Catharsis

“The more often a man feels without acting, the less he’ll be able to act.
And in the long run, the less he’ll be able to feel.”

—	C.S. Lewis

Dream

Nanaginip ako kagabi.

Jing: Sinu ba mahal mo?

He: Si kei.

Jing: Ah, matagal na ba yan?

He: Oo eh.

Jing: Magiging kayo na ba?

He: Kung kaya ko siyang sabayan, siguro. Bahala na.

I went down and found my parents smiling at me.

When I woke up, I told myself: no more. Cry no more. God is telling you something and crying means that you are not listening. So cry no more.

You Are The Only Exception

Final Reblog: Aalis Kang Dala Mo Ako

masaya tayo diba? diba? sana oo parin sagot mo, pero, alam kong tagilid tayo sa tanong na yan.

naalala mo yung nug pumasok ka ng bse? yung unang pasok mo? diba pula pa yung bag mo nun? tapos may nakasabit na mp3 player leeg mo? akala ko nun, naligaw ka lang ng pasok ng room. yun pala kaklase pala kita. anu yung sinabi mong kanta na pinapatugtog sa player mo? “i caught fire?”..

tapos diba nagkatinginan pa tayo? sabi mo nga sakin nerd ako, haha, pwes nagkakamali ka. tapos diba, hindi pa tayo kaagad nag usap noon? lagi kong nakakalimutan kung kelan ka unang pumasok, ngayon palagi ko nang maalala, january 10.

yung unang pag uusap natin, naalala mo? yung binara mo sa sudoku si alister? dun ata ako nagkacrush sa yo, kasi nakakatuwa ka. tapos, sa pag uusap natin, nakuha ko yung number mo.

naalala mo yung unang pinakamahabang usapan natin sa ayala bridge? lumiit ang mundo natin kasi may common friends tayo.

ang init, ang lakas ng hangin ng oras na yun, pero, nananayo ang balahibo ko. kung bakit, ewan ko.

naalala mo yung nung unang beses kita tinext? yung halos di tayo matulog? diba, si ranma ang isa sa mga unang pinagusapan natin? tapos kinuwento ko sa yo na hawak ako sa leeg ng ibang tao noon?

naalala mo yung unang gawaan natin noon ng report? yung nagalit ka sakin, yung nilayuan mo ako nung asa liwasang bonifacio tayo? naalala mo ba yung unang punta ko sa bagac? yung naka orange ako tapos naka college shirt ka ng engineering? naalala mo ba yung unang iyak ko dahil dun? at yung unang beses na halos mawala ka nun?

at yung unang araw na tinawag mo akong my at hindi jin?

naalala mo ba yung tatlong oras mo akong hinantay dahil sa eleksyon noon? at nung hinantay mo ako dahil sa lumaban ako noon sa klase ni gabelo?

naalala mo ba yung wala na akong naisip na paraan para tapusin yung konplikasyon? diba ang hirap, na yung mga kailangan mo hindi mo makuha, kasi hawak na ng iba, kahit di naman na dapat sa kanila?

naalala mo ba yung romeo ang juliet? ang hirap isipin na yung nakikita ko yung posibilidad na maaaring naging kayo.

hindi ko alam kung anung ginawa ko sa dalawang buwan na nawala ka. baka nawala din ako.

naaalala mo pa ba yung tinanong kita, umuulan, naglalakad tayo, kahit pareho tayong may pamasahe? natatakot akong ‘hindi’ ang sagot mo, pero buti na lang at oo parin.

naalala mo ba yung lahat ng away natin, na laging ikaw ang umiintindi at nag sosorry kahit halos laging ako ang nagsisimula?

naalala mo ba yung pinaglaban mo ako, sa sarili mong paraan? na kahit alam mong pareho tayong masasaktan, nagsugal ka?

yung unang gabing ang tagal natin sa walls. ang lamig, pero ang ganda ng langit. ang saya ng mga ilaw. ang tahimik. nung pinahawak mo sakin yung dibdib mo, parang pinahawak mo sakin yung nararamdaman mo. parang masaya kang nararamdaman mo yun.

naalala mo ba lahat ng napanood natin? lahat ng binigay mo?

ako lahat lahat naaalala ko.

