oro, plata, mata

written for CW100--fiction--under Prof. Coscolluela

Her high heels echoed as she walked out of the service staircase and into the marble hallway of the building's top floor. The heavy wooden doors, marked "Executive Offices", waited for her at the end of the corridor.

She knew he should still be there, as she turned the ever-polished ever-bright brass doorknob. She then stepped inside and found him there, seated in front of a reproduction of Caravaggio's David and Goliath. It was not as hard as they--the veterans--had said, she thought.

"O iha, akala ko ba tapos na shift mo?" he casually asked, surprised at her arrival. "Baka naman masobrahan ka na sa OT nyan."

The remark nearly caught her off-guard. She tried to look the part--stoic, cold. This was a man, that despite all her preconceived notions, managed to earn her respect in the short time that she "worked" for him. It was just so sad that we had to be on opposite sides, she thought.

"Sir--"
"Yes?"

She hesitated...but she felt the cold metal brush against her skin, with only her thin blouse between steel and flesh.

"I'm sorry."

She drew the gun and shot him in the head, point-blank.



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

Revision: 26Sep08

Her high heels echoed as she walked out of the service staircase and into the marble hallway of the building's top floor. The heavy wooden doors, marked "Executive Offices", waited for her at the end of the corridor.

Such a far cry from where she began, just another employee from a rival company. Then the offer came to join the elite Circle; and propelled by the need to do something about her mother's allegedly accidental death, she said yes.

She knew he would still be there, as she reached the door and turned the ever-polished, ever-bright brass doorknob. Probably poring over work—and the little dirty details associated with it, such as forcing another company CEO to resign. But no matter--the business is dirty as it is.

She then stepped inside and found him seated in front of a reproduction of Caravaggio's David and Goliath. It was not as hard as they—the veterans—had said, she thought.

"O iha, akala ko ba tapos na shift mo?" he casually asked, surprised at her arrival. "Baka naman masobrahan ka na sa OT nyan."

The remark nearly caught her off-guard. She tried to look the part--stoic, cold. This was a man, that despite all her preconceived notions, managed to earn her respect in the short time that she "worked" for him. 'It's just so sad that we had to be on opposite sides,' she thought. Had only he joined their side.
"Sir--"
"Yes?"
She hesitated...but she felt the cold metal brush against her skin, with only her thin blouse between steel and flesh.
"I'm sorry."
She drew the gun and shot him in the head, point-blank.

flashback

Yeah, I know, long time no post--and I'm not even completely posting all new material. The thing is, I'm scrounging around for material for my flash fic due Sept. 11 (ominous date) and I did manage to find some on my lappy. Some were previously on the old Roseboards (now deleted) or made for it; the other still unfinished one I just imagined earlier. So, enjoy.
--------------------------->

15 minutes

I glance at my watch the moment I step out of the classroom. 16.45hrs, it said.

The event was scheduled to begin at 1700hrs +8 GMT. 15 minutes to get home. No other choice: run.

So I break into a run. Run past invitations from friends (‘Uhh, listen, I’ve got to go home early today’) and through suffocating crowds hustling to everywhere. Run across streets of cacophonous traffic, up stairs and into trains that are full of strangers that are also in a hurry to get to wherever; and those wherevers don’t seem important now. Getting home is the only important thing.

Yes, I know, just a game. But I am a gamer (and a very proud Pinay one at that), and this is my life. We are the movers and shakers of worlds in pixel through the ethereal maifestations of ourselves; and these strangers, they wouldn’t understand. Much less care.

I jostle and push my way out of the train. Bags checked, then I try to walk as fast as I can—running would attract unwanted attention at the moment. Then the last obstacle—traffic as I ride the jeep home. Only a few minutes left.

Finally, home at last! Connected, login….wait---what the hell?!

“Prepaid game time has elapsed. Please reload your accout to continue playing at http://www.roseonline.ph.”

That was the last thing I saw before I threw the mouse at the screen.

----------->

Annatariel's Story

You go inside an ordinary, almost empty room with off-white walls, and see a woman with strawberry blonde hair seated on the solitary chair inside the room. She was clad in armor--similar to the armor worn by the class of Hawkers--but you know that she is not one, from the way she sits and conducts herself. Slightly slouching, she stares back at you intently, her sea-blue eyes critiquing every inch of you, and you wince; she seems to be sticking probes in every inch of your body.

