muse on a moodswing

formspring.me

2009-12-14T15:35:00.001+08:00

So, what brings you here? http://formspring.me/alquanna

uneasy

2009-11-23T19:34:00.002+08:00

Right now, I feel like I'm having a panic attack, or the nearest thing to one.

I just feel so uneasy about nothing, or more precisely, about doing nothing when I'm supposed to be working on too many things at the same time. Don't get me wrong--I did start on the last piece of the Tambayan Complex maps, the left side one, but midway the feeling surges. So I stop.

The most I've wished for is that I can physically get rid of the feeling by vomiting.

To pass the time and wear out the sick feeling, I try to make mental lists of what to do. Know that there are too many items to be drawn for game/thesis, but there's no urgency still. Watch a rerun of a TV documentary on an epic gas pipe leak that obliterated a major thoroughfare during rush hour in a major city in Mexico. In between I text him over in-game politics, about a server merge of a game I barely played and decide to write (during this sentence I get interrupted by a command by mom to open the lights in my bedroom, or more appropriately, the cats' room, because they're wailing like hell. My grandfather echoes her--which brings the total number of the times he told me to do that to around 4 or 5, but I was so busy earlier that I didn't follow--and so I snap on my way up to the room. When I get back down, mom orders me to say sorry, which I follow, in the typical insincere way that kids do when faced with the infallability of a mother. To avoid any such moments again I grab my headphones and play rock music loud).

Mom told me earlier this is just fatigue; after all, I had a make-up class from 9am to 1pm earlier. She forgets that deadlines do not understand that concept. Nor does the real world.

And I don't understand how I can be so tired when I've done, in my opinion, barely nothing. I know what to do, and as far as I know, I have no reason to fear continuing my work. So why am I not moving on?

I go back and write, to make sense out of it all.

(f-_-f)

2009-11-22T10:19:00.002+08:00

Now to write something up before I go *blag* on the sofabed again.

I've finished only part of what I expected to finish last week. Blame it on the time spent looking for a free streaming site for the Pacquiao-Cotto match (found a live stream from some Hungarian sports channel that was taken down during the sixth round), this weekend's bad case of the sniffles, and of course, laziness. Most of the stuff that got done were org stuff--typing up letters for the UP Lingua Franca's appeal for org recognition and the sponsorship letter for that ice cream eating contest next year.

There were also some stuff in Project1 that got done--the Tambayan Complex map set was almost completed. Since I can't possibly, I've split the real-life Tambayan Complex into three parts:

the small left portion, where the SPECA tambayan, the ruins of the Writers Club tambayan and the back of the ASKAL stores are;
the center, where most of the tambayans are: LF, AME, UGAT, GRAIL tambayans;
and the right side, where the tambayans of Circulo Hispanico, Writers Club (new and compact!), UP Singing Ambassadors, Asterisk, plus the ruins of the Tomo-Kai tambayan are. (I'm still currently deciding which sector to put the Deutsche Verein tambayan: center or right?)

So far I've only finished the center and right parts; I need to finish the left part and also cleaning up/troubleshooting the maps by Wednesday.

Since I'm using the same tile set for all the Tambayan Complex maps, it somehow came to a point wherein many of the tambayans looked a bit similar. (Tiles are the building blocks of the map: like a collage, you stick smaller pictures together to make a bigger picture that ends up as the map.) Aside from the limited tile options--which can actually be remedied by the very tedious process of making new tiles--there is also the issue of space.

Because the camera angle of RPG Maker XP is similar to the old school RPGs on consoles--an aerial view at an angle--you need to place objects in the foreground and the background to give an illusion of height and distance. And that illusion of height is built through the layers, where the ones at the background/ground go on the first layer, then other elements on the layers above it. The layers work in the same way as Photoshop layers, or imagine it as something similar to having just three sheets of transparency film that have pictures on top of each other. The different pictures on those sheets of transparency film overlap and create a newer picture.

However, RPG Maker XP only has three available layers where one can put tiles on. Even if I had wanted to put more detail for each tambayan, since you can only put one tile per space per layer, I cannot add too much detail. The first layer itself is already reserved for the grassy ground, so I only have two layers left to work on.

It all came down to how I would differentiate the tambayans through the one-paragraph descriptions that pop up whenever my character goes near and "inspects" each tambayan. And since it's my character that is doing the inspecting, I can only share what my character's insights are.

