Salamangkero

Thank You, Good-Bye

2010-06-01T19:03:00.004+08:00

Hey there. It's been more than a year now, hasn't it? I won't be asking how you've been, not for lack of manners or a distaste for formality but simply because I don't care anymore. You have, to me, completely ceased to exist and it is only your meager efforts ever and anon that rescues your existence from the intense denial I have subject it to.

I must say, I do admire your... perseverance. I'm still weighing the pros and cons of bidding you a formal good-bye. On one hand, it would only be fair to notify you of the termination of our rather unusual social relationship; on the other hand, I really, really, really don't want to talk to you anymore. So while I'm still busy wondering what to do, maybe I should also think about what I would really want to say to you.

Thank you, I suppose. No, really, that's pretty much it. It's been one helluva emotional roller-coaster ride, something I've never experienced before... and would not care to experience again, mind you. Thank you for listening to me when I was sharing my innermost thoughts and feelings... right before you interrupted me with some inane comment about something shallow, like showbiz or school gossip. Thanks for trying to understand, even though you quickly dismissed anything I say as rocket science and, therefore, not worth understanding.

Thanks very much for the spare time, spare effort, spare concern and spare love you heaped on me whenever it suits you. If I were a dog, I would be most heartily grateful for these scraps you carelessly tossed aside. Thank you for texting me only when you needed something... or when you're absolutely bored. I am forever grateful for that time when you said you missed me... and then proceeded to have phone sex with me, because, deym, you were horny and needed to get off. Really.

Thanks for sharing a lot of things with me... like your ego. Remember how you were so proud of you're perfect grammar and flowless diction? Or how you were top one in English in your class and, thus, needed none corrections from me? I really couldn't not believe how all those call centers would not accepted you. Can't they not understand you're English?

How about that summer vacation we had? I really admired you back then 'coz you're so knowledgeable on a lot of stuff, like which would have been a better place to stay if only I hadn't booked a month in advance or how the cook could've made that damned chicken dish better with just a frickin' dash of paprika or the plebeian tricks they did with the fucking milk and cookies we had that blasted night or the much shorter goddamn route we could have fucking had taken if only I fucking goddamn knew how to fucking drive?

Excuse me, I need a breather.

Aaaand I'm back. God, did I write that? I must admit, I have a rather uncouth tongue at times. I could really be so rude and unkind to people, you know? People who ask for a second chance and ditch it in a heartbeat. People who constantly bemoan their lack of money and employment yet would not "stoop down" to flippin' burgers because they're friggin' BS Nursing graduates so the world better get the jobs as nurses or CSRs or fuck the hell off. People who look down on the profession of thousands of other people trying to earn an honest living simply because it involves fastfood grease. Yeah, my blood boils for those people but, of course, enough about me, this is all about you.

So, again, thank you... for everything. Thank you for making me hate an entire city because of one insane week. Thank you for being there for me whenever you have nothing at all to do (which kinda puzzles me considering you were, last I heard, still unemployed because... well, never mind. Just thank you) Thanks for the blowjob and the fucking and the two-hour long torrid kisses. Thank you for commenting on my poor fashion taste; I'm sure you only meant good by it.

I'm really grateful... for everything and now, get this: It's over. O-V-E-R. It's not silent treatment; we're over (if there ever was such a thing as "we" to ever register in your mind) Silent treatment usually lasts for a couple of weeks, at its worst and, given that I have not responded to you for, what, three-quarters of a year, I suppose, don't you think you should already be figuring something out by now?

Oh, and I'm sorry I couldn't fulfill that promise you badgered me into. You'll have to get a copy of the LoS movie elsewhere.

The Nightmare Despite Christmas

2009-12-26T22:43:00.000+08:00

This time, I shall speak out. I cannot no longer hold my peace, not when I am continually assaulted like this.

Perhaps it is a product of having too much time on my hands, perhaps it is because the winter vacation has afforded me enough space for blogging, or perhaps I am completely fed up with the bullshit thrown my way but, know this, what I am about to write is not born of impulse. I have been thinking of this, for several years now, and the last thing I'll need is an idiot who thinks of my sentiments as nothing more than a rant done on the spur of the moment.

Enough charades; I will not try your patience as mine had been. This is about homophobia.

I count myself as one of those lucky enough to escape the ordeals many homosexual men in our country face. My parents have yet to beat or disown me on account of my sexuality. In private schools, gay boys are either harassed, outcasted or given a wide berth. Worse, in public schools, limp-wristed boys are known to be raped during after-school hours, or even during classes, inside filthy, ill-maintained washrooms that smell of nicotine and sex. Non-consensual sex.

I am born of a Christian family, enrolled in a Catholic school and graduated one of the more prestigious universities in our country. As such, I was not exposed to much of the terrible abuse that haunts those unfortunate to prefer those of the same sex. My classmates in high school were all kept under the watchful eyes of stern nuns, ambitious parents and overbearing teachers; oh, there were mean girls and such groups but the manifestation of hatred rarely developed into something that cannot be shrugged off. Brawls and bouts of fighting were very rare but, even then, the parties involved usually are comprised of a pretty girl and two or more boys. I digress, however.

I must admit, after the pampered spoon-feeding of that Catholic school, college was an immense eye-opener for me. I was surrounded by people who smoke, who swear profusely, who wear, of all things, dining utensils. In my years at the university, I have met chain smokers, alcoholics, drug users and video game addicts. At the risk of being overly proud of my alma mater, I could say that each and every one of those people I have met is somewhat intellectual. Oh, there were prejudices and other such matters of emotions but, in a place ruled by rational thinking, or a close approximation of it, these were toned down to an indistinct hum or buzz in the background: one you can quite easily ignore or miss, if you weren't particularly keen on looking for it.

Working after college was also an eye-opener of an equal, or possibly greater, degree. There was so much food to be had, so many places to go to and so many things to buy, yet one can only earn so much. There are so many idiots out there, waiting to be discovered the moment you step out of the sheltering embrace of school and family. Then there are also homophobes.

I came out to a few people on my second year of college. Some treat it off-handedly, knowing what I was before I even knew of it myself. Some treated it with interest, as though having a gay friend was a very unique experience. I do remember a girl or two who gave me a strange look coupled with a wistful, yet disappointed, sigh. No violent reactions, of course, but, more importantly, no hostile reactions. However, when I stepped into the corporate world, the prejudice against people like me, once a hum, grew to be a deafening and largely threatening rumble that strongly impelled me to tread very carefully.

When I first worked in a corporate environment, I had found myself surrounded by homophobes. More than once, I had mused over the irony of a homosexual having homophobes as his first circle of frie... ahem, "acquaintances" The more I knew them, however, I found myself retracting my unsavory judgments; I, too, had been rather presumptuous. Some of them were actually nice people, if you get to know them better. We enjoyed crude gay jokes at which I took minimal to no offense but, then, we also cracked sexist jokes about women (or more rarely, men) Some of these people, too, I found to be profound, introspective, admirably civil and, rather importantly, I suppose, discreet. I do suspect that a lot of them already knew what I am but, so far, nothing much has changed.

It was here that I thought the worst I could ever experience was a gay joke.

Just recently, I had finally experienced, first hand, what I thought was nothing more than wild and exaggerated claims of attention-deprived individuals. Just this month of holiday cheer, I was proven wrong. People, whom you once thought were intellectual, turned out to be... for lack of a better term, rotten eggs.

It was not a sudden revelation; I had an inkling of a few of my coworkers' thoughts on homosexuality several months before. It begins, I suppose, with the eyes; they tend to be shifty and cannot meet a homosexual's gaze for more than a second. Then the affliction travels down the spine as they unconsciously lean away from you when you are talking to them. It moves to the feet, causing them to seek the maximum possible distance they can put between themselves and any nearby homosexuals. After a while, it also begins to infect the mind, causing one to be forgetful at opportune moments. One has to conveniently return to get a forgotten, if not imaginary, item from one's desk if only to avoid sharing an elevator with a gay guy. As the disease progresses, it also begins to affect the mouth where words tend to slip at inopportune moments, offering a glimpse of the dreaded rotten mass festering within.

These are, I suppose, symptoms exhibited by people with intense homophobia who, pressured by the society, in its gradual enlightenment, have attempted to hide their, for lack of a better word, hatred under a cloak of rational thinking and intellectual reasoning.

Allow me to present to you some observations. Suppose you were alone in the elevator when, at some floor, a black man steps in. If you make a small step to the side and keep watching him warily from the corner of your eye, shame on you, that is racism. If however, instead of a black guy, a gay guy walks in and you also made the same actions, would it be wrong? Why, no, not at all, you reason. There's no being too cautious around gay men, they tend to jump cute guys like you, no? Come to think of it, you should be panicking and trying to get out of there as fast as possible. Already you can feel him staring at you hungrily, drooling inwardly at the hunky piece of meat you are. Yeah, that's good, assume the worst; better safe than sorry, right? Bullshit!

Another one, there's a party and there are several balloons. What wonder of wonders, there happens to be rather long and, allow me to describe, phallic balloons around. If you take one of these lengths and turkey-slap a girl with it, well, shame on you again! That is terribly sexist and is a very good ground for sexual harassment! You don't do that to a girl (except, perhaps, in straight porn films) at least, not in a civil setting, not in public! Now, take the same balloon and slap it on a gay guy's cheeks, why, now it's quite amusing, isn't it? A soft, lengthy, conveniently phallic implement assaulting a homosexual in an act of symbolic domination, now that's quite a comic scene, ain't it? After all, he probably enjoys it, don't they all? After all, they're gay, they're addicted to sex and they're addicted to cock, penises, phalluses, anything long, so it's alright, hm? It's not sexual harassment if they like it, isn't it? And you can always, ALWAYS, assume they like it. Why? 'cause they're gay, that's why! Another bullshit!

Now suppose you were in a mall and an autistic kid accidentally brushes your arm. Now, suppose you, for all that you have learned about tolerance and understanding, reeled back in fright, making that hissing sound a snake makes when threatened. What you did is very, very wrong too. There is probably no -ism word for that yet, but you are being terribly prejudiced. Autism is not a freaky contagion and there usually is no harm meant when an autistic person passes you by. You cannot acquire autism by such a small and fleeting contact. However, of course, if it was a gay guy, it would be very, very different now, wouldn't it? I mean, they're flaming sexual creatures; they're always on the prowl, hunting for eligible men, men like you. There's no harm in jerking your arm way back and instinctively leaping away from them now, is there? After all, you were just trying to protect yourself from them. More and more bullshit, where will it ever end?

I should be enjoying my winter vacation. Even non-believers do enjoy Christmas festivities and Yuletide buffets. Yet, what am I doing? Simmering hatred, feeling injustice, attempting to forgive the unforgivable. All of you, I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Some of you turned out to be nice people. I am very grateful for the warmth shared by a mere handful. I smilingly welcome the openness offered by very few. I admired the unexpected discretion of some of you. For some of those that cannot really accept me as a homosexual guy, I appreciate your silence and, for that, I you have my respect.

However, for those who cannot accept or even tolerate, for those who whisper ill words within earshot and for those who regale companions with pure bullshit on being gay, I sincerely wish you a very Happy and Merry Christmas. For a non-believer like me, that's pretty much the same as a "Fuck you."

Sincerity

2009-09-21T01:53:00.000+08:00

Hello stranger. It's been quite a while; do you still remember me? Frankly, I don't remember what you looked like. I don't even recall the slightest bit about you. My memories of those years were really fuzzy. You only exist in my head through secondhand accounts of the people around us. We were best friends back then and we used to go to school together, rain or shine. The last thing I heard about you was that you emerged from the closet a few years back. Good luck with that.

Hello stranger. Do you remember the time when we first met? I think I do, I still vaguely recall my mom meeting your mom and teasing me about having a crush on your sister. Do you remember going to our home to play war games? You had a bunch of your own toys in your arms while we had a bin of toys that, in a pinch, could transform into magnificent structures like teleport stations, barracks, lookout towers, missile turrets and battleship launch pads. We went to the same school, right? Only, I was a few years older than you. There were three of us: you, me and that girl with the singing voice. We were best friends back then and our lives, we shared with each other every time we met. Now, we each tread our own distinct paths.

Do you remember when we were young and you taught me how to play chess? You always beat me back then but you probably didn't know that I lost because I was looking, not at the chess board, but at you. Remember when you and your sibs were taking a bath in your garage? Hmmmn, you probably don't wanna remember that so, for your sake, I hope you've forgotten. Remember when we both entered the service of the church? Oh, I was so young and gullible then. I worked as a sacristan and, later, as a choir member. Man, I feel sorry for those who have heard me back then. We were both young and sang soprano, right? However, you left and I was stuck with an emo soprano girl while my voice turned to its present baritone. Or was it bass? Gah, I'm no good at this.

We both went to the same high school, right? Oh, the memories I'd rather have erased! Still, your presence lingers and I still recall that unique bond we shared. I would often lie to you and, as I found out years later, you have also lied to me. It was thieves' honor, I guess, how we shrugged off the discovery of each lie, silently promising never to get caught again. Do you remember the blonde policewoman? And the empty Starbucks cup? And how we fought over something as trifle as rendering shadows properly? You were pretty much a jerk back in high school. Some things never change; for instance, I think you're still a jerk right now. And I still think you're pretty cool. Back then, I wished I could be like you but, now, I try my best not to lie; I know now what it's like.

Do you still recall those three handkerchiefs you got for your birthday? And how I always stared at you whenever you hover into my field of vision? Man, I was really, really stupid back in high school; statements like, "Sorry, I'm already taken," or, "I have a partner," held no meaning for me. Oh, by the way, thanks for helping me out with that woodworking project. I had no upper body strength back then so I really, really appreciated you sawing my pieces for me. Last I saw you, you were wearing a nursing student's uniform. Best of luck, I guess...

How have you been, stranger? Do you remember that project we were supposed to work on? It was supposed to be an application that renders webpages in IE, Firefox, Netscape, Opera and a lot of other browsers. I still remember your smile... time can take away all my memories but your smile will still remain in my mind. We goofed off a lot, didn't we? However, while you had excellent time management and sleep control, my life was all over the place. We often went home late in the night, didn't we? Yet, you still smelled like clean, crisp, white, sun-dried linen. Sometimes it would be raining and we'd be soaked and frigid but you always smelled like sunshine and, beside me, you were a very precious warmth. I'm sorry I lost your birthday gift for me; to this day, I still wonder what it was.

I still remember your adventures as you regaled us, your teammates, with stories of your high school years. You whacked cars, stole their logos and kept them in key chains, as makeshift trophies of juvenile spite. We played together and while I'm waiting for the others, I played O2Jam. You also played that, didn't you? And we also chatted on YM in the wee hours of the morning. That's where we first met, right? I guess I had a crush on you at the time, that's why I couldn't begrudge you that CDR. We both met inside the church, didn't we? I guess I don't know much about you, even though we worked together for, what, like, six months? I never really understood CakePHP, that's why I stuck to Smarty.

You were our client. You were from Robinson's Corporation, right? I've always admired how smartly you looked. You were with this guy who wore a proper suicide scar (down the street, not across the road). You probably weren't single, but it didn't stop me from admiring you every time you came over. Thanks for the pizza. I didn't feel we deserved it but thanks anyway. I hope you were able to make use of that Bridal Registries System.

How have you been, stranger? Still penning those articles? You don't post to your blogspot anymore, do you? Were you one of those WordPress users? I can't recall. You were my editor-in-chief and I was your opinions editor. Man, it sure was an adventure chasing or even hunting down columnists for their articles. What did you write? You were a feature writer, weren't you? We were classmates in a lot of subjects. Sorry I left you hanging back then, in that tic-tac-toe project. I guess I was pretty much a jerk. Do you still remember how you promised to cover my ass, literally? Man, what an eyebrow-raising moment. I sincerely hope you and your family are okay... you were a very down-to-earth person, that is to say, you were poor. I saw you in an advert poster for SuperFerry; good luck with your modeling career.

I was delayed by one year but, since I was advanced back then and skipped kindergarten, you and I are both probably of the same age. Did you know your best friend had a crush on me? Did you know I had a crush on you? Did you know your best friend had a crush on you too? Maybe, maybe not, depending on who blabbed and who kept silent. You got my attention back in Statistics; you were the only person back there who rode a bike to class. I thought it was novel... and cute. Who would have thought we'd be working for the same company? Or that you'd touch my palm on the very day I made that silly soulmate decree?

You were my first one, stranger, and that, in itself, makes you special to me, somehow. I'm glad you still remember me, even after two years of no contact. Yeah, I lost my cellphone so many times already. I was nursing a heartbreak when I first met you. You were a nursing student and you had a twin sister. You were a divorced dance instructor and your child was with your wife. Thank you for those magical moments we've had. I'm sorry I had to leave; I think I've explained myself well, though.

We met, stranger, we saw each other, we chatted, we dined, saw a movie and went our separate ways. Sometimes, we fought, sometimes, we skipped the dinner and the movies (things seemed pretty much transactional then), sometimes, we just left bad memories in each other. Manila? Makati? That store in front of that shack in Tandang Sora where little brats, yelling "Fuego! Fuego!" shot at us with water pistols? I loathed you, I missed you, I hated you, I loved you and I despised you, in no particular order. Stop stalking me!

We have never met before, have we? No, I just had this cybercrush on you and your cosplay pics. You were very confident and self-assured; I admired that. You were available back then but now you're not anymore, are you? Time, time, it's always bad timing! I hope to see you again but I suppose it's rather inappropriate. I hated your boyfriend because, childishly thinking, he took you away from me but I also loved him because, I can see, he's the one who makes you happy. I hope the chamomile tea helped; I hope you're not on medication anymore. I hope to see you again, perhaps in something less smart than that coat and tie you wore back then... but something more decent than a shirt, a pair of shorts and a pair tacky sandals.

We never talked much, except about work, aside from that one time you sent me a copy of Memories of Nobody. I heard you were overseas now... or was it overboard? I wish you'd stop smoking; it kills you but I suppose you'd rather die than share the planet with someone like me. You never knew, did you? Or did you know but chose not to bother yourself with the details? Life as a pacifist is rather nice: not confronting people, seeking the middle ground or, for some, ignoring the obvious and pretending some things never happened. Or never were. Congratulations! I heard you were throwing a great party, too bad I couldn't make it. Thanks for being there, for helping me out, for taking the fall, for covering my ass, though not as literally as the one back in college.

Thank you, stranger, for inviting me to cosplay. I'm sorry I couldn't help the team much in badminton. I was thinking of inviting you to a facial, but I don't know if you would be offended or if it's inappropriate; I really do think you're really, really cute, if only you had smoother skin. Or was it the tummy? I heard you were going out with a friend of mine and things are getting complicated. Take good care of her... I don't know why I said that but she's a very special girl. Do you know? Of course you do, you three have shared a lot of things together, haven't you? I wish you well with your girlfriend.

I can feel you, stranger. I can feel your stares, your snickers, your inside jokes, your hypotheses, your thoughts. Well, maybe not your thoughts but I heard you, you know, that time when you muttered to your friend, "This is where it begins!" Why do you hate me so? Why do you sneer and choose to be a jerk when I did you no wrong? Alright, granted I had a crush on you but I thought you had such a pleasant personality back then. Man, was I disillusioned.

Thank you, stranger. Thanks for your help, anyway. Thank you for that bottle of Coke Light you de-fizzed for me; it was really very touching and quite thoughtful of you. Thank you for those mind-blowing moments in Makati, or that magical week in Manila, or that two-hour kiss we shared. Thank you for setting me on this career path, for giving me this addiction and for covering my ass (whichever way you did) Thank you for sharing with me that wonderful view on the top of Bahay ng Alumni, or for poking my tummy while I was waiting for a bus back in Philcoa, or for saying hello and good-bye in the same breath. Thank you for doing your work, helping out in projects, veiling your hostility or just being, no, acting civil. Thank you for chess, Computer Science and DotA. Thank you for that hot bowl of noodles when I didn't feel like eating my rice lunch.

I'm sorry I wasn't there, stranger. I'm sorry I was there but I wasn't enough. I'm sorry I took you for granted, said one joke too many, forgot special things and special moments, asserted the wrong things and lied in a way that really, really sucked. I can't promise to do better next time, though. I'm sorry I fell for you, or had you fall for me. I'm sorry things are what they are. If there were no past and future, then, perhaps, we could have had a really great time together but time moves forward and will stop for no one, not even Death. As you yourself had said, it's for those who have waited and have been waited on; it's for the night that, we wished, had never ended.

We'll see each other again, won't we, stranger? After all, we worked together, we studied together, we played together. You were a wizard while I was a mage: a severely under-dressed mage. Perhaps we'll meet each other again, at work, on the streets, online, in the battlefield, in the courts, on neutral ground, in the mall, at the haircutter's, in a coffee shop, under a ceiling, under the sky, beside a road, beside a river, beside time and life. When that time comes again, what should I do? Should I smile? Wave at you? Shake your hand? Greet?

"Hello stranger."

Hearts Mode

2009-04-23T09:39:00.000+08:00

Southwest of the Circle,
past Pegasus and Mercury,
beneath the Clock Tower,

outside the Walled City,
the day after Beltane,
I will wait for you there.

Pft! No Lemons Here

2009-03-18T09:20:00.003+08:00

Didja know that, in the sleeping cycle, REM sleep lengthens towards morning? Or that, chocolate chip cookies keep surprisingly well in really airtight containers?

Oh dear, my sincerest apologies. I am not a morning person yet here I am, writing a blog post over a breakfast of chocolate chip cookies and tea. I do find it hard to get my engines, both physical end mental, running each morning. My body has a natural affinity to resilient horizontal surfaces while my mind prefers navigating a world that only manifests itself when my eyes flicker under closed lids.

Anyway, I've had several dreams this morning but, unfortunately, I can remember only two. Or, should I say, I was fortunate enough to remember two?

A group of men tried to burgle our house. In broad daylight. While we are still there. Either that or they're planning to take us hostage; somehow, their first priority was gaining entry into the structure. I have to give them credit, though; they managed to make it past our gates, which are ALWAYS locked.

In any case, it was a group comprised of three men, who all look the same, a wannabe-punkboy and a dog. The three men seem to be of the same age as me, or older by up to two years, have wild, fiery-reddish hair, kinda like a cross between the Ouran twins, Ron Weasly and Tasuki. The younger boy, was a fair-skinned cute boy, with the same hairstyle as me (or better, I think; it wasn't as shaggy as mine) and has a deep, soft voice, which I recognize to be nearly the same as my neighbor's. The dog was a Spanish Mastiff who, for some reason, is capable of walking as a biped. Its bite also has a rather firm grip, as I found to my pain. A quick search at Wikipedia revealed that the Greeks also used these dogs in battle because of their strength. Figures, huh?

Nevertheless, these intruders were intercepted by me and my sibs; As skirmishes broke out, I remember successfully fending off or, more precisely, dodging two of the triplets before getting attacked by the dog, which forced me to fall back into our foyer. With no other "cool" recourse, I had to slam the door close, which, of course, didn't go that smoothly considering there were two pairs of arms struggling like octopus tentacles and salesmen's feet to keep the door open and two rows of sharp teeth nipping at my wrist. I eventually managed to get it closed and, quickly looking round, found that my sibs has done the same with the other door.

Our defensive victory was not long lived as the front window smashed inwards and three pairs of hands entered the breach and, once again, struggled to get a hold of something... like slimy tentacles in a shokushu hentai "art" film. It looked rather ridiculous and, on hindsight, it IS totally ridiculous for, as I moved to defend, I conveniently had our large kitchen knife in my right hand. Well, I did try lopping at their wrists but it wasn't soon before the blade's progress was hampered by bone. So I took the path of least resistance, which means filleting the top of their arms, scraping the radius and/or the ulna before exiting their wrists. All in all, I managed to fillet five arms before the last triplet withdrew the last of their arms left intact.

With the filleting done, they all stood subdued as lined up in front of us, as though the police had arrived. None were present, at least, none that I recall. We did manage to interview them. The triplets were rather nonchalant jerks, except the one who still had an intact arm. He was smiling sheepishly, apologizing for the "inconvenience" they have caused us and scratching his head with his intact arm. The others, stripped of the muscles of their lower arms, just stood there. The boy we subjected to a serious upbraiding, lecturing about the company people should keep and how serious the matter is. Oh, alright, so maybe he wasn't so young, maybe he was around 17 or 18, but, to me, he really still IS a boy.

The dog, I found in our shed, muzzled and docile. I remember asking my dad if we could, perhaps, "accidentally" have another pet dog? After all, he looks useful, considering he can play the piano too! How did I know? Well, we also "accidentally" received an upright piano, which the daytime burglars just so conveniently happened to bring along with them. The doggie walked up to it, tugged on the leash in my sister's hand and, well, just played the keyboard! So yeah, our family does counter-steal from those who try to steal from us but that's not the point. Anyway, my dad objected to my request as, he claims, it might still have the programming our prisoners instilled into it, no matter how calm and obedient he looks at the moment.

And then I woke up. And, just now, I realized that it's getting rather late and I have to be at work an hour from now. I'll stop here for the meantime and carry on sometime later.

...

So... welcome to the future, folks. It is now evening and dinner was two hours past but my mind is still as drowsy as it was this morning and my body as sluggish.

Perhaps it wasn't such a brilliant idea to have deferred writing about the second dream. Truth be told, I don't remember much about it and the few fragments I do remember, my somewhat-awake mind realizes to be quite incriminating. If you really need the gory details, let it be known that it was about me and a girl stumbling into a party comprised of twelve girls, at least one of them pre-pubescent, and one boy, all on vacation. And a corpse whose existence was hinted to be manifest upstairs but was never visually confirmed. And a mysterious mansion floored with cabernet carpet in the middle of a forest. (I have the feeling that me and my partner detective are originally part of the group, only we were late in coming. Too late to save that guy upstairs, anyway) And... no, let's leave it at that, shall we?

Yeah, I know. Such a sucky future, huh? Well, c'est la vie.

The Superfluous Case of the Mexican Jumping Ladybug

2009-02-24T16:35:00.003+08:00

Much as it is my consternation to see lengthy post subjects in my sidebar, I simply cannot resist using what you see now. For, you see, I had, just a while ago, been filtering water for human consumption when, as I was unscrewing the cap of the large water jar, I noticed a ladybug perched on the handle of the jar. As it loathes me to extinguish the life of such a beautiful creature needlessly, I tried to pick it off the jar and return it to the wild, or as close to the wild as I possibly can, which means our backyard garden.

As Mother Nature, in her wisdom and benevolence, had pre-programmed smaller creatures with a natural aversion to humans as part of their flight instinct, it should have been no surprise that it should attempt to escape me and, indeed, it did so. Now, my knowledge of ladybugs is quite limited but I was only expecting it to fly away so you can thus imagine my no small surprise to find that within an instant, it was gone from the water jar and I felt a smart poke in my upper lip. In the next moment, a ladybug was perched on my hand while my upper lip vaguely remembers a small presence on its surface.

I had never expected a ladybug to be leaping as forcefully as, say, a flea. In any case, it did give me a fright to consider that I might have opened my mouth at that instant and drowned the poor creature in my spit. As it was, I did release it in the garden where, I was pleasantly surprised to discover, some of our orchids were beginning to bloom.

What that ladybug incident had to do with my blog post, I have nary an idea. It just seemed like the sort of thing I might be dying to share with someone, anyone! However, in any case, it is entirely irrelevant except for some convoluted coercion of the bounds of reason and philosophy.

The season here, now, is quite speedily approaching summer and, while I am typing this blog post to an overcast sky, a cool breeze ever and anon would lift the cloudy curtain and expose us all to that life-giving flame in the sky. Might I remark that, as I lay in bed a while ago, I had observed that clouds do form rather faster than I thought as I saw wispy tendrils grow into honorable puffs within half a minute.

In any case, sun, wind and clouds aside, I had meant to say that quite some time had passed since my last post and, quite uncharacteristically of my life so far, quite a lot have happened.

A high school acquaintance had, this January, orchestrated for me a blind date with a friend of hers who, for some reason, she supposed was a potential romantic match for me. A date has been set, so to speak, though a certain complication, a family affair, had my potential match requesting that the date be moved to the next weekend.

That should have set off the alarm bells in my head. Over the course of the years, I have discovered a rather strange correlation: guys who make me wait a considerable amount of time often make terrible, or, at least, incompatible, partners. As far as I can tell, of all those men I can remember, two of them hooked up with another guy, one turned out to be straight, one was an obnoxious, arrogant jerk, one already had an offspring, one was an insecure nutcase and one, the last one, well, did not spark my interest. So sorry for the spoiler but there it is. Simple, brief and concise.

For those who preferred a more superfluous narration, allow me to continue by saying that the next weekend turned to be a little bit complicated too. On a Thursday afternoon, I received a request that the date be postponed again for my date is to be attending a friend's party, which I was gracious enough to grant. I finished the week finalizing my plans for the weekend, which involves resting on a Saturday and celebrating the end of the Chinese year with my senpai on a Sunday. By Friday midnight I have received a text message informing me that he had "canceled" going to the party and that our date was to proceed as "planned" that Saturday. I have also received the same message on Saturday morning; both messages were read as soon as I woke up on Saturday noon.

As pissed off as I was at having to change my plans so spontaneously and having been a last resort to having a socially eventful weekend, I just simmered silently and confirmed my attendance. Fifteen minutes after I had boarded a bus, I received a text message requesting that our 3PM rendezvous be moved to 5PM. I attempted a compromise of 4PM, which was met with a, "How about we move the date to next weekend?"

I explained, subtly, of course, how I would not appreciate going back home after absolutely nothing and he responded that he cannot make it in 4PM. I was a hair's breadth from screaming at this jerk and calling the whole thing off but I, foolishly enough, remembered that my high school friend thought that we are a match. Gritting my teeth, I courteously informed him that moving the date was very much out of the question and that I will be waiting for him by 5PM.

Such a gracious decision was met with SMS silence, which I brushed off. If this jerk did not come, at the very least, nobody could accuse that I did not keep my word, so I waited for three whole hours, during which I met with a sharp blow on my right shoulder due to an accident. All in all, the waiting wasn't that bad as I have been window-shopping anyway and I had also brought a good book with me.

He arrived a lot later than 5PM, of course, and I have practically given up, by now, any notion of matching up with him. Nonetheless, I am a rather benevolent person in these kind of things; I, too, would not want to be turned down simply because I was a minute late... or two... or a hundred and sixty. Simply put, I gave him a chance, never mind that he had me tumbling left and right just to accommodate his fucking spontaneous, spur of the moment so-called "schedule".

We watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I wasn't exactly expecting him to grope me then and there or to engage me in a torrid kiss but, at the very least, people usually talk to each other during movies. I may have been guilty as charged during those breathtaking parts where Brad Pitt was just being his breathtaking self. Gah! He looks so cute, when he's not hot. Well, of course, I did not really dig him in his prosthetics, I mean, my preferences have always been for men older than me but not THAT old! Anyway, he's so hot and/or cute that, there were times that my gaze was practically glued on the screen.

So, I suppose part of the silence was my fault. However, it is rather customary for those participating in these social encounters to talk about the movie once it was finished. And talk we did, as the first few words that came out from his mouth puzzle about the impossibility of such a curious case. That, I suppose, effectively killed the conversation, but I tried a response, anyway, by reminding him that it was a work of fiction, after all, and that the piece explored, not the scientific aspect of whether such a condition would be possible but how an otherwise typical human would have reacted to such interesting circumstances. I followed up by asking what he would do if he, somehow, woke up in a body seven or so years younger and was met with a shrug.

Gah! Just trying to remember that "date" upsets me so lemme end by saying that we ended up exchanging minimal information. I managed to glean, through subliminal context cues, that he is not really interested in me, even as a person, and that I have been wasting my time as he does not seem the least bit interesting either.

It would seem that destiny or fate or chance or coincidence, somehow, helps keep me from forming long-term relationships with anyone else but my boyfriend-slash-it's-complicated, who, I discovered, to my joy, had been engaged in volunteer work in a hospital. It doesn't pay much, heck, it's not supposed to pay at all, but, for nursing graduates, it's the experience that counts, right?

The next day was, somehow, better. I went to my senpai's house and brought a cake as omiyagè (present) as it seemed the safest choice of cross-cultural present. Up to this date, I have brought to that house only cake, ice cream or donuts. We lounged about most of the day, had a filling lunch and a filling dinner, ate sweet oranges chilled in the freezer, watched a game of Devil May Cry in progress and learned a thing or two about this field of science called Boob Physics. Oh yeah, we also took home tikoy; sticky cakes notorious for pulling dentures right out of their bearer's clutches, those are customary gifts from Chinese people during the Chinese New Year.

It was quite a quite unproductive weekend, which is, to me, not ill-deserved as my weekdays have been spent rush-coding a project whose deadline was, to me back then, unknown. And, one day near the end of January, I was met with a "Booyah! Deadline's two days from now!"

Well, suffice to say that I have been taking half of a few working days off for the mere fact that I am feeling ill but can ill-afford to take an entire day's absence. There was one time that I did take an entire day's off on account of my back killing me after being hit by a rogue badminton racket that, somehow, slipped free of my brother's hand. Even in such a condition, so I am obliged to come online to assist my coworker(s) in some urgent, work-related matter.

In any case, as the ex-Amyrlin Siuan Sanche counted the small blessings to be found in the great adversity known as stilling, so shall I take comfort in the fact that these exhausting exertions work, in their own little way, to keep me out of the hot water otherwise known as "unemployment" Still, however, my body keeps on persistently telling me that I desperately needed a break so, here I am, taking it easy, or trying to, while I took an entire week off.

I have read before, in Reader's Digest, a snippet about this guy who has two worries about taking a leave. One is that his absence may affect things at work... the other is that it may not. The introduction read something along the lines of "There is a fine line between self-confidence and insecurity" Thus, you can very well see that, while I should be trying to get as much rest as I can, I find myself worrying why nobody has called me for help yet.