You come closer, and introduce yourself. "You must be Annatariel," you manage to utter, and offer a handshake.

"And for what reason am I summoned here?" she replies.

'So what they say about her is true' you think. "I'm here to ask you a few questions--it's for the city's Lore Compilation Division. They wished to know about your story."

"I'm surprised you actually exerted all that effort into looking for me, just to ask these questions. To sum it up in a few sentences, I had stopped training for the meantime--after all, the battle seems to be futile at this point. I laid down my sword then.

I decided to roam the plains beyond the Seven Realms, some beyond the reach of the Goddess herself, I presume. But I have always kept in touch, and I do drop by once in a while, though in different guises."

She looks slightly amused as you quickly grab a pen and a scrap of parchment, jotting down what she said.

"Well, I'm afraid I cannot tell you the whole story. I am sure that the city's rumor mill can compensate enough for that, and if you are not satisfied, you may ask my old clanmates."

She stands up and leaves you inside the room, wondering what you had said to wrong her.

------------->

Unfinished -- same time as Umbrella

His letter to me lay on the pavement, unnoticed.

I'm still waiting for him. I want him to explain, face to face, not in the form of some letter. And this bird hanging from his supposedly lofty perch has mocked me enough for the past few minutes.

Now where in the world is he anyway? I'm halfway through this cheap paperback already. It's so unlike him to become late.

---------->

Drive

How odd does this end, she thought, a taxi driver and his rearview mirror the only witnesses to a world's ending.

It was almost perfect earlier: dinner for two at a fancy restaurant, complete with violin serenade and candlelight. And him, of course, he that she hasn't seen for a long time. Then slowly the evening unraveled, culminating with a grand melodramatic phrase.

And as the Makati skyline passed her by, she realized how different now it was, now that she's all alone on the backseat of a taxi.

“Miss, okey ka lang?” the taxi driver glanced at the rearview mirror, hearing her muffled sobs.

“Okey lang po...” she replied; knowing full well that in the next few days, weeks, months she would be repeating the same phrase over and over in her head.

plurk'd

Just to keep my sanity while writing those one-paragraph critiques for CW100 (and yes, I was pretty busy this weekend), I finally succumbed to the lure of plurking (see little widget below the shoutbox at right). That doesn't mean that I'll be abandoning this blog; on the contrary, I'll use it as my corkboard of sorts for random ideas that are too short to put up on the blog, or good phrases that I want to keep for later.

I'm also planning to start on the 140-character flash fics/poetry on Plurk (because of the 140-character limit that they have when, well, plurking)--thanks to Jojo for the idea. 8-> So far I haven't thought of anything yet, but well, I'll try to get there--it's something different from just asking questions and stuff on your Plurk. :)

Now to go back to the poem I'm supposed to submit tomorrow. @_@

bananacue

Cheap, common, delicious.

I'd find you along Aurora
Peddled by old ladies
In the darkness between watch repair stores
And cheap stamp-makers.

Your fried, golden-brown skin
Breaks on my lips
As I bite.
But you're of old stock banana
Overripe, even.

You're beat-up
By the days and nights,
Mushy with the promises
Of old love songs
And princes that will carry you away.

Somehow, the heat
Made you tougher than you were
Firmness of your flesh.

And you're sweet, sugar
Like your name.

I withdraw the stick,
After it has so (un)ceremoniously
Pierced your flesh.

rain

originally written for CW100 under Prof. Mooney

We, at first,
watched the heavens
hurl itself violently
against the pavement.

We step into its path,
letting this act transform us--
into the children
that we were once were.

crazy about karts

Finally managed to change the blog layout--only because of a typhoon and Crazy Kart, a casual racing game (ala Mario Kart) still in CBT here in the PH (it's . It's another game from a Chinese developer/distributor, Shanda (SNDA), the same guys that have the Chinese franchise Bombs and Bubbles (which I hope will also be released here) and GetAmped (suprise much?).