lalo na tuwing iiyak ako, papahirin mo yung luha ko, tapos sasabihin mo, “ayokong umiiyak ka, tama na”..pag nagagalit ako sasabihin mo “hayaan mo na sila, tama na”..pag nagagawa ko ng tama yung mga bagay bagay sinasabi mo “i’m proud of you”..yung mga linya mong “ako nga, nadapa” pag masyado na akong madaming sinasabi..yung mga titig mo sakin na kala mo hindi kita nahuhuli pag tinitignan mo ako, yung mga higpit ng hawak mo sa kamay ko, yung mga yakap mo pag natatakot ako, yung luha na bihirang bihira kong makita pag kasama kita..yung tawanan natin kahit bihira kang tumawa sa mga biro ko, yung pagiging totoo ko pag kasama kita, yung pagintindi mo sa lahat ng nagagawa kong mali..

yung lahat ng binubulong mo, yung lahat ng ginagawa mo para mawala yung takot ko.

ang dami nang nagyari diba? minsan nga naisip ko, ang bilis, hindi natin namamalayan, isang taon na. nakaktuwa, pero totoo..

patawad kung minsan naisip kong huminto. sinabi mong kailanman di ka napagod. natutuwa ako, kasi kahit na ang bigat na ng nagawa ko, hindi mo parin yun naisip gawin. salamat talaga.

sana nagtitiwala kang hindi ako hihinto. kilala mo ako, mareklamo ako pero hindi ako humihinto. hindi ako mapapagod. mag aantay ako.

ang dami kong nasabi. madami pa nga akong dapat sabihin eh.

madami pa akong gustong gawin na kasama ka. sana mapagbigyan mo ako. ayoko nang mangyari yung nangyari dati.

saka, ano, aalagaan kita. hindi ako ganon kagaling magluto, at mas lalong hindi ako marunong magplantsa, pero, kaya ko maglinis, at lalong kaya kong makinig. handa akong makinig.

ang dami mong nabago sakin. sa dami hindi ko nga mabilang. sana ganun din ang nagawa ko sa yo. sana patuloy nating sabihin na hindi natin kaya pareho na wala ang isa at isa. kasi totoo.

lagi akong andito. alam mo yan. kaya kong mag antay. kasi alam kong babalik ka.

aalis ka na dala mo ako.

Reblog: Too Early for Tomorrow

Flip through the pages of a calendar. You would see numbers which would mean nothing unless the days they represent have been filled with events. You would not feel each digit’s importance unless something happens, an occurence enough to leave a mark. Seek not its rate of leaving, rather, its power to make you lose imporant things. In just one flip, in just a passage of numbers, you would realize that the sooner another day passes, the sooner you face your fears of what will come.

I can barely describe how I would wish to react to what will soon take place. I am used to the fact that people just come and go. They return, if they wish to, but to say that they will return without changing a thing is pure mediocrity. It’s my greatest fear, that drastic changes will become reasons, and reasons will make me lose strength to hold on.

Everytime I hear the word “Canada”, I just reach the point of getting down on my knees, wishing that, fates will change and plans will be forgotten. It’s hypocrisy that I tell eveybody that it’s completely okay when it’s not.

In the end, confessions will not break what has been planned.

Encroachment

Encroachment is a term which implies “going beyond proper limits”.

What would you have felt if you were in my case, and you were blamed for acting and taking the responsibility which belongs to someone else?

Under justifiable circumstances, you would have probably said that I didn’t have to cross borders. After all, I wouldn’t be the one to be reprimanded for neglect of duty.

I wouldn’t blame you, honestly.

Yan din ang sinabi ni Sir sakin eh: Wag kang bakaw sa kapangyarihan.

Pasensya na, may pilosopiya kasi akong:

IF YOU WANT SOMETHING DONE RIGHT, YOU HAVE TO DO IT YOURSELF.

I just thought I was right, because all this time I had always known I that I was doing the right thing. Nagkukusa lang ako, dahil kung di ko gagawin yun, mas maraming tao ang mapapahamak.

