that has fur or feather.
2. Viola (Colin's girl friend), got killed by a neighbor's cat. She was naughty and was always sneaking out of the door.
3. I don't really have enough time to take care of Colin because I don't stay at home all the time.

About Colin
1. He is named after the actor Colin Farrell (hehehe). His color is a combination of grey, white and brown
2. He's about two months old
3. He's kind of obedient =)
4. He's loving-- he greets me everytime i enter the room and he tends to follow my steps around the room
5. He always craves for food and if he is hungry, he jumps out of his box to look for food
6. He likes to slide on the floor. I think he likes clean and slippery floors
7. He's tame, but it takes a while before he becomes comfortable with a person

Qualifications and Conditions
1. The person who wants to adopt must be compassionate towards animals
2. Preferably he/she has no cats
3. He/She can attend to Colin everyday
4. He/she should not scare him
5. He/She should allow me to see Colin every now and then
6. Must be able to feed, clean and take care of him everyday
7. Must be able to take him to the vet when he is sick

If you are willing, Please e-mail me thru aruteya_mari@yahoo.com.

Subong nga Gab-i Isulat Ko ang Pinakasubo nga mga Linya

2005-01-16T17:23:00.000+08:00

Subong nga Gab-i Isulat Ko ang Pinakasubo nga mga Linya
(Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines by Pablo Neruda)

Orihinal nga teksto ni: Pablo Neruda
Gin Hiligaynon
ni
A.M.H.D.
November 14, 2003

Subong nga gab-i isulat ko ang pinakasubo nga mga linya.

Isulat pareho sini, "Kasanag sang gab-i
Kag ang asul nga mga bitoon, sa malayo naga idlak."

Ang hangin sa kagab-ihon naga buyong sa langit kag naga kanta.

Subong nga gab-i isulat ko ang pinakamasubo nga mga linya.
Ginahigugma ko ikaw, kag ikaw naga higugma man sa akon.

Sa kagab-ihun pareho sini, gina kaptan ko ikaw.
Nahalukan sa idalom sang wala takos nga nga kalangitan.

Ginahigugma mo ako, kag ako naga higugman man sa imo.
Sin-o bala ang hindi maluyag sa imo maanyag nga mga mata?

Subong nga gab-i isulat ko ang pinakamasubo nga mga linya
Kag panumdumon nga wala ka na. Kag batyagon nga naglakat ka.

Pamatian ang gab-i nga wala sing tupong, mas wala sing tupong kung wala ka.
Kag ang binalaybay nahulog kaparehas sa tun-og sa pangabahan.

Ano gid ini nga gugma nga hindi makahawid sa imo?
Mabituon ang gab-i pero wala ka.

Amo ini tanan. Sa malayo may nagakanta. Sa malayo.
Kag ako hindi kuntento nga nadula ka.

Ang akon mga mata gapanglaghap sa imo agud abi mapalapit sa imo.
Ginapangita sang akon tagipusuon, kag ikaw wala sa akon.

Pareho sa gab-i nga gapasanag sang mga tanum.
Kita, sa oras nga nga ini, hindi gid pareho.

Ang paghigugma wala na, sigurado na, pero amo ni ang gugma ko sa imo.
Ang akon tingog gapangita sang hangin nga maka haplos sa imo pamatin-an.

Ikaw iya na sang iban. Parehas sang ti-on bag-o ko ikaw gin halukan.
Ang imo tingog, ang imo supat. Imo maanyag nga mga mata.

Ang paghigugma wala na, sigurado na, pero gina higugma ta gid ka.
Malip-ot nga paghigugma, malawig nga pagkalipat.

Bangud sang pareho sini nga gab-i gina kaptan ta ka.
Ako, hay, hindi kuntento nga nadula ka.

Biskan ini na ang katapusan nga sakit nga nga gin antus ko sa imo.
Kag ini man ang katapusan nga binalaybay nga isulat ko sa imo.
-------------

For English text, click here

three poems

2005-01-12T07:19:00.000+08:00

MEMORY

It is two o'clock and the music
Reminds me of that Folk Singer
Who shut his eyes as he wailed
The lyrics of our song.
I knew it will come again
On nights such as this
And I wonder if it also comes to you
In your night of solitude.

----------------------------

TERMINAL

While your feet were glued on the cold cement
I listened to your pounding chest.
There was nothing more to say so
I sighed after you sighed.
You invoked heavens to
Make your leaving easier
So I watched you walked away
Towards the door of the abyss.
While your shadow ebbed beneath
The sea of gypsies and travellers
I found myself in the street
Covered by uncertainties.

-------------------------------

E-MAIL

Perhaps twice or thrice a day
I endure the company of bare pixels,
Sunconsciouly frown on my own,
Get frustrated over the helplessness,
Of not reading you.

Perhaps twice or thrice a day
I am filled by the hope
Of affirmation and possible euphoria
Derived from your virtual existence.

And yet twice and thrice a day
I am reminded, I am a fool
Who waits for those thoughts
That will never arrive.

Absence

2004-12-14T14:49:00.000+08:00

Nearly three hundred miles from where you are
Coffee does not taste good anymore
It rinses away the sullenness that my tongue
Spewed out against you.

Tonight, exactly five hours after
You evaded the moon and turned off
The stars that illuminated our
Forty three days and forty two nights,
I weep coldly on my chair.
I kiss the table where my elbows rest
And think of your sweet mouth
That fed my hungry lips.

I stare at your nonexistence in front of me,
The invisible cup of Cafe Latte
You nurse with your delicate palm,
The impossible spark in your eyes
As you mutedly declare your
Heart's eternal love
That never again will be mine.

Done

2004-10-23T19:48:00.000+08:00

Because,

There is the need to run away.

The world has always been small for someone like me.

The Last Muse is closing.

Thanks for reading me.

Au revoir.

Nausea! Mr Darcy and a bunch of thieves

2004-10-22T09:24:00.000+08:00

note: Mighty is he who reads this in its entirety

Bonjour a tous!

Last night I complained to Mr Darcy about my inability to stay awake for five straight hours, my stupor, my caffeine-immuned system and the steady feel of throwing up. "I just finished a bottle of cola and two cups of coffee, and I'm nauseated," I explained.

"What!? So, are you palpitating again?" he reprimanded my poor soul, "Go move your butt and drink plenty of water, you have to level the amount of caffeine in your body," he continued, this time he sounded preachy, but his voice was still calm. He's not the kind who gets irritated by my stubbornness really. "You should focus more on what you're reading and try to get ample sleep. You haven't been sleeping for days," he added , making sure that I heard every word that he uttered.

"Ack, I think I'm going to die. Every time, I feel the earth is moving!" I exclaimed.

"You're having an anxiety attack again. You should get some rest," he said. I didn't exactly understand what he meant by anxiety attack. Perhaps I am having it subconsciously. After all, it's a hellish week.

"So, What happened to you today?" I asked, trying to digress from the topic. He's used to my being that, always escaping the issue of my negligence. He always has to jog my memory with what I'm supposed to do, especially what to prioritize. Well, he is good at making me confess that I didn't do what he expected me to do.

"I watched over the laborers here at our house. I texted you that, didn't you receive it?"

"Nope," I snapped with certainty.

"Okay review your messages. You haven't been paying attention to your messages again," he said, with moral certainty ha ha.

"Uhm, okay, wait... Yeah it just arrived, gee your reply is late!"

"Blame it on the weak signal here, not me. You know I always see to it to reply to your texts. You know me,"

"Right. Next time you purchase a house, make sure your cellphone's signal is full," I advised. He laughed, awed at the immensity of my humor amidst my sick stomach.

"Okay, now stop watching TV and better study. I'll text you in a bit, bye now dear." He hung up the phone and I still felt the queasiness. A few minutes passed, I received a text message that said, "Now don't forget your water and dab a little salt onto your tongue, it will make you feel better," It was a reminder from him-the man who reminds me that I am still just a girl, still unsure of what's happening around her. And so she needs him.

I am profoundly thankful for him for being there, always giving himself to me without asking anything in return. I realized that he is every man in my life-- my friend, my confidante, my movie partner, my cushion, my shrink, my doctor, my mentor, and the man I love. We both know who we each in each other's life even though we don't really say it to each other. Even silence could attest to that. It's not about being together really, but about waiting for the right moment. As of now, we wait for everything to be in harmony. I reckon, life is great when everything is in harmony.

Sleep was hard of course, and after I was sporadically interrupted in my slumber by my sick stomach, I woke up at 5AM. Then, I briskly reached for the TIME that has been on my desk for a week now. I went through it again and when I realized that politics was too much for my still-sleepy eyes, I grabbed Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger and read a few phrases, which I underlined before. An hour later, I decided that I needed sunlight so I walked around the nearby village, stopped by the newsstand, bought a copy of the Phil. Star and disillusioned myself particularly with the case of Maj. Gen. Carlos Garcia.

Let me comment on this a bit for I really can't help myself.