Would this week-long absence demonstrate that the team can get by without me just fine? Am I to be discovered an unnecessary appendage, perhaps even a liability very much like an inflamed appendix? Should I call to check on any of my coworkers as recommended by Scott Meyer? Or should I maximize taking it easy in anticipation of a heavier load build-up during the time I was gone? Would I be greeted with several things that demand my immediate and special attention? Or shall I be met with a memorandum politely asking for my resignation as I have been deemed... unneeded?

In any case, it was just as well that I got this week-long leave of absence because I am in dire need of time to think. When I graduated and got a job, I was set onto a routine that, by virtue of inertia, had remained much unchanged. There is the small spot in the back of my mind that somewhere out there, the other half of a mid-distance relationship may or may not be thinking of me. As I had mentioned earlier, I had found out, just a month ago, that he had successfully gained employment as a volunteer nurse in a hospital undergoing expansion. It is his, and my, earnest hope that he would be accepted as a full-time employee once the expansion process is completed.

There were, however, some things worth pondering on. One is that he was the reason why I hated the city of Manila. We broke up under rather uncertain terms and communication between the two of us ended on an indefinite note. He did contact me again around September of last year, asking for another chance. After much introspection and hypothesis formulation on my part, I acquiesced as I recognized that I was, after all, still not over him. (I still do have fond memories of the hour-long kisses I've shared with him)

Simply put, I have given him another chance. I began hoping aloud that we might meet on a date, however, his circumstances back then, being unemployed, and the sheer fact that he lives in another province put a stop to our plans. In fear that I might offend his male ego by continually pestering him about the state of his employment, or lack thereof, I stopped speaking of planning dates and fell to rather vague and generic How-are-you?s.

Well, I did make one last effort to ask him out on a Valentine's date by the end of January, which was met with a disappointed "No". It was then that I learned he's now working. In a spur of the moment, however, I decided to call him on Valentine's Eve, just to catch up with him and, for me, simply to hear his voice again.

The first few hours were quite pleasant, though rocky, as we reminisced a lot of things in the past and what had happened with our respective lives since the time we ceased communications after the breakup. I have told him, in all honesty, some generic details of the dates I have accepted and was not the least bit surprised to learn that he had been seeing someone too.

In the third hour of our conversation, however, things had gone rather awry and I observed that, despite my wondrous illusions about that one week love affair we shared, I still know next to nothing about him. This realization dawned upon me as we were talking of the events since September of last year. I had related, in a rather carefree and careless manner, how I had turned down some dates since I gave him another chance. That he was mortified mortified me. He had admonished, rather kindly, that I shouldn't have turned down offers for a date on his account. He said that he cannot guarantee that he could show me the same devotion that I was trying to perform.

I saw things rather differently, of course. There was the implicit request that, since I was granted freedom to "shop around" so to speak, I should also reciprocate the same privilege, that is, allow him to date other people as well. I can very well accept that there are to be no guarantees, however, I was of the notion that, if you loved somebody, you don't set up any guarantees; you simply give what love you can and not expect anything. After all, wasn't the future, by its very nature and the laws of quantum physics, uncertain? Much as I am ashamed to admit it, I did give him my love by turning down other boys... except that wretched blind date courtesy of my persistent... acquaintance. Now, I realize, I have been terribly foolish to invest on a love that was not to be reciprocated. I was as disillusioned with this discovery as a little boy who learns that his well-adored superheroes are not real.

There came, two nights after, an instant message from a friend. No really, I meant friend and not "warm acquaintance" or "fleeting congenial contact". I have met him offline only once, though we have chatted considerably often online. And, in my pain and heartache that night, I have cried on his shoulder, so to speak, as much as was possible over Yahoo! Messenger windows. He had some rather consoling words and some phrases indignant on my behalf, which soothed my heart immensely. The morning after, I apologized for my unbecoming behavior. Commoners may think that a friend should be someone you can lean on in times of trouble but I never believed in relieving my burden at the expense of others. Thus, my reluctance to share a depressing story... or open a Lotto outlet. Still, he good-naturedly shrugged it off and reassured me that it's alright. So, for that night, Lee, thank you very much.

Still, however, that botched up date and that Valentine's phone call had been enough external forces to stir me out of the daily line of thinking inertia had led me to. So now, instead of thinking what I would have for lunch, I'm pondering whether I have lived a useful life or not. Instead of wondering who my next sexual contact would be, I am now debating with myself whether I really am capable of love.

I have, just this morning, found out that our village has a clean and well-maintained walkway for jogging. As I jogged up and down slopes and along a meandering path instead of a treadmill, I wondered, not what tomorrow would bring, but what I should be doing tomorrow. There is a fine line denoting the slight difference between the two and in recognizing that line, I was shocked to learn, with trembling anxiety, that I have entered a quarter-life crisis... assuming that an average human lives up to 88 years.

Nope. No poetry to begin or end this post; I feel it is quite lengthy enough, as it is.

Hop ye Knew Here

2009-01-11T15:36:00.004+08:00

Surf upon the rocks.
Gentle rain falls on cedars.
I will fuck you raw.

A haiku of such delicate subtlety about a man's demure affections towards his chaste mistress never fails to impress me with its roundabout way of indirectly implying a mild inclination to... express one's feelings in a more intimate environment.

Now that that's out of the way, I bid you welcome to the New Year's first and only obligatory New Year post of the New Year, 2009. While I'm at it, I'd also like to greet you a rather belated Gay New Year... oh sorry. My ethics adviser requests that I change that greeting to the more proper and politically correct "Fabulous Flaming Bonggacious New Rainbow Year Chorva"

Last year, the 2008 has been a year of great changes both for both better and worse. Stock market prices plummeted, millions have been mired in credit debts, the White House, the Oval Office, to b exact, experienced a c-c-combo breaker and, most importantly, my virgin feet have had its first foot spa and pedicure experience.

On the 25th of December, I have been given a pair of new slippers, or flip-flops, as elitists, socialites and fakers call them nowadays. On the 29th, I have been informed of two commoners who claim to be specialists in stately matters afoot and underfoot. Long story short, I received a foot spa, which left the bottom of my feet soft and pink, and a pedicure, which left my toenails rather nicely shaped.

The commoners offered to paint my toenails, which I politely declined. Much as I admire the humanitarian organization Akatsuki, I don't yet fancy the need to join their ranks. They also offered me a manicure but I brushed them off saying that I am perfectly satisfied doing my own nails. I do remember a female acquaintance remark that I have nice fingernails so I'd rather keep them that way. (I may have poor memories but I do remember compliements given by females. To date, they are: "You're so cute," "You're so smart," "I wish I had slender fingers like you," "You have such nice fingernails," and "Oooh, I like your outfit.") Oh, but what exhilaration rushes into me as I find out that my toenails, once in deplorable shape, are now a nice match to my fingernails!

On a side note that is completely irrelevant to this blog post, I have also received a nice hardbound notebook/journal from an aunt who used to give me the best and worst things. I have once received the book, "Prayers for a Fragile World" but I have also received (and appreciated) a large, tacky hardbound daily planner and several informational books such as Science Explained, 500 Questions and Answers, Amazing Bird Facts and Amazing Animal facts, which I found rather amazing and factual during those pre-Internet days.

Anyway, the New Year came in the night not with a blinding explosion of sparks but a wet shower, if you'll pardon the innuendo (snicker, snicker) It was lightly drizzling but, I suppose, that did not deter people from setting off fireworks. From our balcony, I could easily see the displays over at the next street. Touching my money-laden pockets, (superstition, y'know) I vaguely remembered that my ninong had been rather missing in action last holiday season. Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps not, but the firework displays seem to be brightest and grandest over in the next street... where my ninong lives.

A twinge of annoyance and irritation later and I found myself staring into the darkness. Oh sure, there were still the pinpoint dots of burning specks left behind by numerous fireworks but half of our village was plunged into darkness, including the next street, where a certain someone lives. To give some background information, our village has three circuits. One circuit services half of it (area-wise) where there are comparably fewer houses. The other two serve the remaining, more populated half. Ah, schadenfreude. Someone down there must be looking out for me.

We had plenty of fruits (superstition again, y'know) and leftovers in the form of several tins of chocolate chip cookies. On the 8th of December, my mom had celebrated her birthday by giving away bags of goods to people afflicted with leprosy. We were left with around 10 bags full of groceries (sugar, noodles, coffee, cookies/biscuits) I have, as the eldest in the family, tasked myself with preventing wastage by assisting in the consumption of endless amounts of cookies. Yes, C is for Cookies.

The first working week of the year, however, was spent consuming the much more perishable fruits. Hardly a breakfast had gone by without fruit, although there were some that consisted entirely of fruit and weak tea. Not that I mind, though. I rather enjoy a breakfast with kiwis but I suppose oranges aren't all that bad. Only, consuming apples, oranges and pears reminded me of those antiseptic white hospital rooms, where people lay dying. If I had brought the grapes with me, I would probably have had a much more vivid picture.

The end of the first working week, however, felt a lot more like the end of April or May. Having been subjected to undue stress, panic and frustration, I am very stressed, panicked and frustrated. I take comfort in the fact that I am still employed and, it seems, still needed. I suppose there are other things to be thankful for but I'd rather wrap up at this point, lest I end up depicting myself as a puppy who just received a friendly pat on its head.

Oh, one last thing I'd like to share: an excerpt from an article that lists the columnists wishes for this year. "May the TV stations realize that entertaining people goes beyond 'ownership' of their stars. Perhaps they could bring back the glory days of entertainment." Perhaps, perhaps not.

Curse and Christmas

2008-12-26T23:36:00.004+08:00

Today, I just found out that my grandma had once delivered a curse that, to this day, has yet to be lifted. And she's been dead some thirty or so years now. Ain't it cool or what?

This year's holiday season had been fairly interesting, so far. It was, simply put, a roller coaster of sorts alternating between high spots and low, meandering and looping ever and anon, inducing nausea to the mind and spirit in the same way physical roller coasters cause the body to throw up.

Winter has always been a rather terrible season for me. Well, never mind the jolly fat old pedophile in Coca-cola red calling out for ho's. Never mind too the fact that everyone is too mind-numbingly cheerful and fucking smiling (that is smiling like silly, not breeding like silly), even for a goddamned recession. It's the fact that it's too cold and my back certainly minds the cold a lot. I suppose, though, that I should be thankful it doesn't snow here.

In truth, it seems my entire body actually minds the cold, and several sleepless nights certainly did not help any. In any case, earlier this month, I came down with a 5-day flu that left a prolonged spell of coughing. The medicines I was prescribed did not seem to help with a cure but they did help a lot with just trying to take a proper breath. Also, the sun had taken to hiding behind clouds so, for a sorcerer whose only healing spell requires direct sunlight, you can probably see the problem. The first week was bad enough but the second week was pure mental torture as a co-worker began vocally minding my barking. I have lost count to how many times I have been asked if I'm taking medication for it.

Now, I am experiencing an encore. Oh, I have been getting enough sleep, oh blessed sleep, these days, thankfully enough. Only, last night, what some other people would call Christmas, I have been, well, enjoying myself. There was singing and, by midnight, I swear, I have had enough of songs by Abba, Village People and Spice Girls, both singing and listening to. My highest scoring song (96/100) was an Arnold Schwarzenegger bass and a Karen Walker falsetto of Barbie Girl by Aqua. Ah, no. I wasn't drunk yet. I wanna, really, really wanna zig-a-zig, ah!

There was food, which, I guess, is the one of the few nice things about winter celebrations. I had grilled squid (Mmmmn, tentacles), Sicilian chicken salad with a honey-lemon-mustard dressing (my sister's witchcraft) and uber-cheesy Spaghetti Carbonara (again, my hag of a sister) Feasting, however, usually means that we'll be eating the same dishes remixed, recooked and, worse, reheated for the week after. Not that I mind too much, though. I didn't allow myself to eat much after all so I doubt I will tire of the food so easily.

I didn't eat much because I had a party to host, which has meanings beyond feeding your guests. On the 24th, I had hastily made four party games for tweeners and adults. Inspired by a Facebook application, where you had to guess the famous movie from stick figure sketches, I had made a couple of my own. Below are a few of my crude crayon sketches, that is, the sketches, not the crayons, were crude. (A/N: My scanner acted up. I'll be posting the others as soon as I lazily can)

For those who are imagination-impaired or have been living under a rock the whole time, each picture is linked to a Wikipedia article about the movie.

For that last one, people remembered the quote but not the title ^_^

In any case, the holiday reunion with the families of both my mom and dad certainly had introduced a distinct undercurrent in the air. I smell subtle social maneuvering in some conversations and the absence of one family certainly reeked of trouble. Lately, I have found myself observing people at gatherings a bit more than usual and Daes Dae'mar lessons by way of Robert Jordan's novels certainly did not help lessen the keenness with which I mingle at parties.

There, too, was the nostalgic atmosphere that is almost inevitable when at least two grown-up acquaintances, who have not seen each other for so long, gather for a celebration or a wake. Aside from the usual comments on height, girth and age, the house and the food, and on having a partner (I have always Aes Sedaied by saying that I have no girlfriend yet, which is the plain and simple truth) and suitors (Also Aes Sedaied that, since stalkers are categorically different from suitors and a lover is no longer a suitor either, I have no suitors at the moment), there were a lot of other comments about the past.

I was startled to discover that my earliest memory, a birthday celebration when I was two, was actually my first birthday. Granted, I did not remember much except that I and my grandma were seated and she was feeding me something from a plate (I think it was pancit) but I was only one year old back then! Wow, am I cool or what?

Long after the guests have gone, my mom had taken to regaling us with stories both past and present. She had a half-sister on her father's side, whom she invited for the party. She also had a half-brother on her mother's side, which, as far as I know, my mom and my uncles are still looking for. And buried in those stories was the horrid tale of my grandmother. Her life as an uneducated woman was not easy as she had been duped by several relatives. After a terrible blow to her honor both as a mother and as a woman, she had, in tears, declared the downfall of her niece. There was also an added part, something about her niece crawling on her belly like a snake.

Well, for the remaining years of my grandmother's life, the niece in question had never asked for forgiveness, possibly because of an oversight, she did not deem it necessary or she simply was not aware of the offense. My grandmother eventually died and the curse was never lifted. That niece was now an old woman living in lamentable condition. My aunt is in good health, mind, and not so impoverished, I mean, I'm pretty sure her family eats three square meals a day, but despite the fact that she and all her children are working, their living conditions never improved much.

In comparison, I have an uncle whose wife had, literally, taken a blow to the liver (surgical accident) and whose two children are still in school. I doubt they earn significantly more than my cursed aunt's family yet they have, to my knowledge, a vehicle of their own (my memory fails me now, I'm not sure if it's a jeep, a van or whatever, definitely not a car, though), suitable shelter, at least three square meals a day (God, their daughter was skinny last I saw her, now she's... putting on weight. Visibly. Don't ask about their son) and can afford to go places every now and then, if not more often.

I had once read that the most powerful curses were those thrown by a person on one's deathbed, by those with no other recourse to justice, by those who hold positions of power and by women, in that order. If that is the case, I suppose there's not much hope that my grandma's curse was a genetic talent. I have some of her blood in me but it could very well mean nothing until I was beaten and trampled upon.

In any case, it was what made my mom swear never to be an ignorant Filipina. She would not be as uneducated as her mother, nor does she plan to be solely dependent, financially, on a husband. She eventually grew into a strong woman and, eventually, one of the few people whom I hold a deep respect.

Ack, so cheesy, ne? Yet, I suppose there really is not much choice between the ability to belt out curses as a weakling or to hammer down the obstacles as a strong person, is there?

Gluttony of the Sick

2008-12-10T14:21:00.002+08:00

I was sick. No, not like Michael Jackson, more like a patient needing a doctor. No, not a "special" doctor, a real one. I was ill. Down with flu and nightmarish fever. That was two weeks ago. However, I had lost much of my healthy appetite back then as I was reduced from shoveling food into my mouth with relish into merely troweling something, anything, into me.

There was once a story, a very cheesy one, to be sure, but indulge me. There was a story about a man, a cook, actually, who dreamed of being a highly-paid chef in a five-star hotel but ended up cooking for patients in a hospital. You know the sort, sick, whiny people who bleed at the merest touch of a scalpel or panic at the few pints of blood when they puke. In any case, these were, in his view, people who could hardly appreciate his works. Those who have ever been sick, including Michael Jackson, would know that almost any disease kills appetites. It also kills people but more on that maybe later.

Alas, our good cook had to be human and fall ill himself. In a sterile white bed, illuminated by heavenly light and accompanied by a chorus of soprano angels that have yet to reach puberty, he had come to the realization that he had been a very bad person and needed to be... disciplined. Tsk, tsk, tsk. *whipcrack* In the end, after he recovered, the dishes that came out of the hospital's kitchens were appetizing, scrumptious and still largely unappreciated by their dying recipients. I suppose they skipped the part where he cursed heaven for his hospital bill and rushed straight to the part where he turned a new leaf. Last I heard, he's turned to Scientology.

In any case, I got well after enduring five days of sweltering winter heat and five sleepless nights of nightmarish visions punctuated by the unnaturally rapid thumping of my heart manifesting in my temples. I suppose those bright and colorful little pebbles the doctor had me swallow regularly helped in recovering my health, though, I'm afraid the same could not be said for my appetite.

Oh yes, I still eat one and a half servings at lunch, though I can say with a clear conscience that I am not consciously tasting what I eat anyway. Much of my recent gluttony is actually driven by hunger, not by... well, gluttony. You get the picture, I hope.

Oh, how I have searched high and low for the ambrosia that would restore my appetite. There was this soft and mildly sweet frosted carrot cupcake topped with colorful sprinkles, pork asado in sweet and fragrant anise sauce and grilled blue marlin stewed in a butter spiked with lemon, served with a thick, brown sour-and-spicy sauce I had at this party just last weekend, washed down with several glasses of chilled sparkling white non-alcoholic grape juice, not to mention the servings of dark, almost-opaque ordinary Coca-cola screaming with mediocrity, bubbling with much-unneeded and unappreciated fizz, topped with a newly dented tansan and served with a plastic drinking straw but, sad to say, none of those worked to rouse my slumbering passion for food. It's like a part of me had died and I'm trying vainly to revive the dead.

Thus, it was in desperation and foolishness that I had run to the nearest Rai Rai Ken branch two nights ago. Surely, you can't go wrong with ramen, right? I ordered Chicken Ramen and Kani (crab) Salad, along with calamansi juice. Over the years, I have found that soda does not go well with sisig or bicol express, white wine does not complement baby back ribs and coffee laced with cinnamon and brandy does not sit too well with light cakes. I have also learned that a good glass of ice-cold calamansi juice goes well with nearly everything, except, perhaps, sour dishes like paksiw and sinigang.

Indeed, I was not mistaken as the cold sweet-sour nectar slid down my slimy, pleghm-coated throat. The ramen was great, as usual, though the broth did not seem as flavorful as I last remembered it. The noodles, too, were limp and did not squiggle as much as when I slurped them before. The leeks, heaven be praised for their existence, did not lend quite the kick I was expecting. I suppose the inconvenient cough I acquired lately from thin air had not been of much help in bringing my appetite back to life.

The salad, though, was as excellent as I expected it. The greens were fresh, cool and crisp, the mangoes were as sweet as though it were high summer and the crab meat, oh the crab meat! It was juicy and tasty and clean! Not that I was expecting them to be sewer-caught, but, with seafood, there are some dishes that still taste too much of the ocean's brine and smell too much of a harbor's fish baskets. I don't know how Rai Rai Ken prepares the salad but it was simply... delicious. It did take a toll on my wallet too so I walked out the store poorer than when I came in, a whole lot less hungry, smiling, no, beaming wider than the scowl I wore earlier that day and still no better off with my appetite.

Last night, I had planned to get myself a decent haircut but the salon was closed as its employees were elsewhere celebrating some nonsense foolishness like Easter or Jubilee. Right in the middle of winter, I know! Pft, the idiots! I am a believer that things, somehow, happen for a reason, and that there must be a very good reason the salon was closed on the very night I had more than five hundred bucks in my wallet. Who am i to question a higher power that compels me to crave for pasta? Where noodles have failed, perhaps pasta might prevail, right?

With the nearest TOSH (ye olde abode of spaghetti) closed for renovations and the nearest Spaghetti Factory (ye olde maker of spaghetti) spirited away to hell knows where, I was left with a choice that was no choice at all. I could pit my five hundred bucks against Italiannis (ye old spaghetti of Italy) and lose miserably, grab myself a pesto linguine, spaghetti pomodoro, asian linguine or tuna fetucinne from World Chicken (ye olde fowl of ye earth) and eat what I just ate, oh, just last week or get a too-large serving of Charlie Chan Chicken Pasta at Yellow Cab (ye olde charlock carriage) and eat what I just ate, oh, just two weeks ago.

Searching for alternatives, a dim memory surfaced in my mind of a cold Monday bus ride in Edsa, of a billboard screaming with the color orange, of a cute wavy-haired Asian lady wistfully gazing at the ceiling and of a fork held against a smiling mouth. Ah, Pancake House. I vaguely remember the voice of my friend telling me six years ago, "Yes, they do serve things other than pancakes," in a tone that admonished the mortified surprise that must have shown on my face back then.

Most importantly, I do recall that beneath that ceiling, beneath that beautiful woman and beneath that silly fork, there was a dish that held orange-sauced pasta lightly drizzled with finely grated parmesan cheese. Beyond that, my poor memory fails me but most important to me was the fact that there is pasta to be had somewhere new.

So, last night, for the first time in my life, I entered a Pancake House branch. It was orange, as expected, with a rather warm, inviting and cozy atmosphere, though not as homely, cozy or tacky as TOSH and not as frightfully minimalist-capitalist like Spaghetti Factory. There was soup to be had, though I declined their soup for the day. I am not in the mood for Knorr Cream of Asparagus, though, I must say, they are being rather blatantly honest with their menus; I appreciate that I don't have to wonder what their soups taste like. I did, however, order a bowl of Almondigas, which, it turns out, was nothing more than Pancit Molo, only remove all the greens, replace the siomai and wanton wrappers with pork meatballs, vermicelli with thin rice noodles (misua) and peppercorns with chopped spring onions. It was a rather refreshing appetizer, though, which, like a whetstone, sharpened my hunger into an edged anticipation.

For the main course, I ordered something called Gambera: spaghetti and tomatoes drowning in an orange oil topped with shelled shrimps and grated Parmesan cheese. A test taste of the sauce yielded no memorable flavors. Gambera, I must say, looked a lot more appetizing than it actually tasted. The shrimps tasted... well, unclean is too strong a word so, to put it creatively, it tasted and felt like chewing on a grilled prawn, one that had been caught in a mosquito-infested marsh. I am afraid to do much injustice but, really, the shrimps tasted like they were freshly netted from salty mud. I found myself wondering whether that lady in the Edsa billboard was pitifully out of her mind to be smiling like that or if she had ordered a different pasta dish, one that looked similar but tasted, as evidenced by her dreamy gaze, blissful.

After the last strands of spaghetti settled into my stomach, I frowned at the considerable pool of orange oil left on my plate. It certainly did not smell or taste like olive oil or sesame, my two favorite edible oils. I shudder at memories of cooking oil recycled beyond salvation in some of our university's kitchens and was not too pleased to note that those were of a similar orange hue.

To wash down the slick, tainted feel of orange oil and green phlegm in my throat, I sipped at my calamansi juice. Really now, would you expect me to order anything else in a new place? Well, guess what, at Pancake House, they serve calamansi juice better than at Rai Rai Ken! I received a tall glass of calamansi juice mixed with ice cubes, a small pot of some sweet liquid (Thank God, Satanas Luciferi Excelsi, it was not honey) and a short glass of iced water. Elsewhere, a man dying of thirst would collapse before a servant brings a small cup of semi-chilled water. This small consideration for the customer, the privilege to suit one's drink to one's taste and the convenience of not having to demand for water, certainly earns Pancake House an approving nod from me.

Now, as I write this post while the hours are small, reminiscing the cool, sweet calamansi juice I had with dinner, I cannot yet say whether I have found my cure. To be sure, an itch in my throat forces me to cough ever and anon, yet, more important to me is whether I shall relish what I eat tomorrow or merely drop chunks of bolus down my esophagus.

By the way, yes, I did leave the servants a tip, apart from the what they explicitly charged me for their service.

Apples and Oranges

2008-11-22T02:04:00.005+08:00

Today, I have finally figured out that love is better than sex.

I suppose that is a much healthier beginning than something as senseless as, "Oh, how long has it been since I have last written?" or, Fates forbid, "Hello, minna-san!" I do, however, stress the truth behind that statement; I have, indeed, pondered long and hard on it, days spent in deep thought, if you will pardon the pun and innuendo. Allow this humble gentleman, then, to share with you my thoughts on the matter.

Evil as I may be, I do have a heart and, in brief moments, its foolishness breaches across the cage I have built around it. In those moments, a fist-shaped organic bloody lump leaps to my throat and seizes the words that should have come forth and forces out utterances that should not have escaped. At the same time, though, I am but a human with innate needs that must be fulfilled at the risk of an inner fire consuming myself. There do be times that I think with my head and, I suppose, I need not mention which one I'm talking about.

These two have been locked in war for a long time, each turning my body against the other that, last week, my brain has had enough and decided that an end to strife and confusion must be reached or otherwise suffer the peril war brings down on everyone's heads. The one above the shoulders.

When a week is spent in headaches and another week in back pains, the brain tends to forgo ethics and stick to cold hard logic. Thus, I present to you two assumptions: love is good and sex is good. They are, of course, as different as apples and oranges so any proverbial shopper with good sense will, of course, examine the merits of each given the circumstances.

The argument goes that sex is rather cheap. In reality, though, sex comes at a very high price but love, on the other hand, has no price. The moment a figure is laid on it, it ceases to be love. It is, therefore, priceless and, quite understandably, rare. Sex, thus, is quite relatively easy to obtain, given the right price, there is enough sex in the world and enough desperate people quite willing to fulfill the role. Love, on the other had, is quite difficult to obtain, or even recognize in the first place.

If one chooses to capitalize on love first, sex will almost always come naturally afterwards. It will be one of those gestures that alone, mean nothing but, in the context of a relationship, serve to strengthen the bond thereafter, very much like hugs and kisses and holding hands. On the other hand, if one opts to enjoy one's youth and go on a f*c<!nG rampage, pardon the pun, then the chance of stumbling upon love is diminishes with every new encounter.

Consider homosexual men who engage in casual sex, trippers, if you will. There are those who absolutely cannot go on a date that does not include physical appraisal. From groping in dark cinemas to groping in restroom stalls to groping in motel rooms, there are certain minimum requirements that must be met, namely arm size, developed, if not defined, chest and abs, equipment size, facial appearance, alignment (any graded value between top and bottom), voice and financial potential. It is quite a rigorous testing each puts the other through and, should a flaw be discerned, the relationship has ended long before it could have begun.

This way, the heart is saved from the disaster of falling head over heels into a relationship that was doomed to fail anyway. However, these encounters serve to fuel an unnatural haste to hook up, a burning addiction to sex or an irrational wrath that leads one to get jaded. (No, I won't be one of those bores who'd lecture you on STD's, you should know that info by now) The heart either closes itself a little more with every encounter or opens wide like a, in local parlance, carinderia open to all who wishes to eat. Given those two initial conditions, any relationship made with that person is much more likely to fade into coldness or erupt into explosive differences.

Also note that, it takes years to establish any decent romantic relationship. On the other hand, for gifted individuals, it could take very well only under five minutes of flirting before the first sexual contact is made. Analogously, a sensible yuppie planning to move out of the house normally gives greater priority to a house, an apartment or a room as compared to, say, a microwave over, an airconditioning unit or a hot tub. If you don't get it you are either a student, a bum or incredibly stupid (it means unbelievably dumb, silly)

It is, therefore, with conviction that I proudly say I have figured out that sex is of lesser importance than love. However, allow me to recommend having at least one sexual encounter before "true" love, just the same. No, I'm not encouraging this for petty reasons like machismo or know-how. It's just that I do not like people making uninformed decisions. Put another way, I'd recommend that the proverbial shopper eat both oranges and apples first, before entering a more lasting agreement with his/her local grocer. Allow me to quote the rather overused cheesiness that is, "Experience is the best teacher."

I sincerely believe that one who had experienced both can make a better decision for himself/herself. I would be honored if you take my word for it but, for your own sake, go forth into the world out there and get some!

A/N: To my boyfriend, I am still here. Yes, I've been flirted with and have flirted in return. I have been tempted and my prudence had been through a gruesome trial. I want you to know what I have chosen. Koko ni iru yo.

Angel, why this cruel to a poor man?
Why do, these flames of hell, you fan?
O, Fortune, who deserves this torture?
How long will you shield the elusive rapture?

The New AIDS

2008-01-27T22:29:00.000+08:00

Fools who, in their ignorance, bask
and, in their prejudice, never ask
for truth as painted by their prey,
hark! Your deathbed calls today!

In a rather unfortunate set of circumstances, I have woken up late most of the past week. Late enough to cause me self-inflicted grief at work but also late enough for me to catch the morning paper, which is reportedly delivered to our house around nine in the morning. Those moments were rather surreal as I relaxedly read the papers, sipped my morning coffee and enjoyed the sunshine while, in the office, the clock ticks down every second of my tardiness.

One of the articles I've read had a headline, "School links new strain of staph to gays, the clarifies." As a member of the homosexual population and rather concerned with my physiological well-being, I read the article.

A team of researchers led by doctors from the University of California at San Francisco announced that gay men were several times more likely than other people to acquire a new strain of staphylococus, a potentially lethal bacteria known as MRSA (Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus Aureus) USA300. The study, published in online in the Annals of Internal Medicine, was quickly picked up by unscrupulous journalists, including a New York tabloid, which dubbed it as the new HIV. The following is a screen capture from Canada's CTV site:

Other anti-gay groups, like the Conservative Women for America, have seized this tidbit of misinformation and issues a release citing the "sexual deviancy" of gay men as leading to AIDS, syphilis and gonorrhea. As we all know, heterosexuality guarantees immunity to STD and anything that does not involve a penis and a vagina, like masturbation, for example, is "sexually deviant". Indeed, if you're gay, even if you're still a virgin, you're doomed to a life of AIDS, syphilis and gonorrhea. In the afterlife, you still won't get any respite and... well, you get the picture. Doomed, I say!

Fortunately though, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, which helped finance the study, issued an apology and a vital clarification: the bacteria spreads through any kind of skin-to-skin contact, sexual or nonsexual, regardless of sexuality.

Like any skin-contact transmitted disease, the MRSA USA300 can be transmitted during the intimate moments of intercourse, unless you and your partner(s) happened to be dressed for the occasion. There were no reports yet of the bacteria being transmitted by leather whips, handcuffs, chains or ropes but I guess it pays to be careful anyway. Thankfully, though, washing up with soap and water after close physical contact easily prevents the disease in most cases.

I'd like to repeat, for the sake of my hard-headed brethren out there (pardon the pun), condoms do not prevent the transmission of MRSA USA300; it is not your universal shield. It is, however, no valid excuse to do away with safer sexual practices. Anyway, what I'd like to say is that after every happy moment, remember to soap up. It's interestingly slippery, if you catch my drift *wink, wink*

Oh, what the heck. Just be sure to take a bath at least once a day.

System Downgrade

2008-01-19T23:44:00.000+08:00

It is revolting!
It is revolting indeed!
It is revolting!

Be forewarned; I am feeling rather talkative today. (Pay no mind to my poor attempt at writing haikus)

Just this morning, I woke up, at five in the morning, six in the morning, eight in the morning and ten in the morning. In any case, suffice to say that I caught today's paper, which is usually delivered around nine, so I'm told. The headline is rather big, bold-faced, strong and emphasized, as headlines are wont to be. The Government is hitting back.

New York based Freedom House has downgraded the Philippine's state of democracy from "partly free" due to a spate of political killings specifically targeting leftist political activists. Quite predictably but not as reasonably, the Government reacts, not like an educated writer serenely imbibing and digesting constructive criticism but rather a thoughtless child who single-mindedly insists to her playmates that she did not cheat at hopscotch.

"We don't know who fund foreign groups such as Freedom House, nor were we told about their research procedures," saith the Press Secretary, which is quite true. However, though we know not how such groups work, we do know they're wrong. "Let us be undaunted by outside forces that rely on propaganda rather than systematic and thorough research and consultations to underpin their statements." Yes sir, we don't know how you did it but we know you did it wrong.

What is the proper procedure then? The Press Secretary said Freedom House should have, at least, sought the government's side to "verify" information they have on the Philippines. This, ladies and gentlemen, is known as Command Control or, to put it more graphically, re-touching, if not completely modifying, the data. After all, we really cannot have a proper research unless we swallow the "information" to be provided by the government, right? Really, what part of "independent research" do people not understand?

Oh, never mind that we can expect the government to deny being behind the disappearances or killings of journalists and activists in our beloved nation. Never mind that there are more missing people on the "dark" side than there are on the Jedi forces; they have probably been missing due to any number of reasons from mass tribble attacks to Klingon terrorists. Hell, they could even be having tea in France, for all we care! Really, those people aren't dead, at least not until their corpses float on the Pasig River. Had they asked, really, they would realize we have a free press protected by the military, freedom of non-subversive speech and constitutional processes that uphold human rights for members of the middle-class or higher.

News travels fast and I'd like to quote, the alchemist, Sir Isaac Newton's third law: For every reaction, there is an equivalent and opposite reaction. To put it as I see applicable right now, though, would be: For every opening, there is an equivalently painful opposition. Indeed, in the very same paper, I have read an advertisement denouncing the second Edsa revolution.