In the creation of the descriptions, I've also noticed how little I knew about the other orgs, or how what I know about the other tambayans are really from the POV of an outsider, in reference to what I know.

Then again, this is supposed to be an essay and I'm still the one writing it. Can't simply erase myself from it, can I?

And yeah, screenshots:

been a while

2009-11-14T21:18:00.007+08:00

And a lot has happened.

Funny though that the thing which initially kept me away from this blog--acads--is bringing me back. Plurk has kept me away, too, but that's also my acads' fault: if you've been writing a lot of pretty long stuff (fine, not that long, but at least more than 140 characters) on demand because of school, you'd appreciate the short form of Plurk. But that's not to say Plurk is lesser; it's just the practice of brevity, something that's pretty much treasured in my course and I generally feel comfortable with now (see: mother's sabaw moments).

I did miss the longer form of the blog post, during times when lengthy arguments were necessary, when there are (quite deviant) points to be made. Plurk's easy reply system cuts lengthy arguments in odd places, with too many other people replying at the same time to said plurk.

That said, I'm returning for my thesis. Muse on a Moodswing will work in a way similar to a devblog for the game that I'm currently working on. The game, tentatively titled Project 1, is based on a writing exercise from my CW141 (Creative Nonfiction 2) class. Platform, of course, will be the PC; ever the scriptkiddy, I'll be using RPG Maker XP to build the game. Blog will be updated at least once a week.

For now, a screenshot from Project1:

Quickpost this image to Myspace, Digg, Facebook, and others!

grappling with air and fish

2009-02-08T23:36:00.002+08:00

Haiku

Grappling with air, the
Fish just out of water swim
'Cross plastic valleys.

----------------------------------
Couplets

Grappling---the thoughts
fluttering still,

Within captured
essence, silent

Air. We hang still
like marionettes.

--------------------------
Villanelle

The table, empty and clean.
The boss, still not risen up from bed.
She asks: What do you mean?

Cloth, white to the seams.
The fish, finished up to the head.
The table, empty and clean.

You, ordered: polish 'til it gleams.
The daughter has, instead of him, broken bread.
She asks: What do you mean?

You didn't dare interrupt as you think he dreams.
But she insists, and there had to be led.
The table, empty and clean.

'Tis not good, she deems,
As you echo her dread.
She asks: What do you mean?

Nothing is what it seems.
The patriarch, now dead.
The table, empty and clean.
She asks: What do you mean?

oro, plata, mata

2008-09-04T20:29:00.005+08:00

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

2008-08-31T19:11:00.005+08:00

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

2008-07-21T17:52:00.002+08:00

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

2008-07-08T19:19:00.002+08:00

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

2008-06-23T16:03:00.001+08:00

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

2008-06-23T00:30:00.006+08:00

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

2008-06-07T10:10:00.002+08:00

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

2008-06-03T19:56:00.005+08:00

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

2008-05-29T14:01:00.003+08:00

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

2008-05-27T20:26:00.007+08:00

[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

2008-04-12T22:39:00.006+08:00

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

2008-03-19T23:00:00.003+08:00

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.

2008-03-15T23:23:00.002+08:00

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

2008-03-09T00:29:00.003+08:00

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

2008-03-03T21:04:00.002+08:00

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.

2008-02-28T21:20:00.002+08:00

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

2008-02-27T08:18:00.002+08:00

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

2008-02-24T15:24:00.002+08:00

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

2008-02-24T08:37:00.003+08:00

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

2008-02-17T17:50:00.003+08:00

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

2008-02-12T22:05:00.000+08:00

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

2008-02-05T23:21:00.000+08:00

“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

2008-02-02T07:23:00.000+08:00

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

2008-01-31T22:20:00.000+08:00

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.

2008-01-24T21:07:00.000+08:00

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

2008-01-11T22:15:00.000+08:00

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

2008-01-07T22:56:00.000+08:00

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

2008-01-03T22:20:00.000+08:00

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.

matchsticks

2007-12-10T22:06:00.000+08:00

Aren't matches tragic?
They only fulfill their purpose
upon their own self-induced destruction.

light translated

2007-12-10T19:36:00.000+08:00

Light.

The opponent of the Dark, the Good, the opposite. It is hard to think of light--or appreciate it--without the looming, oft described as repressive, Dark. Yet for all it stood for, in English there is only one word used, whether figuratively or literally--only Light, electric or not.

Ilaw/Liwanag.