How can the two committee of the House have the effrontery to hear and try Maj. Gen. Carlos Garcia for his alleged ill-gotten wealth, when they themselves are a horde of thieves? Heck they are all guilty of corruption and perhaps guilty to a greater extent than Garcia-- bigger thieves, the whole lot of them that not even the sleekness of their trousers can conceal their evil! So why are they presiding over the matter, pontificating, and lording themselves as if they've never committed the impure act of stealing monies from the Kaban ng Bayan? Oh yes, even a high school student knows about their poisoning the public with the pork barrel manure! Funny how they each allude each other as Your Honor, when their minds thrive with strategies on how to further amass wealth from the public fund! Oh dear, where on earth can you see a bunch of criminals trying their kind? Not even in Nuremberg, which mercilessly tried the most notorious of war-criminals of the century! I personally think that each member of the panel trying Garcia should first subject himself to scrutiny and assessment and must subsequently prove that he is free from ill-gotten wealth himself. But, it seems like nobody's courageous enough to criticize this set-up. Je suis desole pour ces personnes!

If this kind of act is tolerated by our president (I'm sure this would be), I'll only have this helpless weep,

"Filipinas, Quo Vadis?"

Tsk tsk. Quo vadis indeed. I don't know where the Philippines is going. Down the drain most likely.

Ack, it's 11AM already and I still haven't eaten a thing! Coffee anyone?

Indifference is Bliss

2004-10-21T11:13:00.000+08:00

Yesterday I was agitated by the person who belongs to my Archives. He went out of his way to inform me thru SMS about his new-found girl and how he extols her divinity- the kind of devotion that Beethoven offered his Immortal Beloved perhaps, but based on his decription of her, maybe he was only a poseur lover who has nothing to offer her but Empty Love.

He bragged, This girl of mine is 20 years old, very sweet and caring, business-minded and studying to be a nurse! I thought, Wow, that is the best course in the world! So, how do you want me to react? Nothing, just letting you know, he said. If I were in front of him, I could almost imagine his triumphant sneer as he anxiously waits for my facial expression to change. I could only offer him a stoic look-- the kind of look that will make him wonder whether I am indifferent or if I am utterly indifferent. So finally I replied, Thanks for letting me know dear, but I am not interested about knowing someone insignifant-- my life is already full packed with insignificant people. There's no vacancy. So, shooo shooo!

Gently put, it ruined my day. How could someone be so inconsiderate in times like this? The last time I'd ask from Good Heavens is a heckler. I am in my meditative state right now, and I am simply exasperated about the outside world! So I want to escape... to nothingness.

I also plan to change my number because some senseless individual has been sending me nasty messages and business cards that can further ruin my already ruined day! I am not sure if it's the same person but I've been receiving SMS messages from the ex-whore of my Ex. Yes, she's 21, in college, has a baby and no husband. I couldn't think of an apt word to describe her by the way. So, the manipulative girl tried to befriend me many months ago by confiding to me everything that had been happening between her and my ex. Out of my goodness, I gave her the kind of advice that she needed to hear. Later on, she asked to meet me in Manila. I politely declined and that probably angered her to say the least. After that, she's been texting me incomprehensible things and told me she'd ruin my life. Then, she started texting people who are close to me--my aunt and my brother, and even those who have nothing to do with me! Whoa! Knowing that I couldn't give her the privilege of having the slightest of my attention, I told her that she may live in interesting times. That's the curse I learned from my college professor by the way, that which any person should not utter to another. I am just indifferent towards her. I don't think I can spare my time on someone as lowly and uneducated as her. Besides, Indifference is the best shield from people who try to ruin your life.

Friedrich Nietzsche said,

"I want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then I shall be one of those who make things beautiful. Amor fati: let that be my love henceforth! I do not want to wage war against what is ugly. I do not want to accuse; I do not even want to accuse those who accuse. Looking away shall be my only negation. And all in all and on the whole: some day I wish to be only a Yes-sayer."

Certainly, I do not want to wage war against what is ugly. To wage war with him or her (whoever it is!) is to degrade myself, for levelling myself with him or her.

Further, Nietzsche said,

"Verily, I have often laughed at the weaklings who thought themselves good because they had no claws."

Indeed, Woe is he who thinks I'd tremble from his threats!

the evil kid and the sin of oversleeping

2004-10-17T13:50:00.000+08:00

Last night I was irked by the loquacious and cross-eyed evil kid! I was ordering food for dinner when it (the evil kid) recklessly ran towards me with a nylon string clasped by both hands and, without a word, tied both of my legs, pulled the knot taut and forcefully attempted to drag me towards the kitchen! I was totally incredulous about it's behavior! Obviously it's parents did not teach it some manners!

The evil kid is only four years old and so there was no way to consummate its evil intent of dragging my body to the kitchen. As any civilized woman would react, I pretended not to be annoyed. But, if only its mom were not looking our way, I would have hanged it at the guava tree right then and there! This kid is not at all adorable. I am impatient by its hauteur and filthiness that everytime I see it running wildly towards me, I deliberately make a detour or threaten it by my imaginary claws haha. But it doesn't even flinch at all! Tsk tsk tsk.

Now enough of the evil kid.

Today I woke up at 9:30 AM after a promise to sleep for only an hour. I swear, even akira virtually attested to it! I even referred to it as my "nap"! Anyway, when I looked at my watched, I freaked out and ran straight to the CR to wash the disbelief off my face. It's one of those days when I really abhor myself for oversleeping not only because there are more important things to do than randomly dreaming about weird people (last night it was a kleptomaniac, the other night was a mass murderer!) but also because it is a mortal sin, especially during exams week.

I have 30 hours to study my lessons. I really cannot be assiduous in my studies since it doesnt work for me. If cramming were a course, I would have had a PhD in it.

In the meantime, this quotation by John Milton remains a comfort to me:

Talent? Oh you've got talent. I knew that the moment you walked in the door. But it's the other thing. Pressure. Can you handle pressure? Some people, you squeeze them, they focus. Others fold. Can you summon your talent at will? Can you deliver on a deadline?

I need to drink my tea.

Cousin

2004-10-15T16:02:00.000+08:00

swiss cold

My cousin, Cyndy, sent me an email today for the first time since she left for Paris. I'm amazed at how she mixes up English and French in her e-mail. It's a good thing that she didn't include German. Else, i wouldn't be able to understand a thing.

I 'll just share some photos of hers.

interesting enough?

2004-10-13T23:05:00.000+08:00

If you ask me about interesting people, I'd sit on my chair, look out the window and ponder on it while tracing the Makati skyline with my eyes. They might refer only to a few philosophers, poets and novelists; some musicians perhaps, or law professors; someone who is comsumed with politics to disillusionment; an allusion to John Lennon and his music; a mention of my friend Levie; TJ and his complex world; or Mr Darcy. But, if I ponder on "the interesting person" again and again, I realize that the words are not simple, after all.

What makes a person interesting? Is it what he does or what people say of him? Is it the wide range of topics he could discuss over moon and coffee? Is it how long he could keep my attention to focus on him? Is it an interesting combination of traits that suits him? Or, is it his sheer brilliance?

A man is interesting if he eludes me. Then again, he is interesting because I decide for him to be so.

a bag of green tea a day

2004-10-09T23:15:00.000+08:00

Green Tea

It's amazing how law students like me have time to fit it all in-- studying, writing articles and reviews, commute, exercise (hello, Levie!), etc. I must admit that sometimes I forget to eat except when my tummy already churns all the way to my head. I tend to overeat, which makes me feel bloated if not dizzy. When this happens, I storm the vegetables and fruits section at the Rustan's supermarket for sayote, tomatoes, carrots and cucumber, with a promise not to eat meat from now on. I also don't forget to buy a box of green tea.

To relax, I watch early afternoon movies at Rockwell, talk with friends, read a novel, sleep, and to ease out the "heavy" feeling from eating a lot, I drink tea after meal. I do it every time that it already became a lifestyle. My mother also drinks tea but not as religiously as I do since what she takes is slimming tea.TJ, a fellow law student, emphasizes that he's someone who drinks green tea instead of coffee while the rest of my friends prefer plain or red iced tea instead of cola.

Tea and Weight Loss

Preliminary research published in the American Journal of Clinical Nutrition suggests that an extract from green tea may help with weight loss by speeding up fat oxidation.In this study, researchers conducted a 6 week study of 10 healthy men in their 20's and found that those men who were given a green tea extract used more calories in a day than those who did not. Further research is required before any firm conclusions about green tea and weight loss can be drawn.

Green Tea Brewing Tips

Water temperature is a critical factor in bringing out the best qualities of green tea. If the water temperature is too hot, the tea will be too bitter and much of its delicate aroma will be lost; if the water temperature is too cool, the full flavor contained in the leaves will not be extracted.

To do this, heat the water to boiling and then let it cool down a bit before pouring into your teapot. Pour water from the kettle into a Pyrex glass cup and let sit 2 - 3 minutes to reach 160F - 170F or 5 minutes to reach 140F -150F. Then pour into your teapot and brew for the desired length of time. You may need to adjust the sitting time based on the size of your Pyrex cup and the amount of water. Pour water from the kettle into a cool glass or ceramic cup and pour back and forth between cups until the desired temperature is reached. Then pour into your teapot and brew.

Green tea does not require much time. Too long a steeping time will result in more bitterness and a less balanced flavor. I recommend you experiment with a range of 1 - 3 minutes. Chinese green teas seem to prefer 2 - 3 minutes, while Japanese green teas prefer 1-2 minutes. It's also important not to stir, shake, nor mix the tea while it's brewing, otherwise it will become cloudy and affect its taste. Steeping time should be balanced with water temperature: the lower the temperature, the longer the tea can be steeped.