I'll prolly write a review on Crazy Kart when it's out of closed beta already and all other reviews as well, I'll squeeze in between breaks. Not right now, though--it's nearly 1am and I'm starting to become sleepy.

dimmed

I'm typing this on ScribeFire again, the half of my screen open on a story's outline; a story yet to be written. I've been reading and rereading this for four days, even meaning to do the story as soon as I've gotten the outline, but to no avail. Not even an introductory paragraph. A scene--once or twice--from the story yet to be written flashed across my mind's vision but I only have a fleeting memory of it, not enough to start a story with. I cannot even finish an earlier editing job--the thread's been open for several weeks, I think, and for some reason I can't go on and finish it.

I can't write--the spark has been sapped out of my spirit. And this is probably a futile attempt to recapture it, apart from banging my head on the wall.

that bouncy hair: a rohan review

I hate to say that for this game, it's too good to play with my PC.

Yes, ROHAN Online's graphics is too good for this old PC of mine. Yet even if the game is barely playable with the graphics lag, still some shining points of this game's graphics show. For starters, with every step of your character, your character's hair (and, much to a friend's delight, the breasts of the female avatar) bounces. That at even the lowest settings. Then with stunning moves for the characters--from Elven nuke spells to Dekan techniques featuring somersaults--this game is truly a feast for the eyes and another reason for me to get a better vidcard.
Too bad that despite all the eye candy ingame, customization is still not too detailed. Players can just choose from several hairdos and faces; and hair choices can sometimes be confusing--some types of hairstyle have a different color, albeit the order of colors and hairstyles is pretty confusing. What your character wears will also play a part in how your character looks; your equipment will show as worn except for headgears, which prolly is hidden to show that bouncy hair.

In terms of gameplay, despite a quite ordinary levelling and skill/stat allocation system, some unique features make ROHAN stand out. One of which is the multiplier system, which multiplies the exp of the nth monster killed by x. Before anyone gets a nosebleed, it goes like this: player kills 19 monsters. On the 20th nonster, the exp received is multiplied by 7. This goes on until the 100th kill, which gives a really big multiplier that at my 100th kill, my exp jumped from 20% to 92% at lv9. This surely is a good motivation for grinding--another proof of Rolf's old statement that Korean-made games are grind games.

But this doesnt mean that ROHAN doesn't have any quests. On the contrary the quests do give out rewards, but for levels way way above your own. Example is the lv10 quest in town which just requires you to talk to a couple of NPCs. The reward is a Lv20 weapon which is pretty much useless unless you get to that level.

This is where the refine system kicks in. ROHAN's refine system is the reverse of the usual upgrade system of online gaming--instead of getting additional attributes, the minimum level and status is reduced. So if you are lucky enough in refning, you could get that LV20 weapon to Lv10, and kick monster and player ass with it.

Overall ROHAN may seem as your typical Korean grinding game--but with the added features and all that graphics beauty, it's still one of the good games so far released for this year.

of botting and gaming: a peek into magic world online

The name of the game itself, running in the background, sounded cheesy at first. Then the graphics, slightly only higher than that of Ragnarok Online, aren't exactly appealing either. Yet Magic World Online, or MWO, is interesting enough that I'm still logging in after some weeks.

The game is basically country versus country--Dynasty vs. Empire. Both countries have the same basic, self-explanatory classes--Warrior (Melee), Archer (Ranged), Mage (Nuker) and Summoner (Healer)--which later on go to detailed paths. The opposing countries can even buy each other's goods through the in-game Auction. Customization is also very minimal--only when you chance armor can you look different, and you have to shell out 50k gold to change hairstyle plus another 50k and a bottle of Plant Dye to change hair color. Equipments are also locked to their respective classes, so no Warriors in magic armor for anyone. Pets are available only for the Summoner class, while the mount system is for all classes and gives your character additional attributes once equipped.

As stated earlier, if you are looking for a graphics-heavy game, this game is not for you. MWO is, in a lot of ways, similar to Ragnarok Online: so-called 2-and-a-half-d graphics, grind-heavy in the later levels, and of course, botting. To paraphrase from their website, MWO is the only game that has a built-in bot. Of course this is not the case, since other games such as Granado Espada also have bots. The difference is that in the case of GE, the game would be insanely hard to play if you don't have a bot, since you are in control of three characters. In MWO, you can play it without a bot, only that it takes longer.