Reblog: Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye

Love is never any better than the lover. Wicked people love wickedly, violent people love violently, weak people love weakly, stupid people love stupidly, but the love of a free man is never safe. There is no gift for the beloved. The lover alone possesses his gift of love. The loved one is shorn, neutralized, frozen in the glare of the lover’s inward eye. This is a pivotal quote taken from Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye. Love and beauty are relative. We alone know who to love and who to value. Our eyes alone, know what should be seen. Nonetheless, we speak of beauty is if our views of it speak of beauty’s universal meaning. We take standards to what we think should be viewed valuable. We bequeath impression of beauty to people who have more often than not, those races that have higher upbringing than ours.

Race inequality never ceases but it still brings forth a kind of independence that makes an individual realize what he is made of. Thus, quoted from The Bluest Eye once again, “We had defended ourselves since memory against everything and everybody, considered all speech a code to be broken by us, and all gestures subject to careful analysis; we had become headstrong, devious, and arrogant. Nobody paid us any attention, so we paid very good attention to ourselves. Our limitations were not known to us-not then.” The race becomes strong, sturdier than it has ever been, for it knows where to stand; it knows its beauty-far greater beyond everybody’s judgment.

This is a review for Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye.

Background

The Bluest Eye is a subconscious reflection of what the blacks had undergone under the discriminating eyes of the whites. It becomes an outlet; a vent machine of the black, for it reveals their sentiments being considered a lower race.

A background on the treatment of the blacks has to be explained. This novel is created out of emotions, of sympathy, of dismay, of injustice. However, without due justifications of this injustice thru the background of the blacks, efforts to reflect the blacks’ sentiments are futile.As early as 1856 before the Civil War took place, Racism was brought up as the major social issue enveloping the whole of America. Slavery, violation of human rights, disrespect for women and children were some of the direct implications of this oppression. The first apparent evidences of discrimination were segregation, belittlement of blacks’ potentials, and the formation of the Ku Klux Clan which mainly aims to keep the blacks from mingling and residing in areas primarily owned by the whites.

Property and land ownership also became issues in the early 1913. The most deliberating forms of discrimination in the years 1965 to 1969 were the innumerable cases of gang rape and molestation of black women who were not even given the opportunity to stand and speak for the crimes committed against them. Prostitution became a rigid form of physical abuse and human rights violation. Education was not equally honored to blacks and whites. Several courses were restricted to some blacks, such as law, medicine, etc.

Significance of the Review

It is important that students are aware of the kind of literature that the blacks create to reflect their sentiments and thoughts on discrimination. Light has to be shed on this novel, primarily because it is not just a mere narration of a child’s life. Implicitly, it goes beyond the life of every black child, brought up in a race exposed to insult, to mocking, to prejudice. It is a novel which aims to expose what true beauty is-that it is not shown in the color of the hair, the skin, not even in the eyes.

It is also necessary to know the approach most appropriate in the study of this novel. This will help ease difficulty in the part of the readers as it will focus on one angle of the novel-how the story should be seen, how the story should be viewed. Most importantly, This study aims to prove that most readers, are still moved, not just touched by the story itself, contrary to what the author, Toni Morrison stated in her after word. The researcher of this study thus brings forth her own views and opinions which she believes would reflect how she feels about the novel, The Bluest Eye.

The Black Criticism

The Black or African American criticism mainly focuses on the interpretations on the African American Literature. “Black” or “African-American” criticism is marked by a sense that black writing comes out of a sociological, political, ideological and cultural situation marked by oppression and marginalization. ‘Black’ reading then must negotiate the difficult boundaries between textual and cultural meanings, between ‘aesthetic’ and ideological impacts.

According to Lye (2004), an awareness that black experience is historical and cultural: that it has ties to African language, cultural practices and attitudes, that it is formed through the experience of slavery and violence, that it has endured a long and troubled negotiation with white culture, so that black aesthetic production in white cultures is marked by white culture positively and negatively. There are differing focuses on different aspects of black experience — on the African heritage, on the evolved American black culture, on the possibility of adaptation to a new non-racial cultural formation.

Among the themes and issues explored in African American literature are the role of African Americans within the larger American society, African-American culture,racism, slavery, andequality.

The Plot

Nine-year-old Claudia and ten-year-old Frieda MacTeer lived in Lorain, Ohio, with their parents. It was the end of the Great Depression, 1941, and the girls’ parents were more concerned with making ends meet than with lavishing attention upon their daughters, but there was an undercurrent of love and stability in their home.