To each his own

2004-10-06T18:12:00.000+08:00

As a general rule, vice presidential debates are not prominent activities in the US election but the recent debate (and debates to come) between Vice President Dick Cheney and Sen. John Edwards, will be an exception. This is due to the important role that Vice President Cheney plays in the White House and the close-fight between George W. and Kerry. As expected, the hard-hitting and sometimes personal debate between the two vice presidential nominees focused more on Iraq and terrorism. It was 90-minute debate which featured sharp arguments on the state of the economy, taxes, tort reform and same-sex marriage.

Let's take a look at how each of the candidates cleansed his own soul.

Vice President Cheney contended that the Democrat ticket (Kerry-Edwards) lacks the judgment to lead. He also averred that Edwards's one term in the Senate, is "not very distinguished" and marked by chronic absenteeism. He also said acerbically to the freshman senator, "The first time I met you is when you walked on the stage tonight." But, that's not entirely true as Cheney met Edwards twice before according to the Kerry-Edwards campaign there are photos to prove this.

Edwards made a defense by saying that Cheney and Bush lack credibility. He also said, "I'm surprised to hear him talk about records... He voted against the Department of Education... He voted against funding for Meals on Wheels for seniors. He voted against a holiday for Martin Luther King. He voted against a resolution calling for the release of Nelson Mandela in South Africa." and gave a hard hit, "Mr. Vice President, you are still not being straight with the American people."

Cheney spoke without inflection, rarely flashed smiles and often looked down during his answers. Edwards struck a smiling, conversational tone, but there was nothing amiable in his case against Cheney. Repeatedly, he assailed the vice president's truthfulness and his record as chief executive of the controversy-plagued Halliburton Corp.

For the full transcript of the debate, click here

---------------

JOHN EDWARDS Kept His Cool

On a more personal note, I go for the Kerry-Edwards tandem. During the debate, John Edwards showed strength and conviction, worthy of becoming the next vice president or even president, if necessary. He was all the while calm, as opposed to the smug, arrogant, mean and defensive Cheney, whose trademark distortions and scare tactics didn't work against him.

---------------

The BIG BAD WOLF Strikes Back!

Imagine this: Law students of the apparently best law school in the land stuttering to answer the Big Bad Wolf's question, "What do you mean by REVISE?" I cursed the entire 45 minutes that the class devoted on giving synonyms of REVISE. My classmates gave words such as amend, change, edit, modify, overhaul, polish, etc., plus some pretty good arguments on why the Court of Appeals could not "revise" the judgment of the Lower Court. They all got 75 for effort. I wasn't called but I don't think it was fair. Some of them gave substantially correct answers (and even suffered the humiliation in front of us), but those were not what the Big Bad Wolf wanted to hear, as usual. One word to describe yesterday's class: Frustrating.

----------------

Speck of the Universe

A friend of mine believes that cells are both ascending and descending, i.e. the Earth is a cell of the solar system, the solar system is a cell of the galaxy etc. >>read more

Notes on the US Presidential Debate

2004-10-04T17:02:00.000+08:00

After watching Fahrenheit 9/11 a few days ago, I felt the need of turning this blog into socio-political and focus more on issues that affect real people instead on delving on my small dear life. When someone asked me if I am a Republican or a Democrat, I gave him a blank stare. Why would I need to make up my mind on this issue? The US Presidential Elections won't affect me anyway. However, after watching the obviously biased and anti-Bush film and after disgracing myself with close-up footages of the senseless killing of children in Iraq (thanks to Dubya), I got myself into thinking.

I've been reading the World Section of the Philstar for days now and I admit that it excites me to see pictures of Bush and Kerry on every issue. I am not such a fan of George W., knowing his mercurial temper, and how he blunders on words during the recently staged Presidential Debate last week. I've visited the site of John Kerry and as expected, they released a sure edge of their candidate over Dubya based on surveys. However, majority of the Filipinos still rally before George W., especially when he made special mention of our Motherland in his script (mind you, he didn't do ad-libs), "But the front on this war is more than just one place. The Philippines... we've got help... we're helping them there to bring al-Qaida affiliates to justice there." But, there is more to that why Filipinos still admire George W. He is the kind of leader that we've always wanted-- tough, decisive, blunt; we don't really mind if his plans are not well-thought of or instead of employing diplomatic means, he'd rather argue with enemies and make them concede to him.

Kerry is probably too gentle for us, who will have a hard time make a sword yield to him. Inspite of his moral sensitivity and intelligence, people would rather have a callous street-fighter than a thinker to make a strong republic. I still say that it is indispensable for a leader to be a great thinker at the same time. I am sure that Plato and Sun Tzu would agree with me on this.

I've been hunting down blogs who have written about the recent US Presidential Debate. Here are some excerpts for you to read...

The Irish Trojan "The impact? Kerry has to gain, I think. At the very least, this was a draw on the president's most favorable turf."

Legal XXX "I think it was ultimately a draw. Where Kerry had eloquence and confidence; Bush had resolve and determination . . . Substantively, it was one of the better Prez debates. That also made it one of the more boring. There weren't many zingers or 1-liners."

Ichiblog "I still didn't like [Kerry], and here's why: He had some impressive talking points, but despite what he says, he has no plan."

Signifying Nothing "I got the impression that Bush was completely unprepared to go beyond his talking points—I could have made a better defense of his policies, unbriefed. Bush gave an absolutely horrible performance, and one that I suspect may give Kerry the breathing room he needs to rebound. In sum, I don’t think Kerry so much won the debate as Bush lost it."

Shouting Fire "One thing Kerry did well is to lay out a stance on Iraq that explains away the tensions in his position, which I think will make attempts to continue the 'flip-flop' criticism appear disingenuous or stupid."

Neo Tokyo Times "I thought Kerry lost the debate. Apparently I was wrong, which is fine by me. If and when real public polls are released, I’ll be curious to see their results. I just have very low expectations for Bush, and he seemed to be relatively in control."

Law Sloth "I may be biased, but can anyone with at least the most basic knowledge of current events deny that Kerry absolutely destroyed Bush tonite? Bush was clearly on the defensive, and seemed flustered and almost stunned as Kerry grew some balls and went on the offensive about the disastrous and exponentially worsening Iraq situation, clearly calling him on out all his bad decisions and empty promises."

Brownpau "Overall, Kerry performed well, except for that "global test" bit. More from Barlow, Instant Replay, Lileks, Staunch Moderate, Talking Points Memo, and some very keen links on debate regulations from Wyclif."

Prem Rara "I just want everybody to know that I am for Kerry. They are both very good to-be presidents. Politicians who have core convictions (Bush term) who really differ regardless of the political implications unlike our politicians who form all these crap parties."

--------------

By the way, I made it to the semi-finals of the Philippine Blog Awards! LOL

N.B. I am still in the process of overhauling my blog so bear with me

Books!

2004-10-02T22:56:00.000+08:00

Fridays

2004-10-01T23:58:00.000+08:00

Fridays are not supposed to be gloomy but today is like any other lonesome day where all I could do is blog my thoughts away. The problem now is, I don't even know what to blog about.

It's been so long since I went home happy and contented. For the past months, I've been depressed for some reasons. Most times, I don't want to go home because there's no one to talk to but myself. Sometimes I seek solace from a good novel or I go online to chat with people online but most of them don't make sense anyway so I go back to my book instead. Sometimes I'm reading crap but depressed souls can't be choosers so I end up depressed even more.

There's this person whom I want to stay but he won't. I've convinced myself a million times already that perhaps he had already outlived his purpose in my life so it's time for him to move on. If I had other people with me, it wouldn't be too hard to let him be. Maybe he doesn't realize how significant he is in my life. He once told me that he hopes to be with me until the end but maybe he realized that he ought to live too. Away from me.

I hope days were better so I'd have my self-worth again.

You will never appreciate this entry

2004-09-26T14:26:00.000+08:00

It was an effort to read the whole chapter on Appeal. The Lion scares the helluva me, he roars in impatience when you couldn't satisfy his question, and then in the end he'd tell you to shape up. Shape up? Darn ol' Lion, sometimes I want to walk out of the room and scream my head out along the corridor.

I was studying at the same table with Dagget. She complained about the verbosity of the book. Darn she's right, I used to complain too, but thought I got used to it. Kitty said she copy-edited the book, and realized that she wasn't supposed to edit it. She's weird when she studies.

Kitty doesn't know how to get angry. For instance she hates her boss big time, she'll just say, yessir, with a nod, and she won't look the guy at his face. When she tells stories about her boss, I hate him too, because he's just hate-able. But Kitty holds grudge especially if the person hurts her a lot. Kitty was seven when she heard this girl say, don't play with Kitty, she's a bitch, she'll never finish school because she'll get pregnant. So Kitty remembered what she said and she didn't forget. Even today, when the girl asks for help, Kitty refuses to help her for no reason at all. As I've said, she never forgets.

Dagget told us that she chooses her friends carefully. She has this Daggest points, which I don't really understand. But when she talks to a person, she'll just know when that person is worthy to earn Dagget points. What's more important is a good heart and I guess, I could add sensitivity, too. Maybe she's also like me, who is too picky with friends. I don't like friends who don't know anything. I also don't like people who have no life outside of what they do, for instance studying law books. I like it better when they could talk about movies, literature or a bit of philosophy. So I stick with a few but I know that some couldn't really relate that much with me. But I am fine by it.