It's a rather clever whole-page ad, which invites the reader to learn what the world press wrote about the second Edsa revolution and weep for Philippine democracy. With a collection of quotes dexterously culled from different publications, we can see the illustrious names of Time, New York and Los Angeles Times, Washington Post and Herald Tribune; a delightful read, really.

Yes, we know that the downgrade of the democracy status was due to a spate of political killings or disappearances but we all know that it is only Filipino for us to dig up old grievances, right? Why bother learning from past mistakes when you can just dirty your opponent with the muddy snowballs of his/her failings? We all know that progress can only be achieved by grappling at each other’s throats not quite unlike crabs in a basket pulling each other down.

Of course, any sane minded reader would know that such paid advertisement only remotely relevant is most definitely not propaganda. We know perfectly well that the 2001 Edsa II revolution is responsible for the 2008 downgrade of our democracy status. As our beloved Senate Minority Leader said, "Our democracy during the '50s is as tall as Ramon Magsaysay. Now, it's disheartening that the country has (been) dwarfed (in the fight against) corruption and in the implementation of law." Yes, we are aware, everything has dwindled and height really matters in presiding over a nation.

On a side note, which I am positive is irrelevant, the Philippine Airlines also received a downgrade from the US Federal Aviation Authority, effectively limiting the number of US flights it can make.

Anyway, back to the point, when the government is faltering like this, we really should take the chance to pull the rug from under their feet, y'know? Perhaps by the way of another people power, which a writer for Time has been quoted as claiming to be "an acceptable term for a troubling phenomenon... mob rule."

If you still do not sense sarcasm dripping at the edges of this page, please look to the part where your browser has its scrollbars. You will see a viscous yellow-green fluid... No, that's not sarcasm; it's mucus.

You know what I think? I think that we are over-populated and can afford to lose some people. An admin dies and people quietly pay homage to the dead. A member of the opposition dies and you'll have all the legions of hell on top of you screaming bloody murder. What's it got to do with anything? Oh, I dunno, say I was an unscrupulous member of the opposition who gets my kicks out of ripping out the spleen of other people. Do I ask for an admin's spleen? Hell no, I'd go for the opposition dudes, y'know, the helplessly pathetic uninformed ones. See, that solves the problem of overpopulation and racks up the score for the dark side. Two birds with one stone, y'know?

I think there are too many of us here, but that's not the problem. What I find troubling is the fact that we are sharing these shattered islands with idiots who, at the first pang of hunger, begins its war cry like a helplessly stupid infant. We have a lot of people who attribute the lack of paper in their wallet to moths, cockroaches, alligators or crocodiles, anything but themselves. Y'know, I see people go to church for their daily bread, spiritually speaking. How about the physical bread? No, they don't go to bakers, silly; they flock into the streets!

We are a democracy, rest assured. We can freely elect any porn star that happens to look just right with promises of alleviating, if not completely solving poverty. Bah, we cannot trust those elites! Rich people only care for themselves, but we're gonna vote for an equally rich guy simply because we love his moves on film. Dang, baby, if he can knock out those baddies, he can surely put food in our bellies, clothes on our skin and roofs over our heads. (My money's on Chuck Norris, if it comes to that)

Personally, I think killing is not so bad an idea in a country as perpetually discontent as ours. We can never find the contentment called heaven so death would only be the coup de grace, right? Okay, there was a redundancy in there somewhere... but I guess I'll also lie on my back and wait for the Government to proofread my posts for me. It's so much easier that way.

Oh yeah, one more thing, know what the motto of that particular newspaper is? "Ze truth shall prevail, yarr!"

Meddling with Peddling

2008-01-12T23:17:00.001+08:00

Let no poverty steal away a child's education.
Let no shame taint an innocent's reputation.
Let no cloud rain on a roofless head.
Let no quiet stand in their voice's stead.

Whenever I go to work, I always take the route that costs me the least time. In doing do, I ride a jeepney to an FX terminal, where I catch an FX to take me to the train station, where I await a train to take me to another train station, where I disembark and sprint my way across four roads and two dirt parking lots. This costs me a considerable amount of calories and double the fare when, in fact, I could ride only one bus from home and be there in, say two or three hours.

Going back home, though, is another matter. Since I am not chasing anything, except probably for sleep, I usually ride the bus home. For one, it costs almost half the fare and, since it takes at least two hours, I can also sleep for around an hour and a half. Yes, I know, it's a talent.

On there bus rides, before dozing off, I hear several people peddling their wares. "O, mani, mani kayo d'yan, mainit, bagong-luto, mani kayo d'ayn," says the peanut vendor. "Ah, kasoy, kasoy, kasoy kayo d'yan," offers the cashew vendor. "O, Maxx, Mentos, V-Fresh, Doublemint, o, C2 kayo d'yan, malamig, C2, mineral, o" from the candy vendor who also peddles iced tea and cold mineral water. Why he's selling those in an airconditioned bus, at night, escapes me. "O, 'yung mga wala pang ticket d'yan, o." Ah, that would be the conductor.

Seriously, these people don't bother me for, I understand, we all are only doing our jobs. A person has to do what it takes to survive. However, there is a certain breed of peddlers that I cannot stand. They can strike you anywhere, in a bus, in a jeepney, hell, they even hawk their wares in restaurants while you are eating! Talk about a seriously messed up sense of timing! Or ethics, might I add.

Their sales pitch is either ultrasound or infrasound for you won't hear anything from them. What they do, instead, is offer you a card, or a piece of paper. The more unscrupulous ones, not finding a hand ready to receive their cards, would place it wherever handy: on your table, on your bag, on your knee, on the arm of your chair or on your lap. The more audacious ones would wake up a sleeping passenger to "offer" their cards. The cards read:

"Good day sir/ma'am. I am Jane Doe from the province of Batangas/Cavite/Palawan/Batanes/Tawi-tawi/. I'd like to knock on your generous hearts to buy my pastillas, macapuno, ube, polvoron, puto-seko, caviar, foie gras, ."

Good! At least, there is no doubt of what they're selling in those large plastic bags they're lugging with them. Some of them, though, add a more heart-rending detail regarding the beneficiary of their sales:

"I am studying in college and I'm paying for my tuition with the sales of my goods."

Those are the better cards. The other cards don't even give you a shit of a clue. However, I am sure, all cards will, regardless of author, have a quote or two for vague purposes:

"It is better to sell than to steal," or "It is better to work hard than to beg," or "It is better to than to ."

That is, for me, the most irritating part. If it is, indeed, better to sell than to steal or beg, then what, in heaven's name, are they giving these cards for? Why on earth can't they just peddle like everyone else? "O, pastillas, macapuno, kayo d'yan, pastillas, macapuno!" I once asked a girl (poor lady, to have met me on a bad day) "Why don't you just announce what you're selling, instead of giving people these cards?"

"E sir, nakakahiya po e," (Sir, it's embarassing) she replied softly.

"P*+@ng !n@," (You don't wanna know what I'm saying here ^_^) I blurted out, exasperatedly rolling my eyes, crumpling her card and throwing it at her feet. The poor girl hastily collected her cards and disembarked from the bus.

God, the gall of such people. Here they are, silently peddling as though wishing to keep their sales a secret, yet thick-faced enough to claim in their cards, "Ha! We're better than those beggars!" and, reading between the lines, "I don't like doing what those 'filthy'/'pathetic'/'embarassing' peddlers do but I have to, for my studies/son/daughter/children." If that is not hypocrisy, then I don't know shit.

Also, what educated person will place cards on other people's body parts? What kind of idiot disturbs your meal so you could read her heart-wrenching tale of poverty? Who would be audacious enough to wake up a person so he/she could knock on their "generous" hearts? Believe me, a person rudely awakened is anything but generous... well, lemme rephrase that. A person rudely awakened can only offer you generous amounts of anger and hatred.

Really, I am inclined to believe that those hollering peddlers are a lot better persons than these bashful girls shoving their cards or pieces of paper to everyone's faces. Those chanting vendors know what they're doing and they really do take pride in not doing anything criminal. Unlike some people, they don't yell out excuses like, "It's better to sell than to beg! Mani, mani, mainit, mani kayo d'yan. It's better to work hard than to steal!" (Well, even if they do, at least, they have the pride and self-esteem to match what they're saying)

One of these days, I'm gonna return one of those cards with the words, "It is better to holler your wares than to shove your cards in people's faces."

Reduced Friction

2007-12-31T18:05:00.000+08:00

This holiday season is, by far, the most boring one I have ever lived through. True, a lot of things happened, never a dull moment, really, except that whatever's going on, I'm not feeling it. I'm not quite sure how to put into words what I feel, or cannot feel. It's as though the spirit of the Winter Solstice has been, more than just commercialized, also exorcised.

I used to be a gift-giver during this season. It does not necessarily imply, though, that I like giving gifts. Au contraire, I don't like second-guessing what other people might like or dislike. Yes, I could have just settled with giving people senseless aromatics like candles or oils or, uh, scented photo albums or, uhm... cakes, fruitcakes... scented fruitcakes! However, my code of ethics, which has more than once gone against my better judgment, made me exert an effort to really give.

Truth be told, I used to give gifts only to my friends. I'll admit that it is one of the reasons I don't have that much friends; it is that much easier to micro-manage your relationships. This year, however, I am bathed with a sense of surreal quality, as though what I'm doing may or may not matter at all.

Allow me to elaborate, I started working, and a six-month probationary period, at June 25 this year. As such, I am scheduled to be regularized on Christmas Eve, that is, if I am to be regularized. In other words, I have no clear idea whether I'll be seeing the recipients of my gifts ever again or if I'd be updating my resume for some other company, hopefully, someplace with less homophobic people.

Anyway, it went well, somewhat. Unexpectedly, really, one of my friends, er, warm acquaintances actually liked what I gave him. I guess it might be for those kind of smiles and thanks that I decided to invest, err, give gifts to my co-workers, I mean, friends. Who knows?

Christmas was a pretty dull event. After some kind of altercation between my family and the other families on my dad's side three years or so ago, it was, so to speak, the first day "we", as in the family tree on my dad's side, were together for Christmas ever since "the incident". Really, it pissed me off. An uncle all but ignored me and was muttering under his breath something about chairs and tables. Other cousins, aunts and uncles also, quite overtly, made a point of not sharing a table with us, despite there being enough space for three or four more people. Smiles were forced, laughter was kinda stifled, everyone gave off the impression of happiness but everyone old enough to know also knew it was a rather tense happiness at that. It sucked, really, and it was a "family" gathering I'd rather not repeat anytime soon.

Things were a bit better with the family on my mom's side. For one, it was not a large family so it was rather easier to form connections. For starters, they were only four of them. The eldest died by a railroad accident, so I was told. The youngest, on the other hand, had, for all intents and purposes, dropped off the face of the earth. That left only two families, two pairs of parents, six children and me, the lone adult-child.

Anyway, the day after Christmas was the birthdate of my sib. There was not much by way of guests and the party was rather boring too. Still, it was just right for cooking good ideas... or what seemed to be good ones. In any case, it ended with us going out for another family adventure on Rizal Day.

First stop was Quiapo, that dirty place in dirty Manila famous for its Church and equally infamous for the mendicants of pirated wares, palm and card readers, hawkers of potions to induce abortions and nimble-fingered thieves, all who plied the dirty streets of dirty Manila. However, my parents, my aunt and my uncle all thought it was a good place to buy fruits for the New Year. Indeed, as far as price goes, it is good to buy in the Quiapo market, perhaps second only to Divisoria.

After this little adventure, which started with a trip to the Church (Is it just me or is it really burning hot in that hell?), we proceeded to Luneta park. After all, what was a Rizal Day, which we weren't really celebrating, without a trip to the place where he was shot, immortalized, bastardized, vandalized and worshiped? It was a rather dismal atmosphere we had for breakfast there; the ground was still damp where the trees shaded it while the air was uncomfortably warm where the glaring sun prevailed. There was enough wind up above to half-heartedly pull on kites but not enough at ground level to cool the heated populace.

It was crowded, at least, that's what it seems to me. I haven't been to the park frequently enough to judge accurately when it is crowded and when the people are sparse. Everywhere I look, there are people: fellow civilians in picnic mats having breakfast, or an early snack, vendors of balloons, toys, kites and trinkets, peddlers of rice cakes, delicacies, taho and newspaper (it was still early morning), overtly gay or lesbian people screaming over a spider, locking lips, holding hands and, well, being intimate, children clothed with ash and dirt and soot begging for alms where the park's security guards cannot see them and athletes training for arnis, taekwondo, running, badminton, cycling, whoring, man-whoring, resting, sleeping or lounging, among other people. Well, it was what I expected from Manila and I was disappointed to have been proven right.

Around ten, we moved to SM Mall of Asia and had an exceedingly early lunch. By eleven, we were slipping controllably on ice.

Ice-skating is a rather nice experience, that is, if you don't mind the fees, the smelly skates and helmet, the lustful jeers and hearty applauses by the audience without should someone slip and fall, the occasional slip and fall, the rare collisions with fellow skaters, the tired arms and exhausted legs afterwards, the abrasive ice as you skid helpless across it on you skates and hands, the burning acid of envy and jealousy as you watch figure skaters skid past you or the surplus saliva you secrete when you speed by a cutie you've been eyeing the entire time.

Seriously, it could have been a lot more fun, if I hadn't been developing a headache or nursing a cough at the time. Well, it would definitely have been better if everyone just agreed with me that I am, I really am, a figure skater and that people just don't know how to appreciate the figures I'm making. Really, I didn't slip or lose my balance, it was all part of a trick that is rather difficult to duplicate.

In the rink, there were, in my opinion, roughly three types of people. The noobs, which is, I have to admit, where I belong, are composed of people who can navigate on ice from okay to fairly well. Quite a handful of them, like me, my brother and my cousin, along with nearly half the noob population, can pick up speed and control how they slip across the ice just fine. They cannot, for the most part, do tighter spins or glides, skate backwards, leap across the ice or swizzle from rest. Those are the job for the pros. These people are the object of jealousy, attention and, should they falter, jeers. The last class of people are the uber-noobs, that is, people who immediately feel an inclination to lie on their backs the moment they step into the rink. My sister is one, but as she said, it's hard for a big person (I'm not sure whether she meant breasts, hips, legs, neck or, uh, personality?) to find her balance.

Generally, people navigating across the ice follow a set of rules. A noob on a collision course with another noob or a pro will not collide; one or both of them veers off from quite a respectable distance. A pro and another pro on a collision course are not; depending on their level of skill and trajectory, they can actually veer off on the last two second to the evitable collision. Actually, I have to admit, there was this girl in pink who I've been eyeing for some time. She wasn't pointedly prettier than the rest but she was agile and graceful. Once, when she was skating backwards, she almost collided with another pro who was looking elsewhere. What happened was somewhat beyond my understanding. Basically, there was a clink of metal, with a few shaved ice, she lifted off a few inches and, the next second, she landed right beside the other guy and safely skated right past him. The other pro, himself, also gaped at how she evaded collision by nearly a hair's breadth.

Dealing with uber-noobs, on the other hand, is not a life of roses. They are the most unpredictable lot. They use their arms a lot, especially in flailing. They can skid okay for a few yards before suddenly tripping up on their own toe pick, momentarily levitating like the aforementioned girl in pink, but with much less grace and agility. A pro on a collision course with an uber-noob escapes unharmed while the startled uber-noob screams, attempts to either veer off or reach the wall and promptly falls on their butt or on their face. A noob on a collision course with an uber-noob may not be as lucky, depending on their skill level; they may narrowly evade the accident or end up with more than their skates on ice.

I remember reading an article featured on the New York Times, re-featured by a local newspaper and recycled by the same paper in their Tech news. Delft was a town in the Netherlands where cyclists speed past pedestrians through the town square. Pedestrians attempting to second guess the oncoming cyclist and avoid him are likely to startle him and collide. However, if they just ignore him and keep going at the same pace, the cyclist can safely predict the movement of the horde and safely steer his way about.

The hour draws near when it becomes the first day of the first month of the next year. It doesn't feel as magical now as it did in years past but, for what it's worth, I wish everyone a Happy New Year. May the Fates be kind to you, er, us. May the Earth Mother welcome more of her rogue children in her warm, grave-like embrace. May the world finally recognize the figures I'm skating.

A few minutes before the clock strikes midnight,
In a dim room with only a computer screen's light,
Came a message for a tiger, sleepy and exhausted
Who, though he may be, by the winter's cold, muted,
Still has his claws, his fangs and his deathly glare
That all who earns his ire might die by his stare.

Why I hate Makati

2007-12-09T16:35:00.000+08:00

Howl, great wind of the Western skies!
Grind against our human truths and lies.
Carry the news of our destructive ways.
Forewarn those before us to seek another place.

I hate the city of Makati. That much, however, I am sure you can infer from the title.

It's a rather nice and busy place, the hub of commerce and the fulcrum of the Philippine economy. It is, therefore, expected that it should be the site of numerous attacks to and from the government, overt or covert. In my recent memory, it has been the victim of a bombing, which is still seen in the public opinion as seesawing between an intentional government scheme, an intentional terrorist attack or an unintentional gas leak. Much more recent is a bloodless, pointless coup staged by no less than a Philippine senator, which, instead of resulting in some sort of change in our beloved nation, only served to call the attention of the masses to the "brutal" treatment of the media, much to the aforementioned senator's consternation, I suppose.

Still, overall, it is still a very advanced city, what with its towering buildings, insolently piercing the skies as Longinus spears. It has a hotline system people could call in case of an emergency. When, in the past, a typhoon knocked down pylons supporting major power lines, Makati is as lit and busy and cool and alive as ever while, around them, neighboring cities and districts languished in agonizing heat and darkness. Each year, from January to June, Makati also draws a throng of hopeful yuppies, all hopeful to land a spot in the corporate world they could use as a foothold in beginning the long, hard, arduous climb up the career ladder.

However, it is, for me, a terrible place to be in, especially the area around Ayala Avenue. It is a wind-swept place, the air being pushed, shoved and whirled around in howling torrents as they ground against the artificial canyon we, humans, have erected. It is quite an orderly place and I found one reason for it: bus and jeepney stops aren't just stops. There's a spot for buses to load, for jeepneys to load, for passengers to disembark from buses and for people to get off jeepneys. As a consequence, if you wanted to get anywhere, you'd have to do a lot of walking.

Walking is actually good for the body. It is quite an ordeal, however, when gusts of cruel winds batter your frail frame and your ears are filled with a cacophony of revving engines, honking horns, howling winds, droning air vents, people chatter and just chaos, in general. Your lungs are treated to different aromas of engine exhausts. Indeed, the world seemed like a cold, harsh and uncaring place that only catered to professionals who had nothing but money in mind. Then again, those are just my impressions.

When walking at a brisk pace, as people hurrying for their job interview or application exam two blocks and five minutes away usually do, it is quite easy to miss all the little details. However, after those exhausting interviews and exams, when one tends to wander slowly, gently meandering between shops, cafes and fastfood (They have McDonald's on every block, I believe), one gets to see the finer details. Scattered about are sunburnt soot and grease-coated people, peddling candies and cigarettes, sometimes offering to buy your empty printer cartridges. Some of these people, the spitting image of poverty in a city of wealthy elites, just settle for dreams; you'd see some of them in nooks and crannies of buildings, happy in their own personal dreamworld, despite the glaring sunlight, the oppressive heat or the blasting noise.

When crossing streets, as walkers are often wont to do, pedestrians are provided the stifling discomfort of claustrophobic underground tunnels. In truth, I am sinning against charity here; the underpass systems at each intersection are actually roomy, almost cavernous when compared to those of Manila. Still, the harsh lighting, the cold, hard tiles, the frozen faces of fellow pedestrians, the echoing click of numerous pairs of leather shoes, the intimidating Cylon guard, they're all enough to drive a poor peasant like me into temporary insanity. Well, to be fair, I don't generally like being underground.

Speaking of underground, the Metrostar Express, a light-rail transit system, goes underground at Buendia and Ayala stations, an ordeal I had to face during that summer when I am being summoned to job interviews in the Makati area. Where, one moment, there was the sky and space, a few moments more and you'd be in a dark, cramped tunnel. Ever and anon, halogen lights would flash by, cruelly reminding you that the tunnel walls are less than a meter away. If you're a really unlucky claustrophobic, on the other side another train would thunder past, also painfully reminding you that they are also less than a meter apart.

Still, there are some things I liked about Makati. People generally tend to be orderly, in the sense that they generally do not cause undue distress on fellow pedestrians. In a cold and impersonal way, everybody minded their own business. Also, when riding the Metrostar Express, there is, when approaching Ayala station, a neat nook illuminated by the sky, filled with mold, stagnant water and, among other things, lots and lots of ferns. I really liked this reminder that life is a hardy thing, struggling to find their spot in a world that, altogether, doesn't seem to want them here.

In Makati, I met a man who made my dreams come true. Twice. And that man was the first of the many people I met later on in my life. He was, all in all, my first. I'd have to admit, I really liked what happened between us back then, to say otherwise would be hypocrisy. However, as things usually go with pleasurable things it quickly became an addiction that, even now, I am struggling to conquer.

It is said that he who has tasted ambrosia will go loony in his life in trying to capture the same taste later on. I'm not loony yet. I'm just hateful of the place where it all began.

These are the reasons I hate the city of Makati.

Why I hate Manila

2007-12-02T00:54:00.000+08:00

I hate the city of Manila. That much, however, I am sure you can infer from the title.

It is a rather nice and nostalgic place, one that brings back fuzzy memories. For my parents, a visit to the capital of our country is a trip down memory lane as they both studied in a college there. Here, they used to hang out with friends now far away, dead or dying. This road, they often traversed in their cheap rubber slippers to save on jeepney fare. On this spot, they used to do their projects, sneaking about and climbing fences to gain access to the park instead of paying the entrance fee.

I, too, remember Manila from my childhood days. Oh, the horror as I, an impatient kid back then incapable of keeping still, traveled by jeepneys, sitting uncomfortably for each ride. Every time we switched rides, "Ha? Sasakay na naman?!? E kasasakay lang natin e!" (What? Ride again?!? We just got off!) I had no idea back then that jeepneys actually travel different places; I was more focused on my buttocks sore from what seemed like long hours of sitting.

Each trip to Manila only meant one thing: a trip to the doctor for my vaccines. It was always a painful encounter, probably more so because I couldn't see the needle. I mean, when it comes to stabbing me with something I can't do anything about, I prefer to see what's going on rather than be surprised with a sudden prick. I didn't hate my doctor aunt but I did grow afraid of her. On family gatherings, I always suspected she had an immunization pack handy in her handbag. I'd be wary and steer away from her whenever I can.

As a pediatrician, my aunt had a friendly secretary who sold us rosquillos: sweet ring-shaped biscuits, which I happily munched after my shots. Also, her clinic had one of the best rocking horses in the world. It was a wee white horse with large spots of different colors. Sadly, though, I doubt they make such playthings anymore. Even if they did, I doubt today's Playstation and Xbox kids would enjoy them as I did long ago.

Near the hospital was the Yellow Line of the Light Rail Transit. At the time, it was the only train servicing the metro. My mom would usually sit on the chair while I had to stand up like a gentleman. "See that sign?" my mom once said. "Tayuman," I read. "See? Exactly! Tayo (stand), man. It means you have to stand up." I was wondering if there was a Tayugirl sign somewhere so she could stand up and it'd be my turn to sit down. At the age of 7, it dawned on me that Tayuman was the name of the station, not an order for all males to stand up. Still, I enjoyed that train ride, either because I have never rode a train before or because I'm getting sore legs instead of sore buttocks.

Also near the hospital was a branch of Shakey's Pizza. I really liked their pizza and chips, though I didn't, at the time, remember liking them as food. All I knew was that if it was Shakey's, I am happy.

However, those trips to Shakey's were quite rare and, oftentimes, we usually ate at the open-aired Chinese restaurants Ma Mon Luk or Rose Canton. It was really a terrible ordeal; as a kid, I could not comprehend how my parents managed to eat at such dirty surroundings. I mean, you could really make patterns with the soot of what would otherwise have been a white vinyl-tiled floor. I remember tearfully pleading with my parents, "Ayoko dito, ang dirty-dirty e!" (I don't like it here; it's so dirty here!)

Years have passed; it's been quite a while since I've last been to Manila. Sure, ever and anon, there would be the educational field trips to Manila Zoo (I got lost there when I was 4; when I returned to the group, I fell in love with my best friend who held my hand tightly so I wouldn't get lost again. Well, granted, it was puppy love and I wasn't gay back then) or Fort Santiago (they have a splendid view of the infamous Pasig River, responsible for the drowning of several unnamed, dead heroes; the dwellers of its banks retaliated by killing the river itself) We also visited the Museo Pambata, which was not just for kids, mind you, the San Augustin museum and, of course, Rizal Park.

On my last year in college, I met someone from Manila. To be more exact, he lived in the provinces and he stayed in Manila as a dormitory occupant. A nursing student, he was my contact in a social networking site for years. That day, we both found an opportunity to meet each other offline.

To sum it all up, it was a one-week love affair. Despite having known him for only days, I felt that he just might be the kind of guy who I might be willing to spend the rest of my life with. I'm afraid I am entirely inaccurate in describing it as a love affair; it was not quite love but it was, for me, no casual date either. He is also one of the best kissers I have ever locked lips with my entire life.

He knew how much I hated Manila, but, for a week, I did my best to be there. He had been through some bad times; I went there when I heard the news. At the end of that week, however, he broke off with me. He didn't feel "the spark", which was enough reason for him. Additionally, we had differences in our beliefs; he was a practicing Catholic while I was a skeptic agnostic. I don't wish to antagonize him; forgive me but I still hurt whenever I remember those times. That night, we shared a final kiss and a promise to keep in touch with each other.

Months have passed since then; time had caused us to forget, to be busy, to fail to keep our promises. At this moment, I am wondering what disasters at work the next week will bring. At this moment, I believe he's either asleep or reviewing for the nursing board exam. For my sake, I sincerely hope he has already forgotten that week we spent together.

Ever and anon, I'd wake up in the midst of a fitcul slumber, my skin seeking a touch that had warmed it before, my lips searching for a kiss that was never there and my heart, aching for the loss of what could have been, at the very least, a friend.

I have never returned to Manila on my own again. Even now, I am being overwhelmed by the bitter memories I dug up and, in the privacy of my domain, allowed myself to shed these salty tears.

These are the reasons I hate the city of Manila.

Dust and smoke and soot and ashes,
Floatsam, jetsam and acid washes
Tell me tales of ancient ages,
Of people struggling in their cages.

My Brother. Is not. A pig. Da?

2007-11-11T23:21:00.000+08:00

Once there were two sib-plumbers
who fixed a leak in the city sewers.
Behold when they exited the pipes,
the found a world of toadstools, fireballs, blocks that go ka-ching, Koopas... and, uh, pipes?
Forgive this poor poet's faulty time;
at least, somewhere there's a rhyme.

The subject is something I usually cannot discuss comfortably with other people. It is, I suppose, a lot like sex; you just don't talk about it in public. However, I have been thinking lately that I have been enjoying something a lot of people usually don't and if, perhaps, I may be of help to those people, then what a better way than through a non-fictional article, say, a blog post?

Anyway, the topic is about siblings.

Augh! Please! No! Ergh! Blech! Urgh!

Okay, so maybe there's a lot of people out there that generally don't get along too well with their sibs. My sister's a bitch or my brother's too bothersome or the baby is such a crybaby. I definitely agree, heheh.

Grant this poor blogger some moments to bore you with the details of his sordid life: I am the eldest of four children. The next pregnancy brought a female, named "Good Sister", who happened to be so good, God took her even before she was born. Next was another female, named "Evil Sister", and Satan, in his world-embracing benevolence, allowed her to do more of his works on earth. My third sib is a male called Imp, the progeny of Loki, a satyr trickster and anathema to Evil Sister. The last one, Gaki, was also a boy, a brash, insolent brat witty enough to evade death from his three elder sibs.

Each of us are quite unique individuals. I am an offense-type spellcaster who specializes in the arcane, uh, stuff. Evil sister is a heavy-duty offense-type low-moxie apprentice well on her way to learning the kitchen arts. Imp is rather well-versed in smithing, forging, metallurgy and a lot of the baser crafts known to peons, peasants and paupers. Gaki is, well, just electrically annoying. He's a rather fuzzy energy ball and, as our mother called him, a bundle of joy. As you can see, each of us have our differences in craft and personality. Oftentimes, that's where trouble begins.

Like I said, Imp is the bane of Evil Sister's existence and he'd continue to pester her, sometimes, for no sane reason at all. Actually, we all pester each other but it so happened that Evil Sister has a very short temper, and lands rather heavy blows might I add. The crafty Master Gaki, too, cannot always evade Imp's trickery or Evil Sister's fists. Please don't ask where this humble sorcerer enters the fray.

Imp has been known to put salt in evil Sister's drinking water. I write on Imp's face while he's sleeping. Evil Sister wakes Gaki up by incessantly poking him while Gaki has this aura that usually spells disaster for me.

However, different as we may be from each other, we do tend to protect our own. We're perfectly amiable people who, only, sometimes gang up on whoever is insane enough to bully one of us. We don't openly acknowledge standing up for each other 'coz that's really cheesy and all and if, by chance, they stumble upon this blog post, I'd die of disgust. Still, as I've heard before in a movie, it's these differences that supports our colony, err, family. We know perfectly well when to fill in for the others' chores or who's responsible for what.

We also have fun together, which usually involves hurling kidou, spells, ninjutsu or genjutsu. Sometimes, we even kick each other just for the hell of it. We also have this stupid running game where we just run and startle ostentatiously every time any of us meet. When any of us points out a flaw in another, we just shrug and have a good laugh, instead of blowing a fuse (with the exception of Evil Sister, as her fuse seems to be embedded in nitroglycerine-soaked kieselguhr)

It might seem ridiculous for someone my age to be releasing Bankai or equipping a gunblade just as it is unusual to see a kid, twelve years younger than I, engaging someone twice his height in physical combat (which usually ends in death by tickle-related asphyxiation). I suppose it's all just a matter of meeting everyone halfway.

We also enjoy sharing some things. A simulation game by Maxis, The Sims, is perhaps the best example. I like 2D-scrolling games better. Evil Sister prefers the Zen of puzzle games. Imp rather enjoys strategy games while Gaki prefers mindlessly arcade games. So what brought us together in a simulation game? Is it the joy of ruining each others' families? Is it slapping the other's character? Is it in racing each other to reach level 10 in career? Or in re-furnishing our own houses every time a new nifty item has been downloaded? Why the heck are we not upgrading to The Sims 2? Why don't we even install add-ons like Livin' Large, Makin' Magic or Hot Date? Why am I writing in questions?

Seriously, I dunno... it's probably something you gotta figure out yourself... by meditation or looking at the stars or casting runes or some shit like assuming the thinking position in the loo.

So, I guess I'm not really helpful in aiding other people to relate to their sibs better. Oh well, just sit back and enjoy brewing envy or jealousy, haha!

Anyway, if it is of any help, we sometimes fart on each other, just like normal siblings do. However we don't, as a rule, sneeze on each other 'coz that's like, gross, y'know? Kinda like unforgivably disgusting.

You Own my Heart (and Spleen)

2007-10-28T22:55:00.000+08:00

"May I see your diploma? I just wanna make sure they're not from some med school in the Philippines."

All too often, doctors and nurses in the Philippines have been subject to ridicule not only from foreigners but even from fellow Filipinos as well. A rather obscene "joke" I have once beheld was a simple logo in a T-Shirt: UP Diliman College of Nursing.

There are, over here, a set of infamous career paths that, despite their potential to yield higher wages, are most certainly in the not-something-to-be-proud of list. Call center agents, for one, earn that much more because, in return, they are disrupting their normal lives for a more stressful environment. Imagine inverting your Circadian cycle, what, every week? Every month? Still, they are subject to ridicule and the job is considered "dishonorable" by almost any non-desperate IT graduate since, after all, it does not require intelligence, only proficiency in English. I must admit, I am not exempt from that way of thinking.

Nursing, too, is another job deemed "ugh" by many. I have to admit that a lot of nurses are brilliant individuals. Even doctors study nursing because there is that much more money to be made of it (assuming you do get to work overseas) The problem is that the lucrative call of cold hard cash has been responded to by greedier, yet less talented, individuals. I know it's the same everywhere and I'm not singling out the nursing profession. Besides, that's not also my point.

What I'm trying to say, though, is that, despite my unfair thoughts towards nurses, they still have something I absolutely envy: the power to save the ones they love. After all, what can I, a mere IT programmer, do to save anyone? Oh, shall I help you email something to your relative in Manila so she could send money back home for your mom's operation? Hmmn, shall I use this length of LAN cable to strangle that picaroon who's robbing you in a dark alley? Shall I help you make a "jazzy" Friendster account to help rescue you from your suicidal depression?

Seriously, nurses, and medics, in general, are people I've always envied because of the power they have over life and death, no matter how small. When I was young, I also wanted to be a doctor (mostly because the pay is high) until I learned I have to deal with blood. I'm not scared to see blood or anything but I also wasn't too keen on getting it all over my hands, all over my clothes and, mostly, all over the place. Something about it is just... unsettling.

Why am I saying this right now? Only too recently, I've had a very disturbing dream.

I was walking along a dark sidewalk with the love of my life... well, maybe the current love of my life, who knows? :P He took the outer side, the one exposed to traffic. From behind, a large truck climbed up the pavement and struck him down. When I got to him, he was all bloody and his breath came in rasps. He is unable to speak and his lungs were filling up with blood (don't mind how I knew, it was a dream) and, sorrowfully, there was nothing else I could do for him.