The MacTeers took in a boarder, Henry Washington, and also a young girl named Pecola. Pecola’s father tried to burn down his family’s house, and Claudia and Frieda feel sorry for her. Pecola loved Shirley Temple, believing that whiteness is beautiful and that she is ugly. Pecola believed that if she had blue eyes, she would be loved and her life would be transformed.

Meanwhile, she continually received confirmation of her own sense of ugliness-the grocer looked right through her when she buys candy, boys made fun of her, and a light-skinned girl, Maureen, who temporarily befriended her made fun of her too. She was wrongly blamed for killing a boy’s cat and was called a “nasty little black bitch” by his mother. Pauline, Pecola’s mother, had a lame foot and always felt isolated. Cholly, Pecola’s father, was abandoned by his parents and raised by his great aunt, who died when he was a young teenager. Cholly returned home one day and found Pecola washing dishes. With mixed motives of tenderness and hatred that are fueled by guilt, he raped her.

Pecola goes to Soaphead Church, a sham mystic, and asked him for blue eyes. Claudia and Frieda found out that Pecola has been impregnated by her father, and unlike the rest of the neighborhood, they wanted the baby to live. They sacrificed the money they had been saving for a bicycle and planted marigold seeds. They believed that if the flowers live, so would Pecola’s baby. The flowers refused to bloom, and Pecola’s baby died when it was born prematurely. Cholly, who raped Pecola a second time and then ran away, died in a workhouse. Pecola went mad, believing that her cherished wish had been fulfilled and that she had the bluest eyes.

Analysis of the Novel

“Black” or “African-American” criticism is marked by a sense that black writing comes out of a sociological, political, ideological and cultural situation marked by oppression and marginalization. ‘Black’ reading then must negotiate the difficult boundaries between textual and cultural meanings, between ‘aesthetic’ and ideological impacts. With this being said, it is concretized that the novel was created out of the experiences and sentiments of the African-Americans during the years 1941 to 1970. This was brought about thru the vivid narration of Pecola’s life as a black American child.

As stated in Morrison’s after word, Pecola’s experiences were reflections of the female violation revealed from the vantage point of the victims of rape who were not inquired during the year when the crime was committed. Lower class employment, prostitution, rape and shattered families-these were the major sociological and cultural issues recounted in the novel. Regardless of the novel’s element of fiction, these issues historically happened.

It is important to remember that the period when this novel was written may also prove to be of great importance in the essence and reality of the story. The novel was created in the years 1965 to 1969, the time when the black Americans experienced what Morrison called “a time of great social upheaval”. The creation of this novel serves as a voice, a revelation of what has long been kept in the minds of the black people.

I was going through my stuff and I found a card which says:

You probably feel like the weight of the world s on your shoulders right now and if you move the wrong way, it’s going to come crashing down. That has to be an exhausting feeling, and I wish the load didn’t have to be so heavy.

But I want to know I admire the way you keep on going and keep on doing what has to be done. You might be thinking “What choice do I have?” But there are many who wouldn’t be able to hold up under your circumstances, who wouldn’t have inner strength or convictions for doing the right thing.

I hope there will be pockets of time when you can find some relief and rest. I hope you will make every effort to take care of yourself, because you’re a good person, and you’re very special to many people. Please count me as one of them.

Signs of the Changing Times

There is nothing more factual than the persective of reality. Sadly though, the closer we are to the truth, the more we choose to disbelieve it. Farther and farther we stay away from what we could not accept, thus acting blind by hiding behind our human fantasies of a utopian entirety. Truth, in its strongest sense is indeed, stranger than fiction–-an axiom which not everybody dares accept.

What I see, hear and feel are all true, not because I choose to believe so, but because my senses can no longer deny its appalling accuracy. I step out of the house and feel the strength of the sun tearing my skin, as if trying to break through and inhabit my pores. I look at the sky everyday and everytime I do, I can always sense the raging ephemerality of weather. I can no longer nurse the fact that everyday, people die because they are slowly being killed, not by nature; no, never by nature, but by their own faults and mine. I cringe at the thought of my paranoia and sole concern to make a difference amidst lethargic impressions of my people about where we all live.

It was Earth day when I watched The Inconvenient Truth. I was struck by how direct, alarming and frightening it sounded, but it left a part of its conciousness in me.