--------

Yesterday, Lemony said that I must be so inlove with Mr Darcy because I still write about him. I know she was referring to the endless survey questionnaires at friendster. For instance, who makes me happy? Family, nerdettes, and Mr Darcy. Who am I thinking right now? Mr Darcy. Are you taken? By whom? Yes, by Mr Darcy. Do I swim? No, but Mr Darcy does.

Ditto, adds Kitty. She has never seen me like this. Not in the million years that we've been together. I said I am not madly in love with Mr Darcy but I seek him and if I am gloomy, I text him and if I am depressed, I call him. Kitty looked at me. Fine, I know what she meant.

To be continued... I need to eat my breakfast. It's 3:00 PM already.

The Vinegar Tasters

2004-09-25T14:46:00.000+08:00

A few days ago, at the Powerplant cinema where I waited for the local movie Feng Shui to start, I decided to read the story of The Vinegar Tasters.

The story is actually based on an allegorical chinese painting which shows three men standing around the vat of vinegar. These three men respresent the Three Teachings of China. Anyway, each of them has dipped his finger into the vinegar and has tasted it. The man on the left is Confucius, who has a sour expression on his face, having just tasted it. The man in the middle is Buddha, who has a more bitter expression, while the third man who is smiling is Lao Tzu. Actually, the picture is not to be taken literally but I guess we already know that since it is an allegorical art. What they are actually tasting is not vinegar but LIFE, and their individual expression shows their views on life.

When I was studying in UP, there was a point where I was only reading philosophy books. Although I was told the some of the greatest philosophical teachings are from the East, I have not really dwelt into them since my interest is on Western Philosophy. After reading this story, I thought perhaps that I should start from the beginning, from where the roots of Comte, Camus and Sartre originated.

For Confucius, life was sour. He thought that the past and present were out of step with each other. And the earthly government of man was out of harmony with the government of the universe, or the Way of Heaven. Confucius, because of this, emphasized the past, in both ancestor worship and in ancient rituals and ceremonies. Under Confucianism, the system of rituals was extremely complex and VERY particular, much like Confucius himself. Someone once said of him, "If the mat is not straight, the Master would not sit." To a person who seems to need so much structure, the world appeared sour.

For Buddha, the man in the middle of the painting, the vinegar was bitter. To Buddha, the world was filled with desires and attachments that lead to individual suffering. Pain seemed to be all around the Buddha, and he searched for a way to escape the suffering of this world. In order to find peace, Buddhists try to transcend this world and reach Nirvana. The Buddha thought this world was bitter, so he spent his time trying to get out of this world into a place without suffering.

Lao Tzu, the Master smiling on the left, thought much differently of this world. Unlike Confucius, he saw a harmony between heaven and earth that has existed since the beginning. He thought this could be found by any person at anytime, without needing to follow the specific rule Confucius laid out. He saw the earth as a reflection of the heavens under the same laws, which everything from the spinning of distant planets to the flapping wings of a butterfly. Lao Tzu thought that it was the interference of man who created an imbalance. He thought that life was only sour if you made it sour. He viewed the world not as a setter of traps to cause suffering, but a teacher of valuable lessons. He thought that if the lessons were learned, then things would go smoothly. Lao Tzu preached not to abandon this world for a better place, but instead to dig in and become part of the world. He saw nothing wrong with the world, to him it was sweet, it was only we who made it sour or bitter.

I was having dinner with a friend when out of nowhere, I asked him, "Who is your favorite Philosopher?" He paused, and thought for some time. It sometimes surprises me that some people have to first think for answers to this question, when in my case, I'd naturally blurt out, "Friedrich Nietzsche," or in Levie's case she'd naturally exclaim, "Gabriel Marcel!". Anyway, after ten minutes of looking at the ceiling, he finally said, "I don't know. Confucius?"

Perhaps later I will know the reason for this whimsy answer of his. As a side note, this friend of mine told me that I am vain for putting a blog because I expect people to read me and I write for other people.

I am vain, but his reasoning is demented.

An Excerpt from Pride and Prejudice

2004-09-23T14:08:00.000+08:00

"If you will thank me," he replied, "let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you."

Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever." Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made hisaffection every moment more valuable.

I dont care

2004-09-22T19:44:00.000+08:00

I don't care what people say.

Changes

2004-09-22T19:32:00.000+08:00

Change gives me the illusion of a new start.

September 3

2004-09-03T14:57:00.000+08:00

Is there a time when
The vibrance of your words
Go shriveled, as when
Mystic odes slip like
My fingers from your hands
As you firmly hold them
Keep them bound
To make me
Stay?

The future will remember
If life is more radiant
Perhaps burnished with silver
Whenever our hearts burn
And sighs aligned in constellation.

But, today when I am
Embraced by loneliness,
I wonder: Will you pain too,
And give up your passion and solace,
Fall uncolored, prosaic and
Silent once again?

9.03.04
Ateneo Law Library

To A Stranger

2004-09-02T16:23:00.000+08:00

by Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass

PASSING stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me,
I ate with you, and slept with you-- your body has become not yours only, nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass-- you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you-- I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone,
I am to wait-- I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

Who wants Gmail?

2004-08-30T15:58:00.000+08:00

I have two Gmail invites. Who wants them? Let me see. I'll give it out to those who have the most interesting experience lately (and of course s/he has to link me as well). No guidelines, you're free to relate it in any way you want.

I will pick the two winners by the end of the week (Saturday).

So what are you waiting for? Go post now!

Chona in the City

2004-08-27T21:05:00.000+08:00

I found this really funny blog while surfing today. Ladies and Gentlemen, meet Chona a domestic helper who works for her Ma'am Tess at Valle Verde 1. Enjoy!

Queen of Bars

2004-08-24T13:33:00.000+08:00

I first saw her perform in the Sydney Olympics in 2000.

Svetlana Khorkina is dubbed as the Queen of Bars undoubtedly because of her imperious performances. She is considered a stunner. She is a Russian Playboy centrefold. She brings out the "Phew, what a Khorker!" in a man. She soaks in the limelight like sunshine.

Khorkina, posing for Russian Playboy in 1997

Among her tiny 4ft-something rivals, she rises like an Everest from foothills and last night was billed as her swansong, her opportunity to right a perceived wrong. She suffered in the individual finals in Sydney four years ago when the vault was five centimetres out of position. She tumbled to doom and sat for the remainder of the tournament in a monumental sulk, chewing gum. I wrote a poem about her when she was reduced to tears during her attempt to crown herself the Olympic all-around champion in Sydney. "Too much expectations," I told myself.

This morning, the news said that she made a tearful exit in the Athens 2004 Olympics. I was surprised to know that she still competed since she's Already 25. Gymnastics is a teeners' sport and seeing a non-teenager compete in the arena is a bit odd. But that's Khorkina, a natural showoff, who came to reclaim the crown that was denied her in Sydney 2000. After all, she is the grande dame of women's gymnastics and she just needed to confirm that she is indeed the the queen of the sport and the best woman of her generation.

Triple world and European all-round champion and twice Olympic gold medalist on the uneven bars, she retains a stinging resentment about the experience in Sydney. But last night was the rematch, Svetlana v fate, and she lost. Again. Beaten by a 16-year-old from Louisiana. For such a raving individual as Khorkina, it is ironic she will never be the individual Olympic champion.

If ever an athlete exuded an image of regal disdain, it is she. She competed in regulation leotard, but you could almost see the trailing mink stole and smouldering cigarette in long, black lacquered holder as she whiplashed through phases of her floor routine. "Queen Khorkina" said a banner, a sentiment which she would have heartily endorsed.

A thwarted tsarina is a dangerous creature. She intended to come out fighting. No one knew to what degree the distractions of acting, modelling and starring in Muscovite yoghurt commercials would hinder her. No part of Khorkina's ambition included coming second, third, fourth or any other non-position. She has an extravagant faith in herself, which reminds me so much of Imelda Marcos. Discussing her theatrical career, she once said: "I am so artistic I believe I could play anyone on earth." Maybe. But don't expect her to be cast a meek introvert just yet.

So the crowd in the Olympic Indoor Hall was expectant of intrigue and drama. Yet just when you would expect Khorkina to turn up like a Russian flamingo, she wore severe black and a mere thread of diamante. Not to mention that sucked lemon expression, even when her rotary blade whiz round the uneven bars brought her a score of 9.725 and a temporary stay in the gold medal position.

What hostilities must have been held in her nobly-held head. They even seemed to go as far as her own Russian coach, who was studiously ignored as he offered advice prior to her dice with the beam, a torturous and menacing piece of equipment to the layman. To the naked eye, Khorkina did not seem to possess the low centre of gravity of her pocket-sized friends, nor the muscle power in her long legs. There was a palpable sense of foreboding as she waited her turn, prowling the warm-up area in ballet shoes.

She tested the springboard grimly. "Svetlana!" screamed the crowd. There was a moment when she almost lost her balance, a moment of theatrical tease when she somersaulted underneath the beam, and a moment of pure relief when she parachuted (with twists) to safety. The judges took an age. 9.462. She went second, behind Carly Patterson of the United States. It would all depend on the floor exercise.