When I woke up, I quickly checked my IM list and, thankfully, he was still alive. He may not know it, and, by God, I hope he doesn't ever, but he's one of the few people I would gladly die for. More specifically, he's one of the few people I'd ever think of giving my blood to (I'm of blood type O)

In any case, that is the reason I, a rogue sorcerer, envy those from the order of the white mages. I may be fairly capable of destructive arts but things like that rarely save people. I do find it quite bemusingly ironic that an offense-type spellcaster as I should seek the mastery of curative spells.

There is no greater joy and glory
than for me, my life, to give,
when Death whispers out to thee,
that there be a chance for you to live.

The Dark Bite... Fatman!

2007-10-06T22:29:00.001+08:00

Both your mouths always eat.
One of them devours the seat.
The other bites into dead meat.
You don't really know when to quit.

I hate fat people.

Actually, I don't really dislike all obese people. To be more exact, I feel absolute hatred to those waistline-enriched people who act as though they are entitled to that extra space they occupy.

For example, when riding a bus, I was unfortunate enough to have been seated in what once was a three-seater. The other person's bottom, however, stole space equivalent to that occupied by two and a half butts of average people. To make it worse, the bitch kept on wriggling in sleepy discomfort and muttering under her breath as though I was the one who had wrongfully encroach on her sleeping space.

In a jeepney, there is also an abundance of horribly ill-mannered pigs. A fat man seats himself with open legs while other passengers are forced to assume uncomfortable positions. Some had to twist their bodies into strange shapes while some have only half their bottoms seated. (Kinda gives a new meaning to the term half-assed, don't you think?) This obnoxious guy, on the other hand, had his entire gluteous maximus and a healthy part of his massive upper thighs on the seat while, on the back rest, lie his back, shoulders and even his elbows. On a jeepney full of passengers, such conduct is gross and unacceptable.

I have also encountered a bevy of heavy girls, walking side by side. I'm afraid I err against charity when I say the truth that they are lumbering about, occupying the entire sidewalk. Now, I have no problem walking side by side with my friends but, in a sidewalk teeming with pedestrians in a hurry to get to wherever it is they are going, I believe ethics should take precedence over trivial acts of shallow friendship. There is, I fear, much acrimony I feel but I'd still like to point out that it is wrong to block another hurrying person's way when both of you have equal rights over a public pathway. Equally wrong is hissing in annoyance whenever one inevitably brushes against you as we hurry on to our destinations.

I am perfectly aware, though, that I'm having double standards here. After all, I do get annoyed when there are times I feel as though I live in a world designed for pygmies. I do get inconvenienced by low doors and ceilings, by mirrors that cut off my reflection at the chin or by grocery cabinets that put items deep inside the lowest shelf. I do complain, from time to time, though, generally, I just accept that the world is made that way. I don't believe it is quite ethical of me to force my friends to hang their mirrors, paintings or shelves that little bit higher. Neither do I believe it is acceptable to cuss at people for having low ceilings in their houses, apartments, jeepneys or buses.

I am aware that not all fat people can really help it. It could be genetic or something medical. However, do pardon me for admitting that most fat people remind me of individuals with no self-control when it comes to eating or, at least, practicing healthy eating and exercising habits. I still hold hatred for obese people who arrogantly steal public spaces and other people's private space. I do, however, know that not all people shrug off their largeness as easily.

There was this voluminous lady who boarded the bus alone. She sat behind me and, as the conductor passed, she paid the amount for two people. Kudos to the fat woman who acknowledges her extra girth and pays her way! Boo to the insensitive jerks and bitches who conduct themselves as though they were thinner, slimmer or sexier than they really are!

Burn, Baby! Burn!

2007-09-11T14:32:00.000+08:00

Burn baby, let's stoke this fire;
let us be consumed by this desire.
Embrace me, claim me as yours once more
until daybreak, when we awaken as before.

The Earth Mother, in all her majestic power and vast wisdom, has, I believe, made a grave mistake in bestowing upon humans the gift of fire. Of the four classical elements or the five Oriental elements, fire is the most unstable and destructive element of all, often defying harmony with the others.

Water can, by sheer volume, destroy coastal villages by hurling tons of itself upon the land. It can undermine the earthen mountains and trigger the collapse of cliff faces but does it not heed the call of the earthen moon and peacefully head back to the ocean as the ebbing tide? The wind that lashes at the leaves, and even the trunks of the massive wooden trees, can be injurous to these life forms but does it not bring the hope of new life for every grain of pollen it carries on its agile wings?

Metal is mostly a sleeper, slumbering deep within the warm, rocky-hard cushions of the earth and it is no surprise beasts that come into contact with its venomous awakened state, with all its grumpy personality, are often led into a deep and eternal slumber back into the loving arms of the Earth Mother.

Fire, on the other hand, is quite a quarrelsome element. Against water, it hisses defiantly even in death. With wood or with air, it rages ever more angrily, asserting dominance or, at the very least, displaying sheer power. With perseverance, it weakens earth, even metal, and forces them into a water-like state, incapable of holding their own shape. Given time, it will vaporize everything and dominate over all, feeding on the carcasses of the brethren it has killed.

Yes, like I said, fire is a very violent element, one that, I think, should have never been harnessed by humans. We, like all our fellow creatures, should have been content with the light and warmth from that great ball of fire hovering far, far away: the brilliant star so livid with energy that the Earth Mother thought it wise to maintain a respectable distance. However, it is oft of no use crying over spilled milk or, in this case, burnt elements.

I do, as a sorcerer, find it ironic that much of my spellweaving, storytelling and wordforging works have been powered by that massive ball of fire. In the past, I have attempted to help heal the planet by being conscious of some of my destructive habits. However, I am unable to resist the call of lust when, just this afternoon, I was commanded to burn a pile of garbage. It has been quite a long while since I burnt dried leaves, indeed, a much longer time since I last casted lvl-2 Fire, but the call was strong and my will, as weak as paper against flames.

Ten minutes later, I was standing in an empty lot, almost devoid of life. As a human, I feel relieved that the place now holds a lesser probability of being infested with unhealthy, noxious life forms. It does feel good when your surroundings are "clean" As a sorcerer powered by the sun, I felt immensely powerful then; a light breeze had picked up and strengthened the raging flames. Dry twigs and leaves cackled their drying breaths and even I had to move back as the conflagration burned the air itself.

As a son of the Earth Mother, however, I do find it the least bit funny to be reducing it all to ashes, when putrefying agents could so easily have brought them back to the folds of the Earth Mother's embrace. Now, all that was left of them were glowing embers and lifeless strips of ash floating about the sky.

It's not easy to heal the planet for a man who has an affinity to fire. I suppose even some doctors find it difficult to reconcile their medical knowledge with their habits of smoking, or drinking. We all have our weaknesses and for mine, I beg the Earth Mother's forgiveness.

Eat me!

2007-08-10T23:02:00.000+08:00

Hunter, what be thou seeking?
Tourist, where art thou going?
Hermit, who art thou waiting for?
What once was there may be no more!

It has been a very, very long while since I last wrote a blog entry for no other reason than a sudden change in my life. This poor sorcerer, Jean R. Mavi, has begun working for a living. While I'd hate to point out that I'm still freeloading in my parents' abode, it was, all in all, an acute change in my life.

Where before, I would have easily "encouraged" my parents to buy unnecessary luxuries like books, cake, lotion or perfume, I am now acutely and painfully aware of the weight I have to support. I've been hearing lots of comments on how I must've gained weight but I'm sure you know that is not what I meant. This adverse turn of events, however, have made it far easier for me to recognize I have a problem and, as some chipper optimistic buckets of silly sunshine say, the first step to solving a problem is to recognize (or acknowledge) its existence.

For one, I never really believed that I was spending too much for, when I was still a student or job-hunter, I relied immensely on the coffers of my parents. Having my own stash now, however, made it painfully easier to keep track of my expenses. Yes, dear reader, I am now aware that I am a shopaholic food-tripper.

My work takes me in quite close proximity to several malls, as a matter of fact, they're all a stone's throw away. Granted, you really need powerful arms and a stone of dire lightness and infinitesimal size. Still, the trouble lies in the fact that the shortest route home involves passing through one of these malls to emerge at the highway on the other side.

For people without my affliction, this is as easy as a walk in the park. For me, it was pure torture. For the first few weeks, I endure the tempting calls of the, previously, inanimate objects on sale. Someone must've released Allspark's energy for the cakes began to call, in a sing-song voice, "Come, Mavi. You know you want to eat me!"

Perfume bottle would assault my nostrils with their gaseous tendrils, drawing me near as though saying, "If you leave your money on this counter, you will feel as light as I do." Various food items would, undoubtedly, hiss in their sizzling voice, "Oooh, sssomething sssoundsss hot, sssmellsss tasssty and looksss appetizzzing." Books will whisper in their papery voices, "Mpph-ppph-kpp-phh," which, for the life of me, I don't understand. It's probably an invitation for me to buy and read them to figure out exactly what they meant.

Oookay, so maybe I got a little too creative (or, perhaps, terribly unoriginal) with the Allspark stuff. However, I kid you not (or, in the words of some vulgar marines with unsavory vocabulary, "I $#!+ you not") when I claim it takes tremendous willpower, self-restraint, mana and hitpoints to resist the temptation. It is more difficult doubly so when one of my alter-ego's pipe in, "Hey, I'm not a monk or ascetic, so to hell with moderation," completely unaware that hell is, so far, an unmoderated place. (Apparently, the admin wanted full control)

Despite the cool air-conditioning, I cannot help secreting beads of sweat on my temples, my neck and my torso whenever I stay far too long in such a horrid place. I often find myself willing my feet to move faster, that these trials be put behind me quite sooner. Praised be the merciful goddess I don't own a credit card or I might not have endured these temptations for so long!

To you, unlucky reader who had the benevolent heart to wade through my flood of petty troubles, I thank you. I do regret, however, not being able to offer those in similar situations any advice. I find myself as completely in the dark as the rest of our suffering brethren.

Scent and Aftertaste

2007-06-14T01:14:00.000+08:00

Far be it from me
to post what I ate
but such food, really,
I'm sure is top-rate.

This is a post I have been putting off for more than a month now. During the course of my job-hunting days, I have been traveling to different places in the Metro. Among others, I have also been coming in and out of the Ortigas area. Its proximity to one of the leading malls nationwide almost always meant that any dealing in the area, such as exams, company talks, interviews or job offers, inexplicably and unerringly lead my feet to above average, non-fastfood dining establishments.

In an earlier post, I have already described to you a Happy Potion I have discovered. Today, allow me to share with you my thoughts on some of the dishes of Spaghetti Factory.

Like their name says, they do specialize in spaghetti, pasta to be accurate. Their meals, however, come in prices much more suited to spend-crazy yuppies than penniless job-hunters like me. Truth be told, even if I was a yuppie, I'd still probably be penniless 'coz we don't use pennies in our country.

Still, I do have some stash hidden specifically for this purpose; suffice to say that I have paid a visit to their Megamall branch a couple of times.

It being the Spaghetti Factory, I might as well begin by describing their spaghetti. It's long and thin, most probably made of wheat, yellowish-white in color and looks a lot like spaghetti. Seriously though, I have tasted two sauces that came with their spaghetti: Bolognese and Pesto. The Bolognese sauce was fine, almost a bit too average and has no feature too special. Their pesto sauce, on the other hand, is something quite positively indescribable. One can really taste the herbs, smell the roasted cashew and get drunk in the scent of some unknown something. It is quite unlike the pesto-pestuhan sauce I encountered in the college cafeteria.

To describe it as delicious is not quite enough; it tasted really good that the complimentary after-meal breath mints seemed like an insult to the dish. It leaves a roasty, woody after-taste and after-scent that could very well be compared to an orgasm's afterglow. No, really, I told you it was indescribable; I fear I am doing much injustice by attempting to describe it.

More than just pasta, they also offered fried chicken. I was never easily wowed by fried chicken so I supposed it'd taste as starchy as the chicken prepared by two of the leading non-KFC fastfood chains in the country. It was, then, a pleasant surprise to bite into Spaghetti Factory's chicken. Like their pesto sauce, it also seemed to specialize in scent and after-taste. To be sure, it still tastes like chicken and the breading is not anything too amazing but it radiated a sweet warm scent, which, to me, smelled a lot like hot butter.

For dessert, I once ordered a mango crepe but I am quite disappointed to remark that it looked like something I could easily make myself. At 89 bucks, it seemed hardly worth it.

This afternoon, I also ordered an appetizer: mussels with spinach, Parmesan cheese and Bechamel sauce. The menu said (or probably warned) that it was a new item; I should have known by then. Anyway, the sauce tasted too much of sour tomatoes that the flavor of the mussels was nearly drowned. I'd also like to comment that their mussels needed more cheese. I'm saying this simply because I have tasted better baked mussels elsewhere.

It's kinda sad for me to end this post on a depressing note but when it came to beverages... Suffice to say that Spaghetti Factory makes excellent pasta. And chicken. Period.

Zero (in stasis)

2007-05-18T19:35:00.000+08:00

Today, the warrior falls into a slumber. He is hibernating in the core of the sun. When will he re-awaken? Who will wake him up? I do wonder.

I have been wondering about other things too. As a believer of karma, I now ask myself, am I really a bad person?

Or, if an omnipotent being does exist out there, does she really hate me personally?

No. No poetry fragment for today. I'm tired of thinking too much into a lot of stuff. Maybe ignorance really is bliss.

A New Chapter

2007-04-23T00:12:00.000+08:00

I am but a little jar
overflowing with dreams.
I am a jar full of dreams
but I am just a little jar.

When the next dawn comes, a new chapter of my life begins. The next time the sun rises, my life as a university student ends and I shall awaken to a new day as a part-time yuppie and a part-time bum.

At this very moment, I have chosen to play Jim Chappel's Gone, a piano instrumental that I, for a strange reason, find to be very effective in moving me to tears. Every time I hear it, my mind is filled with images of people close to me in different states of death. Right now, I do think it is quite appropriate for, after all, this is a day of farewell.

There were a lot of regrets I was suddenly made aware of. I should have talked to him, smiled or said hello. I should have been nicer to her and helped her in the academic problems she's been having. I should have listened to him, laughed at her jokes, greeted this and hugged that. I guess one thing that really gets to me is the chances at friendship I have, now, lost. I suppose that, from this day onward I shall never hear from a lot of nice people ever again, simply because I have been to chicken to just so much as smile.

To all the people I have ignored, seemingly or for real, and to all of you who have been very nice to me, I'm very sorry for being the jerk you know I am. We may not meet again but if I could really go back, I'll take the chance to be your friend. To all those who have taken time to be nice to me, I will never forget your kindness; I may not be able to return it to you but I will pass it on to the friends I have yet to meet. To those who have been of hindrance to me, knowing or otherwise, I may resent you but I will treasure the knowledge my experience in interacting with you has given me; rest assure I have learned much and will be more crafty and sly the next time I meet people like you. To a select few of you people, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have graduated today; as a matter of fact, I'd probably have graduated earlier.

Today, I sang the national anthem and the song of my alma mater with pride welling deep within me. Today, I am no longer a student but I will never cease to be a learner. Life goes on and continues teaching me beyond academics.

As of now, my memory of my batchmates begins fading and I cannot help but sorrowfully bid farewell to those I will never see, or remember, again. Today, there is a lot of people I would like to congratulate, however, I was, once more, too embarrassed to even extend my hand. Today, I have formally congratulated, wished luck on and bid farewell to only two people.

To everyone else who might be reading this entry, we most probably will never meet again. I regret not having spent time or paid attention to you as much as you deserved. I sincerely apologize for ignoring you guys.

To all of us, my sincerest congratulations. May we face the world better equipped with the knowledge the university has given us.

May we meet again; best of luck and fare thee well.

Happy Potion

2007-04-02T22:11:00.000+08:00

Truth be told, I have a lot of insights I'd like to share at the moment but I am quickly running out of time. Instead of a lengthy discourse, I'd just like to share a concept called Happy Potion.

See, there do exist, in this heather world, certain fluid mixtures that, for some unknown reason, give an inexplicable feeling of happiness and contentment the moment the drink slides down one's throat. It is not all about the taste, but also involves the scent and even the after-taste.

C2, a local iced/green tea product by the Universal Robina Corporation, was one drink I was, at first, doubtful of. After all, I have sampled several powdered iced tea mixes that, to me, one company's lemon iced tea tastes pretty much the same as the next one's. They claimed to give a cool and clean feeling, hence, the name. Initially, they released four flavors: green tea, lemon, peach and apple. While it is true that their lemon iced tea tasted as I suspected, their peach-flavored green tea got me hooked.

Somewhere in the year 2006, they released four new flavors: strawberry, lychee, kiwi and forest fruits. I don't think I'd like to taste anything lychee anytime soon. Their strawberry-flavored green tea was just as alright as my beloved peach. Their kiwi and forest fruits flavors, however, made a loyal consumer out of me.

Kiwi-flavored green tea had this peculiar scent that breezes through my nostrils as the drink sloshes down my throat. It has an indescribably lingering after-taste. Forest fruits, on the other hand, had an overpoweringly sweet scent and after-taste. It is best imbibed cool, but not cold, since much of the flavor is lost on freezing taste buds. Drinking any of these two flavors brought a smile out of me, sometimes in unlikely places, earning me a few strange looks from onlooking people.

The only possible downside I can see is that the two flavors are, well, strong, as a matter of fact, stronger than peach. They have this irritating feel at the back of the throat not quite different from that left behind by an oversweet drink. For me, however, it is best described as the pinching feel left behind by a strong orange juice. The price, however, is quite affordable to a lot of middle-class pedestrians, with the small bottle ranging from PhP18.00 to PhP22.00

A pizza company, Shakeys, has recently released here in our country their newest offering for the summer. With the ordinary name Fruit Coolers, the menu described it as "A mix of fresh fruit syrup and mint, mixed with soda that gives a cool and refreshing feeling. Enjoy it in green apple and watermelon flavors." I must admit, the "cool and refreshing" clichè and the oxymoron "fresh fruit syrup" had me in doubt. However, one sip of the watermelon flavor is all it took to turn me into a believer, gloria hallelujah!

The fruity taste of watermelon was a bit shocking at first, abruptly biting the tip and the sides of your tongue. After a few moments, the coolness of soda water will wash over you and the scent of mint will relax you as you exhale. Again, a waiter and a waitress gave me funny looks; I then realized that I had yet another of those Happy Potion smiles plastered on my face.

The price can be a bit high for some pedestrians, like students, for example, but I do think the PhP54.00 I've spent on a glass is quite worth the exhilarating experience.

I'd like to conclude this time, not with a stanza of poetry, but with a few words straight from my heart. Somewhere in this heathen world, there is a Happy Potion meant for you. Go out, search for it and, when you finally find it, keep the experience in your memory. Remember that there once was a time a drink made you smile. Lastly, remember to drink it again sometime in the future.

No, seriously, I'm fresh out of poetry.

Wallpaper Paste

2007-03-17T13:51:00.000+08:00

I will not lay claim to being a gourmet or a connoisseur; I am but a mere pedestrian who wishes to get my money's worth when it comes to food. Like every other consumer out there, I want to get the most bang for the buck and I'm not just talking about volume.

We all have them, the places we love to eat and the establishments we abhor. When something is wrong, it is our moral duty, as consumers, to point out these infractions to our taste and, crossing our fingers, hope that the management takes action. However, upon returning and still finding the food and the place as worse as before, it is probably forgivable for a person to blog about it, right?

First off is a local fastfood chain of Oriental cuisine, which we'll just refer to as Cho-king. Now, in reality, I have not much complaints about their food; truth be told, I love their king's congee, pork tofu and nai-cha (milk tea). There is, however, one branch of this chain that does great injustice to the other branches. Its Philcoa branch is, to say the least, the dirtiest branch I have ever been to. The chairs are all smudgy, the floors are grimy and the table all greasy.

If you order any congee in this place, expect a rice mash that, if anything, tastes like wallpaper paste. Believe me, I know what wallpaper paste tastes like. With pork tofu, they cannot seem to find the right balance between pork and tofu. I often get served a heaping of tofu with very little pork. Other times, though, they get the right balance with pure pork fat and tofu. Worse, the sauces they used on that side dish seemed to be comprised of colored warm water. I cannot taste soy sauce or even vinegar there.

If, on the other hand, you avoid the horrors I mentioned and decided to buy Chao Fan, or mixed rice, expect your serving to be over-moist, sticky and soggy. In truth, it tastes like it has been freshly reheated. If you order braised beef toppings on your rice, expect a helluva lot more rice than beef. Oh, sorry, I meant, "Expect more rice than rubber." As a matter of fact, anything that is supposed to contain beef probably must have been substituted with rubber.

I know I sound bitter, crazy and clueless to what I'm ranting. I am bitter, yes, because I feel like I have been cheated. More than twice. Crazy, maybe, because I kept on hoping they'd at least heed my feedback and improve their food and services. Clueless? Most probably not. I know what I'm talking about because I've been to three other branches: Berkeley Square, SM North and SM Fairview. I'd especially like to commend their Berkeley Square branch.

That branch is noticeably cleaner than any of the other branches I've been to. The staff is really friendly, the food really is hot (at least, not re-heated) and when you order soda with ice, you don't get a heaping of ice with a little soda. Their beef is tender, not rubber; their congee is tasty, not bland, their pork tofu really has pork, not pork fat and their mixed rice dishes are moist enough but not too soggy.

Like I said, I'm not primarily a "taster" but a "feeder" but just because I like to eat does not mean I have no sense of taste. I'm not a professional critic who'd say, "The flavor of this ingredient is overwhelming the natural taste of the other," like those judges on Iron Chef. I am merely a consumer who, unlike those judges, needs to spend to eat.

Eat, devour and make merry
for this very day we'll all die.
Drink, imbibe and be happy
'til it's time to say good-bye.

My Name is Mavi

2007-03-03T23:26:00.000+08:00

Today is the first day
of the rest of my life.
The future starts today.
Tomorrow, perhaps, a blur?

I just found out that I liked job interviews.

While the notion of being subject to the scrutinizing gaze and almost-too-personal interrogation might not be to a lot of people's liking, I happen to enjoy the attention. I find pleasure in those brief golden moments in time when what one says and how one says it really does matter.

I've been through three job interviews in my life. The first one was almost just a formality; my employers already knew me before I applied or, more correctly, was recruited for the job.

The second one was for an outsourcing company, which, interestingly enough, was one of the top 10% highest-paying IT companies in the country (If you have the same priorities as I do, you'd find those numbers quite interesting indeed). I believe the interview began with the interviewer asking me what she should call me.

"Mavi," I replied.

It was going fine until I, in my foolishness, blurted out, "I am a totally honest, God-fearing person entirely incapable of fabricating fictitious events in my personal history." Okay, so maybe it wasn't really that; it was more along the lines of, "I am a level 2 probationary acolyte of Northrend's Undead Cult. My personal goal in life is to be a level 10 dual-class necro-sorcerer," to which the interviewer replied, "Oookay... care to explain further?" Then it all went downhill.

The most recent one was for an offshore company. They are one of the top 25% highest-paying IT companies in the country (Again, another interestingly noteworthy piece of info). I was almost ready to give up as I spent forty minutes waiting at their reception area. Granted, I was ten minutes early but that still meant the interviewer was 30 minutes late.

What they lack in punctuality, I soon found out, they made up for in the liberties they gave their employees. It was a bittersweet company, a sharp contrast of nice and nasty. There are certain aspects I like a lot and there are others that make me think twice. Allow me to point out, though, that, for this one, I did not voluntarily divulge being an initiate to an unorthodox paranormal organization.

I digress, though. This third interview began with, "So... what should I call you?"

"Mavi," I replied.

It might sound strange that for two job interviews, I began with a name that, once upon a time, was not my own. Now, of course, my pen name is as integral a part of my identity as my eyeglasses. Still, I am quite touched that the next question of both interviewers is, "Mavi? Why Mavi?"

See, it may sound pathetic but I am really moved that they considered me as a person with a nickname totally different from his given name and not just another prospective employee. After all, they could have chosen not to take interest in my unorthodox nickname and proceed with, "So, Mr. Mavi, about your application..."

On the bus ride home, I suddenly remembered a scene between Agent Smith and Neo in the movie The Matrix. Agent Smith, of course, addressed Neo by his given name, Mr. Anderson.

Through gritted teeth: "My name is Neo."

It is with apprehension and a bit of fear that I wonder whether Mavi might, one day, take over my life and wrestle the reins from me.

Overthrow! Dark Revolt

2007-02-24T22:01:00.000+08:00

Now my blind eye sees...
that sometimes...
the hand of Fate must be forced!

-Illidan, Demon Hunter
Warcraft 3, Frozen Throne Expansion Pack

Today has been a day of disappointment and shadowy realizations. One upon a time, a light shone through the dark sky; dawn has broken into my world and the sun appeared to give me warmth. I once dreamt of owning part of that warmth but the sun just smiled, nodded politely but stayed conveniently out of my reach. Since then, its influence on my life has waned as a shooting star and several other stars lighted my sky.

Today was the day I have come to realize what I should have known so long ago: the sun can never be mine. With the notion that I must learn to let go for real came the darkness I had once been acquainted with.

A female acquaintance of mine once said she liked me better when I was cheerful, instead of the dark brooding killer she had met years ago. Now, it seems I have been unwise to banish darkness completely out of my life. I have made the same mistake as the Protoss Conclave who, in their single-minded faith in Adun and the Khala, exiled the Dark Templars from their midst. Was it not with the combined light and dark forces that the Zerg Overmind was finally defeated?

I do recognize the irony, though; the sun that shone for so long on my life shall herald the darkness unto my world. Yet, more than ever, the darkness has revealed what would have otherwise remained unseen in the glare of light. The shadows of the dark night has shown me quagmires of false hopes, slippery slopes of optimism and sharp craggy outcrops of obsession. In searing heat and glaring sunlight, all I would have seen was a vast desert dotted by fleeting mirages of oases that were never there.

The sorcerer is almost awake; more than ever, the jester struggles to remain the warrior's master. The sun and the stars are giving way to a dark sky, as fleeting as they themselves are. The sky begins to turn as day and night chase each other about. I, for one, am praying that balance may finally be found.

Musings of a Chronic Liar

2007-02-17T00:27:00.000+08:00

Look deeper into my eyes
And tell me a string of lies.
Say everything is fine
and that you will be mine.

Has it ever occurred to you that someone, somewhere knows something you don't and they're having a good time at your expense?

Call it conspiracy theory or whatnot but I have always had the nagging feeling that shaving creams and/or after-shave lotions might have hair growth stimulants. If it were so, there is nothing we consumers could do about it since, after all, they never were supposed to inhibit hair growth nor did they advertise doing so. Still, it is a pretty darned smart way to ensure that their customers will keep on buying their products. To us, they are just implements to an eternal ritual against something we, as humans, have deemed inescapable: shaving. To them, they are almost a self-sustaining investment.

How about those mold and mildew cleaners? What if each droplet of acidic liquid poured onto the grout between ceramic tiles contained a certain chemical, which, when decayed, encourages more fungal growth? The companies selling these cleaners, too, did not advertise retarding mold and mildew proliferation. They were supposed to clean but not keep your tiles clean. If these indeed contained such chemicals, we'd be in a never-ending battle against fungus.

Another one I have had the luxury to experience: anti-dandruff shampoo. So long as I keep on using it, I don't get flaky scalp; it must have some strong chemicals for even its vapors sting my eyes. However, when I discontinue usage, I get a dandruff boom. Does it also have nice ingredients that decay into bad ones?

Ahh, the refined art of subterfuge. Technically, the makers of the three products never lied to us; they just happened to omit certain facts from the mass media. Given that I, too, enjoy "lying" to others, I'm beginning to wonder if any of those people might be my kin.

Cleansing the Celestials

2007-02-02T01:00:00.000+08:00

The sorcerer stirs in his sleep,
dreaming, never dozing deep.
The radiant sun is burning bright,
flaming in its light and might.
The fleeting wind races through
the tangled woods where it once blew.

Once upon a time, there was a sorcerer who, for his sins in trying to wield magic as his own, was put into a fitful sleep, only to awaken when he is needed once more. Ever and anon, he stirs, whenever the call of power is felt nearby. The impact of meteorites, lividly raging storms or slowly creeping frost all sing the tempting song, enticing the prisoner to wield them once more.

Today, however, a greater song pervades the air. The season of frost is now past and the season of blossoming has arrived.

I have always liked spring. It is a time when most probably everyone feels alive. Like fall, the day is absolutely bright and sunny but, at the same time, cool and gusty. The harmony of sun and wind creates a weather that is neither too hot nor too cold: a weather that is usually known as perfect. The season of blossoming and the season of molting are the perfect seasons to fly kites, to run about in the open, to smile and laugh without inhibition, to sing and be joyful, to hunt and to mate.

There used to be times that I'd be burnt-out by the sheer pressure of the projects I'm doing. Usually, it takes very little to restore energy to me, coffee, cinnamon, a spot of brandy or such truck. Music, too, especially rock, has proven especially effective in kicking my blood alive.

Very recently, though, I experienced a burn-out so exhaustive that even music can only do so much. It was then that I realized the importance of sun and wind in my life. A scream from the Chronicles of Narnia: The Silver Chair couldn't have put it better, "I have to get out! I am a Marshwriggle! I can't stay in these caves for so long; I need the sun, the wind a
the sky!"

While I generally have no idea about Marshwriggles, except that they aren't good to eat and that they, in turn, eat eels, I do agree that I, like him, do need the Earth Mother (and the sky gods) more than I am willing to admit. Like the lizards and salamanders, I now make it a point to bask in the sun for some time shortly after awakening. I have resolved to quit my dependence on the cursed coffee and harness the sun, instead, to jump-start me every morning.

Spring is such a lovely season.

(A friend once commented that my posts are too long to be digestible. Please do bear with me while I research on procuring low-dosage brews)

You Conceited Arrogant Bastard-Jerk of a Pootfah, You Braggart, You...

2007-01-20T02:03:00.000+08:00

I know you've cut yourself before,
swallowed countless pills and more
but look inside these bloodstained doors
to see my life is worse than yours.

Why do humans brag?

I was wondering why we, as supposedly the most advanced specie on this planet, have this deep-seated urge to brag to each other the exciting and interesting (sic) facets of our life. These stories, much as they are entertaining, can become quite boring once the novelty wears off.

In book sales, book clubs and even the most hallowed libraries, we could hear people muttering about the latest books they've bought: books written by this so-and-so author. Asked what they understood from the book, they'd blush in embarrassment and just simply say the book was so deep for their understanding, which, to them, makes it all the more valuable. I mean, what is the use of a book if you cannot understand it at all? That is, of course, aside from self-defense, miscellaneous paperweight, surface, part of a costume, props or an impressive collection of smart clean (and unused) hardbound tomes.

These days, it seems that it does not matter what you know but who you know. A lot of people have resorted to name dropping, claiming to have had rubbed elbows, sexual contact or a small plate of peanuts with this best friend of the cousin of a sexy star. In all their nonsense talk, it would appear that the name of the sexy star, who happens to be a complete stranger to them, has a greater effect than that of their best friend or cousin, who practically know them for years or so.

I, too, would not claim immunity to this. I do regret to say that I have probably made one of the biggest mistakes in my life.

Allow me to elaborate. I was waiting for an interview at a certain building in a certain commercial district when I happened to nod my head and doze lightly. I could have hardly afforded such sleepiness during a job interview so I descended to the ground floor to search for coffee. Just coffee. Just something with caffeine that would wake me up enough.

I found two coffee shops, which, to my utter shock and horror, sold coffee at prices more than a hundred bucks each. In my defense, it is quite different just hearing of these things and actually experiencing an equivalent of a highway robbery right in front of the counter. Worse, the "coffee" I bought did almost nothing to wake me up. For comparison, my instant coffee, which costs less than twenty bucks a pack, keeps me awake for at least four hours while this... "special" coffee gave me under two hours before my eyelids involuntarily dropped down. Oh yeah, it did taste just a little better than my regular coffee and left an interesting raspberry aftertaste I could smell on my breath up to half an hour later: an experience as enjoyable as paying for it is not.

If this coffee they sell in "chic" shops really just taste like coffee and doesn't actually have caffeine, then I suppose I should no longer be wondering how people can spend their entire day inside one and still get enough sleep at night.

Interestingly, though, a lot of people do loiter around these shops for hours on end, purchasing nothing more than a really, really small cup of coffee barely enough to drown a hamster in. I am more than aware that these people aren't really there for the coffee or the other stuff the shop offers, like blueberry cheesecake or strawberry shortcake, no. They're there simply because they want to be seen there. How pathetic is that? In my ardent desire not to be associated with these people, I hurriedly left the shop, drank my coffee bottoms-up and headed for the elevator.

The job interview lasted for an hour, giving me enough free time to get the hell out of the commercial district and catch a bus home before finally dozing off into a shallow slumber. I would be first to confess that I had inadvertently volunteered too much information partly, to impress the interviewer, but mostly to bag the job. Let's not go into that, though; I am never too keen to discuss to other people my shortcomings, at least, those that I already am aware of.

Lastly, though, I have noticed another form of bragging, which, at first glance, does not seem to be bragging at all. How many times have we heard of people "bemoaning" to each other how tormented their life is? It usually begins with one person saying, "My life sucks. I just blah-blah, so-and-so."

Not to be outdone, the other will respond, "You think your life sucks? See, I'm this-and-that. Such-and-such happened."

A third person could very well pipe in, "That's nothing. See here, I used to be dum-dee-dum but then tra-la-la and so you see, I live a pathetic life."

Do these kind of people amuse you? Do they enjoy showing the world how pitiful their circumstances are? Are they competing for sympathy? (I do think the supplies of sympathy worldwide has become alarmingly limited) I don't think so.

What I do think is that, viewed from another angle, they are bragging. They're not having a contest just to see whose life sucks the most. They're also trying to outdo to each other that, not only did they experience those stuff but they also survived it. It's like swapping war stories and determining who survived the worst war.