We can no longer go back to square one, when all the domains of the earth are pictured as paradise by the scriptures. We can no longer erase this sad truth the we have entered a drastic environmental phase of our era. It is hard to break a cycle which began centuries ago. It’s like a cavity which you can hardly even cover.

As always, we can recast sentences by adding a ”but”.

We can work. We know we can. It’s just our fear that drives us not to put proper punctuations to unending consequences of our own faults.

I can change these changing times. I know I can. This is a truth which I will never be afraid of.

The Looking Glass Self Theory

More often than not, when we encounter people who negatively talk about us, we say, “I don’t care about what they say.” While it’s true that we TRY not to be bothered by other people’s impressions of we are, the fact remains that what they say might still be true.

Horton Cooley’s Looking Glass Self theory explains that how we appear to other people may reflect who we really are. This proably explains why we often describe ourselves the way other people do.

This has happened twice. I feel disappointed at myself, because of the following things:

1. I am trying too hard to impress people who are apparently, biologically related to the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. This is obviously futile.

2. I couldn’t suffice his financial needs inasmuch as I want to. I earn money which barely even satisfies my needs, so how could I even satisfy his? I feel so f***ed up, whenever I know that he doesn’t want to seek help from me, but what can I do? Damnit.

3. No matter how he insists that I shouldn’t be thinking about what they say, I CANNOT deny the fact that it happened twice. Right now, I feel so fucking low, and the only consolation that I could get are his words. Sometimes however, words are difficult to hold on to, regardless of how reliable they sound.

4. We do not invade anybody else’s privacy, so why should they invade ours (or even deprive us of it)?

Reblog: A Blog about Blogging

Check the blogroll of this site. On the right side of the page, you can see great blog links of my classmates. Likewise, I encourage you to read and write, then start your own blog.

I started blogging when I was in high school. Technically on and off track, I have been a blogger for 8 years now. It’s pretty amazing how this thing works and how it makes me sit in front of the computer for hours, opting to make a decent post rather than getting an academic work done. It’s addictive. You put your whole self into it, and it becomes an output of your life.

I find it ironic that I have not really made a blog about blogging per se.

I started using a blog to rant about school work, emotions, books I read and sudden literary rush. Before, it was my immaturity that pushed me to write about shallow perspectives of love and life. I don’t know if I have changed in the way I think or even in the way I write about things. Still, if there’s anything that I wish to retain, it’s my identity. I’m talking about my sardonic, cynical way of putting things into writing.

With the long list of things to do for this school year, it’s really a feat to update a blog. That’s why now, I value this baby so much, everytime someone appreciates it by placing a comment on the entries, I literally kiss my monitor. So what if I don’t memorize things? At least I get trained to write about what I need to know and what I have already known.

This boils down to one simple thing–value your outlets. If you don’t have a friend, you’re lucky to have a blog.

Metaphor

All short stories have endings. Rising actions, falling actions and conflicts. Some say that the most wonderful part of a story is the climax, some say it’s the ending that matters. Quite true, but if you look at it closely, these things would never exist without a beginning–an introduction, a revelation of the setting, the initial mood and the main characters.

I love wonderful beginnings, even those parts you would not even wish to read. When things end, I regress. I try to recall what happens in the beginning for it bears the vital parts of what transpires in the scenes. By nature, we tend to be more interested on how stories would end. Still, we ask “Bakit? Pano ba nag umpisa yun?”

I love beginnings. New, fresh, untouched scenes of the mind. Everytime I feel like a story comes to an end, I just regress, flip through the first few pages, re-read and answer the question:

“Paano nga ba nagsimula?” [How did it all begin?]

There and then, everything falls into its place again.

Twelve

Tick tock.
Tick Tock.

Ten seconds after 11:30. Officially, someone’s going to get a lot of telling off today, Mimi said. She sighed and went out through the revolving door. Several minutes later, she checked her phone and found that Andy was still on the way, trying to defy the traffic along the roads of EDSA. She laughed in spite of herself. She suddenly remembered the joke that she heard from two jocks of a local radio station.

Girlfriend: San ka na? (Where are you now?)
Boyfriend: EDSA.

It’s a lie of course, as he was still at home; and with the traffic in EDSA, she never would have doubted her sweetheart’s lie.


It was 12 noon. Some people who stayed outside Starbucks for nearly an hour had already left, and she was getting a little cranky. She took out her phone and typed:

“Damn it. You’re late.”