Yet here in Filipino we have two words we associate with Light--Ilaw, commonly used as the literal light ("Paki-buksan naman yung ilaw") and Liwanag, more used in the figurative sense and ad campaigns ("Liwanag sa Dilim"; "May Liwanag ang Buhay"). The choice of translation, of course, changes with the context. One does not say "Paki-buksan naman yung liwanag"--one sticks with Ilaw, the real, visible one; using Liwanag sounds so wrong and out of place. Ilaw is also easier to spell and pronounce--perfect for everyday conversation.

Which leads me to think on how the Filipino thinks in relation to what is real (the material/literal), and what is not (the figurative). There has been a need to put a dividing line between what is real and what is not, between the literal and the figurative.

Probably because sometimes, we are often encouraged to "get real".

To paraphrase Virgilio Almario in "Pilipinas ang Ating Haraya", we have forgotten how to dream, our literature always dwelling on the struggles of our people. Nothing wrong with that, but as the essay reminds us, we need to laugh and dream once in a while. Or for a much more recent quote, Neil Gaiman's reason for sponsoring the Philippine Graphic and Fiction awards had said that the Philippines had a strong literary streak, but in realism and not in unrealism.

Streching it a bit further, how many of us have been told to get real and pursue careers that would earn us real money in th so-called real world? A lot, probably, like those who take up nursing for the promise of working abroad, or the English majors that have been told their only future job will be underpaid and overworked teachers.

In getting real, the figurative--the dream--died.

Besides, who wants a longer word just for Light when you're just going to ask somebody to turn it on anyway? After all, we Filipinos have a sometimes tragic penchant for getting everything quick--from sari-sari and convenience stores to getting rich quick schemes like lotto, jueteng, and pyramid scams.

With all the realism, Ilaw arose, Liwanag confined to the dusty shelves of libraries. To survive, Liwanag is now the adjective, not entirely necessary (after all the most basic sentences are just nouns and verbs). It is in that adjective maliwanag, seen in the everyday speech, that the figurative lives on; as in figurative speech is used to describe and flatter, so is the adjective.

And maybe like the adjective, we and our dreams may survive, only albeit with a little compromise and a little change along the way.

hills, rolling boulders, and fire

2007-12-09T09:37:00.000+08:00

So many things to talk about, and so many things I've rediscovered the past few weeks (or more like the time gaps between the posts).

I've rediscovered poetry, having read a couple of poems from the 1980 Palanca Anthology last lazy Friday while waiting for Mom to pick me up at Bestsellers in Galleria. Yesterday I went back and bought it--at 250php it's a bargain for some of the gems of Philippine Lit.

The newsprint pages hid the words of the poets, the fragmented moments they captured through words and contained through verses.

I've again questioned the existence of everything--most particularly of divinity and the established truths of blind faith. After all, would it matter if the image on the Shroud was the Messiah or the thief on his right? The findings presented during the Turin exhibit were at most inconclusive. Plus it doesn't matter if really was the shroud of the Messiah or a prophet or a thief--people would still go on living the way they do after that moment of shock and surprise.

Even the most absurd of all follies would seem of the most impeccable of reason with blind faith.

I've realized, too, that being a demi-god--or a ruler or a leader or whatever you may wish to call it--becomes monotonous and tiring after a while. It's just like Sisyphus pushing a rock up a hill; or Prometheus, the fire, and his liver being eaten by those birds.

I am already burned out by the fire that I held; and I let the boulder fall not intending to pick it up sometime near the future.

I return to the pages of poetry, and the muse--from this drudgery and through these words-- save me.

nightlights

2007-12-09T09:31:00.000+08:00

Written in a traffic jam on 20:38, 12.07; somewhere along EDSA, between Magallanes and Makati.

The night sky
looks down on me,
devoid.

Only these faux stars
of these fifteen minutes
pretend to return my gaze,
as I amble along this labyrinth of
concrete, asphalt and steel.

They
the same ones
who ate the real occupants
of the sky,
claiming it for their own.

two-hundred and fifty

2007-12-02T16:04:00.000+08:00

"...at least 250 words."

And what would I say that would account for more than two-hundred and fifty words?

Maybe I could help weave dreams, specially the dreams of children that grown-ups would usually dismiss as just mere fantasies; fluff. I wish to teach them to dream as well—or for those who have forgotten, the art of dreaming—like the way many that have gone ahead of me did, through their works and tomes.

I would tell my story—and that of a thousand others, whose voices couldn't be heard because of the incessant babble by the so-called high-and-mighty. I would lend my words to the speechless, I will be their voice.