I believe, though, that I have already observed a bit too much, so I'm gonna stop here. 'coz you see, I've already had to put up with a lot in my life. It's really pathetic, dealing with all those people; my life sucks, right? Eh what? You had a bad day? That's nothing; see here...

Alright, alright. I'm stopping here. Really.

It is Time

2007-01-07T00:36:00.000+08:00

The descent of the grains of sand,
the sweep of a shadowed hand,
and the silent clacking of a clock
goes tick-tock, tick-tock.

Of all spells available to the modern-day magic users, perhaps the most tempting to use would be those that alter or control time. Strange it is, however, that no magic has ever been powerful enough to fully control the progression of time.

Time is, indeed, a very powerful force and harnessing it is quite risky, to say the least. It has weathered rock cliffs, eroded mountain slopes, built and destroyed empires, dug valleys and even corroded monuments that were supposed to withstand the passing of time. True, its actions may be as slow and feeble as an aged hermit but this old man has lived far longer than us. If, as they say, experience is the best teacher, then this hermit has the cunning sagacity and shrewd wisdom of an old man who has lived since the beginning of, well, time.

This recent holiday season, I have received a several e-Books from a close friend, including a copy of Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything. A very scary non-fiction, its first few chapters, dealing with the forces within the universe, makes for a very scary read. More than ever, it has highlighted to me the fact that time is not a force to be trifled with. With events like volcanic eruptions, continental drift, asteroid bombardment, global ice age and the desertification of Africa, the Earth seems more than willing to subject itself under the influence of time. Even the sun or our very own galaxy dare not defy it.

Time can be likened to fire, in that it can be wild, unruly and dangerous. However, just like fire, time too, can be a most useful resource and several civilizations have taken to "paying for your time". Hardware designers are employed to fashion processors that can execute more instructions within the same amount of time than older versions. I suppose nothing could articulate it better than a quote from a dearly beloved professor, Evangel P. Quiwa, regarding the tradeoff between time and space in computer algorithms: "It is better to waste space than to waste time. Memory space can always be recovered but time wasted is time lost."

It is no trivial matter, then, to lie in wait for something. I am not one of those people who vehemently abhor the minutest of waiting and can't seem to be able to stand still for a minute or five. Neither am I one of those people who will intentionally arrive more than an hour late. I am but a simple person with a uniquely simple mind... Oh, scratch that; the last one was quite irrelevant, methinks.

In my life, I have met a lot of people whom the Fates, the Earth Mother and a certain ka-blam! somewhere in my hypothalamus have declared vital for me to meet. Setting a rendezvous is, almost always, a dreaded task for me. Far more often than not, I manage to end up being on time while the other parties I so eagerly anticipate meeting turn up an hour late, if at all.

Around year 1995, being caught in a traffic jam was a perfectly good excuse for being late. Not too many people had cars back then. Nowadays, it is perfectly ridiculous to say you were late because of the traffic. It has become a common fact of life here that much more people now own, not only cars, but also several other vehicles like SUV's, CRV's and a whole plethora of other terms I do not fancy taking an interest in. It, therefore, goes that the most pathetic excuse ever conceivable was, "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was a killer."

Still, however, in my not-so-humble opinion, perhaps that last line was more palatable to my ears than the one I'm usually getting: "Oh, I'm sorry. I overslept/just woke up." Disturbingly, it seemed to happen a lot more often in the most recent parts of my life that I couldn’t help but wonder, "Is this Karma? Is this devised by a cosmic judicial system to punish me for past misdeeds?" What does irk me is that it could very well be my penance; I must admit I have quite a lot of misdeeds when I was still young, impulsive and foolish.

I once met an individual who ranted to me how he waited for his mom for more than an hour. He was livid with rage that he refused to speak to her for a few days. More than anything, he relates, time is of great importance to me. It does come as a surprise then when, one day we were supposed to meet, he turned up just over two hours late.

There is also another person I am supposed to meet around dinnertime in a fairly uncharted area for me. I also ended up waiting two hours and a half in a dimly-lighted sidewalk, with nowhere to sit down on, rain beginning to pour by sheets and the constant danger that lurk in the unknown shadows.

Another person supposed to be present for my birthday had me waiting three-quarters of an hour before calling to say he couldn't make it. Quite angry, more with myself than with the other guy, I just heaved a sigh and went home alone.

Strangely enough, I noticed that all these preposterously impolite acts I have beheld were only committed by males. Never mind their sexuality because they're all varied on their tastes except that all of these people had penises. I might be wrong but as far as I can recall, never was there a female who made me wait for long hours, stood me up or, worst of all, made me wait before calling to inform me I was stood up.

In a lot of classic literature I have encountered, the books always seemed to imply that women, by protocol, arrive at a much later hour than men. "The Queen is never late," they say. "Everyone is simply too early," they say. "Don't point out how late a woman is." Even in the modern world, we see lines like: "Ginger, have you no idea about being fashionably late?" or "If you set a date, we'll be ready an hour late. We simply cannot rush doing our hair/nails/makeup."

What happened? Have the times changed so much that men, figuratively, donned women's skirts, held their feathered fans, wore their tiaras, bumped with their crinolines and, heaven forbid, spent half an hour painting their lips?!? (I must admit that even I use lip balm just so my lips wouldn't look too dry) Now that I muse it over, I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised.

With the rise of the term "metrosexual", almost every pedestrian male has turned into a creature whose vanity could very well rival that of a woman. Touching another man's hair is considered sacrilege. Oily faces are a no-no. Unstyled hair is a forbidden thing to wear. What's to say that men now are not too eager to be waited upon?

Does this mean that, with the change in the world today, men are less likely to perceive the value of time than the other half of the population? Is this the reason why, "I'll bide my time," sounds perfect coming from old hags or sassy bitches and sounds completely pathetic from a respectable hermit or an insensitive jerk? Is this why women are more adept at casting hexes and curses than us, biological males?

I should like to think not, mostly because I'd want to exempt myself from this generalization. However, it is severely disheartening and socially discouraging to set another rendezvous. Already, I have wasted at least 24 hours of my life on just waiting.

Do me a favor; meet me not more than 15 minutes late.

Lastly, if you are my destined soulmate, please, oh, please, don't make me wait my entire life. Else, I'd give up on you from time to time. Who knows? Only time can tell.

On Assumptions, for Lack of a Flashier Title

2006-12-23T00:30:00.000+08:00

"You can't judge my brother because he's not a book."

-Melanie Marquez

Outside any religious belief, what is an assumption?

My attention-deficit hyperactive disordered "pious" classmate has made the error of raising his hand to the question posed by our high school chemistry teacher. As expected, he expounded on the spectacular event where the Blessed Virgin Mary was assumed into heaven. As expected too, our teacher, along with several other students, rolled their eyes. Like a teacher speaking to a mentally backward trilobyte having difficulties understanding what she is saying, she repeated the "outside any religious belief" clause. My classmate had the audacity to dispute that the assumption of Mary, who, for all I know, may or may not be blessed and may or may not be Virgin, is not a mere religious belief but a historical fact.

Suffice to say that this pleasant story ended with a chemistry teacher raising her voice and, contrary to a lot of clichè cheesy movies, the holy and divine forces of good beaten back by the evil of a strong science teacher.

An assumption, according to a handy black dictionary I have, which could well be mistaken for a cultist's handbook, is something taken for granted or supposed to be correct. For example, "I'm working on the assumption that all blondes are stupid," means pretty much the same as, "I believe my existence is heavily dependent on the stupidity of the blondes, therefore I exist."

Of course, a lot of assumptions are completely wrong. A very close friend of mine quite surprisingly and most appallingly assumed that all geeks are technophillic elven trekkies cursed with an eldritch lingua obscura spell, which is the reason why people rarely understand them. While I do agree that geeks are, in general, sometimes difficult to understand, not all of us are fans of Tolkien's LOTR or the Star Trek Series. I, myself, do like Star Trek Enterprise, although I have no idea who James T. Kirk or Spock is.

Another assumption I have had anguish encountering was that all written prose fantasy works are elven. I've had some people ask me what I'm currently working on, which, in itself, is quite a powerful balm to my ego. However, I am very much irked that, mentioning I'm working on a fantasy setting, over-enthusiastic fangirls would gush, "Oh, like Lord of the Rings?" Seriously, what's with this remarkably unhealthy obsession over white-haired elven archers who, what with their pointed ears and all, could just as well have been citizens of a primitive Vulcan civilization? Why, oh why, do people assume my fantasy stories take place somewhere in Middle Earth when they do not even have orcs, dwarves or elves? Why am I unfortunate enough to be assumed a proud and conceited writer who is too snub-nosed to admit I have been inspired by Tolkien's works when I absolutely abhor them?

Allow me, too, the audacity to point out a flaw almost innate in half the humans I encounter: females. Seriously, they think it's alright to be touchy-feely all about you. They put their hands on your thigh, on your arm, on your shoulder and, for the more aggressive ones, your butt as they give it a playful slap. We, men, on the other hand, don't have the same benefits and, with the exception of those on the extreme side of the gay scale, the softest of whispers, the merest breath of wind on their napes or the slightest touch on their arms could very well be enough to provoke some of these penisless harpies into screaming bloody rape or sexual harassment.

The other half too, shalt not be left unscathed. Aye, ye men. Think ye I be forgetting 'baout all o' ye now, hrrr?

Men have always been known to be sexual creatures. It is thought that in the same way our mouths helplessly salivate when we think about food, men, too, have organs that react at the dimmest spark of imagination regarding sex. A stereotype commonly thought to be true is that biological males are more sexually aggressive and biological females are more soft and romantic. Surely, a lot of you have heard of the quote, "Boys will be boys," used on males of all sorts, straight, bi or gay. To a degree, I am inclined to agree.

However, I do beg to differ when people just assume that males like me would love nothing more than a hard, rough climax with no strings attached. Indeed, the saying, "Dog is man's best friend," very nearly plunged into oblivion when a new saying, "His hand is man's best friend," more accurately described the picture. Not all of us, however, are any these sexually-crazy wolves always on the hunt for their prey. Some of us have our softer sides too, and no, we don't have to be gay to want for a warmer, more intimate and more romantic relationship.

A Broadway musical by AvenueQ, Everyone's a Little Bit Racist, quite accurately depicts another form of presumption: racism. I am inclined to agree with the aforementioned artists that everyone's a little bit racist. I also agree that maybe the world might be a better place if we just all admitted that we are, indeed, flawed with racism and that it is but a fact of life. However, I will not agree to being subject to stronger forms of racism. You may be familiar with the sort of talk that runs along the lines of, "Oh, you're from the Philippines? Is that where people eat frog's legs, chicken's intestines, matured duck's egg or pork blood?"

While I do tend to abhor pork blood, I can see nothing wrong with eating frog's legs, matured duck's egg or chicken's intestines, which are in fact, quite delicious, if you ask me. The thrill of the utter shock radiated by other people quickly grows old and, in its stead, appalling annoyance tends to give me that sharp look in the eye and the ruffled feathers.

I could probably rant on and on about the horribly stupid things people assume about everyone else. Doing so, however, might drive away what precious little audience I have. I'd now be better off ending this transmission.

Okay, put 'er on Warp 3.

Go Ahead. Impress Me.

2006-12-10T22:42:00.000+08:00

I once had the glorious opportunity/terrible misfortune to watch a copy of the movie Happy Feet. Really, there was nothing much about penguins that really strongly interest me. The plot was altogether cliché, the musical scenes were not to my taste and, probably, the only thing that really moved me so much was the twisted face of a penguin as he gasped for dear air while he was continuously being choked by the plastic rings of a 6-pack. Even then, I was hoping they'd just kill the guy and hope he has moved on to a happier place. I did like the superstitious approach to winter; all throughout that dark and frosty winter, the penguins were singing to bring back the sun.

Mumble Happy Feet, as an egg, was accidentally dropped by his father during a very cold and dark winter: a deed so severely disapproved by anyone who finds out. As it is, Mumble turned out to be slightly extra-normal; he was born feet first into the world, he danced instead of sung when he was happy and, in general, had happy feet. In his community of penguins on Emperor Island, everyone was expected to find his or her own heartsong: the special something deep within their souls that will find them their mate. Mumble, however, was not gifted the least bit with the harmony of voice; every time he is seized by a happy thought, an important fuel to the penguins' heartsongs, he breaks into dance.

Allow me to leave Antarctica for a while and bring you closer to heaven. Sir Richard Bach, an aviator, writer and fan of Antoine de-Saint Exupery, once wrote a book called The Gift of Flying. Well, that was one of his books I do not mean to discuss right now, instead, let me call your attention to another of his works: Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Yes, the main character is named Jonathan Livingston and yes, he is a seagull.

Jonathan spent most of his life in breathtaking isolation. Unlike all the other gulls, he didn't bother much to fight for breadcrumbs, screech with fellow gulls or be content with the rudiments of flying. Instead, he perfected flying, as an art; he is able to pull off maneuvers like rolls, tumbles, stalls, glides and other discombobulating terminologies an actual aviator might be able to better detail to you. For his efforts, he gained a better life; a high-speed dive brought him fish that schooled ten feet below the ocean while, riding the high winds inland, he was brought to new places and feasted on crickets there. He rode the evening wind when every other gull dared not fly in the dark and he rose above the fog, into clearer skies, when all his fellows just sat miserably in the beach, expecting nothing but rain.

His discoveries, however, were not without a price. For what the elders deemed reckless impudence, he was outcasted by the seagull society.

A lot of us people are special. There are those of us capable of "breathing" fire, running through shards of glass or capable of eating raw chickens that may or may not look ill and may or may not have come from Eastern Asia. There are those of our fellows who are stars of their own freak shows, wrestling arenas (Curse you, King Booker), concerts, movies and TV shows. Indeed, it would seem that we, as humans, thrive not only on food and water but also on attention.

When I was young, I was not particularly gifted with stage talents. I could answer a Math or Science exam good enough, bring my daydreams to life or weave stories that, strangely enough, no one but me seemed to understand. When I grew up into who I was now, I could sketch some objects fairly well, program a database application in Java or even write blogs, prose, fiction and other written compositions. However, I could not, for the life of me, sing or dance in a manner acceptable to our society.

I could dance some ballroom dances, yeah, but I bet it is not exactly the type people would like to see on impromptu performances in their pathetic Christmas or birthday parties. I could sing comfortable well in the safety of my own bedroom or under the comfortable blanket of anonymity in a sea of strangers but I doubt it is how people would like to know me better.

Sometimes, it's not always about the people who do something exceptional in public. A lot of us are not gifted with the penchant for histrionic arts, sleight-of-hand magic tricks, a soulful heartsong or a pair of happy feet. It is sad, though, that at social gatherings, people would point at other people asking, "Isn't that guy the fashion model you've been telling me?" but the moment you hear someone ask, "Isn't that the Internet's nth Blogger of the Year?" a lot of uneducated peasants would simply murmur, "Geek."

A past teacher of mine once said that programming is not a spectator sport. Commentators simply cannot tell their audiences, "Whoa! Mavi from Team Philippines has ditched recursion for an iterative approach!" or "Team Green Three, from UP Diliman, has unsealed what they called the Forbidden Quiwa Algorithm!" Even a momentary suspension of belief, like that employed by the cooking contest Iron Chef, does not, methinks, remotely allow for a programming contest a crowd could cheer on.

I am not bewailing my lack of stage talents; I would very much rather be writing this blog entry well into a carpal-tunnel syndrome rather than bend and contort my body into breathtaking postures in front of a crowd of screaming fanboys (fangirls too, but I have a lot more fanboys) I am probably just commenting with an indifference how some parents, including mine, coerce their untalented children to sing a pathetic cheesy song or dance a pitiful seizure during social gatherings. The poor children are often under pain of death, should they dare disobey, which, thankfully enough, they never do. The unwilling spectators, on the other hand, would simply say, "Oh, nice," or ejaculate, "Sugoi! Amazing!" more to the benefit of the poor child than that of the ridiculously ambitious mother.

To be sure, I am quite against robbing children of the joys of their childhood. Many are the times I have seen hopelessly misguided mothers cajole an unwilling (and untalented) child to sing. Many are the crappy performances I have seen during social gatherings. Also, many are the stifled laughter I have observed among audiences at the sheer lack of skill being flaunted. I mean, if we are not meant to sing or dance, then just leave us be; if someone believes in our talent only because they're our mother or blood-relatives, then forget it. Sure, we may not be able to brag anything during the Christmas party but you could usually call us anytime you need a graphic artist, an accountant, a doctor, a cook or even just a friend.

For instance, a friend can usually find me more than willing to help him/her build his/her own web site. I may not have the blessing of a heartsong or a pair of happy feet but I do happen to have, geeky as it may sound, a heartblog, a heartprogram, ten happy clickers and happy typers, fleet feet (you never know when you need me to run for something extremely urgent) and a single, hyperactive happymagination.

I can program for you a CMS
but not advise you on PMS.
I can shampoo, but for the life of me,
I cannot braid thy hair for thee.

Any Last Words?

2006-12-02T00:13:00.000+08:00

Two or three days ago, Maestro Bacarra had posed a question that pretty much goes along these lines: "How would you spend the last remaining days of your life?" I never really took that question seriously 'coz my days of adolescent angsting, gothic witching and aloof depression were long past. It did, however, strike me as disturbing that I no definite answer instantly popped into my mind. For a person who spends most of his daydream-time conjuring worst-case scenarios, I came up clueless with what I actually wanted to do.

True, I could easily imagine how I'd react if I were assaulted in a public transport, attempted to be kidnapped or caught in the crossfire between good and evil in the legendary battlefield but I had no idea on what I'd do when faced with the assailant known only as the Grim Reaper. It was unsettling to realize that, though I have changed from a dark brooding person, I have also lost a few precious parts of my character.

Yesterday, my mother had fallen into one of her rare nostalgic moments once more. She had been filling us in on the twists and turns of my dad's courtship and, while most of the time, I find the contents of my stomach churning at the mere cheesiness of it all, there were also times I had to giggle like a high school girl, titillating at the mere cheesiness of it all. Then came the question that strikes fear and unrest into the heart of every closet gay student: "Do you have a girlfriend at school?"

I did manage to successfully evade the question, just saying that there were a few persons that caught my eye but none that have smitten my heart. Oh! If they only knew, but this pain, I am cursed to bear alone! Woe is me, pitiful is my life and pathetic is this digression of mine!

Just earlier this evening, I guess I had one too many sips of Sol de España, Sangria. I did acquire a sweet disposition during dinner; for some reason I cannot completely fathom, leftovers seemed to taste quite good. Three hours later, I found myself tossing and turning about my bed in a fitful sleep. Sleep is not even an accurate word to describe it for I have been hovering to and fro between states of dream and consciousness. Random thoughts popped into my head, sometimes more than once. A single voice, however, overwhelmed the rest by the immensity of its message: "What are you going to do with your life?"

There, in my slightly inebriated haze, I had the answers, but it was a grim revelation.

Life had never seemed so short when the time left is compared with the sum of the time it will take one to do all that one wants to do. It seems that one lifetime is never enough and, if that were not bad already, some people do not even get to live up to as long as the average human lifespan. I could die tomorrow; you could die tomorrow; he or she could die tomorrow. Heck, we all could even die now!

I wanted to be happy; everyone does. However, not everyone knows what will make them happy. I have a few good ideas but even I am not sure if it will truly fetch me happiness in my life.

I wanted to learn to ride a bike; it has been very embarrassing for me to have reached this age without knowing the basics of riding a bicycle. I also wanted to learn how to skate or use the roller-blades. I wanted to drive a car I could call my own. I wanted to eat dishes from various cuisines and generally have fond memories of each dish.

I once wished for a boyfriend and my wish came true as though the Wishmaster himself, a Djinn, granted it. I did not wish for true love for I conceded that it might be the remotest dream that could ever fall into my hands. I did wish for a close approximation of true love, however; I wanted to have a boyfriend that could make me happy and whom I could also make happy. I wanted to dance with him, watch movies with him, laugh with him and generally share intimate moments together, sexual or otherwise.

I wished to be free of my inhibitions even just once. I seek the uncontrollable fog that drapes over an intoxicated man's eyes; I wanted to be drunk outside the confines of my own home; I wished to act as I please, without thought of the repercussions of my acts.

I wanted to have broadband Internet access so I could download all the Uchuu Keiji Shaider episodes I could watch. It has also been very embarassing for me not to remember anything about the sentai series of my time like Shaider, Maskman, Bioman and Masked Rider Black. I wanted to participate in the Neopian stock market and earn a million neopoints or more. I've always wanted to win something from a raffle or the lottery, be it five hundred bucks, an iPod or some other MP3 player, a silver ring, belts, beads or a lifetime supply of boys; I don't really care. I just wanted to be reassured that I am not entirely without luck.

There are a lot more dreams I have, but not all of them may be realized; I am aware of that. I am working towards fulfilling some of my dreams but I'm afraid time is just too short to reach them all. I wonder, though, the moment I die, will all my unfulfilled dreams be hiding between pages too?

We're here right above the dust
seeking human warmth from you.
Care to stoop down and reach for us
or shall we remain dreams never true?

Internet Killed the Telegraph Star

2006-11-30T00:31:00.000+08:00

There was once a song about video killing the radio star. Up 'til now, I'm still wondering whether I should take the literal meaning, where the "radio star" probably died, being sensitive to the glaring flashes of light anime series are known for, or the deeper one, where the radio star's career was ended by the proliferation of music videos.

There's no denying it, however; the world is swiftly changing and the rate of change is probably accelerating. Where before, it would take about ten or so generations before a technology is declared obsolete, nowadays, numerous gadgets grow old in a matter of months. In some progressive Southeast Asian countries, it seems as though people replace their mobile phones on a weekly basis.

I, too, have a mobile phone: a measly Nokia 3310 bought back in late 2003. Everywhere around me, I see a lot of phones much "better" than mine, which is no great feat since almost any phone out there is, apparently, "better" than mine. Those units have sleek black cases, colored LCD's, multimedia capabilities and candy-colored interfaces. Meanwhile, mine only had a pleasantly scratched surface, binary LCD with a sick green backlight, ringtones composed of monotone beeps grating to the human ear, B&W pictures and logos, primitive menus and equally primitive owner. I have a tendency to dispute the last one, ever and anon.

Still, however, I do not remotely yearn for a new phone. I don't need to listen to music all the time, I find it muddling my thoughts and I could "hear" myself think. I also don't need video and polytones, all I ever use my phone for are calling, sending and receiving text messages. I don't even want a smooth and shiny cover; my unsophisticated handling of phones will probably scratch those anyway at one point or another. All in all, I'm pretty satisfied with my ancient phone and, as I have observed, so are a few other people.

Not all technology has been as lucky as my phone, though. Back when I was a kid, I was fascinated by the mere fact that people could write to each other! I had always thought that if people wanted to communicate, they have to haul their @$$ over to the person they wish to talk to, paying a visit, pleasant or otherwise. When I finally got to the idea that the postman (or postperson, for the more genteel of you) is being paid to deliver letters, my astonishment was switched to telegrams.

Of course, back then, I thought postpersons always walked on foot, paid their own fare and, generally, walked hither and thither, back and forth from all islands in the archipelago; I believed postmen were little different from medieval couriers; if you wanted to send a message anywhere around the world, they'd have to book a ticket themselves.

I now know better, though and, unless there is a hidden conspiracy I am not aware of, my ideas concerning snail mail and telegrams are pretty much the same as everyone else. Or is it?

It is quite possible that just a mere 5 years from now, snail mail and telegrams will be something relatively unknown for future generations. At the present, snail mail is only being used to contact persons in areas unreachable by Internet or as a formality, where SMS and email messages may seem too dubious a medium for communication. Postmen still walk around, albeit with reduced physical burden, as a lot of people now resort to other electronic means of communication.

Telegraph operators, on the other hand, may not be so lucky. With more and more cell sites being planned, built and operated everyday, it does seem that anyone who has a working cellphone can never be totally isolated from humanity. Who needs the telegraph's speedy few hours when all it takes is a few seconds for a message to be sent from one mobile phone to another, almost anywhere?

It might be a dark thought but it does seem that computer programmers are the Grim Reapers of people like telegraph operators.

Hear me, call me, get in touch!
We need to talk, please hurry! Rush!

-Witch's Salt Spell, Dorothy Morisson

He's Murdering Time! Off With His Head!

2006-11-21T00:09:00.000+08:00

The Mad Hatter once admonished the young Alice, "If you knew Time as well as I do, you wouldn't talk about wasting him." The poor fellow must have been under a curse quite terrible; it is always time for tea.

Every one of us has most probably suffered such a curse, at one point or another. I'm sure there'd be those of you who might be complaining that for them, it is always "time to hurry" because there is "not much time," which is probably why greetings have evolved from "Hello," or "Good day," into, "Bah! It's about Time!" Surely, more than one person wishes that Time would turn back its hands, reverse its sands or, at the very least, stop in its tracks.

We are all victims of time, that much we can be sure of, and, until we figure out a way to slow down the progress of time without involving near-light speeds, we just pretty much have to surrender ourselves to our fate. The only thing we can do to alleviate our sufferings is figure out a way to speed things up, while we still can't slow down time.

All in all, our efforts were not all that bad. After all, our microwaves can zap meals in an alarming fraction of the time it took our ancestors to boil water in a log fire. Our SMS messages, IM's and emails reach their destination in a matter of seconds, or minutes, at most, when the fastest our predecessors had took hours using the Pony Express or even days, by carrier pigeons. Maglev trains, light rail and jets have rendered wagon trains a thing of the past, if not completely obsolete.

Not all of humanity, however, had been able to benefit from this evolution of technology. While I am also tempted to share my opinions concerning the more traditional methods of cooking employed by our unfortunate brethren in impoverished areas, allow me to be selfish enough to rant about dialup connections.

In my world, before there was WiFi, there was DSL and before there was DSL, there was dialup. Sad to say, I am still on dialup, which probably means I live in an uncomfortably small world after all. True, broadband Internet connections have been available to a wide range of users but, for us who live in the periphery known as the suburban, we often suffer the lack of these tempting services.

A local mobile phone carrier once advertised on TV that its WiFi has the "nationwidest" coverage. I am not inclined to agree or disagree, however, I would like to point out that they have failed to add the "unfeasible in certain areas" clause. We attempted to avail of this service, unfortunately, we had too much taller structures nearby so we'd only get the same connection speed as dialup, if not slower. The technician had kindly explained that their antenna needed a line of sight with their "cell sites" in order to provide us the speed promised by their advert. Up 'til now, though, I was wondering why they placed our nearest cell site on lower ground.

We would have gladly welcomed a DSL connection but it was not offered in our area. Augh! The price we had to pay for a relatively quiet, peaceful and serene environment: longer and more tiring travel time, frequent disruption in phone services and now, lack of access to certain "luxuries".

Nonetheless, I am more than content with my dialup connection. They say you only know how much something is worth when it is taken away from you. Considering the fact that unscrupulous individuals pilfer great lengths of phone cable ever and anon, suffice to say that I am constantly reminded that a slow connection is better than no connection at all. Besides, it is also probably a wiser choice. See, my parents did not subscribe for cable TV, in order to limit the shows available to us. In effect, it also limits the amount of time we spend in front of the TV: a decision I am thankful to my parents for. Analogously, dialup also restricts my access to sites whose content I don't really need.

The angst, however, kicks in when the sites whose contents I do need, consume high bandwidth. It appears that ever since Web 2.0, almost all the sites people go to cater only to users with broadband access. It does irk me when a close acquaintance asks me to visit a page, which, more of than not, is a large page in YouTube. I have nothing against YouTube, except for the fact that it caters to broadband users. I often find myself rolling my eyes at sites that are flashy enough to be attractive yet also large enough that I'd have to wait more than 30 seconds for the page to load. Most of the time, I find myself clicking the Stop button.

Really, it's as though the whole world is comprised only of broadband users. We, dialup users, have been forgotten as a minority. Large file sizes, tons of graphics and fancy animation do not necessarily make good sites.

Here in the Philippines, we have a saying, "Ang di lumingon sa pinanggalingan, di rin makararating sa paroroonan." (He/she who fails to look back from whence he/she came shall also fail to reach wherever he/she would go) I would be sure to remember that saying when developing web pages. I would never forget that there once was a time in my life, when I had a slow Internet connection.

Might I add, that time is now.

The young hare zooms to the buffet
and returns more than thrice a day.
The aged turtle takes steps so slow,
and so do I, that much I know.

Phoenix Reborn; Be My Shooting Star

2006-11-12T00:19:00.000+08:00

Our eyes had met, fleetingly, once more,
And my gaze travelled to your lips again.
I don't know you but I wondered, as before,
if you could smile as you did back then?

Your little baby boy Mavi has changed and with him, changed his blog, his website and his personal outlook in life and love. As a saying goes, "Nothing in this world is permanent but change," which is kinda stupid because it also means the veracity of that statement is not so immutable either. Nonetheless, the point is that I have changed, not with the thunderclap that heralds a butterfly's metamorphosis but rather with the silent growth of a crab that had just shed its old exoskeleton. Frankly speaking, I like my new shell better.

This "new" me may not be too different from my former self; it does retain certain recognizable features difficult to erase. However, there are others that are so different, long-lost relatives would often say, "There's something different about you... but I could quite put my finger on it," and long-lost friends, meanwhile, would ask, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Lessee, first there were the philosophies in life. Where before, I would simply have enjoyed the thought of chucking children into the basement incinerator, de-bumming the world with lvl-2 bolt spells and eradicating poverty by eliminating all the "indications of poverty", I now find myself thinking, "I wonder what he ate for lunch today," "What does this guy do for a living?" or even "Does this bum have the means to visit my website?" True, a friend of mine once said life would be simpler if we didn't think of such complications but I do find it rather unsatisfying to spend the rest of my life rolling a katamari of guiltless genocide, although I still would enjoy chucking children into a furnace.

I also found myself stepping outside my selfish confines (for I have not the audacity to claim I am entirely free of it) into the harsh selfish reality of the outside world. It does rock my boat, having to think of matters that don't concern me at all, like war, politics, poverty, higher dimensions and cosmological theories but it's also what rocks my world.

Once a nocturnal creature, I am now, well, honestly speaking, still a creature of the night. However, I do not have the same unhealthy obsession with darkness as before. The sun came into my life and even now, though the reign of the sun is over, I still feel the warmth that was imparted to me. Like a vine, I probed with my tendrils, seeking the light.

All around me, I saw that the universe was not as dark as I had thought. Maybe, if we all took the time to let the tears flow, we'd see much clearer with all the dirt washed away. If we cared enough to weather the storm, we'd find the air much cleaner and less opaque, when all the smoke and smog has been blown away. I suppose if we even just opened our eyes, we'd see that the night is not as dark, hollow and scary as we thought, that even in the absence of the sun, there'd still be the moon and stars and that even on overcast nights, there'd still be streaks of lightning to illuminate our world.

I guess some of my old acquaintances would scorn me for becoming "weak", "human" and a creature of my emotions. The Vulcans would shake their heads and declare me hopeless. Still, however, I, like the renegade Vulcans, am not controlled by my emotions, rather, I am empowered by them. Where before, I would wield the pen (or keyboard, to be more accurate) only in moments of great passion, I now find the word flowing more freely, now that I embraced my "humanity" and the "weakness" they call emotions. (It is, however, not evident in the lengthy time it took me to write another post, I concede. Your little baby boy Mavi has been busy, indeed.)

The Kaleido Star, Layla Hamilton, once realized that to be reborn as a phoenix, one does not always need to step forward. Sometimes, when we reach a dead end, the only way to move forward is to take a step back into the fork in our roads. Our progress does not always lie in eradicating our weaknesses; sometimes, it is in acknowledging these shortcomings that we come to learn how to deal with life even more.

The sorcerer looked up to the night skies and wondered if he'll ever have all the answers. Maybe the fool was not such a bad companion after all. The sun had long set, but oh! there is so much more beauty behind the glaring radiance. To the east, a comet lit the sky, heralding a new era.

The Horoscope Hoax

2006-07-29T01:07:00.000+08:00

It all began with the summer solstice. I was born in the daylight of June 21, the day the sun ruled the sky for the longest time. I grew up in the belief that my birthdate falls under the House of Gemini. I read the papers and I found my birthdate marking the posterior limits of Gemini. The day immediately after that, it was the turn of Cancer, the crab, to rule the sky.

When I have read enough papers, I was startled one day to find out that my birthdate has fallen under Cancer and that the day before that marked the end of Gemini. The summer solstice, this time, turned out to mark the ascension of the crab. I was positively mirthed and convinced that such was simply an error on the side of the newspapers, probably the typesetters, not that I had any idea of what typesetters really are back then. True enough and as I had expected, a year later, I believed the newspaper had admitted their error and reassigned my day under Gemini.

However, as I came across other circulation materials and, with the discovery of the Internet, web pages, I found varying limits on the twelve houses of the Celestial Zodiac. Some ended and started the reign of a sign with the dates 21 & 22, respectively. Others used 22 & 23, 20 & 21, and even as far as 19 & 20 or 23 & 24. While this would normally not pose a problem, it is quite a conundrum to people born on those dates.

So many people take their Celestial Zodiac signs for granted. "Who, me? I'm a Virgo." "Oh, I'm a Libra." "Hi, I'm a Leo. Rrrr." Meanwhile, people born on those boundary days get asked, "So, what's your sign?" and those who are aware of it would often stammer, "I'm Gemini-Cancer," or "I think I'm either Libra or Scorpio." Other people who don't know any better would simply answer off the top of their heads, "I'm a Pisces," only to be met with a hard rebuttal along the lines of, "Weren't you born on March 22? You're an Aries," or worse, "No. You're wrong. You're an Aries."