The problem with this built-in bot is that it raises some (I daresay) ethical questions in gaming. If technically the strongest contention against botting is that it is a third-party program or it only works when modifying the client, then with this built-in bot, it is made legal since it comes with the game itself. If botting is seen then as cheating--since law-abiding players in other games (where bots are illegal) do not use bots--then by providing the bot to everyone, no one would level up faster or gain the upper hand just because of a bot since everyone has access to it.

However, the drawbacks of botting already show. I can't play my Temple Warrior in MWO as well as my other characters in other games simply because I haven't had enough practice with it. There was once even an issue on Country Chat wherein a player complained of another player KS'ing her; yet since the KS'er was only a bot, no one can do anything about it except wait for the player to return and turn off the bot.

With the bot, too, multiple logging in of accounts are commonplace. In a thread in their official forums, there was a guide to getting rich, which explains how to setup farming characters that can farm at the same time. Since you can easily get rich in the game, the effectiveness of the newly-released item mall remains to be seen, as some item mall items can be obtained through normal means in-game.

MWO's Mount system, though, puts a little bit of manual work back in the game. Since mounts need to be leveled up through feeding before a player can ride it, and the feeding cannot be automated, to get a rideable mount you do need to play (or rather wait for your mount to go hungry). And since the food--or powders--needed by the mount come from item decomposition, which is also done manually, you do need to put in some hard work just to get a rideable mount.

All in all, though playable and quite enjoyable at first, MWO is nothing truly new in gaming; and despite challenging some ethical points of gaming itself, it still does bring some semblance of balance back in the game.

ending summer/starting over

[quote]So there, finally writing again.

It's been more than a month since I last wrote, mainly because of a) summer classes b) in-game duties and c) sheer procrastination. A lot has happened--finally shifting to BA Creative Writing (*yay!* at first, but *groan* after, now the real battle begins), shakeups in the game (too many to mention) and literary theory opening up my world (well kinda). I even meant to change the layout for my personal spaces online--meaning blog, Friendster, and alter-ego--but since I'm a stuck in a little creative rut right now, I need to write it off first (literally).

As I've written, I had summer class--CL121 under Sir Aureus and CL150 under Sir Capili. Pretty much opposites--Sir Aureus' class (Literary theory from Plato to the Romantics) can really sweep you off your feet with his lively discussions on philosophies and their manifestations in everyday life.[/quote]

That was the post I was writing the other day and went unfinished as Blogger and/or ScribeFire hanged up on me. Since it's noon and I'm not really in the mood to reminisce, I'll just go on what my plans are for this blog.

Next few posts would be concentrating on the gamer side of me: reviews of Magic World Online (MWO) and Rohan Online. I'll also be changing the background to something else--though what exactly else eludes me, since (as I've stated earlier) I'm in a creative rut and other layouts still need to be sorted out. I'll also be putting tags starting from the game reviews, and clean up the blogroll (since some of the links there are dead).

So I guess that's it for now, prolly later I'll be posting the MWO review.

phobia

Fear.

It's this fear, paralyzing, that kept me from writing all this time. This fear that made me check my email a little too obsessively, to answer several Friendster surveys that asked the same old questions, to read news articles that normally I wouldn't have read (not that it's a completely bad thing). This fear I mask in laughter and I try to drown in happy moments. Good thing there's ScribeFire (yes a shameless plug)--at least I'm comforted by the thought that there's half-a-window of another site open.

And this fear's source I do not exactly know, nor completely comprehend.

Maybe because I am again afraid to make mistakes. That whatever I say or write be branded as shit by those I respect. I would rather be criticized by a thousand voices, loud yet anonymous, than be whispered spiteful words by a friend. And to write well, one must think; yet I am tired of this exercise. Because once you start, you have to end it; if you've ended it, you must've started it well.

Maybe because in this act of writing, I acknowledge the fact that I am again alone, like I was around a year ago whilst in the flurry of deadline-chasing. The main reason I write then was because I had no one to talk to, and with this, I acknowledge the fact that the guy that I used to share everything with had completely become a stranger, and all efforts to create a conversation have been futile.