After all, I am a writer; there is no writer that speaks alone, and only for his/her own thoughts. Every writer was, is, and will be influenced by others; and every work will cause a change in someone’s life, no matter how minute. As that saying goes, “No man is an island”—same with writing; no work is devoid of any influence from other works or real-life experiences with other people.

Like the best advice that I ever received from a writer:

“Sumulat Magbasa Sumulat Mabuhay Sumulat.”

Write, read, write, live, write.

Then again, I always could write about him. Yet even if I wrote a million essays about him, it still wouldn't be enough to explain why I love him; he whose words matter most to me, he who helped me to smile and live again.

fangirl moments

2007-11-25T21:00:00.000+08:00

So yes, I am currently still in half a fangirl mode.

After waiting for around an hour and standing under a slight drizzle earlier, I finally finally got to see Neil Gaiman at the 2nd Philippine Graphic and Fiction Awards at The Fort earlier. Though he didn't sign any books (except for Erik Mana's Mirrormask, who did the opening rites with a really good magic and mind reading thingy show) his short Q+A/talk was good enough, touching on how really weird stuff from the Philippines that he received ("...calamansi juice, wooden men with really big penises, and Chocnut"), on writing dark/horror stories ("...you have to believe in them") and his e-book deal. Thanks to Oscar for shooting better pics too; I met up with him earlier, so that makes two fan-err-people.

And the awarding (the winners get to shake hands and a hug from him *swoon*) made me really want to join next year. As he said, there's still a year to prepare for the next competition. :)

rewrite

2007-11-20T17:48:00.000+08:00

I started writing this on paper, and I am ending this here on the desktop at home.

I was in my EEE10 class when I started writing this, our prof explaining why and how hybrid cars work. I'm only half-interested--first of all I don't drive, and the lectures are downloadable anyway; he's just practially reading from it.

"...different from your normal brushes, they're made from carbon..."

And so he went, like the rotor of the magnet-machine spinning until the battery gets prolly disconnected or kaputt, like time running out or stopping and ending.

A quick sweeping glance across the room showed everyone was either half-asleep, half-listening, half-writing and all were only half-interested. There was even this guy on a laptop--I wish I had brought mine too, with the hinges fixed.

"An electric fan is basically the most basic example; it's basically just a motor with the fan blades attached to it..."

The aircon behind me hummed as it blew its cold breath across the room.

"...weird classification; Engineering is classified under Science while Computers and Electronics are not."

And I relieve myself from the pain, the monotony of this life, with this pen. For inspiration is like a poison that you have to draw out, or the thoughts bottled up inside would kill you.

Which nearly happened to me last night, as the poison crept into my being while I lay in the dark, only a cat for company.

fleeing

2007-10-13T09:50:00.000+08:00

A shadow stronger than her power over the Dark loomed over the small forest clearing she called home. She sensed a presence trying to break into the hiding spell she cast as she walked the path home from the Manor, where she

Her last sanctuary, defiled. Sandra waited amongst the trees as she felt the presence trying to break in, trying to sniff out her power. How she felt weak, powerless--this was a power greater than hers, probably the source of her power itself. She cannot possibly challenge it, for fear that she would die in the process.

And as soon as she felt the power, it disappeared. Quickly she went back inside her shack, looking over her shoulder every so often. All her spell-tools were left intact--her scrying shard was still on her shelf, her cauldron still had the last remnants of the brew she had started to make several nights before. Her book still lay open on the page that she had left it, yet there was something different about the page that it was opened to.

A line of the spell was missing; the spell of secrecy was broken.

She had to flee.

Dumping the contents of the half-brewed potion she was making into the fire, she scooped up the scrying shard, the book, several herbs, and her quill; dumping all into her small sack she used as a bag. Grabbing the cauldron and the bag, she did one final spell on the shack, and ran out in the direction of the Manor.

She needed to redo the Enchantment; the Circle she had made in her grove was broken.

She feared for him, and herself as well.

---->
I'm moving to a new blog. Check your YM, and there you'd find me.

reminisce

2007-10-09T20:23:00.000+08:00

My notes scattered all over the bed, along with index cards and handouts highlighted in a variety of colors. Just waiting, waiting for him.

I reread my previous posts, and I'm surprised at how long I have been posting here; and how a lot of things have happened since then. This blog has now ran the full gamut of emotions, from extreme despair to anger to euphoria and to just plain boredom. Which proves that I'm not as emo as I've previously thought. Since the muse has two homes already, well the posts are not as oddly great as they have been, or then again it's just me.