At first, I attributed such abberations on the 21st day of the month. After all, I knew that the soltices and equinoxes, also known as the Four Lesser Sabbats, fall on the 21st day of their respective months. It is not too illogical to assume that the Zodiac has been mindlessly set with these dates defining a quarter of a year. They probably chopped each quarter into convenient bite-sized months 'coz having just four signs of the zodiac was simply too boring. Then, when they were done slicing time, they looked up into the sky during each division and said, "You know, Moe, that group of stars sure look like the number sixty-nine." "Really now, Larry? I think those stars look more like a couple in the sixty-nine position." "That's odd," someone named Curly would probably say. "I thought I saw two fishes." Voila! The constellation of Pisces was assigned to the group of unfortunate, ambiguous stars.

Eventually, people began asking, "So when does the Celestial sign of Pisces rule?" and these would simply answer, "Oh, from February 21 to March 21." And Aries? "Oh from March 21 to April 21." Now, different people, occultists and astrologers alike, began making their own convenient zodiac mechanisms just so a person doesn't get two Zodiac signs while others have only one. It is, after all, not healthy to be greedy.

Of course, such a trifle tale did not, by any means, diminish my frustration everytime someone asks, "Eh? How is it possible for you to have two star-signs?" When I stepped into college, I had access, with the help of the University's libraries, to a wider range of reading materials compared to the limited, " systematized and orderly" knowledge stored in the high school library. Unlike the time I was enrolled in the Catholic high school, I now had access to books that could very well be considered heretic, paranormal or just plain weird. From these books, I was enlightened that a person's celestial zodiac is not really determined by dates or such, rather, it is defined by the constellation, or house, if you will, the sun is in at the time of birth.

Things began to get dull for a while for, with no means to travel back in time just to observe the skies at the moment of my birth, I had given up and was generally content in lording over people the fact that I did have two star-signs. I could never be sure which one I belonged to. When GoogleEarth was released, I could remember sighing, "Oh! That's pretty handy. Now if only they also had GoogleSky..."

I didn't get GoogleSky, which is probably a good thing because the name sounds so atrocious, in my humbled opinion, but I did find out that an encyclopedia software we've had for years now also carried numerous additional interactive features. Among these was a sky map, which, as you can probably infer from the name, maps the skies and the celestial bodies contained within it. Furthermore, it also had options to views the sky from different parts of the world and from different points in time. This is the starfield simulator I have long been looking for!

Great was my disappointement when I adjusted the starfield date and time to that of my birth, only to discover the sun in Taurus, approaching Gemini. I shrugged my shoulders and assumed it was an error on the part of the computer, considering the fact that simulations have limits too and I probably happened to push beyond it by giving a date twenty years back. I tried simulating the sky at the present year giving the same date and much was my chagrin to discover the same shit. I simply heaved a sigh back then and, assuming the zodiac was just a bit out of alignment, I'm probably Gemini.

This morning, I came upon another book on Astrology, one of my least-favored topics when it comes to the paranormal. Halfway through an hour of yawning and stifling yawns, I came across an interesting tidbit, "Celestial signs generally shift about one degree everyday." It sure did make sense, after all, I have been acquainted with the fact that the moon gets delayed about eight minutes everyday. "The celestial zodiac itself shifts by one degree every 72 years." Big deal, so the sky was not as static as we once thought. I think Galileo already proved that. "The earliest horoscopes were in existence as far back as 114 B.C."

Let's see, it's been 2000 years since some guy named Christ was born, the time indicated was at least a hundred years back. That gives at least 2100 years between today and the earliest definition of a horoscope. Dividing that figure by 70 years, for easier computation, and we come up with a deviation of at least 30 degrees. Fact: each house of the Zodiac occupies a 30-degree arc of the celestial sphere about the equator. In other words, the Zodiac back then has been moved up by one house! (and a fraction of it). Thus, it should have been nowhere near surprising to find my sun on Taurus, nearing the border between that and Gemini.

Then again, I could be very well wrong to believe a starfield simulator. What better way to verify such abberations than to look up at the sky at midnight? If all goes well, I should be seeing, directly above me, the constellation of Aquarius; the sun has been in Leo for quite some time now. Unfortunately, the hypothetical midnight anti-sun has just recently left Sagittarius and entered Capricorn. The sun is crossing the stars of Taurus only in the time defined for Gemini.

Of course! It does makes sense. It is perfectly reasonable and does not really defy the law of physics in a most spectacular manner. What is surprising, though, is the fact that we are still using the aged system! We often hear from "expert" and "certified" astrologers especially during auspicious dates like the Gregorian and Oriental New Year. We are acquainted with fortunetellers diving the future of "Capricorn" or "Aquarius" with as much air of authority as the dirtiest gasbag in the government. We sometimes read our horoscopes saying, "Today is your lucky day!", "Your lucky numbers are..." and the worst "Your lucky color for the day/week/month is..." Do these guys actually look at the sky? Or do they simply use aged models that say, "Oh, by this date, the sign of Leo will probably be here and Aquarius, over there."

We've been fooled, ladies and gentlemen. I could only wonder now why nobody has ever called attention to this before? Seriously still, I am irked by the possible answer to the question, "Do these astrologers really look at the stars?" I was about to add "...or is the glitter of being paid or captured on TV just so overwhelming?" but that would simply be too much.

Oh well, at least I can shrug my shoulders in apathy now. My innate distrust of astrology has not been in vain.

Time given, time taken,
time present and time past,
time delayed and time stolen;
space collapsed really fast.

Empty my Coffers. Rock my World. Feed my Maw. Fuck me. Fly.

2006-07-23T00:07:00.000+08:00

What would a fellow have to give
that this hour would ne'er depart?
What, too, is one to bribe
to the fellows who have seen my heart?

Reading has been a very valuable skill to me, as it has enabled me to navigate the world in a relatively safer way compared to one who knows as much as I do with the exception of the aforementioned skill. It has granted me the power of distinguishing whether a flask of spirits contained the most wholesome liquor or the most noxious poison. Knowledge I have gathered this way has given me the pleasure of directing mortals to drink such liquid, lulling them into a sleep I am quite aware they so direly need.

There are, however, limits to the readily apparent omniscience offered by acquiring such a skill. For one, navigating the streets of an unknown place, while reading street signs, building signs and other signs attached to public structures and transport crafts, it is most severely affected by factors that ruin visibility such as fog, rain, sun and strato-cumulus, among others. Even shrugging off these manifestations of the Earth Mother's might, we, humans, have also introduced smoke, smog, posts, other buildings and even ourselves into the system, obscuring other people's sight of a particular sign, which, for all we know, may or may not be vital. Grant me the audacity to also point out the genetic factors, such as having two parents in need of viewing spectacles that it is naught more than a given fact that we, their progeny, would be wearing glasses or an assortment of lenses as well.

Still, reading was of great use to me at night when, after my daily excercises, I am still too hyper to fall asleep. Sometimes as powerful as some nightcaps I have imbibed, reading a novel, no matter how explosive and interesting, would, after sufficient time, lull me into a repose, likewise explosive and interesting.

I once have been thrust into the unknown world of Makati City; were it not for my reading skill, I should have been utterly lost in an ocean of particles wearing coats, jackets or wielding umbrellas. Still, as it turned out, I have hailed the wrong bus, got off at the wrong stop, walked to the wrong rendezvous, wandered about the wrong area and almost stepped into the wrong building. None of those mistakes could have been averted simply by reading stuff one sees about one's self. After all, a good sense of direction and forehand knowledge of the area might have helped me more in my predicament.

Not knowing any better, I had agreed to be at rendezvous an hour after my last class. The day was quite gray, dismal and rainy. Allow me to digress and share the dream that coursed through my neurons when the clock struck midnight and started that particular day. I dreamt of two people who were not the least bit close to me back in high school. These two were of almost no significance to me other than the fact that they managed to appear in my subconscious on the day of a very interesting event in my life.

Sure, these two were very attractive persons and the innocent and gullible part of me that believed in destiny foolishly hazarded the notion that an acquaintance from back then would make its way into my life. A girl, a boy, my best friend, the fag hag, a vicious social shark, a loud printer, an undead friend, a mystic witch, perhaps, or her loyal satellite? These people, and then some, were key to the development of certain parts of my life, molding some of my personality or shaping my, raw, and pliant, philosophy; surely, if anyone from back then turns up that day, it'd be them, right?

However, none of the sort turned up and on that bleak, misty morning, who should I find but, not too surprisingly, another neutral acquaintance, for whom I have not felt any strong feelings. Of course, the usual forced pleasantries were blurted out until the topic of the makeshift conversation eventually drifted into the subject of graduation. As it is, I have had a hard time trying to explain that I have had certain "academic difficulties", the euphemism I constantly use. He, however, was either quite perceptive, quite prejudicial or quite lucky with his guesses that he had hit upon the truth frighteningly almost immediately. It was, what I'd probably look back on in my future life, as a cosmic slap of galactic proportions. I tried my best to curtly dismiss such faux pas and move on to a much more refreshing topic: nothing.

Still, the impact of that comment echoed far into the day and, later in the afternoon, lost in a flurry of wild and colorful images so vivid yet so detached, I found myself asking myself whether I'm making another mistake in my life, right before I succumbed to an explosive moment of blasted fulmination. As of the moment I'm writing this, the sonic boom generated by that slap still reverberates quite intensely within my skull.

Of course, I have realized, just a few months back, how young, how foolish and how selfish I have been. This morning, another slap was directed to my other cheek as I lost a petty competition to a bunch of strangers. A day gone wrong, I shall spare thee the gruesomely boring details but for the fact that I just realized, at the moment, that my approach to life has been the fuck-you-jump-in-head-first-talk-later methodology. Coupled with innate habit of lying, I can say that it has gotten me so far but, believe me, wherever that so far may be, it's not a nice place at all.

Talking of places, I have, two days ago, had renewed the boyish thrill of riding a train. The last time I rode one was when I was four or five and had to take my shots someplace far. That day, I have had the pleasure of looking down on motorists stuck in traffic and, had I been unseen by anyone, I'd probably have laughed in such a demonic manner over such sheer joy of finally defeating the transport system that had once held me in its grip for two long hours. My initial apprehensions of getting off at the wrong station were dissolved when I noticed that each station has its name printed in large, bold letters quite improbable for anyone literate to miss.

Still, like I said earlier, reading is not everything. So is a knowledge of trivial facts. I have long been gloatful of things that are so overrated, even though they hardly count solely in determining a person's substance. Virginity is overrated, it does not immediately equate to fortitude or chastity. Memory is also overrated, it does not mean wisdom or intelligence. Skillful subterfuge is simply the inability to deal with the truth. Paranoia and self-consciousness are just manifestations of the lack of capacity to stare at life in the face and say, "Fuck you."

In a world where I would have liked to remain apathetic, I was thrust quite low I almost have grazed the ground; such a feat makes apathy almost impossible, no matter how much I would have liked to. This afternoon, I saw the indignant mage of shock, a friend of mine, with a partner. While I, of course, could not help but notice the outward shell, I was severly wounded by the sharp sting of jealousy in seeing him with someone else that cares deeply for him. Be not mistaken, I have no strong feelings for him but envy; where before, I would have said, "Oh those grapes were sour anyway," I found myself looking on as other foxes leap higher and sigh, "Oh how luscious those grapes are, lucky are everyone else in that they can leap high enough to reach them."

To anyone who might have made the error of reading this in the first place, I could offer nothing more than the apology for writing something while under the influence of a nightcap. However, I would also like to offer the advice to not follow my example. Be not too emotional; be not too apathetic either. Keep lying to a minimum but be not too stupidly honest, either. Life is short, do what you can, what you want and what you must. Deprive yourself not for the sake of keeping a false front because in a short span of time, such would hardly matter. Gamble not with something you don't have, spend not riches you have yet to acquire and count not your eggs before all have broken. Be not too arrogant and slyly put on a shy mask for whistling as though nothing had happened would not change the fact that something has. As Mr. Micawber, an acquaintance of Charles Dicken's David Copperfield once said, "Procrastination is the thief of time. Collar him!"

So yeah, there you have it guys. I've been bitch-slapped by life a lot of times, but I do remember three megaton bashes. I would love to turn back the hands of time but, as it is, I can hardly do anything 'bout it except to live through it. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to walk into people's lives. Would I find out anything that I could have used to better my own?

First Day Fever

2006-07-13T22:33:00.000+08:00

Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub
and who do you think they be?
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker,
and all of them, gone to sea.

Storm, yes, very rainy. Downpour. Cold aches. Head night. Hurts? Not much, initially. Good, great. Dinner, yes, please. Dizzy. Thoughts very much. Dizzy? No, very much something. Fragmented? Yes, very much. You? Likewise. First? Yeah. Really. First ever. This is crazy. Dizzy, yes. A lot.

Rain, washy. Wet. Of course, it is. Cold, freezing. Fever? Slight. Bus, frigid. Wavy, bumpy. Bus? No, road. Dirty? It's fine. Just dizzy. No, bumpy. Bumpy. Wavy. Cold and frosty. Misting? Not yet. Sounds colorful. Not music. Noise. Very random. Not radio. TV. Vibrant. Colorful noise. Head aches. Dinner, good. Not cold, thank heavens. Chicken. Salty but tasty, nonetheless.

Paracetamol? Good. Dessert. Why? Hate pharmaceutics, yes? Usually. Not now, head aches, something hurts. Slight fever, probably coming. Must build resistance. Meningo-something virus. Someone died. News. Night before last. Very random. Must build resistance. Danger? Maybe. Hope not.

Very colorful, whilrwind. Dirty? Hope not. Dunno. Proud? No. Not proud. Not ashamed, either. Horrible? Atrocious? Hell no. Good. Great. Warm. Dizzy. Impulse? Doubt it. A lot. Very random. Dunno. How great? Glorious? Not really. No bells. No singing angels. Stupid angels. Curses. No stars. No sparks behind my eyes. Fireworks. No, none, haha. Spectacular, no. Good, hell yeah. Great, yeah. Okay. Alright. Fine.

Euphoria? Dunno. Probably still not. Maybe exact opposite; empty glasses. Empty mugs, despair. Gone. Empty glasses, gone. Opposite? Yeah. Not gone. Here. Warm. Great. Alive. Once dead? No, just numb. Good, nonetheless.

Regrets? Oh, very far. Three hour trip. No regrets, for now. Who knows? Time changes. People change. Very different from before. Three years. Strange. Unique. How about pain? Hurts a lot. Very much. Three hours after. During sleep. Cold night, dizzy head. Sharp pain. Biting towel. All night. Soft. Fluffy. Yellow. I hate yellow. It hurts. Can't be choosy. Soft. Fluffy. Warm. Clean.

Lovely. Unique. Detached but alive. Motion. Movement. I guess.

Insecurities? Still many. One less. Thank the Fates.

Chasing Butterfly Dreams

2006-07-09T13:44:00.000+08:00

Dispel my great anxiety
and allay my untold fears.
Undermine the enormity
of troubled, unshed tears.

Ladies and gentlemen, let us have yet another moment of silence to send up a message to the omnipotent being(s) of our individual beliefs, that the death of yet another mother may not be in vain.

One week ago, I was in a nervous wreck for I had to demonstrate the prototype version of an inventory management system to a group of people who were, to the best of my knowledge, total strangers to me, save for the fact that they know I was their nephew's friends and that I know they are my friend's aunt and uncle. These two people brought along with them an aging lady who introduced herself to me as the primary user of the system.

Though I managed to hold up a facade of jovial personality and expressively colorful attitude, inside I was trembling and nervous, in fear that they might say something along the lines of, "Mr. ____, your prototype is very lovely but I'm afraid it does not meet the purposes and/or designs we have in mind," or the more blunt, "What the #3|| is this $#!+?"

My fears proved to be an exaggeration for the meeting did not prove to be the vivid horrifying ordeal my lively imagination has conjured for me, although there still is the tinge of anxiety a producer feels, held in doubt whether one's customers are satisfied with the product or not. Additional comfort came in the form of the touchy-feelly cheesy-squeezy gestures of the aging woman.

Still, my sorcerous alter-ego did not fail in remarking to me that the female half of the population, in general are so presumptuous. They would put their hands on top of a guy's thigh, wrap an arm about a guy's waist or squeeze a guy's upper arms with a playful hug, assuming such actions are acceptable for the receiving parties. Meanwhile, if we do that to them, we'd either be labelled as perverts or misinterpreted as flirting. If we did that to one another, we'd be called gay, queer, or worse, faggots.

The world really seemed to be unfair. In an online forum, a guy once remarked that when his sister caught him "playing with himself" she screeched "Pervert!" However, when he did catch her, a week later, doing, more or less, the same thing, she was just as quick in covering herself up and screeching, "Pervert!"

Three days ago, I came upon a butterfly that had made the mistake of entering our house. Truth be told, I thought it was a moth because its wings were spread out instead of folded in, like most butterflies do. Its wings were black, spotted with white and it had a singular speck of red at the bottom of each lower wing. Like I often do with water beetles, grasshoppers, mantises, snakes, cats, frogs, toads, other butterflies and most of the other wild creatures that happen to make the mistake of entering our human abode, I gently took it in my hands and let it fly outside.

No, I don't take snakes in my bare hands, I lure them into a jar before setting them free outside. I don't pick up clawing cats, slimy frogs or warty toads either, I gently shoo them out of the house by stomping my feet and making violent motions. I handle only insects, with the exception of rare cockroaches; these creatures make it out of the house in a number of pieces.

See, when dealing with roaches, just stomping on them is not enough, you have to grind your footwear back and forth to tear them up into pieces. Cockroaches' brains are spread throughout their body, like most insects do; decapitated roaches often tend to run around blindly for two weeks before dropping dead from exhaustion or dehydration. Yes, their rich, white, gooey fat can sustain them that long.

In getting insects out of the house, my unknowing human brother would use liberal fumes of insect repellent, like he did with a poor butterfly just five days ago, until I rescued the poor creature and brought it to freedom. My evil sister, on the other hand, would shoo these insects away, with the exception of water beetles; these she would literally kick out of the house, knowing thay have a hard carapace anyway.

Anyway, this butterfly I recently set free did not fly away as I had expected. Instead, it clung on even as I was gently blowing it away. In the end, I had to settle with leaving it on a leaf of an orchid, hoping it would fly away to some better place after it had rested.

The next day, as I was practicing the routine spell of hastening the process of entropy on a pile of garbage, I espied the same butterfly again, in quite a dangerous proximity to the, now burning, pile. I gently took it upon my hands again and, as though recognizing the unique taste of my fingers, my touch, the scent of my hand, or my unique set of fingerprints, it willingly crawled into my palm. To someone like me, it was a moment best described by, "Awww."

I ascended the stairs to our terraces and placed it on a group of flowers by the plantbox. I surmised that the poor creature might be starving and, with the lack of blooming flowers in our backyard, assumed that it had not the strength to fly. By putting it on top of the flowers, I hoped, if it was, indeed, a butterfly, that she would at least manage to feed herself. Later in the cloudy day, I also had the foolish thought that the creature might be solar-powered, not quite unlike some species of lizards, snakes and geckos that bask in the sun.

Yesterday morning, before I departed, I check up on the flowers only to find the butterfly still there. Inspecting much closer, I could see its proboscis but it doesn't seem to be interested in eating. Working on the assumption that the flowers were completely devoid of nectar, no thanks to the minute, ant population thriving in our plantbox, I got a teaspoon of honey from the fridge, warmed it to room temperature and tried drip-feeding the poor creature. There still was no response from it except for the shifting of its crawling limbs; I had noticed it tried its best to remain in an upright position.

Thinking that, perhaps, a gigantic teaspoon is not exactly the best feeding implement for a small creature, I settled for dousing the open flowers with the sweet mixture. I replaced the creature upon this arrangement and left for my engagement, hoping that it would eat, bask in the sun and fly. Heck, I even talked to it, gesturing to other houses in our neighborhood with gardens of blooming yellow flowers; yes, I did feel silly later on, not that it matter much, anyway.

That day, I once again met with the aging woman to receive some sample of forms such as invoices and delivery receipts. Once again, my "good boy" facade earned me the torture of squeezy hugs; even her husband, who was there, seemed amused by his wife's antics.

On my return, that afternoon, I found it dead. The butterfly was a female, if sex does exist in these flying arthropods. It was pregnant and numerous yellowish eggs were bursting out of its lower body. It was at that moment that I realized that this mother has given her life for her children. Not wishing this sacrifice be in vain, I lifted the corpse, carrying the eggs stuck to it, and placed it near some weeds. Even to the dead, flowers of consolation are of no use, but the lush foliage of the weeds would be invaluable to the progeny awaiting life's awakening touch.

It was probably a butterfly and it probably had not enough strength to keep its wings up. Due to gravity, the weight of her wings pulled them down into a spread-out position.

Later, that night, I came across the thought that the reason behind that aging woman's presumptuos gestures was a child she never had. Maybe her baby was stillborn, or died some time later. Maybe her children didn't grow up to be the respectable citizen my facade supposedly represented. I shrugged, turned over and continued to sleep. She, too, may have been a child of the beloved Earth Mother but she is human; in my opinion, there are too much of our species inhabiting this planet.

The only thing I can hope for now is that my treatment did not hasten the poor butterfly's death.

For the orphans she had left behind, I beseech thee, dear reader, once more to lift your hands in prayer to the gods of your respective beliefs.

Though your light will not be mine
nor your warmth be my shelter,
just tell me everything is fine.
Just tell me I am stronger.

Salamangkero 2

2006-06-25T00:08:00.000+08:00

They say history repeats itself. At first, I thought the conjurers of such a notion were total idiots.

Once again, the summer solstice has come to pass. By itself, it was a very remarkable day, where the sun reigned in the sky for the longest time. To a sorcerer in a not-so-distant land, it was not only magical but also personal for it marks the day that he first began the slow process of dying. You see, while some optimists view birthdates as the moments when an individual begins living, some negativists maintain that it is actually the day a person begins dying. It's as pointless, really, as arguing whether the glass is half-full or half-empty when they both mean the same thing.

Though there were difficult times in his life where such a day is met with dread, for it marks yet another year of slow death, he, nonetheless, celebrated its annual return, in the hopes that the next year of his existence might bring more sunlight into his life.

You may very well remember that around these days, last year, a sequence of very dissapointing events flung a self-righteous sorcerer unto the very earth he stepped on. Today, the Fates, in their fair and just judgement, decided that one has had enough of their benevolence; the Earth Mother rained on his parade, so to speak.

Once more, one or two guests quite so suddenly dropped off the face of the earth. A family of five surmised that they could not make it and said so only at the last moment. With one or two others doing the same thing, the guest list was already halved. Not that the sorcerer minded but forehand knowledge of their absence might have prodded his satellite to move the gathering to a much more savory and appetizing environment more conducive to appreciation of the culinary arts.

Even before that unfortunate news, the guest list itself was quite pathetic. One comrade was out of town and could not make it. One acquaintance responded not to the invitation; it was quite the same with another friend. One particular person, who had such a mighty influence on his life declined, leaving only one other guest left. That last person, who was also of great, but subtle, influence, to the sorcerer's craft, could not make it for the Earth Mother was pissed off.

In their place were several unexpected guests. There was one family the sorcerer's satellite had summoned, whom the sorcerer totally despised, not only that night. There was also a young woman who was quite friendly, charming the sorcerer into divulging some of the tenets of his craft. While the sorcerer initially presumed that it was because of his rather peculiar attire and hoped this woman believed that clothes make the man, he was most sorely disappointed to discover that the impetus of this interest was only the fact that the craft was unfamiliar to this young lady. With that, the hopes of perfecting the art of charming a potential life partner flew out of the window.

Finally, his best friend (Coca Cola and Sol de España, red wine) was not present at the celebration. In its stead was a stranger (Pineapple juice and Finlandia, vodka). Though he abhors pineapples, despite their high bromelein content, he, nonetheless, gave it a shot. In moments, liquid fire began coursing through his innards, leaving a sweet after-scent contrasting a bitter after-taste.

I'm not blaming the Fates; had they not smiled at me in one crucial moment of my life, I would have greater problems like food and shelter. I would not hold a grudge against the beloved Earth Mother: she who gently blew a cool breeze whenever I'm broiling under the sun. I would not judge vodka as an Ersatz friend; perhaps pineapple juice was not its best companion. I'd rather not spit venom at my senpai; he probably was telling the truth and, otherwise, I still would have understood the awkward scenarios he might have conjured. It would be best not to brew acrimony towards my mentor; I've done far worse to him. I really wouldn't perform a guilt trip trick on my friend; I'd most probably mildly worry and ask her, "Where the hell have you been?" and I'd probably add an "Are you okay?" depending on my mood.

Still, I could not help but feel resentful of the fact that this horrendous day was an encore of a similar date. In Straight Time, a novel I once read, a criminal fugitive by the name of Max Dembo once robbed a Chinese shop simply due to a dire need of funds. Later, in a dark and secluded alley, when he counted the loot, he came up with a very small figure. He wanted to scream in the frustration that he had robbed the downtrodden. While I may not share the same sentiment, I could recall one emotion I shared with his this day: he cried out into the night, not because of some evil her recognized but simply because of the complex tangle of human existence.

A joke from an online forum once read: Nobody dies a virgin, because life screws everyone.

In this great unholy hour,
impelled by your vast power,
I indulged my secret whims
whilst you trampled on my dreams.

Gloria Hallelujah!

2006-06-14T22:01:00.000+08:00

It's the wind blowing free, it's the end of a slope,
It's a bean, it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
It's the end of the strain, it's the joy in your heart.

-Waters of March

Simply put, everything went well.

Two days ago, I was trying my best to muffle the rapid sound of thump-thumping somewhere within my ribcage, lest it be loud enough that I bring people into a fitful sleep, causing my untimely demise. I believe that, had I been Catholic, I would have been praying the rosary then, with all its fifteen mysteries, twenty if you count the Luminous mysteries I have only sor ecently discovered. However, I was very much without religion that, in these terrible times of terryfying tumultous turbulent torrential troubles, I am deprived of the blissful enjoyment of clinging onto a fictitous entity.

I did, however, make a wish upon some unseen star, whispered my dreams to the wind, pleaded with the Fates and even bargained with the Earth Mother herself. I do find it disturbingly strange that I, skeptic of the Roman Catholic religion for lack of convincing proof of the truth they so love to preach, would be given to the same habit not by detail but by principle. I, however, digress.

I did get re-admitted back into the College of Engineering and given a second chance. Truth be told, it was, as I have been explicitly informed, my last chance. Nonetheless, I am so grateful that my elation has overwhelmed whatever sarcastic comment I probably would have brewed back then. Oh what a great relief flooded into me, that I would no longer have suitable cause to run away from home, not that I really wanted to. It was as heavenly as a strong laxative is to one who had been so plagued by constipation for the last three days.

With such a great weight off my shoulders and such a light-headed emotion pulling me by the ears into the clouds, I finally made sense of a very confusing song I have once heard before. The song Waters of March, while very much grating to the ears of the English purist in that most of the statements do not have any predicate at all, was very soothing, to say the least. Now, I know that an intense elation of this magnitude would also tend to spew random nouns and phrases in a very poor attempt to describe the indescribable.

It rained that afternoon and it literally soaked me right to the skin, despite the fact that I have an umbrella, for the raindrops slanted this way and that every now and then. Still, I was not disturbed by it because, if the Earth Mother herself were, for some unfathomable reason beyond the laws of physics governing the grand design, to have anything to do with me re-admission to the college, the least I could do was allow her the luxury of pelting me with high speed projectiles of water; I doubt anyone else imitating that stunt with water balloons would have long to live.

The Fates, too, were not forgotten at all. I also allowed them the privilege of raining on my happy parade.

A writer once wrote, as writers are very much prone to do most of the time, in a novel called Out, about a man called Don Italo Volpone. The capo, or head, of the Volpone Mafia, he was very much given to gambling. He always carried with him a miniature roulette, to while some of his precious time away. In his left shirt pocket, directly over his heart, was a deck of playing cards. A time once came when a knife was thrown at him; it could also probably be a bullet, I do tend to forget things after quite a while. In the end, his life was saved by that deck of cards, the knife, or bullet, sil vous plait, pierced the Ace of Hearts dead-on. A little while later, while dealing with matters of someone else's life and death, he was tempted to spin the miniature roulette but changed his mind; it was not wise to test his luck.

In another book named River of Life, there was a story about a witch named Manuilikha and her daughter, whose name I forgot although I'm positive it has the letters O and A in it. The young woman gave a charming young man a reading on her cards and politely informed him of her predictions. When the man asked her to repeat the fortune-telling, she declined, looking anxiously at the door, saying it was not good to ask the Fates twice.

I, too, abide by this principle, which a part of me recognizes as absurd. For now, I'm quite done with reading horoscopes for four signs a day and divination by rune-casting when in great distress. The busy schedule ahead would tide me over well into the next few day that I doubt I will spend that time worrying about predicting the undpredictable future, which cannot be predicted, mind you. I would be busy, but at least, I'd also be safe.

É o vento ventando, É o fim da ladeira
É a viga, é o vão, Festa da cumeeira
É a chuva chovendo, É conversa ribeira
Das águas de março É o fim da canseira

-Aguas de Março

Escape!

2006-06-12T00:06:00.000+08:00

Three feathers to stall the inundation.
One Naga to bring it forth.
A thousand islands on the brink of oblivion.
One mortal to prove her worth.

The sorcerer once wrote a story about an island beyond all mortal sight. Everywhere about it, the waters rose up to meet the diving sky. It was a world in isolation, until the birth of its princess named Mana. Due to the effects of a devastating fate set into motion when she was born, she was forced to leave the island at the age of sixteen, clinging to the hope that there might be somewhere else she could reach beyond the horizon.

I, too, might be facing a similar fate, although I must say that the Fates themselves have nothing to do with it. I do feel the need to reach out into the world once more and blog about this because this might be the last chance I'd have to do so; within 36 hours, my life could change radically.

Allow me to shed some light into the nature of this purported cataclysm. I am in grave danger of being dismissed from the college of engineering. Simply put, if this disaster were to occur, I would have to spend two or three more years before I can finally graduate. For others, this might have been of no problem at all but to me, it means big trouble.

See, I have already missed my graduation and, though my parents took the news quite heavily, I daresay, they were understanding. However, my mother did impart a stern warning that this upcoming year will be the last I'd spend in the university. Were I to be delayed any more, I'll be completely on my own for, of course, I do have other siblings who could make better use of the funds I would have squandered.

Needless to say, I am quite obliged to them and forever grateful that they allowed me another chance. To add to my guilt, my mother once mention, during the last summer, that when I graduate, she'd send me to Macau on a vacation. At the moment, I am blacklisted by the national police, due to a debt that must be paid to what once was my scholarship. Either I work for my country for three and a half years, or I pay up my debt, before I could be allowed to fly overseas once more. She shrugged it off and said she'd pay for it.

It was with a gleam in my eye and a song in my heart that I pranced out to enlist in my delayed subjects when I found out that the repercussions of my actions for the past academic year made me ineligible for enrollment. As a matter of fact, I am dismissed from the college and my only hope is to appeal to the college to re-admit me, with certain conditions, of course.

I now hang by a thread, so to speak. It is all out of my hands now and the best I could do is wish that Lady Luck would smile at me, not with the manical grin killer clowns sometimes employ, but with the kind-hearted smile that almost says, "You damn lucky brat, I'll get you next time!" or, preferably, something much gentler than that.

If it does not go as expected, I suppose I would not be blogging for quite some time. If terrible news awats me, I do have a half-baked plan. I'd haul my ass and my closet into a bag, run away from home, find a job, crash with a few friends for the first week, find an apartment, room or at least, a respectable shelter and juggle both work and study until I graduate, fall into a coma, die, get nabbed or otherwise, disabled from doing my everyday tasks.

I'd probably shift to architecture, for I have still retained some of, what I might humbly refer to as, my extraordinary drafting skills. By that, I meant that my talent is above average, though by no means superb. It will probably be as hellish as how one of my acquaintances described it but it's the best thing I'd have going for me.

I know it's gonna be a great leap for someone who's been living behind sheltered walls all his life. Heck, I don't even know some of the cities in our own metropolis! Still, I couldn't bear the guilt of facing my parents once more and telling them I had failed once again.

It is the cage that confined you.
It is the shell that sheltered you.
It is the hedge that isolated the forest.
It is the moments between work and rest.

The Lost City of Antlantis

2006-06-02T00:19:00.000+08:00

Ants are magnificent creatures. It is common knowledge that these arthropods can lift up to 50 times their own weight. In other words, a 110-pound person like me would have to lift a hefty 5500 pounds to accomplish the same feat. Put another way, a 120-pound person would be lifting 6000 pounds to duplicate the same task. To illustrate further, a 130-pound person should lift 6500 pounds of weight to be able to lift 50 times his or her own weight like an ant. Ain't it amazing?

This day, I discovered an anthill in our backyard. To be more precise, it was more sprawling than it was tall so the term ant-terrain might be more suited. It was early morning and I saw none of its residents running about, which is probably just as well considering the fact that being stung by numerous small creatures is of a very disagreeable nature, at least, in my opinion.

Did you know that, while most birds bathe in dust and water to clean parasites off their lovely feathers, a jay uses the acid made by ants. It stands on an ant's nest and lets hunderds of ants crawl all over itself. Another kind of bird, the Rufous woodpecker of Asia, lay its eggs in an ants' nest. I would have told you about the pangolin, a nocturnal scaly anteater, but revealing its relationship with the ants are something that is not to my taste. I really doubt anyone needed anymore of such flavorful data.

I had planned to get a camera to the scene, for I would really love to share it in this blog. Imagine, my first photo blogged ever! Unfortunately, I was deprived of this wondrous opportunity for, apparently, my mother had also discovered the same anthill. Later on in the day, I found the colony in flames, for my mother had summoned an underling to dump dry and flammable rubbish on top of the magnificent structure and set a flame to it, trash, organisms and all. I know my brows have always been knotted but I think I felt it furrow even more as it usually does when I witness the genocide of Mother Nature's children.