She was about to send it, when he appeared in front of her, stood there as if he were a dog seeking for apologies and favors. She just smiled.

How long was it since they last saw each other? They both had no idea. It started with a simple virus from her computer.

Me: Fuck you!
Him: WTF?!
Me: It wasn’t me, I swear. I’m sorry I didn’t type it. It just appeared.
Him: I trust you enough to believe you.

Later she realized it was a virus from her USB that did the damage. Out of humiliation she explained everything and he shrugged it off, saying that he had seen it happen before.

The conversation went on until they both decided to see each other, as if it were an invitation from the virus that they should go out and catch up on a lot of things they missed; and the series of emotions (or lack thereof) that they never thought had been existent in them.

Guy de Maupassant once quoted from one of his short stories:

“Love means the body, the soul, the life, the entire being. We feel love as we feel the warmth of our blood, we breathe love as we breathe air, and we hold it in ourselves as we hold our thoughts. Nothing more exists for us.”

Yes, nothing more existed for her, there and then. She wasn’t sure with his thoughts, but it didn’t matter. She asked herself: Is this love? No, there’s no love; it is more than that, to an extent that it's even hard to define. Love couldn't suffice. The only apparent emotion was lust. Through the rolling lights that gave life to thousands of scenes in that dark room, they created a patchwork of sensations which became more consequential, more revolting than the lights and sounds that he paid for. In the darkness, they sighed for, perspired for and held on to each other, until it was time for both of them to leave. Even until leaving, she knew she wanted something that ironically, she was afraid to have. As to why, she didn't know.

Complexity sometimes, turns out to be very difficult to define. The dozens of definitions that have been offered all fall short in one respect or another. Classifying something as complex which we intuitively would see as simple, or denying an obviously complex phenomenon the label of complexity, makes everything as ambiguous as this statement sounds. Moreover, these definitions are either only applicable to a very restricted domain, such as computer algorithms or genomes, or so vague as to be almost meaningless. This barely explains why she dared not seek for answers, for even the answers confused her, making her feel lost all the more.

They arrived a few minutes before word had started. He met a lot of old friends, caught up with people he knew, who she rarely even mingled with and went to her room. Before he left, he hugged her and said:

“I want to see you tomorrow.”

She smiled.

Yes, tomorrow.

She went home, lay onto her bed and thoughts about what happened.

“The bed comprehends our whole life, for we were born in it, we live in it, and we shall die in it.” -Guy de Maupassant

Insomnia and Emotional Outpour

I think I have been silent for a long time. I don't have anything to hide. I just couldn't find out how I'm supposed to say it. It's as if an autobiography would be written but it would take more than a hundred pages. To some people, it might get pretty boring. To some, it may even be insignificant. To me, it's vital. I guess I have been silent for two long.

Pano ba ako magsisimula. Hindi ko din alam. Magsisimula palang akong magtype, naiiyak na ako. Pero, sabi nga nila, may mga bagay na kelangan kang gawin. Obligasyon, responsibilidad, desisyon, paninindigan, anu pa ba ang mga bagay na dapat kong gawin. Ah, kabilang dun ang magsulat.

Just this evening while I was writing this post and I looked at this site, which I'd rather not show here, and I changed my stat into this:

Swarm. This blog keeps on ringing in my head like a broken record in a dim-lit bar for hopeless romantic, lonely people. His words are like vodka--bittersweet, fragrant and nostalgic. Speaking of which, I think I'd like to have a tall glass of one tonight. Sigh.

...and I had a talk with a former workmate and I told her:

Looking back at those posts makes me feel loved before, and unloved now.

I guess I couldn't really move on. There, I said it. I can never move on. I miss everything. I can think of A LOT of things that I could remember now.