Her routine, anachronistically as leggy as a chorus girl, was adored by the crowd, but less so by the judges.

But at least for the fleeting seconds that she held the spotlight and all the attention, arm flung back in a grande finale, there was a smile on her face.

Dreams

2004-08-21T00:23:00.000+08:00

I'd like to paraglide over and through the Grand Canyon
Drive round the curves of the French Riviera
Make a box of chocolates from a Mayan cocoa pod
Support a boy supporting his family in Guimaras
Own a white cat with green eyes and call her Destiny
Watch the concert of John Groban in Wales
Make embroidered kierchiefs for old people at Golden Acres
Play football at the Sunken Garden
Study German and read Rilke and Nietzsche in the original
Teach a bunch of kids life
Write a love song and sing it the day hope dies
Go to the moon
Pick out a star
Rub it into a sandbag of twilight
Peel off the excess
Frame it
And be dazzled.

As time goes by (part 1)

2004-08-10T00:12:00.000+08:00

It was a crimson morning in July nineteen ninety. The sun beamed at the fish vendor's cart as he passed by young rice fields and old coconut trees on his way to the North. The street was still deserted except for some stores that had to open before sunrise.

She glided past the fish vendor to the other side of the street. Her skin smelled of Safeguard and her hair, Palmolive. She had so much faith in everything she saw on TV that she asked her mother to get one of those brands with the "New" label on it. When she was five years old, she had trouble pronouncing the word. "Niw... niw..niwwww" she'd read out loud. Her mother said that it should be pronounced as "N-yu." She demanded for a logical explanation but she said that that word should be pronounced that way. Of course she wondered at the peculiarity of the spelling because in Filipino, everything is pronounced as it is spelled.

So she wore her N-yu white cotton blouse and a plaid maroon skirt. Her beautiful locks fell freely on her shoulders and extended to her chest. Her friends admired her hair that way. One male classmate told her that she was his type because she looked like a mermaid in her long curly hair. That was the kind of comment that didn't bother her. Not a bit. Anyway, on that morning, she carried a bag made of buri which she shifted from one shoulder to the other for every one hundred steps she took. She hummed the song that she heard over the radio before she left the house. She did it without knowing why. On her way to school, she greeted farmers who plunged themselves in mud as early as 6 o'clock to sketch their names on hectares of land. The dank smell of the earth didn't scowl her. The smell was reminiscent of her ealiest years. The good earth made her live and it reminded her of so many things. The small plaster-of-Paris dwarves that sat still outside their house.

Her grandfather's old boots.

The color of an afternoon field that oscillated before her eyes.

The small garden of pechay she tended for months.

Fresh water from the sprinkler on a Saturday morning.

Breeze over her shiny shoulders.

From afar, she saw the shadow of the aged white-haired man who lived in her neighborhood. He always clothed his face with an innocent almost pristine smile that shimmered in the distance. He walked a thousand small steps every morning as a supplement for the calcium he derived from Alaska powdered milk. He was one of the more affluent and propertied man in a not-at-all-opulent town, and one could easily tell by the quality of his cane-- it was not a walking stick that was hacked from a madre de cacao or a guave tree. She assumed that it was Made in the USA or some antique that was passed on by his ancestors. She didn't have a way to ascertain her assumption really. And so she met the old man every morning and everytime she did, he would take off his hat to greet her while she responded with an accommodating smile or a laconic hello or a very short conversation by the road.

That was her routine.

One kilometer.

Every morning.

For six years.

It was a fine day during the fourth year of her Mastering the Art of Walking-down-the-road-to-school-very-early-in-the-morning, when he met the boy who would send ripples in her life in the years to come. She saw him outside the house in front of her school.

He was fair-skinned and had soft angel hair. His brown eyes were like small saucers, happy in their own. His small straight nose rose beneath his smooth face. His mouth was a living poem. He was shining so brightly for her to imagine heaven on earth. The way she stared at him was an experience, she called it An Appreciation of Beauty. She could not contain her admiration-- he was a wonder before her eyes, like water from a faucet or a downpour from the sky, like a small guitar chord that blended perfectly, like a lamplight that hit her face at night. Then rain fell gently in constant rhythm, but he stood there-- quiet and crystalline.

More than An Eye Candy.

She was hard to please at a very young age but at that moment, lies ceased to flow from her mouth but all she could utter was his unspeakable beauty, an umixable mix of Truth that came to her in a sudden fashion, more sudden that the flight or a provincial jeepney. She thought, it was a hopefully beautiful world.

She was ten years old, he was probably twelve. She was number one in everything that she did, he was probably The One. She was a singer, a leader, a class president, an orator, a gardener, a Math wizard, and a pianist. All she knew of him was that he wore the best smile. At ten she was admired by so many. At twelve (or probably younger or older) he was admired by her. She was inlove and she didn't know his name.

A nameless face that could launch a thousand ships.

An amazing creation.

A love song personified.

A beautiful boy.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful... beautiful boy... la la la la la

So it was the start of so many stories that were never told-- about them.

Four thousand eight hundred and forty days have passed since she first met him. It's been so long already but she still wonders about him.

...in times like this.

Walking alone

2004-07-19T23:55:00.000+08:00

The street was wet from the early evening's rain. The city smelled of dirt, Italian food, and smoke from a group of men who eagerly waited for their girlfriends outside Cafe Havana. I examined the flaked pink Cutex on my toenails. If Imelda Marcos were looking at them, she'd instantly use "ugly" to describe them and maybe look at me pathetically, as if suggesting that in this world, only the good, true and beautiful must be kept. That made me frown. Then I decided to get a pedicure.

I carried my big bag made of straw on my shoulders while I groped for my phone beneath sheets of yellow paper, book, lipstick, compact powder, pens and paperclips. Those small, flowery sequins on my blouse glittered in the dark, and scintillated with the light coming from Revo that honked at me. That bastard! I shouted in my head as I turned to search from the sign that read, Prince Plaza. That's where I was heading. To get a pedicure.

My face itched while I headed to Greenbelt 1. The road was lonely and desolate amid hurried footsteps and cars that weaved through it's narrow street. The place was a bit cramped so I wrapped my body with my jacket, as if to compress myself.

I looked up the sky. I half-expected for rain to moist my eyes. The sky was clear.

I sighed.

I wondered why the world is so big and I, so small? I asked the same question since1996, when a literature professor rejected my poem for no reason. He just affirmed my smallness in this world.

A passerby stared my way with empty expression.

Gloom swallowed me. Entirely.

I checked my phone for messages. None. Earlier today, my aunt texted me about an upcoming family gathering at their house tomorrow evening. To settle family issues, apparently. I wish I could relate to what she said. I always feel that they live in another world, as I do in my own small, pathetic space in this side of the world. Luckily, that sad thought was interfused by silhouettes of nameless people at the other side of the street. They spinned in the dark. Free spirits, I used to call them, who didn't have to moor in a place to wonder about their existence.

I walked while drawn by memories of being the center of attention, of colored chinese papers cut and made into faceless paper dolls, of the flag of Bahrain that hung on my wall for years (until my brother decided to dispose of it), of the first love poem framed by my mom and immortalized along with medals and certificates of achievements, of many small things that meant something or nothing to me.

I walked in the hope of finding comfort from strangers and strange buildings. Of finding even a tinge of happiness in this sad but prosperous city.

Even from a cigarette vendor's smile.

Escape

2004-07-10T13:00:00.000+08:00

Today, I just want to escape to an island that knows nothing of the city's complexities.

Today I want to walk barefoot along the shore.

And proclaim my rarity around the island.

When small things were beautiful

2004-07-03T09:23:00.000+08:00

When I was a kid, I didn't spend lingering hours thinking of how to make my small and mundane existence appear bigger and more interesting. Things were more beautiful and life was enjoyed to the infinitesimal detail. Maybe because I thought that my small world was life itself and every day was a grand moment worth living.

We live in a small unsophisticated town outlining the rural area in Iloilo, where there was no major factory to speak of and the main source of livelihood was farming. I remember that the planting season started in June and ended three months thereafter. By September, newly harvested palay was ready to be deposited and withdrawn for the market by December. Shortly after rice were planted, farmers spent idyllic afternoons in small bamboo cottages in the middle of the field, and marvelled at their sweet lands already smothered in greenery.

Mornings signalled a start of a new journey or a continuation of the previous day's misadventure. When violet flowers started to greet the contemplating road and formed a sequin along the footwalk leading to the gate, me and my brother jumped out of the house and hopped towards my grandmother's house. There were no cellphone messages to check and no emails to open. Life was small. Simple. Sweet-smelling. Laid back.

The humming of birds blended with the shrill sound of walis tingting that swept fallen santol and mango leaves at her backyard. The loud cry of the neighbor's radio overshadowed the fish vendor's bell that only a faint trace of "ting... ting... ting..." can be heard from afar. Gossips started to roam the streets at six o'clock and by seven, Nong Biling was already walking in foxtrot, his right hand clasped tightly in a bottle of Ginebra. We ignored all these as we glided to our cousin's front gate.

Another day. Another trip to the ricefield. Always the three of us--me, my brother and our brown-skinned cousin, Kenneth. All three of us, paraded in polka-dotted and sometimes stripe-colored shorts in sublime consciousness and half-sleepy eyes. Thus, our clandestine trip to the big tree by the irrigation road.