However, I believe the ants will survive. I know that a colony of ants is more united than the Government and the opposition. I know that their civilization will start rebuilding the former glory of their magnificent abode instead of tarrying by calculating how much monetary units' worth was damaged and then debating how resources and funds must be allocated. I suppose that a ravaged country would be more than pleased to sit down, have a cup of coffee (or tea, if you please) and talk how nice the weather is, before arguing whether funds should be swallowed by defenses (that disasters like these might never happen again), squandered by information campaigns (that everyone may know what really happened and what to do in case it happens again. After all, knowledge is power), guzzled by rebuilding efforts (we need our offices, right now. Without a proper working environment, the government cannot do its job) or simply declared non-existential (we don't need funds; what we need is faith, unity, prayer, a moment of silence, external aid, heroics, etc.) Ah, the complicated marvels made possible by the striking difference that our brains have more lobes and cortices than ants'.

Ants needed no form of identification to track the members of the same species worldwide so I doubt they really were that united. There are also wars between colonies when resources become scarce so I don't think they also understood the meaning of world peace. To them, such things are non-essential. Maybe it is their simple-mindedness that enables them to understand only one thing, they needed each other to survive.

These six-legged (five or four, if crippled badly) creatures are found almost anywhere. Perusing the special section of my room labelled "Paranormal" I unearthed, after a deadly battle with dust and crumbling pages, a note where I conveniently jotted down something I am now glad I jotted down. On September 8, 2005, I have found ants on my left shoe. Not just one, not two, not even three, not four, certainly not five, also not six, most probably not seven, I'm sure not eight, maybe not nine... I could go on and on. They nearly filled half of my shoe and had I gone ahead and put my foot in, I'm sure more than a hundred of Mother Nature's children would have been squished dead by then.

As it was, I ended up very startled so I threw the shoe out of my room, shook off the lump of ant-ness inside and torched the crawling mass. So yeah, more than a hundred of Mother's children died horrific deaths then. Still, I'd have been amazed after that genocide, I still find ants everywhere. They had the strength of Jews, homosexuals and political dissidents during the rule of der Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler.

So go ahead, stop and crush that red ant that's been painfully bugging you between your toes and you'd find yourself overwhelmed by its comrades. Examine them closely through a magnifying lens during high noon of a clear sunny day and, twenty years from now, you might find yourself a case of spontaneous human combustion (yes, the ants are responsible for that. 'took me long enough to figure it out). Burn down their nest and your lawyer would be most delighted to file arson charges on someone who hates your guts, or vice versa.

Who knows, maybe thirteen millenia from now, ants would rule over the earth.

It was a gloomy sunny day
in the cursed month of May
when one of my moms burned my sibs
and the other punched her in the ribs.

Narcolepsy: Addiction to Dreams

2006-05-11T00:13:00.000+08:00

It was a humid summer night that I once wished for rain. The next afternoon, I was awoken by deep rumbles of thunder followed shortly by sounds of water pelting our roof. In the haze of a sleep reclaiming my consciousness, my heart was, once more, crushed by the sheer weight of the body holding it.

When I was young, I was raised to be a devout believer in the teachings of the Catholic Church. I prayed before and after sleeping and eating. In my life then, I asked for a lot of things. Sometimes, I got what I want but most of the time, I had to haggle, bargain, deal and, often, give up getting what I wanted. Sure I would pout and stomp my feet, following the instinct of uncivilized children but a quick, stern glare would pacify me. I would then turn inward to boil my anger away, sometimes churning milk into vinegar in the process but none of those grudges did last quite long.

At the age of four, I was amazed by the clouds. There were times I'd run, looking at my side to see if I could outrun the clouds. I had no such luck for the clouds always floated by as fast as, if not faster than, me. Finally giving up on the feat, I'd sit by the front door of our house, idly watching the clouds roll by. Some had really frightening shapes, no thanks to my lively imagination, and part of my childhood was spent battling giant imaginary monsters peeking from behind the clouds.

Everytime it rains, I had always been fascinated. Directly in front of the bedroom window, there was a panel of fine wire mesh. The streams of water from the raindrops would always create lovely square patterns as films of water were built and popped. The overall effect was as mesmerizing as Conway's Life.

At the age of nine or so, I, and the rest of the country, had the rare chance to witness a solar eclipse first-hand. Though we'd only see a partial eclipse in our area, I was, nonetheless, thrilled at the prospect of actually seeing a solar eclipse. In my mind, I had buried lunar eclipses as silent, boring events. I had spent the week in excited anticipation. When the day finally came, however, I was dismayed to find the sky dark. By noon, the firmament was completely overcast and a downpour had begun. At one in the afternoon, I had knelt down at the altar, praying fervently to my god, that I may yet witness the moon covering the sun. At two, I have completely given up.

Watching the footages of the eclipse in Cebu and Tawi-tawi aired by a local network, I was really frustrated at having lost my solar eclipse. I could not hold back my tears and I sulked in a dark corner of the living room. I still held my faith back then, consoling myself with the propaganda that everything happens for a reason. Still, the first seed of doubt was planted and I started wondering if God really did exist or, if he did exist, if he really is exactly the way my religion has described him.

There were times that I'd wonder, how clouds are able to hold themselves up. I knew from my science classes that clouds are made up of water. I'd sometimes imagine what would happen if, by chance, an entire cloud fell on top of me, not as gradual rain, but as a sudden, humongous tub of heavy water. By that age, though, I have overcome most of my imaginary fears and I lived life without looking nervously at the sky ever and anon.

Growing up, I learned the joy of playing in the rain. The cold drops would pelt my body and the rivulets that ran in veins across the ground swirled and streamed in a beautifully random manner. At that time, the wire mesh panel had long been gone.

Stepping into college, I retained much of my immaturity but I never played in the rain again, or at least, not conspicuously. Hands in my pockets, I'd walk under a drizzle in my jacket, consciously catching the drops in my hair. I don't know why but, for some reason, I liked the feel of rainwater on my hair. To me, then, the rain was a source of inspiration, something abstract and romantic, something to write about.

I often fell into writing everytime it rains. Alone in my room, burning sticks of cinnamon incense, the rain and I shared something intimate in crafting my dreams into paper.

This romance, I soon found out, was to lead me into a downward spiral. It was with a heavy rain that I fired some shells into a relationship I once had. It was the same rain that made me wonder, if I really am in love or just in love with falling in love. The paranoia of thinking grew to be too much for me as I broke the relationship.

Things started going downhill from there. During the first few months, I would sometimes rush into the washroom to break into an uncontrollable fit of sniffs, sobs and stifled tears. The sky was as gray as I felt and when it rains, I feel an urge to throw up, bang my head into the wall or just give up and cry again. There was, in my life, a great hollow space; so integrated was that person to my life that to break away meant breaking some fragments from my everyday living.

In months, I began to heal by numbing myself. No longer was I afraid to interact with other people, although I became more cautious. I have been careful not to be involved with their lives and to keep them out of mine. The phrase, "I feel something for you," had been reconstructed into, "I am attracted to your looks." The words, "nice", "friendly" and "lovable" were conveniently replaced with "cute", "attractive" and "interesting." I vowed never to fall again, unless I was sure of what I was falling into.

That was my mistake. In ensuring that I'd fall into something soft, I, myself, had gone soft. What began as an inspiring attraction evolved into a deadly, lethargic infatuation, or something worse. I began blinding myself to everything else as long as I was close to that person.

I could clearly remember the night I crossed the line. It was raining then, no surprise in that. The two of use wore jackets, which, to the best of our knowledge, had limited water-absorption capacity. As the downpour really poured down, we soon got drenched, soaked to the skin and cold in the frosty night.

Climbing aboard our ride, I came in close proximity to the other that I could inhale their scent. Curiously, that person smelled a lot like crisp, white, sun-dried linen. Pressing slightly closer, I felt the same solar warmth radiating from their body. Turning my head, it was pure coincidence that the other also turned their head and smiled at me. It was in that smile that I saw sunshine.

Alright, this is beginning to get too mushy, even for my taste so I'd spare you the gory details. However, one thought remained in my mind that night: how the sharp contrast between the cold and wet environment and the warm and friendly person highlighted the very same warmth and friendliness. Since then, I was totally captured. Many times I strugled to break free but another part of me struggles to remain in the comfortable cage. Looking through the bars, I could see a quagmire slowly eating the metal stand. If I remained, I would also be swallowed alive.

In desperation, I tried something I had been planning for a long time. Tetrahydroziline Hydrochloride, also known commercially as Visine is an eyedrop manufactured by pharmaceutical giant, Pfizer. So long as it was used topically, it remains harmless. Ingested, however, it could induce diarrhea, drastically lower body temperature, raise, then suddenly lower blood pressure and cause someone to lapse into a coma. I was counting on the last one so wishing for luck, I downed a dose, along with some soda.

I had not the will to kill myself; I only wanted to sleep. Maybe if I did sleep for a long time, everything will be alright when I wake up. Maybe if I thoroughly submerged myself in dreams, I'd have the clarity of vision to realize them. Too bad, wakefulness came sooner that I had wished. As I was drawn from the other world, the first sounds I heard was the splashes of water landing on the trees. My mind conjured a vivid image of a single drop, falling down from the sky, hopping from branch to branch and gliding as surface runoff before finally returning to Mother Earth, beginning the cycle anew. It was in the darkness of the ground that realization hit me; it's tomorrow already and I'm still alive.

There were lessons I have learned from this. One is that suicidal people should not drink a glass of milk a day. Neither should they also regularly drink fruit juice. As a matter of fact, they should just quit taking vitamin pills or other nutritional supplements. One should also not go on a spending spree, splurging, shopping or food tripping before the attempt because if it fails, there will be more problems. Lastly, a failed attempt should not discourage you. As they say, "Try and try until you die."

While it was not quite suicide, I did learn those lessons well. Quite unfortunately, I was too weak-hearted to repeat the attempted poisoning. Maybe things did happen for a reason. With a heavy sigh, I went out of the house and faced the world once more, only to be swallowed by the mire. Bogged down, I found it hard to get out. The practice of subterfuge I had applied on my guardians began to backfire. The death of one lie led to the birth of two more. Still, there remained in me enough sanity to fight getting bogged down. As a dying star screams it death near the event horizon, I made one last move to gather up enough courage.

The sun was hot when we met, a stark contrast to the frigid cinema. After precious minutes of beating around the bush, walking from one end of the mall to the other and back again, I finally blurted out how I felt. Granted, the panic and pressure of dispelling a stack of lies dulled me but what came out was a lot less eloquent than I would have preferred. What resulted was the polite rejection I had been expecting.

As I walked out, the rain had just stopped, although the drizzling persisted for a while. Looking up, I could see no stars in the light-polluted night sky. Looking down at my feet, there were zeveral dazzling points of light reflected from the wet asphalt below. Eyesight blurring, I hurriedly got myself a ride home before I lashed out to the innocent world. I knew it was not love because I was more than ready to let go. Yet, I knew it was not just plain attraction because it hurt all the same.

As the King once said to Robin i' Hood, "Just because you are downtrodden does not mean you have the right to take the law in your hands," or something along those lines. I will do well to remember that, everytime I feel like lashing out.

The rain still pours in different parts of the world. Despite the events that had transpired, I still retained the love I had for the rain. Maybe now, it was time that I actually write about it once more.

The rain has always brought me grief.
The pain is eternal, the pleasure, brief.
Yet, frigid drops that fell before
I seek, that they may fall once more.

Love = Hypnosis = Mindwipe = System Crash

2006-04-04T00:46:00.000+08:00

Pale wisps of mist and frost
cloud and curtain he who is lost.
Flaming light and burning fire
consume the one lost in desire.

When you're sick, there's not much you can do but take bed rest and medication. If, however, you are heavily inclined to push yourself to the limit, you could always go out into the perilous world and brave the adventures of daily life with pathogens coursing an angry path throughout your system. Of course, that is hardly a wise decision as it will only aggravate your body's defenses and worsen your condition but that is exactly what I did.

Granted, it was a temporary lapse in clear thinking but I suppose that a day or two of bed rest never killed anyone. As a matter of fact, it was during bed rest that I chanced upon an issue of a very interesting magazine. Alright, so it's a girly magazine but it sure is interesting nonetheless.

It said, "Love or the act of falling into it induces certain chemical reactions in your brain where the end result is euphoria. These chemicals are the reason why your stress melts away just seeing him smile." Okay, maybe those weren't the exact words but it is the gist of the article. Ha! Like I need some girly magazine to point out the obvious. Quite curious about the apparent stupidity, I read on.

"Love, however, can also produce negative side effects. The same chemicals responsible for euphoria also lower inhibit your alarmist side. Thus, you often find yourself saying it is perfectly alright to have a liesurely breakfast when you already are late for work." It was at this point that I found myself asking, "Why the hell haven't I subscribe to this magazine three years ago?"

See, I'm in big trouble. Well, not really *that* big, I mean, I still eat more than three times a day, have a roof over my head and thankfully, my organs are still intact, with the exception of my appendix and wisdom teeth. What I mean is that my academics have been in quite a dangerously low position. I have long accepted the fact that my graduation will most probably be delayed for, at most, a year. My parents, on the other hand, are being fed sneak peeks into a horror movie in the making. Two weeks from now, I'd say, "Mom, I'm not graduating this year," and Bam! The horror movie reaches its climax as the insane serial-killing mother slashes the blades at her poor unknowing miserable son.

I digress. The point is that had I known about these things about love, I probably would have known that I had been hurting myself long, long ago. Granted, I still hurt myself ever and anon but it's more like, "Take that you stupid jerk! Take that, and that! You rude, imprudent bastard!" instead of, "Hmmn, I wonder what knives feel like against my skin?"

I turned the pages and lo! Behold! A personality quiz! I never really invested much trust in those quizzes but I took it, nonetheless, curious as to what stereotype I'd be placed under. Three minutes passed and voila! I am the demanding date. Run and hide, all my crushes! Your pride will be crushed, your ego stomped and your wallet divestedof its contents!

I could not help a frustrated sigh. Clearly, I have underestimated girly magazines. It is as essential to me as the necronomicon is to a necromancer, or the bible to a priest, or the kamasutra to...

Err, never mind.

Anata wa Izumi Koushiro

2006-03-19T00:50:00.001+08:00

You are searching for someone to lean on
someone to be with and somebody fun.
Have you found who you're looking for?
Are you still searching, or is he gone?

Here I am, staring at a screenful of blurry sights while you sit there behind me, solving equations. I hear you mutter incomprehensible stuff as clearly as I can hear the same music that has been grating my ears for the past 15 minutes. Good. At least your attention is occupied. The Fates forbid that you rise from your seat and look over my shoulder; I would have died of embarassment. Well, of course, blogging has always been a risk. Oh gawd, look at me, now I'm thinking like a giddy schoolgirl.

You really are a puzzle, you know? You never cease to come up with unexpected twists and surprises every now and then. Once, I saw a different side of you. Of course, I could readily see that you are a good artist; you have a talent I so direly need but lack. I also knew that you played with words but I never thought you played with them so well. Who would have known, that a very capable artist like you would also be a good writer? Mother Nature is so unfair.

Something else bothers me. How do you do it? When I read the poetry you have written, I was engulfed by a feeling of great sadness. You write very depressing poems: yet another talent I envy you for. However, you never really knew, did you? You never knew the one thing you have which I am so jealous of.

It's been raining for the past week. Sometimes, we're lucky enough to get home damp, but not soaked. You often bring a jacket while I use an umbrella. As luck would have it, it was raining in sheets and all we both have are our jackets. After minutes of walking through the rain, we're soaked to the skin. You sigh exasperatedly as you mutter something about the rain ruining your hair.

I like your hair when it rains, though. Each strand embraces the other, forming locks of spiky black, hightlighted by stray streaks of silver. I really wanted to run my hand through your hair but quickly caught myself in time, lest I arouse suspicion.

Yet, there's something else about rain and you. Everytime it rains, the cold frost descends from the high altitudes, but you were always warm. It's as though you are a miniaturized sun, exuding heat and warmth that easily spreads to all that comes into contact with you. You smell like crisp white sun-dried linen and more than once, I discreetly leaned in to smell your peculiar scent. I inhaled deeply and remembered well how you smelled, knowing that the time may come when I could no longer catch that scent from you again. It was so unbelievably warm, it was so... you. Right, you didn't believe in artificial fragrances, I recall.

Here I am, roughly half a year later. The cold and forbidding mists have lifted and the howling silence has given way to cricket-filled warm nights. Many a morning, I wake up, desperate to be with you and many a night I sigh, disappointed that the day must end. So many things have happened, but are they for real? Are they relevant to my dillema or are they the artifacts of wistful sighs and wishful thinking?

There were some days that certain, non-mainstream topics were discussed. You, like me, feigned light compliance to the widespread philosophy. Here and there, I gleaned what I hope to be pieces of information about who you really are. I suppose those were not enough as there had been a time when I could take the suspense no longer. Outright I had asked your opinion and I was more than releived that, at the very least, you are open-minded. Not that I am condemning th rest as bigoted bastards; I'm simply giving them the benefit of the doubt.

Really now, I don't know why I'm ranting. Maybe it's because some jerk had, through a very low-down trick I was stupid enough to fall into, found out about my feelings towards to. Maybe it's because, yet again, I had glimpsed my ex, or what I thought looked like my ex. Maybe it's because I really miss you a lot since I haven't seen much of you during the hell weeks of academic crap I've been cramming. Maybe it's because I'm sorely frustrated that I paid quite a sum for a poison that never worked because I've been drinking a glass of milk a day. Maybe it's because I'm horribly disappointed that my plan to tell you how I feel had gone awry and that, in all possibilities, you still probably are oblivious to the real me.

I think I should give up on hope. Things will probably be easier that way. Someday, though, I will tell you how I feel. Maybe that time, I'd probably be numb enough you could scream at me, reject me, punch me in the face and demand that I take back while I feel no dejection, no depression and no more regrets.

Love should not do this to me, but why does it?

It's as cold as rain on a silent day.
It's as fleeting as a butterfly dream.
It's the sunset in the middle of the day.
It's the glimpse of me your eyes had caught.

Romance of the Three Kingdoms

2005-12-15T13:27:00.000+08:00

As black darkness heralds night,
as white radiance brings forth light,
have we need, a dull gray, to sight?
Have we need, at all, for the twilight?

I once swore to myself never to have children. Not that I am planning to live a life of celibacy but I simply think I cannot handle any brat for the rest of my life. It was quite a puzzle then, this morning, when I pondered upon the question regarding how a child could be raised properly.

Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it was the bratty kid next door whom I could hear screaming at four in the morning, asking what's for breakfast. Maybe it's their stupid household help whose intense voice splits the air in unison with her charge's yells in a delightful cacophony. Maybe it was the "Harumph" I always sigh whenever I hear the barbaric duo, silently cursing the kid's parents for not educating both larva and slave about the concept of noise pollution.

Really now, I do have a mind of calling them one day, whilst they be immersed in yet another colorfully pointless childish debate. I digress.

Anyway, I was in the shower, a very uneventful place were it not for... never mind. As I was shampooing my hair, nourishing my healthy cover of dandruff, my trivial musings drifted to the different people I met in my childhood. Sure, there were groups of kids whose popularity permeates the entire classroom; almost every ear listening to them and almost every eye focused on their facial expression so that when they laugh, all the others might laugh as well.

I never was a very popular guy. Back then, I wished it was me cracking jokes but now that I have the hindsight to look behind at the sordid mess that was my past, I am quite grateful I never belonged with them. Sure, I do resent quite a lot of them and, given the chance at speed and stealth, would kill them at the present. Perhaps that must be the reason why I don't want to be one of them anymore.

Another group, or stereotype, if you will, is the Outcast society. It is here where I belonged once. We would speak in hushed whispers or low voices lest some Popular hear us and broadcast our words as a joke. Where the Populars often talked about music or fashion, we talked about them. I know, gossipping is bad but I was a kid then! Until I stepped into high school, the outcast group was often composed of really smart students or really dumb and silent shy people.

Where does the rest fit in? Nowhere. They were separate clusters of temporary liaisons, breaking up and re-coagulating many times within a year. They were the innocents caught in the crossfire between the Populars and the Outcasts. They were the butt of jokes in the rare instances where the Populars are not picking on an Outcast. They were the excluded ones in the clandestine telepathic conversations of the Outcasts. They cannot unite themselves for their social skills were nowhere as audacious as the Populars and the oppression they suffer is nowhere near enough to give them anything in common.

As I was rinsing off, I was struck with the unholy idea of raising a kid. I was utterly mollified now but I paid no heed then. I was more concerned about the way I would raise him. My mom raised me to be a prodigy, an Outcast. My dad tried to undo the damage whenever he was around but alas! 'twas too late and I grew up a geek. Obviously, I would not want my child to grow up like me. Obviously, I wouldn't want to turn into my own mother and cultivate another vegetable limping through life.

I never wanted my son/daughter to grow up a Popular, either. 'tis the primary reason why I wished not for a progeny. I am quite afraid of the horrors raising a brat as bratty as all the other brats. I wished not for a rowdy boy who wallows in the mud like some pig or a snobbish girl who moodily snorts at everything like some pig.

Alas! I am running out of options. I suppose I'd choose the least evil amongst the three in the very unlikely event that I happen to father a child. I never wanted my kid to be a nomad but I suppose my kid will thank me in the very far future. He could quite adapt to be able to glean some trivial information from the Outcasts. She could probably maintain her cool and be innoculated from the teasings and annoyances called Populars.

Walking out the shower room, I shuddered, partly due to the cold winter atmosphere, mostly due to the forbidden thoughts running across my mind. As I switch on the radio, I vaguely conjure a thought analogous to my shower daydreams: I want my child to be neither Pop nor Classical but rather Alternative or Wave.

Gah! I don't even think that makes sense. Coming from a mind ignorant of music genre, it probably doesn't.

Sleep well, convict, for tomorrow you die.

2005-10-18T01:32:00.000+08:00

Nausea. If I remember it correctly, my professor called it nausea.

It was supposedly, what every human feels when confronted with a decision. It is the fleeting moment where one actually carefully considers his or her option. It is the instant of insanity before the equally brief nanosecond called decision. Once we have decided, it disappears just as quickly.

Ha! I could only wish everything was as simple as that. Most of the world's problems are actually problems of the future. This is where nausea comes in. However, nausea or no nausea, puke or no puke, the fact still remains that people can still do something about it.

Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce to all of you a new concept called guilt. It is the overwhelming sense of foreboding that retribution might just be around the corner. It is the low, almost infrasound, drone of a massive alien spacecraft cruising slowly in the dead of the night. It is the aura of unease that pervades the atmosphere hours, even days before an earthquake strikes. It is the deep, hollow rumbling of a volcano before it suddenly decides to sneeze, rendering thousands of people homeless in the process.

It is the itchy crawling feeling on your skin as you recieve your grades, only to stare blankly at a flashy, shimerring failure. It is the feeling of helplessness as you arrive late for your exam, only to know that the war has been lost long before the final battle began. It is both euphoria and hysteria; you smile because you have been freed from the dread of not knowing while you scream as you tear at your hair, dreading anew at the slow but inevitable doom.

It is a form of astral projection, as you momentarily leave your body and see your life from a third-person point of view. It is the art of puppetry as you animate your limbs through the puppet string of primal instinct. Your body moves of its own accord as the conscious mind takes flight. It is also the sharp return to yourself as a speeding car narrowly misses you.

It is the wasted opportunity to die for you are much too afraid to die yourself. You slow down for Death to catch up to you only to find out that Death slowed down his pace to match yours. It is the frustration knowing that Justice walks at a faster pace, much faster than Death and a bit faster than you, anyway.

Guilt is the hope that just around the corner, there is an assassin, a rapist, a robber, a child running with a knife in his hands, a speeding bullet, a time bomb, as a matter of fact, anything that could kill you, the entire event regarded as either crime or accident. Heck, maybe it is also the desperation to throw you into harm's way, knowing that, had you stood still, your life might have been saved.

Most of all, let me describe the singular and most basic description of guilt. It is the knowledge that the quagmire you are presently sinking into is your own doing.

Should all curses laid down never fail,
what misery would all of this entail?
Retain what strength you had before
but only that and nothing more.

The Strength of the Colony Lies in its Larvae

2005-08-27T01:56:00.000+08:00

Anak na ngayo'y 'di mo paluin,
bukas, ikaw ang paluluhain.
(The child you will not spank today
is one who'll make you weep someday.)

-a Filipino proverb

Children. I love children! They make great firewood!

Don't get me wrong, I'm not usually nasty towards children. Heck, I wouldn't even dare frighten anonymous kids unless the situation gets really dire. Anyway, allow me to divert your attention away from those nasty little creatures for a while and introduce you to a movie I just saw.

Fangirls of Johnny Depp have probably already seen Tim Burton's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. To tell the truth, it is also a movie I've been waiting to see, my anticipation making my body itch. No, thank you, I'm not a Johnny Depp fangirl 'coz I think the guy's too wierd. Anyway, I really got hooked on by its movie trailers.

I'm not particularly kind to people who narrate spoiler stories to me so allow me to refuse to give the plot away, for the sake of those who may still wish to see it. Instead, let me just introduce to you five kids who star in the movie. Of course, you probably have already guessed Charlie. After all, why would the title be such if there wasn't any guy named Charlie? All kidding aside, Charlie is the main protagonist. He's a kid who is surprisingly well aware of his family's current financial situation. Very insightful, yet not too grown-up, Charlie seems to embody the perfect kid parents want their children to turn out. Unfortunately, he has a flaw: what does a kid do when he finds a stray dollar bill on the ground? Let honesty prevail? Heh, too bad, Charlie used the money to buy himself, er, something nice.

Augustus Gloop, another kid, is a very fat glutton who is well versed in the art of eating, manners or no manners. He is almost always seen munching on something, most often Willy Wonka's superb chocolate bars. His father is a buthcer while his mother stays at home and cooks. He likes to eat everything that is edible and his parents have no qualms about spoiling him. He's not a very complicated brat for his needs are simple: food.

Veruca, on the other hand, would not stop at food. It has to be good food. Most of all, it has to be something she likes. She had made it a habit to ask her loving dad to buy her what she wants. Fortunately, her father is a very rich businessman. Still, there are some things that cannot be bought with money. Love and friendship? Nah, Veruca doesn't want them. She's having a difficult time acquiring Willy Wonka's technologies, which she has taken a liking to. She is a classic example of a rich spoiled princess; what Veruca wants, Veruca gets, or else...

Violet, another female, is not too altruistic like her best friend, Veruca. She knows she had to work for what she wants. Unlike her friend, there is only one thing she wants in life: be the number one. An over-competitive brat, she joins all competitions she can, constantly emerging as the winner. Never to be outdone, she goes out of her way to seek contests and trains rigorously to prove that she is indeed the best kid in the world, in all respects.

Mike, on the other hand, would be nothing more than a couch potato, a sharp contrast to Violet's zeal and enthusiasm. However, unlike most lazy people, Mike is pretty smart. How come? Well, watching TV all the time does have certain strange effects. It seemed like Mike was a grown-up trapped in a kid's body as he constantly mumbles, according to Willy Wonka, globs of nonsense gibberish about anti-matter, space-time and teleporters.

With the possible exception of Charlie, different kids with various personalities they may be but one word is enough to describe them all: brats. Let's face it, a lot of parents would want their child to grow up healthy and free from hunger and starvation, which is why some kids end up bloated. Others want nothing less than the best for their kids so these brats end up having their own way, all the time. Some of them even go out of their way to acquire for themselves nothing but the best.

I am not saying that I am free of these flaws. The point is not to ridicule the movie or infer anything from it. The movie itself only serves to illustrate, in a hyper-exaggerated manner, the main statement: beware of kids. Unfortunately, that's life: without children, there would be no grown-ups either.

Lastly, have some words of advice. When taking public transport, avoid being seated next to kids, especially younger ones; they have flawed puke control. ^_^

Clothos, Lachesis and Atropos

2005-08-07T00:36:00.000+08:00

My mother is a very practical down-to-earth woman. She rarely buys toys for me or my siblings, yet she knows no limit when spending on good food. We were very well off yet I didn't have the usual luxuries of children my age. I never played with any gaming console and, were it not for computer games, I would have gone geeky. My parents didn't even bother to have cable channels installed; after all, they said, we have more than enough channels to keep us busy. Any more than that would be deletrious to our studies. I got my first cellphone two years after typical kids get theirs.

It would seem that I have been living in a convent all my childhood years, living the life of an ascetic or aspiring to be a martyr. I certainly did think so then. However, now that some sense had been knocked into my head at various times using various means, I have come to realize that I'm actually slightly thankful that I'm who I turned out to be. Where before, I would look on with envy everytime other kids show off their new toys, talk about the latest game on PlayStation or chatter about a recent episode of whatnot on Cartoon Network, I now learned to shrug, knowing well that such things don't really contribute anything significant to myself as a person. I learned to frown upon parents who indulge every whim and fancy of their children, already seeing them growing up into spoiled superficial brats. In a way, I turned up a better person.

However, that is only one side of the omelette. Sure, the potatoes and onions on top have turned out fine but the rest of it has been burnt underneath. As I grew up, I forgot what fun really was. I kept talking to other people about things that, I thought, really mattered like mathematics or the sciences. I rolled my eyes whenever they talked about music, dance or their childish dreams. I soon found myself alone.

When I stepped into high school, I found someone who understood my definition of fun. He knew how tor elate when I talked about blackholes, airport signboards, delta waves or cloning. It was through him that I discovered the fun of playing computer games, chatting online or just surfing the net. It was with his help that I began to appreciate music and technology. I came into contact with the luxuries I had been forbidden in the past. He was my best friend, if not more; then he was gone.

In his absence, I soon became aware of the large void he left. He was so integrated to my daily life; it was not easy to ignore the fact that he's missing. Along with him, other aspects of my social life have also fled. I began to notice how very few my friends actually are. I began to hesitate hearing music, knowing that almost all CD's and mp3's came from him; he was a very generous person. It was also the reason I stopped playing computer games. It seemed to me like I owed him a large part of my current definition of fun.

I returned to square one. I found my old self: geeky, indifferent and not so confident. I was plagued by doubts, I drew back from social events and, generally, curled up back inside my old shell. It was quite a long time before I opened the portcullis to let in some music. Alone.

When I stepped into my second year in college, I stumbled upon a new friend. I thought he was one of my upperclassmen in high school so I smiled at him when we meet, just for the sake of courtesy. He never smiled back so I assumed I have mistaken his identity. When I got into third year, he became my classmate. More specifically, we became groupmates on an academic project.

I soon got to know bit and pieces about him. He always carried this friendly smile; I could feel sunshine everytime I'm near him. He was a very bouncy person, it's hard to be depressed when he talks to you. You may well imagine my surprise when I have gotten to know him a little more. He is someone who looks for something that I thought he already had. I guess it was wrong for me to assume that nice people get the nice things in life.

Anyway, he was the one who re-introduced me to the world of computer games. I relived my fascination with the computer screen as my atrophying muscles relearned the art of hand-eye coordination. I was once more submerged into a familiar environment, filled with various noises yet nowhere as loud as the deafening silence that had consumed me before. I should be thankful and I am, but there's something that bothers me. I keep losing the game.

Had I been playing by myself, I would have just shrugged it off and laughed at myself. However, I think I'm beginning to annoy him. After all, we almost always end up as teammates in the game. I'm also worried that he might take my losing as an insult to him for, after all, he was the one who taught me the game. Think of it like an insult to your mentor. Yet, these clouds still come to pass for, after a while, he would smile again and I'd forget my blunders.

I don't really know what I'm trying to say. Maybe I wanted to be righteous and let people know that I am grateful for how my parents raised me. Maybe I feel rebellious and blogging is one way of letting out all the jealousy and envy I felt as a child. Maybe I'm seeking to make others understand why I'm who I am today. I hope that they do because I can hardly fathom the reasons myself.

Life can be so confusing sometimes. I need something to hold on to, something I know is there and something that is not some smoke in a bag.

Something nice has entered my dreams
Yet I cannot get it out, it seems.
There is always a smile upon its face.
There is something fun in whatever it says.

It is something I am quite glad I knew.
Who knows? That something might be you.

Apocalypse. Armageddon. Ragnarok.

2005-07-10T02:12:00.000+08:00

Disturb not the harmony of fire, ice and lightning
lest these titans reap destruction upon the world in which they clash.
Though the water's great guardian shall rise to quell the fighting,
alone, its song will fail, thus the Earth shall turn to ash.

O, Chosen One, into thy hands, bring together all three.
Their powers combined, tame the beast of the sea.

--prophecy, Pokèmon 2000

One night, a sorcerer dreamt of an impending doom. He found himself in the middle of a modern city, surrounded by towering edifices. He stood near a corner of one particular building when he heard a crash from the other side. Warily, he looked around the corner to investigate. He saw a green Saurian (a giant mythical iguana-like dragon) smashing its tail against the bases of structures and ocassionally biting the panicked metropolitan populace.

A screech from high above distracted him as he saw a great gray bird flying over and amidst the towers. Seemingly intent on duplicating the destruction below, the bird grazed the upper floors and clawed at the walls of the tall structures. With fear pulsing within his chest, the sorcerer recognized the flying animal as one of the strange creatures he had conjured in the past.

He whirled around when he felt a strange presence behind him. To his awe, he found shadows of tendrils whipping back and forth across the walls and the streets, gradually consuming all surfaces. For reasons unknown, he had ascertained it as the manifestation of a virus although he is quite unsure whether it be digital or biological. However, within the dark shadows, amidst the spellbound people in a trance-like state, he could barely discern the outline of a grinning red skull.

