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.
28.2.08
27.2.08
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.
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.
24.2.08
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.
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.
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.
17.2.08
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.
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.
12.2.08
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.
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.
5.2.08
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.
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.
2.2.08
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.
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.
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