The fresh morning dew dampened my slippers and newly raked grasses stuck between my toes. My toenails, which were newly painted with pink Cutex were slightly mantled with mud. The land was still moist from the waning of the night's gloom. Grasshoppers lazily hopped away from our path as we marched towards the field. We all carried our sticks that we slashed from the solitary ipil-ipil tree outside my cousin's fence. We carried them as protection from the old farmer's brown dog. He named it Blackie.

The sun raced with us as we balanced our thin bodies on a narrow path still compressed by watermelon and palay beds. Along the way, farmers in oversized buri hats greeted us with utmost courtesy. Some asked how my grandfather was doing and since I was missing in-action at home very early in the morning, I answered, "I don't know." Some chatted about the kindness of the weather. The generosity of the sun.

The most-awaited harvest.

The coitus of kalabasa flowers.

The sprouting of monggo seeds.

The funny-looking scarecrow.

The barrio politics.

I was in awe at how these farmers were greatly affected by the newly-elected Baranggay Captain. I heard words such as womanizer, drunkard, ill-tempered, lazy, etc. But when asked where those news came from, they silently turned their backs from us.

Sometimes they chatted about their back-breaking work in the field. We pretended to listen. We pretended to know that their work was back-breaking indeed. I added that it was neck-breaking too. They smiled at our attentiveness. They'd talk to us as if I were woman and my brother and my cousin were men. Grown-ups, as I thought about us.

As we bade goodbye and continued with our trip, we slowly felt ourselves transforming to oldies as we thought of the back-breaking (and neck-breaking) stories that they had. We walked like old people. Old people in children's bodies.

Three old people walking like dwarves.

A brown-skinned old dwarf.

A grinning chubby old dwarf.

A wise lady dwarf with gaudy toenails.

Finally we reached the big tree by the irrigation road. Underneath its shades we rested as my brown-skinned cousin whistled for air to come. My brother whistled as well. They both whistled and then leaves started to move. Fresh air at last. Under the tree. By the river.

Then my cousin started telling jokes about the Americans, the Japanese and Pinoys. Those were really funny jokes, I remember. Those were the "eeewwww" but really funny Pinoy jokes that were passed on over and under tables and under the sheets.

As our stomachs were already pained by laughter, we lined ourselves again in order of age (me first, since I'm the eldest) as we carefully balanced ourselves on a narrow path that stretched back to the south.

Then we walked.

And walked.

And walked.

Towards our home.

The One

2004-07-01T01:38:00.000+08:00

I have to admit that the "quest" of finding the one is not yet over. I am still hoping for that moment when I'd see him at the busy train station one summer day as we hurriedly zip into the sliding doors of the train. Yet, because it was meant to be a fateful day we are both left behind-- puzzled and stranded. Our unplanned togetherness gave birth to silence, and it later paved way for a conversation that started it all.

Sometimes I still absently expect for someone to grab the same copy of the book I am looking at a bookstore, and as neither would give way to the other, we bring the matter to the counter to defend who has the better reason to own the book. The store owner thinks it would be best to talk about this over coffee. And as each is armoured by innumerable reasons to claim ownership of that book, our passion for poetry is unraveled in the middle of the conversation. And it is what started it all.

Sometimes I think of travelling alone, so along the road with wildest surrounds near the ruined monastery, I'd meet him. He is a traveller who has walked miles and the only person he meets that day is me. We are both caught in a trance as he politely asks for directions to the place I've never heard of. However cluess as to where he is heading to, he asks if he could walk with me to where the sun sets. Under the scorching heat of the sun, we smile at the interests we both share-- literature and poetry. And it is what started it all.

The One. He is someone worthy of even my short-live attention and even his stillness doesn't keep me from noticing small details about him-- how his skin color is not as pale as mine, how his hair is much darker than my own, how tall is he that I should stand on a tiptoe to kiss him. He is the illimitable source joy of what was once an empty room. He is my muse, and one who fuels me to write. He is as amazing as the water's kiss on the shore, and as mysterious as the coming of dawn.

He is all. And a lot more.

Only that I couldn't find him.

Suspended state

2004-06-27T23:31:00.000+08:00

Sitting on a bench and silhoutted against the pale moon, they waited for words to blend the cold air around them. She could barely see his features except whenever a car passed by to give a temporal shine on his face. He looked tranquil, it reminded her of the lonely afternoon when she sat on a huge stone under the guava tree. She used to observe the farm at three in the afternoon. The swirling of palay stalks gave her the serenity that she longed for. That was a long time ago, when she was still ignorant of her heart's desires.

He patiently waited for her to say something as he looked directly at her eyes. He saw in her a being full of turmoil and pain. Her face was chiseled from stones, like a work of Michaelangelo, however frailer than faces he painted. She was almost expressionless except that she let out a bitter-sweet smile at times, especially when he was not looking.

She wondered if he knew what she's been through, by mere words she said on long nights as they sat over coffee. Coversations over coffee, as she called it. She wondered if he'll ever know her stories. She looked at him. She was pleased at how he carefully rested himself beside her. She dreamt of sharing a bench with a person whose aura is overwhelming, and whose touch causes the night to stand still. She thought that he had that magic in him.

She thought that if her heart were colored, it would be red fringed with black-- passion and adoration for him, yet tinged with hurt from those she loved in the past. She was afraid to love again but more afraid to lose him because of that fear. For once she thought that he was The Messiah that she hoped for. She raked in huge and shaky breaths at wondering whether or not he is The One. She even looked up the stars to see if they were aligned for her to take it as a sign. She liked how they beamed beneath the empyrean of the night.

To her mind she wanted him to stay longer because he gave her sense of comfort. He reminded her of home. He, on the other hand, listened to her relentless hurt that at times he even felt her mind oddly clear and empty, even if she was with him. He could even sense when she's bothered by something when she's lucid and eerily calm.

Something connected them, she knew it, but she could never consider what it was. She was afraid to consider anything.

She didn't say a thing about what she felt for him. She probably recited a love poem, for him to see through the gesture. She wanted him to discern things but he never assumed.

In her silence she decided that he deserved her love.

It was only later on that she found out that he loved her too.

That's how their story started.

My Hump!

2004-06-25T16:02:00.000+08:00

To those who got it right, Congratulations! That was pretty easy, huh?

Amazing Race in the Philippines!

2004-06-24T02:02:00.000+08:00

The first time I saw Survivor on TV, I got hooked. I found myself monitoring it every day. I even had my favorite casts. I thought, whoa! This is awesome! I get to actually see these people's "off-cam" activities on TV! Everything is captured, especially their emotions. I thought I was a complete voyeur when I first saw it.

Then The Amazing Race came next. I also love it. They got to travel around the world for free! If I were one of the contestants, it's completely fine by me if I end up last. Free travel tickets are good enough.

I've seen all Amazing Races from 1-4. I've seen them travel in Europe and Asia, but I wondered why they haven't considered the Philippines as a pitstop?

Well, the answer to my question is here!

Here are the Amazing Race 5 Pitstops!!!

1 - Uruguay
2 - Argentina
3 - Argentina
4 - Russia
5 - Cairo, Egypt
6 - Crocodile Island, Egypt
7 - Tanzania, Africa
8 - Dubai
9 - Calcutta, India
10 - Rotorua, New Zealand
11 - Coconut Palace, Philippines
12 - Lagen Island Resort, Philippines

Yay! Two pitstops in the Philippines! I can't wait for July 11 to come!

Wednesday Mind Hump! - week 24

2004-06-23T23:43:00.000+08:00

Oh my... Im participating in the BDI Mind Hump again! After a few months of hiatus, I am still here!

Okay okay, now on the game:

Yep! That's right! It's Wednesday Mind Hump Day! *nods head enthusiastically to the tune of the Humpty Dance*

Today is Typewriter Day. In honor of the first patent on the typewriter ... wait, what's a typewriter? Is that anything like a keyboard? Okay, now we're talking. Using the letters K-E-Y-B-O-A-R-D tell us something about your blog or your blogging habits.

K - Kind. Yes, I am kind, especially to those who want to have their blogs designed by moi. I hope they are grateful for my free service!

E - Exciting. I keep my blog as exciting as possible. I never run out of ideas and stuff to put on it. Isn't it obvious?

Y - Yes, I'm a blogaholic!

B - Best dressed. I hope this blog will be awarded a "best-dressed blog" award (in my dreams!)

O - Open for everyone to read and enjoy, except stealing my articles and my graphics.

A - Always checking my codes. I think i check or modify my html codes almost everyday. I don't know what.

R - Respect. I respect other people's contribution to my blog, that's why everything is attributed to its creator/author. I don't want to be in the Plagiarists Hall of Fame! I expect others to do the same-- that is, respect my blog as if it were my home, as well as respect my copyrighted articles and everything on my site. (to those who don't know how to link, please email me, ill teach you how)

D - Diary. This is my online diary and my emotional catharsis. So, I don't really care if you think that I take life seriously. It is, afterall.