1. UST--where i spent a week
2. DOTa
3. Isaw and Balunbalunan at Quiapo
4. Lester's Dorm
5. The DVDs
6. The bus rides from manila to laguna
7. Carmen Homes
8. The classrooms
9. Writing notes to each other
10. Collecting and saving receipts
11. PLM
12. Intramuros
13. Timezone
14. Collecting Keychains
15. Watching movies
16. Porksilog and the extra rice
17. Taking care of a drunk man
18. Taking care of a sick man
19. Sleeping in the bus
20. Pretending to listen in a lecture when you just want to touch someone's hand
21. Pretending to go to class when you will just go somewhere else
22. Playing tekken
23. PSP games
24. Going to different places
25. His sister
26. Listening to his music
27. Watching videos he downloaded
28. Watching tv series
29. Drinking with our common friends
30. Laughing with our common friends
31. Conversations about political, social and intellectual views
32. Meiji Chocolates
33. Cleaning someone's room
34. Saying "I told you so"
35. Telling him a lot of things that he never listens to, but he smiles and he makes you feel that you were wrong in nagging at him.
36. Walking out at him
37. Writing him letters

38. his letters
39. Cutting classes
40. Bringing food
41. Doing projects with him
42. Crying with him
43. Laughing at him
44. Laughing with him
45. Slipping in front of him and him laughing at my clumsiness
46. Him, slipping somewhere and me pretending that I didn't see it
47. Trying hard to learn korean with him
48. Looking at his profile and getting so mad about girls posting crap on his profile
49. Stalking him
50. Listening to his radio programs
51. Going out with him somewhere, anywhere
52. Getting drunk with him
53. Smiling at him
54. Watching saw with him
55. Looking at the sunset of intramuros
56. Kissing his lips
57. My hand on his chest
58. His hand on mine
59. His tshirts and how he used to wear them
60. His lines
61. His gluttony
62. His cards
63. Not speaking with him and suddenly laughing at how and why we didn't speak
64. National Bookstore
65. SM Manila
66. Ortigas
67. Ringlish
68. Garnet Road
69. Banchetto
70. Celebrating 12.
71. Waiting for him and smirking when he's late
72. Seeing him wait for me when I'm late
73. His words "You're late."
74. Tsk tsk tsk.
75. Being paranoid.
76. Understanding why we fought
77. Realizing we were both wrong
78. Laughing at our mistakes and moving forward
79. Pretending we don't know what's wrong
80. Listening to the used, and other bands perceived as emo by others
81. Singing "under pressure"
82. Counting Volkswagen cars
83. Losing against him and sometimes telling him "I love it when I win."
84. Playing badminton
85. Eating donuts and calamares wherever
86. Feeling the urge to give up but realized I never wanted to
87. Realizing I was right all along
88. Playing Ikariam, Travian and other browser games
89. Looking at him over his shoulder as he played his games
90. Fixing his hair after he takes his bath.
91. Singing the queen of my heart by westlife no matter how cheesy it sounded
92. Smiling in the jeepney and crying in the bathroom
93. Fighting for what we knew was right
94. Realizing we were right in fighting
95. Singing with him.
96. Understanding him even if he doesn't want to be understood
97. Waiting for him to speak out even if he doesn't
98. Smiling at the thought of him
99. Realizing that everyday's okay because it always ends up with him.
100. Telling him i love him is i guess the sweetest thing i can do for him.

I can think of a million reasons more. But these are flooding my head now.

Hiatus

This site is under renovation.

Ten Random Things About Johnny [My Student, My Friend]

Johnny [Surname Unknown]

1. Johnny hates insects. He cringes at the thought of wriggling maggots and caterpillars.
2. Johnny falls asleep in my class. I often ask him, "Am I boring?" But he often says no and he's sorry. He just feels tired in my class.
3. His class with me starts at 4 PM and ends at 6 PM.
4. He doesn't like the smell of vinegar and he calls buko pie "jellyfish pie".
5. He has dragon pajamas.
6. He loves boy bawang.
7. He sleeps in the middle of a writing activity.
8. He asks weird things like, "Why is the man's stick standing?"
9. He played "Who Has the Biggest Brain" once, and he laughed when he found out he only had a brain as big as that of an Ape Man. Take note though, that he's exceptionally gifted.
10. He can be crazy at times, but he's one of the sweetest students I've known.

Ten Random Things About Paul [My Student, My Friend]

Paul Choi

1. Paul always tells me he's going to quit smoking. He fails every time he tries.
2. Paul has a certificate for having completed the 250-kilometer hike in Jeju Island. He gave it to me on my birthday.
3. Paul is talkative.
4. Paul is a sadist. He likes hurting people, well, physically. ^^
5. Paul is not a hard drinker. Haha.
6. Paul has a big tummy. If he weren't a boy, you would've thought he's pregnant.
7. Paul is very funny and he doesn't run out of things to say.
8. I love calling him "Gossip Boy".
9. Paul says he's not a playboy. Don't believe him.
10. Paul loves Grace so much. He's unbelievably sweet. I'm really happy for both of them.