The terror was too much as he made haste to his abode. He floated away from the city into the nearby woods. When he was certain that no prying eyes could see him, he cast a spell and almost immediately felt his body fade away into nothingness. A blink later, he materialized in his home in the suburbs. He wasted no time in getting ready, either to fight or, most probably, to die in the process. He drew all curtains close, stocked up on supplies and locked every door and window.

He had completely lost all contact with the outside world as both the television and the radio gave out nothing but static. It was the same with the telephone. Power began to become erratic as the lights flickered on and off. It was quite silent outside but he felt the pervading presence of an unseen yet dangerous entity. Postmen, pizza delivery boys and neighbors would ring at the doorbell every now and then but he kept the door sealed and the curtains drawn.

Amidst the anticipation of an impending doom, he awoke. He took a deep breath as much of his dreams fled from his pillow. Thus, he began the day with his usual routine, curiously noting that the seventh month has begun.

Salamangkero

2005-07-01T23:55:00.000+08:00

In a land of grieving past
where torment does forever last,
there a young one's destiny
shall grant him immortality,
each and every passing year
no less than a poisoned spear.

If you are not human but sorcerer born, you should be able to use your power to influence the world to work for you. If you are a sorcerer born on the day the sun reigned longest, as Gemini gave way to Cancer, and the year the Fire Tiger ruled the Zodiac, you should be endowed with power as intense as fire and as eternal as the sun. Simply put, anyone in my place should have been able to use the gifts of both demonic and divine origins to manipulate other mortals the way I please.

Too bad, the system was flawed, thus, here I am, pouring my energies into a blog post instead of weather-witching or summoning supernatural entities. It is quite a shame that the world often runs out of my control, especially on important days.

When it is your birthday, sorcerer or not, you should experience one of the best days of your life. For instance, when the phone rings, you're not supposed to hear the voice of your ex-girlfriend on the other side of the line. She is not supposed to greet you a sour Happy Birthday soaked with sarcasm. She is not supposed to ask whether you still visit your high school. You know it, the one that really tormented you. She is not supposed to ask whether you still kept in touch with your friends, who happen to be people she lambasted even as she was talking to you. She is not supposed to ask whether you still kept in touch with other people who made your high school life an excursion to katagelophobia and back.

On what should be a good day, you're not supposed to receive a call from a bitch you barely remember as your ex. She should not ask about your yearbook. Most of all, she better not insult the yearbook staff, especially when you happen to be one of them, making you a convenient scapegoat for her.

What's her problem anyway? Most of the people I've been talking to gave positive feedback about the yearbook. Does she really expect that we would craft the dumb book just to suit her taste? It is kinda disappointing to find out that some people still don't mature intellectually. It kinda relieving, though, knowing that you have already ended your relationship with such people.

On a day of celebration, when you invite your guests, they should not be late. As a happy person, you are not supposed to pace restlessly, look at your watch, mutter, curse and pace once again. Furthermore, even if they were late, you would not expect them to be, say, more than an hour late. One of your guests is not supposed to drop off the face of the earth, making you worry and search anxiously for him.

When you watch a movie with your crush, you're not supposed to spill rootbeer on your carefully chosen white shirt. When the two of you play a network game, you're not supposed to be lame even though you're a newbie. When you recieve a gift, you are not supposed to lose it, especially not in front of the giver, more so when you have a crush on the giver.

When you're supposed to be having fun, things should not go wrong, especially for a sorcerer like you.

Nimbus

2005-05-29T00:44:00.000+08:00

You are a storm cloud looking down on humanity. High up in the sky, you are too preoccupied with your majestic position to even see the details as minute as the worried glances people cast upon you. You do not see the hurtling drops of water you unknowingly pelt the creatures below. What you do see is darkness, not once realizing that it is only your shadow.

You are a very depressed person. Who can blame you? All you see are the negative things in life, how everything could only get worse. Yes, you are an advocate of Murphy's law; you even specialize in creating disaster, if only to entertain yourself. Too bad, these morbid things get so boring after a while. You are jealous of all the happy people; you cannot understand what reason they have to laugh or to smile. Every time someone laughs, you look around nervously, checking to see if they are laughing at you. The cycle goes on, from darkness to jealousy, from paranoia to enmity.

You are so bored with seeing nothing but your shadow. Oh, how much you wish to see the light. Whilst you brood gloomily, the sun shines behind you. How you would like to see its radiant light but you are forbidden. Sunlight brings about evaporation, evaporation leads to disintegration and disintegration causes you great pain. You were simply not raised to see the sun. You are a storm cloud, not one of those happy-go-lucky cirrus or carefree cumulus. It is quite against your nature to look at the sun, though you so long to see some light.

You meet a lot of people in your daily living but most of them just pass you by. After all, a storm cloud is a dangerous phenomenon for the aviators of life. You became desperate for light that you have sunk lower, if only to see. Every now and then, a few bundles of sunlight befriend you. They may be one of your superiors, your senpai perhaps or even the sweet stranger that smiled at you. You have become so weak that you have to search for these kinds of people. When you do find them, you fall; you are quite easily attracted to kindness.

This is not to say you are entirely devoid of light. As you hurtle along with the great mountain wind, you smile. You have always liked speed, the feel of wind whipping against your face and the powerful blast coursing through your body. As lightning surges, you glow momentarily before the light leaves as abruptly as it had come. As you can see, you do have occasional bursts of happy moments every now and then.

Sadly, when the feeling is gone and euphoria gives way to exhaustion, you resume your normal self. Your jealous eyes still sneak across windows, wondering why everyone is so happy. You gloomy thoughts shadow the greenery, unsure why the whole world laughs. Your paranoid drops conquer the surroundings, spying and searching for anyone against you.

However, I still cannot fathom the face behind your mask, or the mask behind your face. As you pass by people, you have a scowl painted across your visage. Every time you meet bundles of sunlight, you paint a gleeful smile on your face. Yet when we see each other, you paint a look with a tinge of pity. You should not be doing this; you are not real. You are nothing more than a mirage on the other side of the mirror.

Please go away.

Streaks of lighting, peals of thunder
rip the firmament across, asunder
The storm cloud endured no greater mass
and burst forth with all the rain it has.

from Nowhere to Nowhere

2005-05-12T14:32:00.000+08:00

The moon rising unto the east
and the sun sinking unto the west
shall both succumb to a dark beast,
spawn a child both cursed and blest.

I dreamt of a dark and foreboding structure in the middle of a gray foreboding wasteland. It appeared to me like two high towers completely identical and seperated from each other by merely a few yards or so. Aside from the earth at which they stand, the towers are connected only by a single bridge a few stories before the penthouse.

The entry to the first tower was locked. The second tower opened as though welcoming any guest. I entered the second tower and immediately noticed the warm, melodious classical music playing in the background. I saw sculptures and paintings adorning thewalls, massive curtains and chandeliers. The ambience was warm and welcoming until I tried to get out; the door has locked behind me. It was with a sinking feeling that I realized that the only portals in the two towers were one-way: an entrance in the second and an exit in the first. It was with dread that I also realized I am all alone, that no other person exists within miles of me and that no one is coming to my aid.

It was quite easy to breeze up the second tower. As a matter of fact, it was too warm and accomodating. There is treasure in every room, or a purple silk bed , or a bountiful banquet. Even while dreaming, it was still quite tempting for me to stay behind in one of those comfy beds and doze of into the land of dreams, not knowing I am already there. I reached the bridge, nonetheless, ignoring all the temptation brought before me.

The bridge itself was sturdy, made of steel and had nothing especially remarkable about it, unless one suffers an extreme case of acrophobia.

The first building was a stark opposite of the second. While the second stood welcoming, the first was infested with spooks. The deafening silence was interrupted only by squeaks on the doors or the wooden floor, bats flying from nowhere to nowhere and creepy footsteps that are definitely not your own. With the exception of the top few floors, each succeeding floor is a puzzle you must solve if you ever are to descend to the lower floor.

Like an RPG, the first tower is quite tricky; there are a lot of barrels to move, crates to open and treasure chests to unlock. Mind you, not all of them contained goodies either. Some were pretty harmless, only splashing you with water. I could only surmise that others were nasty for I only encountered one before my demise. I have no idea if it is fortunate that I awoke before I died, so to speak. Anyway, the last treasure chest I opened contained a trigger to biological timebombs scattered across the level. The stairs to the upper floor was locked immediately after I passed through them and, until I solve the puzzle, so are the stairs leading down. Along with triggering the clock for the bombs, I could also hear the buzz of a swarm of bugs, gradually getting louder though I can see none. The last thing I saw was a flash of white; the last thing I heard was complete silence.

Katagelophobia: Fear of Ridicule

2005-05-02T23:54:00.000+08:00

I know that many things I lack.
I also know that I can't go back.
When stupidity has tainted my name,
Here I run, cry and hide in shame.

A lot of sane and average people do not like ridicule, especially if it is aimed at them. It quite normal, really. However, when one gets teary-eyed, trembles or even vomits, you know there is a problem with that person.

Katagelophobia has been defined as fear of ridicule, however, such a brief definition is nowhere near concise, much less, accurate. A lot of people confidently reveal their fears, ending the terms with -phobia. However, psychology defines phobias as a fear of an entity with negative physiological effects. In other words, simply fearing closed spaces does not make you claustrophobic. If your heart rate quickens abnormally, your adrenaline levels reach levels higher than normal, you feel like throwing up when thinking of cramped spaces or worse, you threw up in a tight place, then you do have claustrophobia.

I am not a psychologist myself and I don't carry an ECG machine with me so I cannot really determine of I have any phobias. I do know certain facts which I am not rally predisposed to diagnosing as symptoms of a "fear with negative physiological effects".

I never really liked being ridiculed and whenever someone pokes fun at me, I cry. As embarassing as it is, this has gone on for my first eight years in hell, er, school. When I stepped into high school, I gained enough sanity to hold my tears back, at least until I get to the safety of my room. Eventually, I began shrugging off snide comments directed at me. I do accept constructive criticism; there is a difference between constructive criticism and unfounded name-calling. I thought I was strong, heck, I would have gone bungee-jumping had I found an opportunity to do so.

When I was in my second year in college, something terrible happened. After a certain event, I found myself alone. I had no one to lean on; so used was I to having a companion that losing one creates a large low-pressure void that threatens to swallow everything out of existence. I was battered with the same amount of problems as before but now that I have no support, I alone took the blows.

This has made me strong, in a way but it has also made me weak. Now, I face mundane concerns, like academics, by myself; I never leaned on anyone anymore. However, I found myself back as a frightened kid. Where before, I would have looked down from a great height, I'm now afraid to even come near the edge. Where before, I confidently walk under ladders, I now hug the walls, suspicious that the ceiling might collapse at any moment. Where before, I walked at the middle of the road, I now stalk in the sidewalk, even though no cars are in sight.

All my fears came back to haunt me and I feel my heart rate increasing. I guess I still hover below the threshold between normal and abnormal fear. However, something happened last night. I found out that I have sent an email to the wrong address. Instead of sending it to a single account, I have sent it to a mailing list. It realy is quite embarassing for some and now that I had the time to look back, I guess I acted really irrational then. I have no idea why I threw up two minutes after I opened my inbox; I don't know what made me shut the computer down and hide under my sheets. I definitely cannot explain why I burst into tears over such a simple event.

Fears, and emotions, in general, are, by nature, irrational. I thought I was strong but I guess ignorance is really bliss.

I feel bad.

I sleep, I slumber.

2005-04-25T00:07:00.000+08:00

I love to dream. I love to sleep.
I love to fly. I love to leap.
Wake me not, please, I love to soar.
Stop. Shatter my dreams no more.

Those who have read The Little Prince by Antione de Saint Exupery would be familiar with the notion of kids and grown-ups. Kids would undoubtedly be those who have in themselves the power to smile, to fly and to live life happily. Grown-ups were portrayed to boring people who deal with non-creative subjects like geography and politics. I do agree that it is quite harsh for geographers to be categorized with politicians. It is also quite prejudicial to assume that grown-ups are boring people. However, all epistemological errors aside, the book shows us that some people are imaginative while some are no more than an automaton controlled by their environment.

Growing up is usually a trade-off between imagination and reality. Some pursue the fields of engineering, sciences and mathematics and, in the process, give up on their childhood fantasies. Sure, they do fantasize about something but it is a subject we'd rather not discuss.

Some, however, still retain their dreams. Most of them pursue the arts and, eventually, they live their dreams. Again, allow me to remind you that it is presumptuous to think that the field of a person’s specialization determines his or her imaginative state.

I once talked to someone how it would be great to have a crossover of worlds, where monsters roam free and people have to hack and slash through hordes of them to get to their offices. Of course, it would also be great if these monsters dropped items like money, mobile phones or mp3 players. If not, we would have settled for junk so long as there is a general shop somewhere that buys and sells anything without discrimination. Yes, an RPG life would be an interesting change. In the course of our light discussion, I learned nothing worthwhile. I learned nothing new about him, the world or even myself. However, I do not regret having brought up the topic.

On the other hand, I once listened to someone talking about her working life. She went on, spewing a few figures along the way. I tried to keep up with the mathematics but failed. At first, I listened and questioned some concepts about economy and business management. I have learned a lot but I found my eyelids drooping. I gathered a lot of information that was soon to be discarded when I fell asleep. I knew it was a grave insult to someone and that I myself would not tolerate such behavior but it was getting harder to stay awake. Such was her power over worthwhile boredom.

Between these people, I would have chosen the senseless musings about RPG's than learning how to handle businesses. This is quite odd since I am a person who values knowledge so greatly. On the other hand, it might be expected of me as a writer to appreciate creativity more than intelligence. I have no idea.

I could only say that I was lucky enough to have the time to pursue both a field in engineering and literary writing. Not too many people are lucky enough to have such opportunities and I am greatly indebted to certain people concerning this privilege. However, I think that even without time, I would still find a way to capture fleeting butterfly dreams in streaks of ink on paper. As a friend once said, writing is in my blood.

I do realize that I run the risk of giving people the false impression of a good writer. Whether I am a great writer or not depends on whomsoever reads my works. Whatever their opinion may be, though, I am still a writer and I am grateful to be one.

One of the most painful wounds one can inflict on me is that which attacks me as a writer or as a dreamer.

I See London. I See France.

2005-04-18T00:36:00.000+08:00

Hello St_______, I thought I saw you at the pool last night.

Hello St_______, I cannot remember when I first saw you but I do remember the next few times that I did. I thought you were my high school classmate so I smiled at you. You just passed by as if I was smiling at someone behind you. I was puzzled; I shrugged my shoulders and went on my way.

Hello St_______, I remember the first time you smiled at me. I remember being attracted to you, although it was no more than physical attraction. As I did before, I shrugged my shoulders. Lust has a way of fading out if you ignore it for long. Sure, you were in my fantasies sometimes but I would never cross the stupid line. Our relationship was nothing but professional.

Hello St_______. Why do you keep looking at me? Why do you keep smiling uneasily at me? Is it because you are worried I might be offended by the joke someone cracked? Or is it because you are just friendly with everyone else? Is it because I did not know what was so funny? Or is it because I was the one who was hilarious?

Hello St_______. I soon fell to thinking about you. No longer do I have you in my fantasies; you have earned my respect that I can no longer bring myself to think of you that way. I am convinced I am still physically attracted to you but I doubt that there is nothing more. I am quite sure it is not love just as I am sure it is not lust. I am confused.

Hello St_______, I thought I saw you at the pool last night. I have gone on vacation, if only to distance myself from the overwhelming stimuli I find online. You still wore those glasses; you still wore that smile. Your warm and friendly aura remained contagious. I cannot help but gape as you stripped down to your swimwear. I cannot help flushing as I became conscious of myself. I cannot help sinking into the water so that you will not see me staring so hungrily. I felt horny but there is something else.

"Hello St_______," I said, warily. You turned to me with a puzzled face. I had to profusely apologize for my mistake. It was quite embarrassing having to tell others you have mistaken them for someone else: someone you have often thought of, lately.

Hello Stranger. It was with relief and a bit of frustration that I realized it was not you after all.

There is no need to hurry
when you defy the hours.
I cannot tell the future
when today is not ours.

Failure is a tiny death: a deep but hollow stab.

2005-03-31T03:35:00.000+08:00

How much power should one attain
to stop, at will, the freezing rain?
I stopped the fall and yet I found
the heavy clouds are still around.

Negative habits, once you pick them up, are hard to break.

Some people might call it addiction when pertaining to such things like nicotine, coccaine, even coffee. Some call it obsession when talking of fans, fanatics, stalkers and the like. Others may call it a compulsion like handwashing too much, nitpicking too much and generally doing anything too much.

I woke up with a storm cloud over my head, constantly drizzling on my hair, making it damp and sordid. The gloom shines into my eyes while the cold winds buffet my shoulders. I can feel an imminent flood but saw none. I ignored the weather within my mind and got up to begin my morning rituals.

Three hours and two mugs of coffee later, I found myself happy. Memories of good jokes resurface every now and then that I cannot help but feel the corners of my lips tugging upwards. This is bad. I know, by experience, that whenever I feel happy, something is about to go wrong. Or was that simply one of my negative habits?

Sometimes, people learn from their exepriences certain odd correspondences applicable only in their lives. A tingle in one's scalp may mean a lightning storm later in the afternoon. A sneeze may hint that one is the subject of a conversation somewhere. Sometimes, they can be as absurd as happiness heralding great misfortunes ahead.

Have you ever worked on something so earnestly it has consumed a substantial part of your recent life? Have you ever been stoic, doing the entire job alone not due to concern for the team but for your own sake? Have you ever given your best shot, confident that you gave a lot more than what is needed, that you would excel in that field and that the teammates who have slipped into a lethargic state might at least appreciate the entire thing?

I hear the dams break under the enormous pressure of floodwater. The swelling streams and rivers ran out of water for a few minutes before a torrent completely engulfs the ground, submerging all within sight. I walk into the room of courtroom and hear the judgement: I have failed, at something I have given nearly the entirety of my time, at something I have painstakingly put together, at something I know I have done well enough, if not more. How could I fail?

I close my eyes and breath. The floodwater soon recedes as the rain subsides to a drizzle. The clouds still remain overhead but I will be fine. I know, in time, I will recover from the shock of failure. Yet, one lingering thought disturbs me: Have I acquired the habit of failure?

This is my ambrosia, this is my weakness.

2005-03-09T23:41:00.000+08:00

The diving clouds, the rising sea,
everything blurs and spins by me.
When I slow down as my feet fail,
I fall, close my eyes and exhale.

I once encountered a prose fiction, which, if found in my possession, would be very incriminating. However, it presented a thought that has remained in my memory ever since. Work, love and dance: three keys to life. Work like you never have to, because that's the only way work will never be boring. Love like you've never been hurt before; nothing is as pure and as deep as first love. Finally, dance like there's no one watching.

I cannot say that I have abided by this philosophy ever since although I did learn to do the last one. The word 'dance' shall, for our purposes, be used to refer to any arbitrary bodily movement, graceful or not. I learned to sway my hips or jerk my shoulders when listening to a ditty. When I was young, someone once bluntly told me I would make an awkward dancer. They were right.

I was not really exposed to music when I was young, hence the addiction the moment I discovered the beauty of it. I began tapping my foot or nodding in time with the music. Then I began moving the upper half of my body; I usually listened to music while sitting in front of the computer. Now, I ditch the computer and listen to music whenever I feel like it. Of course, being freed from the chair meant that the lower half of my body also began moving.

At first, I only danced in the privacy of my bedroom. Even then, I would hear my alter-ego ask, "What on earth are you doing?" Embarrassed, I would stop and resume my work. A little later, I dance and the cycle begins once more. However, a few years of this cycle and I soon found myself answering, "I'm dancing."

After a few years, I began losing control. Dancing, or at least, moving with the music is very addicting. It began taking over as I found my hips bumping someone else when I'm waiting in line. When I once dozed off, I was awakened by my shoulder, which, for no apparent reason, suddenly jerked upwards. Twice I awoke before sunrise to find my arms raised in the air, not knowing how it got there.

Do I mind? Hell no! Once a mortal tastes ambrosia, he/she will never let go. I soon found myself dancing a bit in public. Thankfully, I was surrounded by complete strangers at those times so not much injury was inflicted upon my ego. Nonetheless, it is becoming more difficult controlling myself when a ditty blasts or when drums beat. I'm getting close to embarrassing myself.

Oh well, savor the sense of euphoria while it lasts. It doesn't matter that I am quite an eyesore; to each his/her own, as they say.

"What are you doing?"

That voice was quite different from the voice of my alter-ego. I froze.

Hear, moon goddess: take my life. Spare me from this mortal strife.

2005-02-27T01:08:00.000+08:00

Lone wolf.

Many a comparison has been made between wolves and those individuals on the edges of the social landscape. Too often, though, the image of wolves are misconstrued to be one where a lonesome individual howls at an equally lonely moon. On the contrary, wolves generally travel in packs of up to 30 individuals. The nucleus of the entire pack is the breeding pair, hence the term alpha male and alpha female.

I have never really been an alpha male. When running with the pack, I often found it difficult to know my place. I would wander around aimlessly, quite unsure of my role and the course of action expected of me. My auditory sense was not keen enough for me to hear the latest trends in the television, music and gaming industries. If I had any talents then, I am quite certain it did not include singing, dancing or any other histrionic stunts which could be conveniently performed on stage.

It was believed that wolves bred for life; each year, the breeding pair mates. The female gives birth to about four to seven pups which are then cared for by its parents and the lesser members of the pack. After training, one who is well-versed in the art of hunting and assasination may opt to leave the pack or remain as a lesser member. Some of those who leave the pack create a new one themselves; other simply remain alone.

I would never have left the pack, had some lesser members not influenced me to alienate myself. Now that I no longer belong to any pack, now that I no longer have any alpha male to bow down to, I ran free amongst the trees. The moon was whole then, as though her fullness a reflection of the concept of I as an individual, not as a lesser part of some pack. I wove through the forest in bliss, unmindful of the ever increasing distance between me and my homeland. When I came to, everything felt new; even the air smelled nothing like the atmosphere of my ancestral home. I have ventured onto new territory which, from this day forward, shall be known to be mine.

Wolves frequently establish territories from 40 to more than 400 square miles. They define the reaches of their control with scent markings and different vocalizations like barks or growls. Of course, it is the legendary howl of a wolf that humans recall the most. They apparently are territorial; they defend that which they hold closest to them. Perhaps, it is no wonder that humans often perceive a wolf to be a solitary entity.

However, it may not be true that wolves prefer isolation, even for those who have left the pack. Perhaps, their howl not only defines their territory; perhaps it is their way of seeking intimacy. It was said that wolves could, at will, turn themselves into shamans and, as shamans, revert back into the fur in which they are born. Could it not be said then that those known to be lone wolves may not be so of their own accord? Could it be that they are reaching out into the world, only that we ourselves are too blinded by the our role to serve the "alpha"? Could it be that our unity as a pack divides us from those beyond our world?

Think about it.

I knew not how it came last night.
It eclipsed the moon's silver light.
I felt its eyes, its piercing stare.
It vanished like it was never there.

Should I hear the music's rhyme, I shall close my eyes sometime.

2005-02-14T00:29:00.000+08:00

Music, the aesthetics of the aural sense.

There used to be a time when I regarded music with indifference. I thought sounds should only be used for straightforward communication; any sound other than words is useless. I spent much of my childhood unmindful of the changes in the music industry. When asked about my opinion on the newest pop song, I would simply ignore them and say, "Bah!" Okay, so maybe I did not say that but you get the picture.

When I got into high school, I met someone special. This person taught me to appreciate music, among other things. Since then, I began collecting CD's, recording tapes and lyrics. Anime was the fad then so my wall shelf would hold CD's and recordings of J-Pop anime themes. Later on, I learned to like non-Japanese music. If I remember correctly, Linkin Park's In the End was the first non J-Pop song I fell for.

I soon began to worship music. My morning ritual would not be complete without a blast from one my CD's. (I never tuned in to radio stations, I'll tell you about it later) I broadened my horizons a bit and began to discover the joys of classical, pop and even punk music .(Pardon my language, I am not acquainted with the genres of music) I began humming then tapping my foot, then instead of tapping, I began swaying. Instead of swaying, I began singing. Pretty soon, I found myself dancing, not too gracefully, I must admit. It did not matter anyway; once the music starts I lose control.

Of course, there are certain types of music I like and some I abhor; I am like everyone else. The only thing is that there do exist some people who like or dislike a particular song depending on the artist. Some like only songs that are in the current trend. Of course I do not approve of such philosophy; it is very much like saying that the Mona Lisa is beautiful simply because da Vinci painted it. I believe opinions regarding music should be based on whether it pleases someone or not.

Another gripe I have is the music industry here in the Philippines. There are some good artists, mind you; however, there also are terrible songwriters. I would rather not mention any proper noun, lest I be sued for libel, but there are songs that have double meanings. Oftentimes, these undertones are rather lewd, even perverted. The songs themselves do not make much sense due to fact that the perverted ascpect is the main theme; the literal part only plays second. Worse, I feel like we are playing a losing battle. When accosted, the songwriters would simply claim, "The banana is not meant to be a phallic symbol. This is a song about the joys of eating fruits... like the banana." The joys of eating bananas? Ugh..

Another familiar retort is, "If you find something perverted in the song, then it is you who must be perverted, not me. So, they're electing perverted persons into the media board, eh?" Ah, argumentum ad hominem. This is why those types of songs continue to fluorish; this is why we are losing this battle. It feels like the art which I have worshipped for years is being desecrated. It is sacrilege! Sacrilege, I say!

I certainly wouldn't have poked my nose into this if I lived in a world isolated from this horrendously mutated art(sic). Howver, consider this anecdote from my life: I wake up, do my morning rituals, swaying to my favorite music all the while. I leave the house, board a bus and, surprise, surprise, a local radio station is blaring inside. They are playing some music, but they are also playing some disasters. These disasters are arbitrary words strung together to pass off as "music". My day is ruined. Also consider the fact that most public transports here have radios tuned to radio stations. (Well, some of them play CD's but not many drivers of public vehicles could afford CD's, you know) Most of the time, these radio stations play the fad song which, not too surprisingly, are quite shallow.

I remember my, er, friend. I once said that variety shows are too shallow, offering cheap entertainment that does not add anything to anyone as a person. He said, "If entertainment made sense, wouldn't it be less entertaining?" He was right; ignorance is bliss.

The lady of the shadows: everything she knows.
Though all she can sense, she gave none but silence.
Fiery streaks lit the sky, blinding every mortal eye.
Sheltered by her wing, she thus began to sing.

She walked at night and slept til light.

2005-02-03T01:28:00.000+08:00

When she awoke, she looked around
and marvelled at what she found:
a light she had never seen before.
She breathed, then she was no more.

Richard Bach, the author of Jonathan Livingston Seagull once wrote that heaven is not a place; it is a state of being perfect. We live a hundred lifetimes in ignorance, another hundred in realization and another hundred to act on that and achieve perfection.

Does it matter? Were we to die today and resurrect tomorrow as someone's sperm meets someone's egg, would it make any difference to the world? We are small, we are insignificant. Even with money or power, we are no more special than the next guy. They say nobody is perfect; they are right.

So what is the purpose of life then, if not to strive for a perfection that cannot be attained? Are we here to consume everything, replacing oxygen with carbon dioxide? Are we here to formulate theories that would soon be debunked by someone else's theory? Are we here to write blogs, offering our two cents on different issues when everyone else has hundreds of cents themselves? Why are we here?

Nothing really. Go ahead, jump of a building. Take cyanide or shake nitroglycerine. Pull the trigger or wield the blade. Drop the toaster on your bathtub. Go ahead, see if anyone cares, really cares. Time passes by, people will forget you and leave your headstone nothing more than a few flowers, which will wilt anyway, or candles, which will melt or be stolen anyway.

I once went through something horrible I wanted to die. I wanted to run, to escape, anything but be here. I slowed down my steps so that Death could catch up with me but I found him slowing down with me. I could have spun around and chased Death myself but I found myself too scared to even face him.

Now here I am, living a life of questions. What if? Why? Why not? How?

Charles Tucker, from Star Trek: Enterprise, once said there is no emotion worse than regret. Maybe he is right. So go ahead and live while you still have that purpose in life. Enjoy everything before you lose that sense of purpose. Once you do, you will be no more than a candle melting in slow agony or a fallen leaf decaying in torture.

May the fates be kind to you all.

Alas, I be reduced once more to a giggling schoolgirl.

2005-01-30T00:57:00.000+08:00

My seat is vibrating because I can't stop shaking. It's as though my muscles decided to twitch for no apparent reason everytime I think of a certain someone.

I must admit, it is still not much more than physical attraction. This person is one who has a mesmerizing smile. I notice when someone cracks a joke, this person looks at me as though to see whether I am laughing, offended or clueless. However, I also acknowledge the fact that I might be just getting my hopes up.

After all, this person might not be interested in a relationship with me. Besides, I still have the artifacts of a previous relationship in my system. I'd have to get closure before I venture out into the world of things as superficial as attraction or as deep as love and friendship.

I wanted to learn how to wink
seductively but I can't, I think.
Will I fail like I did once before,
Or will this bloom to something more?

Were there an open door, I'd have this world no more.

2005-01-24T00:26:00.000+08:00

Once there was a blue
whom people barely knew
and they couldn't get the clue
that his socks are new.

There are times when people want to escape reality.

Some kill themselves, others just snap.
Some use needles, other just sniff.

Some dream on, creating their own private world while living the hell called life. This is what I did.

When Digimon: Digital Adventures was first aired here, I was immediately mesmerized by the idea that there might exist another world other than this one. Of course, there was Mars but it had too much carbon dioxide and it was uninhabitable anyway. Nonetheless, you know what I mean when I say "worlds".

If only there was another world, life would be pleasant. However, the Fates do not give a thought on who gets hurt and who gets all. Thus, we are stuck in this world. Many a young kid once dreamt of being special or having special attributes that set them apart from other "normal" kids. Some get disillusioned and progress to the stage of maturity, completely forgetting their childhood fantasies. Most pretend to progress.

If only this world were perfect, where everyone studies at his or her own pace, where people don't judge you by your outward looks or apparent attitude, where your friends really are more than just mere acquaintances, where pointless norms are not the norm, I would not want to leave. Unfortunately, it is not.

I want to leave.

This potion needs a (huge) pinch of lust.

2005-01-21T00:39:00.000+08:00

Lust. What a primal word, one that encompasses one of the base drives of humanity. It is one which has contributed to our numerical superiority over most species. It is induced by hormones and other stimuli. It is innate, it is natural, and so on, the books claim.

Lust. In text, it feebly smolders. In a casual voice, it sounds cute. In a drawl, it sounds inviting. In a long, low voice, it sends shivers down my spine and somewhere further down. In a high pitched voice, it becomes grating on the ears, but that is beside the point.

Lust. The word is so simple, and yet, so powerful. In the angst of perceived loneliness, it can create vivid visions of nostalgia. In the arms of a partner, it sparks, uhm, creative ideas, so to speak. In a sense, it can make you blind but the problem is whether you can see again.

Lust. Whenever I meet some people I'd rather not mention, I look them in the eye or simply ignore them. When they look away, I find my eyes inadvertently drawn to their lips, necks and other places not safe to mention. Those who interact with me in the real world may find themselves too conscious. Don't worry, I'm not yet too rabid to jump on any of you, at the present.

Your breath: a volatile, burning touch,
is one, each night, I yearn too much.
Should I give in to what I desire?
Or bore myself and quench that fire?

From the depths of Judecca to the Primum Mobile

2005-01-19T02:24:00.000+08:00

Though I do not share the same beliefs, I still think Dante Alighieri was a great writer. Though nowhere near accurate, one of his works, The Divine Comedy, had, in my humble opinion, successfully brought order to the disorder of myth. I cannot say that I want to be like him, although I do want to be a great writer, just not like him. For any poor soul who may have happened to find my blog by getting lost in the Dark Wood of Error, let me point you down a path which, depending on your philosophy, may get you on the right track or even more lost than before.

http://kimpo.uplug.org/parser/

You may, if you find computer science alien, browse through the literary sections. After all, as the publication says, "We don't just write programs. We write."

Now, I you'll excuse me. I am suddenly siezed in a sugar-high vision of pink and blue. I am off to write.

Knowledge you hold will soon be past
because nothing does forever last
nor mean anything for more than a while,
from the depths of Judecca to the Primum Mobile.

The air was still, the air was cold.

2005-01-18T02:17:00.000+08:00

It was as cold as the vast expanse of space
when mist had come and touched my face.
I awoke and sought who else was there.
I heard a whisper but I knew not where.

After going for quite some time without my regular meditation, I have become a wreck. Whereas before, I have control of my emotions, showing only that which I do not deem weak or incriminating, I have trespassed the boundaries I have set for myself and let slip quite an outburst. Whereas before I would think clearly even in face of numerous pressures, I now find myself cracking under mounting stress.

Would I that time slow down her pace that I may do what I will and what I must. However, time is a cruel entity; she speeds on, not caring who is being left behind. Thus, I have my hands full of work that finding 10 minutes for meditation now seems an impossible task.

However, I would be lying if I said I totally hate the condition I am currently in. There is one good reason that, for me, overshadows all the negative aspects of life: That I am quite sufficiently, if not more, distracted from things that I'd rather forget, yet haunt my mind. That said, I return once more to the fleeting colours of butterfly dreams, knowing that this too, shall come to pass.

All in good time.

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

2005-01-17T00:30:00.000+08:00

I must have been asleep when Pandora released Hope into the world. For that reason, I warn ye, wandering soul, to heed not my words should you seek sunlight. Although it may appear that I am in a cheerful disposition, one must know that appearance is not everything.

Let this blog be filled with curse,
in thoughts and words, in rhyme and verse.
Let the skeleton of the feast arise,
and begin the circus before our eyes.