This week's hump -- an even dozen of "I say ___, you think ___"

01. stroke ---> heart
02. sketch ---> pencil
03. poke ---> head
04. doh ----> annoyed
05. tongue ---> ice cream
06. post ---> blog
07. twirl ---> sundae
08. fore ---> front
09. cup ---> coffee
10. curly ---> hair
11. swim ---> beach
12. snooze ---> cellphone

For extra fun, hump this:

Think of an item ...

...don't tell us what the item is. Now, describe that item in brief paragrah (the size, the color, etc) but don't give it away. Okay, now you're ready to hump it up. Replace the name of the item with the word "hump". Other players will come to your blog and try to guess what your hump is. Tomorrow morning, add the answer to your hump and for big fun add a picture. If you don't have a camera do a Google image search.

A Simple Sample (you can be more creative than this): My hump is black. My hump has many places where I can put stuff. My hump is big. My hump has a strap ... what is my hump? Answer: My is hump is my purse.

If this Extra Fun Hump goes well we might make it a weekly meme called Guess-A-Hump.

Okay, for my Guess-A-Hump ;)

My hump is black, I use it almost everyday. I bring my hump wherever I go-- whether Im at a coffeeshop, at a mall, in school, etc. I use my hump to take down information. My hump is available in store, usually at the office supplies section. My hump comes in different colors in different brands (huh?). I don't know what came first: my hump or typewriter. I think my hump is an essential, everyone must have it.

Guess what my hump is?

If you are a blogger and a blog fool like me, join the fun at Blogdrive Insanity!

Im an old blogger at blogdrive by the way. See my old blog at blogdrive :)

Purple Friend

2004-06-22T01:47:00.000+08:00

My friend Beverly, who thinks that I shouldn't be lonely anymore.

We are nine in the group. We became friends when we were 12 or 13. 11 years of friendship since first year high school.

The last time I saw her was a year ago, shortly before she left for the US.

They are best friends.

I feel nostalgic again.

Damned

2004-06-22T00:58:00.000+08:00

Funny. The reason why I made this blog is for me to stop writing depressing entries anymore. I want my entries to be lighter this time.

I guess I'd have to delete this blog again.

And revert to my old blog. It suits me. Better.

Broken

2004-06-20T00:51:00.000+08:00

"What is the sound of a heart breaking?" I asked my friend.

"Like a thousand roaring thunders on a clear summer day."

Rain

2004-06-19T16:49:00.000+08:00

I didn't see him yesterday but I didn't wish to see him anyway. I just realized that I didn't see him. That's all.

He is not my crush, nor anything closer than that. I am certain that he will never be my crush. Not for the next three years, at least. I just think that he is the more interesting being who walks around very recently. I don't know if I like to watch him but there was a point when I actually spent the whole minute staring at him, like a voyeur would, save for that sexually-gratifying feeling that I derive from it. I watched how he animatedly talked with some people-- his friends probably-- and how he looked at his shoes from time to time. He probably has new shoes or perhaps he was looking at his socks, or the tip of his pants. I am not sure.

I forget if we looked at each others' eyes. Maybe we didn't. If we did, I would have remembered it. Or maybe we did, but I was wearing glasses. He doesn't really have nice pair of eyes, but they are expressive and most times appear lonely. He must have had a repressed childhood, or some suppressed feeling towards something or someone. I think he lost a love some years ago, and if he wrote about her, that is something that I don't know. I write about my lost love and I don't assume that he does the same thing also. As far as I know, he writes and I like how he writes. I even complimented him for it but I guess he already knows that he writes well. Actually I ran out of words that's why I told him that instead. Some days I think that his writings have obvious pretense in them. Some days I wish that he'd write about who he really is, not about what he thinks he ought to be.

A few months ago I saw him crossed the street. It sporadically rained that day. At that time I saw him, there was rainshower. I didn't have an umbrella but I thought that nobody really cared if I was dripping wet. Of course he had an umbrella, he always has, any time of the year. We passed by each other. I think he smiled at me. I looked blankly at him. I was too wet to greet someone. And annoyed.

I wonder if he also likes literature. Maybe he does. He seems an erudite, the kind you always see at libraries and one who considers bookstores as his favorite place. I never bumped on him at the Literature section of the nearby bookstore. Not even once. I assumed that he didn't have an affinity for literature. Or maybe I should frequent the Philosophy section next time. Perhaps he reads Nietzsche as well. But one rainy day when I was outside the bookstore, I saw him perused a novel at a literature rack. I don't know what book it was.

He is far from my kind of guy. When I first saw him, I said to myself that he must be an interesting subject to write about. I even told my friend that one rainy day, I will write about him.

This morning I received a text message from my aunt who is in the province. She asked if it was raining in Manila. When I looked outside my window, it was.

Socratic method

2004-06-18T14:19:00.000+08:00

He scares the hell out of me.

Yesterday, I almost trembled when I saw him in front of the office. He was coyly talking to some students-- perhaps his old students, those he flunked, or those who dropped out of his class. I have no idea if they resent him in one way or another as I've resented him at some point when he mercilessly bombarded me with questions I couldn't answer.

I can vividly remember my first recitation in his class. His voice was grainy but loud. He stared at me while I panicked from where I was seated. There at the far left. He never blinked. Not for the whole minute. His eyes widened. My heart pounded strongly, I feel it would burst anytime. I waited for the lighting to strike me at that moment. Nothing happened.

He asked the first question, as he fiddled with our classcards. I tried to look confident as I answered. It was not what he wanted to hear. He said that it was the answer according to me, but he wanted the answer according to my author. I tried again. Substantially stated everything. His expression changed, and he shouted at me. I didn't remember the words he growled. I couldn't process anything. My fear was palpable.

He paused for a moment as he impatiently waited for the next word to come out of my mouth. Nothing came out of it. I stared at the wall behind his back. I waited for an earthquake to save me. I was dizzy. It seemed like forever. I looked at my classmates. Their heads down, eyes glued on the textbook. For a second, I thought I was the only one who breathed, save for he who was in front of me.

I was humiliated enough.

After 10,000 years of waiting, as Flory would aptly describe it, he called another poor soul, which signalled the end of my suffering. I silently took my seat and scribbled S-H-I-T on my paper. It was the most appropriate word for that moment.

He passed me that sem.

Now he is my teacher again in one subject. Yesterday, as he was lording over all of us, I could again hear my heart pounding endlessly. I was seated two chairs away from him. I don't know if I was confident to be put on the spotlight. I read the assigned readings three times but his questions still escaped me. I was counting poor souls. One.. two.. three.. until I lost count of them. I waited for my name to be called. Gladly, I have a classmate who has the same last name as mine. She was called instead. Poor soul.

Well I wasn't called yesterday, which means that I am on-deck next Tuesday. I have the whole weekend to study for a recitation. A bloody recitation.

Hopefully this sem, he will pass me again.

Summer of 1990

2004-06-13T23:27:00.000+08:00

Days seemed endless and nights only started a few hours after dusk. I was only in grade three, and utterly clueless of the world that stood before me. I was unmindful of the more serious things that transpired in the lives of people-- my uncle's affair with another woman, family feud, scandals, break-ups, marriages, etc. Those were days when happiness happened every minute and hours were spent walking through sea of yellowing palay and greening watermelon vines. Those were days when we couldn't feel the wetness of the rain at seeing butteflies spun lazily in the cold breeze of the morning and violet flowers sprung open to greet the sky. Those were days when dews on flowers glistenend and tempted us to hastily pull (and sometimes uproot) them off altogether for an afternoon's Flores de Mayo fair.

Those were days when decorating the neighbor's fence with small flowers was actually fun to do and hearing Miss Babet complain about it in the afternoon was delightful to our tiny ears. In one of the more pleasant Saturdays, we'd tail our grandfather to his farm on board his post-Vietnam war bicyle with oversized wheels. It was more of a weekly ritual than a bonding, and when the sun was too high and hot, we'd swim at the irrigation together with the farmer's cow and a family of ducks. Life was blissful especially that there was no unwanted person looming my horizon, only children from the neigborhood whose forms started as specks from afar and got bigger and bigger as they ran towards me, until their faces burst into my view.

It was during those times when I'd read forwards and write backwards and smother my grandfather's wall with chalkdust of bright colors. Then my grandmother would endlessly complain about it but as I said, I was still young to know the difference between a complaint and a statement. Ignorance is bliss. Still, those were days when Election Day was more of a fiesta than a demoralizing event and when dwarves made of Plaster of Paris patiently waited for glorious occasions to brighten the house.

These memories came softly like air over meadows. They touch my hair and pass through my fingers. They hide in my books and notebooks, under my pillows and slippers, beneath my walls, and on my palms.

I always wish for them amid impatient sounds of Rock n Roll and jeepney engines along busy streets of Manila. But this is the life I chose-- no home to speak of, no room to own, no door to open and to lock, no family to rely upon when things go wrong, no flowers and butterflies to cheer me up.

There is no turning back. Or at least I cannot afford to turn my back.

And not even the June Rain can change that.

Another book on a rainy day

2004-06-12T22:49:00.000+08:00

It is during this unusually cold and gloomy night that I think of what book to read from cover to cover. It must have been my erratic mood that affects my inability to content myself with just a single novel. But if you know me well, I have all excuses for settling on many books at the same time. I actually have plenty of excuses for all things I fail to do.