Eternal Rest of Thy Soul

Dear Ma'am Valmores, 

It's been quite a while. I want to tell you two things. First, thank you. I wouldn't have known John Milton, Shakespeare, Hugo, Icabod Crane, Alexandre Dumas, Mark Twain, Don Quixote and so much more if you had not been my teacher in English during high school. I learned so much from you, that when I went to college and took up my English-American Literature, I felt so blessed that I didn't have to use Google to look them up. I never appreciated you this much until now...that you are gone. This being said, my second message is this: I am so sorry. 

I am so sorry that after I graduated, I didn't even bother looking for you to express how grateful I've been for all your lessons. 

Let this be a proof that I learned from you. I love you Ma'am Valmores. 

"ELEGY WRITTEN IN
A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD"

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the Poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

'The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'

The Epitaph

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melacholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God.

By Thomas Gray (1716-71).

Pre-Christmas Post

Taken on the 21st of November, 2009
Manila Cathedral

The Parable of the Fourth King

By Sen. Juan Flavier

THE whole world knows of the three kings - the wise men who traveled far to pay homage to the Baby born in a stable, and to offer Him their gifts of gold, incense and myrrh. They followed the star of Bethlehem in their quest for Baby Jesus.

A little known fact was the fourth king. He, too, a was wise who journeyed from the east guided by the same star, and he brought his own gift securely fastened to his faithful camel.

But the fourth king did not succeed in his quest. Or so he thought at first. For along the way, he kept making stops. Every time he saw a man in need, he would alight and provide succor.

He overtook a farmer carrying a heavy load. He stopped and offered his camel as he himself alighted and walked.

Near a gully, he found a farmer wounded from the attack of a wild animal. The fourth king tarried for days taking care of the farmer’s needs. He refused to continue his journey until the man was brought home to his village.

A group of bandits was pillaging the produce of another farmer. The fourth king again stopped to defend the helpless man. In the end, the bandits took away his camel and his gift.

So, he continued his travel on foot, still stopping and tarrying at every town where need beckoned him.

Many years passed before the fourth king reached Bethlehem. He was told that the Messiah had proceeded to Jerusalem on a donkey. He rushed over and found a throng of people. They were talking about a Jew who had carried a cross to Calvary.

The fourth king ran and from a distance, saw the silhouette of two crosses. A third one was just being erected. At the foot of the Christ nailed on the cross, the fourth king knelt and wept. "I am despicable for tarrying on my journey. I lost my gift and failed in my quest," he sobbed bitterly.

The Man on the cross spoke in a whisper in a most kindly voice, "Stand. I received your gift long ago and yours is the greatest of them. You found me!"

(December 31, 2003 issue)
-Sun Star

I came across this article when I had my practice teaching last year. It's been a year since I taught in a public school and heaven knows when I would come back. Anyway, it was also around this time of the year when my cooperating teacher asked me to look for a copy of this story and make a lesson plan for it. I got it and before I made my lesson plan, I read it. tried to find the theme, the elements whatnot, only to find myself struck by the essence of the story. Sometimes, one can just look at the surface and see that what is necessary has been there all along.

As Flavier may have put it, this is a story unbeknownst to whoever made the bible. They may not have known it for his goodness was unsung and modest.

In our lives we may stop along the way in our attempt to do something for other people. At times, we hesitate because we think we are supposed to do something more worth our while. We still do it anyway, for at some point, we think that's the least we could do. These little things, much to our ignorance, are like blessings to other people. We look at it differently because it's us who do the actions and they are just receivers of what we do.

I have learned, that we do not have to look up to adore who we believe in. We only have to look around.

Sometimes we fail to see the good in ourselves because we refer to goodness as the things that are publicly well-regarded. We have the notion that when we go to church, we become closer to God. We think donations and other religious activities elate God. We are looking far, much too far from the reality that it's the simple things that we do that matters most to whoever we believe in.

This fourth king could be me; it could be anybody else--and they wouldn't have noticed.
I'm glad somebody did.