Haven't I said that I'm moving on? And haven't we, just a few weeks ago and a few weeks after the break, treated each other as friends like the old times? Again and again I ask myself these two questions until they retrogress into incoherent ramblings, and slowly silenced by sleep. Unfortunately I cannot cry it off, just like I did the first, from which I have gone from without remorse.

What I get for being such a traitor.

Fear moves, mocks. When I, the dominant, has been silenced.

skyline

Written last March 14, a few hours before the end.

The view at night
from a friend's car.

It is usallly like this
city lights flashing away.

I know--
we've seen this carnival
a thousand times.

Only now,
you are not with me,
not at my side,
and the view's different tonight.

The stylus lay in the mess that is my room, unbothered.

Last night was the end that I had refused to believe would come, despite seeing all the signs. Though the scenario played endlessly before, as a nightmare uninvited, I was still caught off-guard. Or rather, you can never be prepared, especially when you know you have to break your heart for the greater good.

And this morning, as I went around this city for my usual routine, it was only then that I realized how this city is stained by memories of you. Of us. How the pillars at the train station remembered how you embrace me, and how you walked with me when I had that sprain and everything. How I tried to look for those adhesive table linings that I had hidden once in between the styli at that store, only to find that both linings and styli are gone, replaced by quite overpriced pens.

How every step reminded me of you, the moments I spent with you; and how I held your hand when we walked together.

The stylus still lay among my stuff. I never got to give it to you.

the professor's wife

Every day it went; a daily routine:
She would bring him coffee
While he was hunched over his papers
In his crowded study
Surrounded by his creations great and small.

She would watch him
And his coffee
Turn cold
While he rummaged through mazes
Of figures that she barely understood.

Sometimes she'd jokingly think
That he had slipped the ring
On the wrong woman's finger--
She felt a mistress, secondary
To Science and the Muses.

Not that she'd mind;
It was a burden
A path of servitude
That her love chose to take.

And so she set the cup on his desk
Still piping hot
With his quick thanks
She went back to the kitchen.

Tomorrow morning
She'll return
With another cup--

Just like today
Just like yesterday

harsh realities

Her name, I think, was Diana, something I just found out earlier.

She was the little kid that sells scrunchies at CASAA, an idea romanticized by . I always buy scrunchies from her, even if I don't necessarily use them; that progressed into giving her part of my allowance since she didn't have any. Just a couple of hundred bucks, nothing really big, just a little something to help her survive until the end of the school week. Heck had I have a real job, I'd give more. Just to help, after all, how much would she able to make in a day? Good thing the concessionaires at CASAA are helpful, too--she sometimes gets free meals or something. And you know she's sincere--she'd listen to my worries, I listen to hers; and she would persuade me to buy her scrunchies and not just give her money, back when my hair was longer.

I saw her earlier, while I was on the way to AS101 to submit the request slip for my TCG. She had chased after me, and strangely enough, she was quite desperate. Apparently her grandmother got sick, and needs 40 grand for an operation. I could only offer her the two hundred bucks, and a promise to ask for help. I had nothing more to offer, with the week still ahead of me.

And I hated that feeling--the feeling that I couldn't do anything. If only I had contacts to some charity or whatnot. And I felt the pain, the fear of trying to fill her tiny shoes.

That is her harsh reality, a world apart from mine; yet like all realites the boundaries do blur.

------------->

The World Chat blares, in screaming yellow font: S>Lv80 WX GOOD EQUIPS CEBU AREA.

These accounts, with prices ranging in the thousands, offer a way for rich newbies to play high-levelled characters. It's a trade almost underground, and a trade that cannot be killed off by any gaming company simply by banning accounts.

After all, when you've grown weary of the game, it'd be such a waste to let your account lay dormant. Money does talk, and yes, people are willing to spend that cash on a collection of pixels. Mind you, I do play and spend considerable time playing, but I never went as far to blow off thousands in one go just to get a highbie character.

Then again, it is their reality, and I have no right to speak against what they believe is right.

I got you a spare stylus earlier, just in case yours got broken by your little brother. I bought it from that 88-peso Japan surplus store, along with the cutting mat that I long wanted; bought it in the hopes that it'd be a few days 'til we meet again so that I could give it to you.