Today, I found myself in a place which oftentimes reminds me of my failure to make a choice. Bookstores offer me everything that I want. They make me think twice why I am in the world I chose to be in right now and why I am not taking steps to write a novel nor spend a great deal of time writing more poetry and prose. Books are more than time capsules for me, they are a lifestyle.

As soon as I entered the store with my friend, Ann, I hurriedly dispatched myself to the Poetry section to check on latest works by my favorite poets and whether or not they already have Charles Simic on shelves. After I carefully traced the words of Dante with the tips of my fingers, I realized that I was not in the mood for a solitary poetry reading with myself. So I shifted to the Literature section and after a few minutes of gleefully fawning my eyes over novels of dead authors, I still haven't decided on what to read. Without any other choice, I hesitatingly snatched a copy of Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia-Marquez. Moments later, Ann handed me By the River Piedra by Paulo Coelho. My face was cloaked with disapproval as soon as I saw the book, not because I already read it but because I don't really like Coelho, after reading The Alchemist and after hearing numerous criticisms of his works, most of which were bombarded by my friend Levie.

"Oh I can finish this in an hour" I told of The River Piedra while I hastily set aside the novel by Marquez.

"Wait a minute, I'll get another copy." she said, as she flew to the rack of contemporary novels. I followed her in the hope to satiate myself on other novels by the same author.

"Here's another one, you may like it," she exclaimed as she hesitatingly assumed that I haven't read Veronika Decides to Die yet.

"Good novel?"

"You haven't read it?" I knew she would say that, especially that she has an impression of me as someone who is updated about novels. After thinking of lying about it, I finally confessed,

"Excerpts of it." and held out a faint smile. I could sense a vacuous expression ran through her face. "You know me, I am impatient when I read novels. Now I read six novels simultaneously and I haven't finished a single one up to now." Now that's a feeble excuse but hey, you can't expect everyone to read every famous novel right?"

Indeed I've been impatient with books. I cannot finish a single novel for the reason that each has a bromidic, cloying attribute that make me want to put aside after fidgeting a few leaves of it. I do it often, especially if I am undecided on what to do, save for those ultra-boring days when I have no other choice but to read classic novels 'til I fall asleep. Of course my mood has a lot to do with what book to read at the moment. So now, I am back to Emma by Jane Austen, after reading half-way through Virginia Woolf (yes I'm still reading her!) and after wearing out over The Broken Wings by Kahlil Gibran. And, I was not contented yet, I even bought Adam Bede by George Eliot and Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy. I launched reading them two days ago but the crepuscular text by Eliot annoyed me and Thomas Hardy's too depressing-- not in time for my current state.

I never really learned the patience of clogging my attention to one novel. Ann thinks that it's ideal to read one novel at a time, so as for my mood not to go haywire. But considering the current books I'm reading, I don't think I am bound to stay on one novel that I'd really enjoy.

"Have you read Lolita?" I absently asked my friend while sandwiching a middle-aged goodlooking guy at the counter.

"No, a good book?" she aswered as she paid for her books.

"I've read good reviews of it but I guess it's for teens."

"Nobokov's a fantastic writer, aint he?"

"Maybe." At that instance, I decided to buy a copy of it but the minute I glued my eyes on the book slumbering beside it, I instantly resolved that I will not longer buy Lolita.

"That's a very moving book. I have a copy of it, but I lent it to Rafael when his father died." she told me, while we were on our way home.

"He didn't bother to read it though, except Chapter 11." she added.

I looked at the cover of The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy and was pleased at how neatly the cover is designed. This must be a good story, if she gave a copy of it to him. Contentment beamed my eyes then I silently pronounced likeness on it.

I think I can finish this tonight.

Some days are too long

2004-06-11T14:27:00.000+08:00

For the past weeks, my life has been swarmed by a series of misfortunes and these made me drained, physically and emotionally. You know how it goes: when you're about to take-off from your slumber and meet the busy world, another bad news barricades your door and you're wondering why it so happened but you cannot make sense out of anything that's happening. So you lose your faith again-- in yourself, and in the people around you. Then back to your slumber you retire again, nurse your misery and patiently wait for another right time to meet the world.

Trying to feel better these days has been a prodigious effort when before, all it took was a pack of candy-coated chocolates and everything is fine again. Now, a great deal of time is spent on it and I hardly feel any better. Most times I find myself online, reading what other people have to say about things under the sun. Some other times, I read classic novels, which are usually successful in lulling me to sleep. So it's always like that-- an arduous, difficult, and perpetual struggle. It calls for gigantic courage to let go of strong emotions in order to be able to get back on track.

Some days ago (I forget the exact date), I was observing people from one of the tables at the second floor of Starbucks 6750. I've noticed that some exude in self-confidence, which can make them intimidating, mostly to creatures of illusion. How do these people generate this imponderable quality? Perhaps by thinking that they belong to the group of those who have innate superiority-- maybe be status, wealth, straight nose, fair complexion, a famous father, a grandfather's portrait taken by Ansel Adams, -- or acquired superiority like a high level of education or a slot in the first ten of bar exam passers. These, I must say, are pathetic devices of our imagination over other people. Hence, the enormous importance by other people of themselves, the arrogance after reading Rebecca West and her feminist views, the illusion that they can move the earth, the dependency on Philosophy, etc. I sometimes wonder where on earth did the notion that women are more inferior than men, come from? Women have served men all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of men twice its size. Without that power, the glories of our war would still be unknown and Supermen would never have existed. These times though, women are trying to level with men that some misunderstandings that arise between a man and a woman are sometimes cause by a woman's wounded vanity.

There are a lot of things worth noting over a cup of coffee actually, especially if you like to sweat your forehead over mundane things, like what I do when I am sad.

Before it only took a pack of candy-coated chocolates to make me feel better. Now, it's more than the sum total of niceties that I have in my list, plus a cup of nicely brewed coffee. Believe me, they can hardly make me feel any better.

French Films

2004-06-09T12:47:00.000+08:00

La Pianiste (The Piano Teacher)

A few days ago I saw a French Film, which my friend Levie gave me as a token from her recent visit in Hong Kong. La Pianiste or The Piano Teacher is one, if not the most bizarre foreign film I ever saw. It tells about a very prim, proper, and demanding teacher who holds a very deep, dark secret-- she is obsessed with pornography and bondage. She lives with her domineering mother and manages to live a respectable lifestyle. Then a young, good looking student comes along who expresses a major interest in her. She resists at first, but eventually gives in and exposes him to her dark fantasies. However this only leads to tragic and ponderous results.

If you expect to see titillating sex scenes, then you'll get disppointed by this film. Most of the sex scenes, particularly those in the CR and the apartment, are dark and grimy, and mostly bring out the angst and cynicism of characters at the start of the movie. The film explores a good understanding of the torment and frustrations of one whose sexual fantasies are very strong and perverse and yet can never really be lived out.

There are interesting discussions in the movie about Schubert, Beethoveen and Bach. Watching the movie made me realize that playing any one of those mentioned should be done with great effort.

The one truly lasting image one gets from this film is not the sex nor the piano. It is the face of the main character. Michael Haneke (director) shows a good sensitivity for this. It is a unique face in that it at times seems very plain and middle aged and then at other times seems to have strong hints of youthful beauty. You literally SEE the tightness and coldness of the character and then at other times a softness. In one memorably quick moment you even see the look of playfulness and devil may care. Her face is shown a lot sometimes in extreme close up. Yet the more they show it the more fascinating it seems to become.

##########

Tout va bien, on s'en va (Everything's Fine, We're Leaving)

Yesterday afternoon, I watched another French film at the French Spring Festival at Greenbelt 3. Em and I were actually left with no choice for the 2:30 screening so we settled with whatever's available for viewing.

Tout va bien, on s'en va, is about the impact on three sisters of the return of their father, Louis, who left them 15 years earlier. The girls don't only have different characters but they also have differing reactions to the their father's return. Claire cant believe she's having back her father but soon she realizes that she has to take care of him (he is suffering from losing the memory and that's why he actually came back, to recognize them while he still can) and Beatrice (the careerwoman) for whom everything had been long over, there isn't any reason why she should be remembering him again. The elder sister Laura didn't know what to do (reject him or give him that second chance).

That pretty much sums up the plot - the film tries to present itself as a psychological study rather than a narrative. Unfortunately the main characters are difficult people and hard to like, and their reactions to their father's return (ranging from total hostility to apparent acceptance) are hard to understand, as nothing is revealed about their former relationships. The film would have been much better if it had taken itself less seriously, and offered more to its audience - more plot, more background, and a more convincing exploration of its characters.

I admit that I didn't understand why the ending was so. I even thought whether it was deliberate on the part of the director or not. Nonetheless, the movie was worthwhile.

Starbucks Greenbelt 3

2004-06-08T21:00:00.000+08:00

Hot or sometimes Iced Cafe Latte
Transforms the table into a new
Venue for melting dialogues,
Like how Philosophy makes a man
And an unnamed fear when our homeland
Becomes a Banana Republic;
Some lines borrowed from Neruda,
Some immortal verses from poets,
And unpopular lines from
Jaded journalists.
Half-way through the cup
Your Cappuccino subsides
While silence heightens bit
By bit until a group of odd-looking
Girls start to call it a night
With their silica-implanted chests.

All interesting things and people around,
You amuse youself by
Torn and crumpled tissues
Unknowingly made into paper snowballs.