Maybe it was my fault that I got lost in the laughter and work, and you did, too. And sometimes, I don't know anymore.

american dreams

Only the sigsheet and creative work+performance at the app night left, and well, that I can probably manage in two days. The TV downstairs is tuned to Fox News again, and I really couldn't understand why my Lolo likes to watch that. Philippine politics do get redundant and tiring after a while (they're just all fighting over their kickbacks and power, nothing new) but it's also the same as American politics.

Or is it the remnants of a failed American dream, the last strains of old-school colonialism? Probably, and I can't blame him for that--my Lolo grew up in a time when the Star-Spangled Banner flew higher than our own eight-rayed sun. He'd even sometimes boast that he could sing the American anthem and know the names of the states and their capitals; he recieved his education from America and you won't get any stronger ideological apparatus than that. In this system, it has benefited us, and I can't blame him for that--being proud that we were once a colony and this system that fed us.

Maybe this is part of this--they feed you so you'd think twice about biting.

procrastinate

Sooo...yep. I've decided that this weekend (or what remains of it) is the time to finally do several stuff that I've been putting off for days (and some for weeks, even). I guess I've gotten somewhere already, having finished a paper, a writing job, and back to posting here again. Just need to finish that über-simple webpage, sigsheet and creative work and I'm pretty much done with most of the tasks for this week.

And how I wish this was all over. Sure, these projects I'd ordinarily be happy to get, but they all involve writing. Weird, yes, but I'm currently a little sick of having to write about something than just writing something for the heck of it. Maybe because since writing is an act of catharsis and I'm already nearly cathartic from creative fatigue.

Now to sleep for a little while before I take a bath.

sappy love story

A quick kiss and I board the jeep, to some place called home--yet now I'm not sure it still is, a slight shift in the gravity of the situation changing my entire meaning system. I let a slight wave of euphoria wash me over first, to sweep away the sadness that threaten to destroy my composure.

I didn't look back to see what your reaction was; I was never good at partings. It's the uncertainty of the wait 'til our next meeting--the days in between, when most of the time I stand alone--that frightens me, and scares me more than the chaos threatening to escalate in the streets.

And this, nearly a sappy love story.

a tale of two grannies

I remember this little incident many moons ago.

I was waiting for Allan to arrive, in a Chinese fast food store somewhere in the middle of Makati. I had just cracked open a fortune cookie as it drizzled outside, forcing people to go inside, including this literally well-heeled old lady in 3-inch red pumps, white knee-length skirt with big yet light prints, an apple-green blouse and several large pieces of jewelry. She was the stereotypical matrona--the only thing missing was a D.I. at her side. She went up to the counter and pondered the food choices on the well-lit overhead menu.

While she was contemplating the food items, another old lady came inside. She was the complete opposite--worn-out shoes instead of pumps wrapped in plastic bags to keep the rain out; an old blazer, blouse and skirt prolly sourced from the last stocks of the neighborhood ukay-ukay; no jewelry and a plastic bag instead of a stylish bag. Using her still-moist umbrella as a cane, she made her way to the part of the counter where the pitcher and glasses were.

Looking exhausted, she tried to lift the pitcher to pour water into one of the glasses. Seeing that she might drop the pitcher in her attempt, one of the young waiters offered to pour it for her. She gave the waiter the pitcher, and he poured her a glass of water.

Then the rich old lady ordered only a bowl of garlic rice, and garlic rice alone. She fished out a crisp thousand-peso bill from her purse as payment, was given a number, and proceeded to sit at the opposite end of my long table. She didn't glance at me as she sat.

The poor lady thanked the young waiter for his help as she drank up the water, and the young waiter smiled in return. She then ambled out of the store again, probably not having the time nor the money to linger there.

The smell of garlic wafted across the room as the rich lady's garlic rice arrived along with her change. She first picked at the rice with her fork and spoon, then took a small bite.

She then called one of the waiters, and said something to this effect: "You call this garlic rice?! I haven't even tasted any garlic?"

The waiter, surprised by the reaction, returned the rice back to the kitchen. Moments later he reappeared, having persuaded the cook to add more toasted garlic bits on the rice.

At this the rich old lady was satisfied, yet did not show any hint of thanks nor appreciation. Slowly she went back to eating as a stronger smell of garlic enveloped the room.

Around this time Allan arrived, and it's here that my story ends. Looking back, it's not just a story of garlic rice and customer relations. It was a lesson in humility, how we can learn from the meekest of people, and something prolly that our leaders should see or read.

ties that bind

I click on links that lead to pages now long dead.

If only it was just that easy to disappear--well it is that easy to disappear--irl, yet if ever I would disappear, I would disappear with a heavy heart. My pride ties me to my obligations; and my love, no matter how loud I proclaim that I'm not, binds me.

I just don't want to see you hurt--that is why I stay, even with this heavy heart.

This, as I write half-heartedly, the muse now slowly being confined to something akin to a sweatshop, churning out works at the pace of many a day. No wonder journalism didn't appeal to me--the thought of no weekends no holidays all writing--seemed to be a dreary life. The muse on demand all over again, and I start to resent the whole idea of writing when no one's reading, including myself.

I hate it I hate it I hate it. It's starting to become a nausea-inducing drug; I'm hooked and hate it but can't get off.

And I don't want this to happen. I worry about the future, and what'll happen to me when I get a real job similar to this. I wish I'd become successful enough to live off my royalties, but heck, no writer becomes that famous here.

If only adrenaline rushes can be injected with a needle, and if only they were pretty much legal.

the tyrant the muse

“Writing a book is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement; then it becomes a mistress, and then it becomes a master, and then a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster, and fling him out to the public.” --Churchill

Churchill pretty much summed it up--too bad I'm stuck in the part where the monster tortues the protagonist, mocking him/her with his/her plans of mass destruction and ruling over the universe (in the process spoiling all of those plans).

I don't know, really. Everyone's busy, and though I have a lot of others stuff that I can do (which will supposedly raise my academic standings and stuff in the long run) I'm not just currently up to it. Lack of inspiration, maybe. Or there's too much of it that they cancel each other out.

Well, whatever, my mom says I need to sleep, as dictated by this society that had killed off first her best poets, left them starving on the streets; only to glorify them a few decades after their passing.

the muse on demand

It's 7.23am and, well, I thought I would get a bit of writing here done first before I proceed to any other writing job that I currently have.

Last night I pretty much thought that the muse is currently on demand: even without almost any inspiration I have to cobble up a story idea or plot (that at the very least, is readable and logical enough) to be submitted, like our group's story for L Arch 1 (good thing Christine had a pretty wild imagination too, so the burden of thinking was split between us) and the story that had to be revised to fit the event. Later I have to write a summary of some Russian history for our report in Anthro, a post-story, and the questions for the event.

This is sometimes why I don't like essay questions in tests, like those Eng11 questions. You are so pressed for time that you end up writing a lot of stuff, and looking back, you wonder if what you wrote was coherent.

I should prolly get an exercise outfit for the muse like the one Gaiman's Death wore.

EDIT: I've also installed Google AdSense at the lower right portion of my blog. I don't think it would make any money, though.

lost

The last day of the first moon.

I haven't written like this for quite some time--writing without a goal or reason. Or maybe there is, but that reason remains to be discovered, and I am just again that lost kid wandering along some path, somewhere, looking for something interesting in the grass.

I'm tired of responsibility, of having to do this, do that. I actually have some pending: a writing job, a guide, report on Monday, a small skit tomorrow. Yet like all past nights I think I won't find comfort in accomplishing anything that the world deems important. And I'm actually frustrated at how all the things I used to do and enjoy became just tasks in themselves, telling myself that I'd be happy if I do that when I'm only half-pleased.

Even writing, used to be my release, became just a task. And like a suicidal bitch or one of those riding the emo trend I figuratively slash and slash until I bleed. Hey, I have a masochist streak. Or this feels like the time that my mom went emo-ish. Like mother like daughter, people say. I'd hate to go down that path, but I think I am, at least in this aspect.

I hate this despair that pulls me under, rendering me incoherent. May the muse come upon me again; I cling on to a thread from her dress and crumbs from her pocket.

For once, I'm going to spare myself of all the metaphors. We've been writing them for too long, like what you've just written, and sometimes some things are better left written plain and simple.

It only pains me that you can't--you didn't--talk about it with me. And I'm frustrated.

You know how understanding I am and could be, specially with you. But it does have a limit, and this is near the edge already. I just wish we've talked; because honestly my instinct told me something was wrong even with all those smileys. Something wasn't quite there, and well, I wish it would come back; that something that made us stay up a bit late, just talking.

How I've missed that.

This is why I hate loving somebody; I'd bring my defenses down and let somebody in. Then I'd get hurt. Or more precisely in this situation, the both of us.

This is prolly my bad karma saying hi, just in time for my new background.

Well I hope you'd enjoy the silence.

knowledge-driven economies

We were just telling each other stories in Katag about our high school experiences when Dimple brought up how she graduated from high school by asking a classmate to write her final paper for a fee. And in my case, doing someone else's assignment too for a fee. This is, in its simplest form, what they call the knowledge-driven economy at work.

After all, this is the age where your buying power is measured by your degree, or your selling power by the patents you hold. This is the age where instant money is available through answering sometimes obscure questions in game shows. Gone is the age of manual labor--replaced by machines that are build on and from a foundation of knowledge.

This is the age of the white-collar worker; enclosed in his/her cube of glass, steel and plastic, he/she controls the world or helps "run" it.

And it's not necessarily for the better--as my Anthro prof had said, this mindset placed the manual laborers at the bottom of our priorities. She continued by saying we could live without accountants (who are, well, white-collar) but we can't live without the farmers that supply us food. Not to slam accountants--they're also important--but at the very least we musn't treat blue collar workers as lesser. Their work is as every bit as essential to those of the office worker.

Maybe it's time to appreciate them more.

skylines

Originally posted @ my Eng11 class' yahoogroup.

[At the corner of Aurora and Katipunan]

Street level.

The chorus of Manila the fair's multitude of horns blare from across the asphalt ways. I play patintero with the metal-skinned beasts of the street, their riders trying to outwit and outmaneuver each other to claim the title "King of the Road". Shielding myself from their black breath, I make my way to the riders' bay along with many others, hitching a ride as well for a token fee.

Jeepney.

I try to sneak a gaze out of the open window. But in this sardine tin can barreling down this stretch of road, had I not known by heart these paths, I would've missed my stop. The riders, after all, have to survive the race. Only the wind, with her silent ways, manage to flit in and out of our consciousness as we run on, hopefully unhindered.

Car.

Cocooned in steel and glass, I am shielded both by this shell and the music blaring from the twin blackboxes succintly hidden in the folds of this plastic-and-metal body. Let them riders fight over the ways--my rider, an expert rider in his own right, can outmaneuver and outrun them all. Besides, there is no need for us to fight for prey--our hunts concern not these small tokens that they give.

The lesser gods look down upon us, their well-lit altars consuming the stars.

acknowledgments

A little more than a year after this blog's creation and almost a week into this new year. Odd, really, that this little plot of cyberspace I call my own has survived for this long; one of life's odd miracles.

The past year has been quite memorable, and not necessarily for all the wrong reasons. Last year was a showcase of injuries and the horrors of hospital food, of victory on both online and irl planes of reality (though online > irl), and of several weird moments from fugly bunny wars to soupbowls.

So before I'd forget, I'd like to thank the people who have helped, pushed, and shoved me to where I am now. Yeah, I know this'll sound like some crummy acceptance speech at one of those awards shows; but who knows I might get to use this for those kinds of functions in the future (*cats growl in disbelief*).

To start, thanks to my family (even though I hope they won't read this crummy blog of mine). Though we may not agree most of the time on a myriad of issues. At least I learned from you guys when to talk and when to shut up.

To my blockmates, soon-to-be orgmates (hopefully), classmates and school friends (tmtm): you guys are the actual reason why I go to school. To my profs, too, for understanding and not flunking me even if I missed almost a month of classes.

To Sammm and Kat, thanks for appreciating those BBQ Chicken Wings even if they were a bit dry and those long hours of Hangaroo and Text Twist. Hope we reach that 100k score next time.

To the team--servers may crash and games may not last forever, but friendships do. Another year of sabaw is starting, and hopefully the first emblem will be redeemed >:)

Thanks to the HOL family--to quote Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde, "We did it!" Here's to another year of wars, hotseats and scandals!

And to Dave--for believing in me even in my tipsy/sabaw moments. Looking forward to another year with you. :)

Now let's get this year started.