I also reread his words earlier, and for a while I wished I could wield fire and ice too. He has truly come a long way from that first draft that I did by hand, and even though it's still far from perfect (then again, who is?), that's enough to make me happy.

moonrise

2007-10-09T15:00:00.000+08:00

The spilled water seeped into the circle that she had traced into the ground, wetting the hem of her dress. Slowly it crept to her feet, a smile of the Goddess.

As he took her hand and gave the rose, she simply let go of the small cauldron that she held, and let the water spill to the ground. She let herself be swept into his embrace, and on this night of Witch's Moon, for the first time in years, she wasn't alone.

Silence. There was nothing more that could be said, for nothing else really mattered as she was enveloped in his arms.

daybreak

2007-10-05T22:33:00.000+08:00

"H-how did you get here?" she asked, even though she knew the answer. She let herself be swept into his embrace, and she buried herself in his chest.

She slipped the paper, folded neatly in a square, in his coat pocket as she breathed in his scent, still tainted with the blood of innocents.

"Don't open it until later," Sandra whispered as stopped his hand which had instinctively went to his pocket. "And what brings you here again? I cannot cure all ails."

"On the contrary, you did. With me." he replied, whispering in her ear. "I haven't come to town in the light of day for such a long time. Will you act as my guide?"

"I cannot say the same for me, either. Though I may walk in the Light, I still choose to dance in the Dark."

"Very well--let's get lost together then."

a reply

2007-10-03T20:46:00.000+08:00

If you are/were an LOTR fan, or at least read the books, the story arc of Eowyn should be familiar. For those who haven't read it, though, here's the story in a nutshell. Strong-willed, brave, slayer of the Witch-King, Eowyn is the epitome of a strong woman.

However, she was lost in the paths of love. As we all know Aragorn was only for the Evenstar, Arwen; and yet Eowyn still hoped for his love, a misplaced admiration and affection. It was only in the Houses of Healing that she realized her true feelings, and realized that maybe, just maybe, that the one meant for you was just always there all along. She met Faramir, Captain of Gondor, someone just as brave as she was. For Faramir was just there for her, helping her spirit to heal and to realize her true feelings.

Maybe now I have found my Faramir as well.

He was always there--in victory and in my depths of despair. I've cried out my troubles to him, and he'd listen, even if he was supposed to be doing something else. He understands me more than I do sometimes. Even in the most eccentric of moods, he bears with me, and even let me burn his study (well RP style). I don't have to admit who I really am just to get him interested--I don't need to prove anything to him, for to others I'm only as fascinating as my rank and name.

And maybe I just loved him all along.

It's the only reason why I agreed to edit Terra Nova 1 in the first place--I'm not very fond of editing long works; and free of charge at that. It's the reason why I'd try to cheer him up whenever I see a sigh or a sad emoticon, and he's the only person that I can spill all my secrets to. I just want him to feel that he's not alone in his battles, and together we will face all the world and whatever that comes along with it.

Remember the post entitled "paths" and his poem? Well I've chosen which path to take. I choose the pen over the brush, for the brush can only do so much. With the pen, we will write our dreams together. And now the post entitled "conversation" won't be just fiction anymore.

Love you too, Dave. :)

surrender

2007-10-03T15:31:00.000+08:00

His hands held hers, and her lips met his. For those few seconds, the world stopped.

Had it been any other, she would have resisted and summoned the fiercest demon out of the Dark to vanquish him. But it was him, and only he can force her to sink into a sweet surrender.

Yet fear set in as well, and she pushed him away, running out of the manor and nearly bumping into another man as she went out. Sandra ran into the forest, tears streaming down her face.

Why was she so afraid then? She couldn't understand it herself. Why did she run away from something that she she felt no danger from, from what all the signs had pointed to?

Slowly though, as she sat in a secluded grove near her forest home, an unfamiliar happiness filled her as she banished her fear. Her tears stopped falling.

author's note

2007-10-01T23:35:00.000+08:00

You may have noticed the last few posts, respectively titled wicca, petals, and meeting. They're actually tie-ins to DaveTNova's Vampiric Chronicles; first started out just as deviations but are now considered part of the stories themselves. The order then goes like this:

>Chronicles 1-3
>wicca
>Chronicle 4
>petals
>Chronicle 5
>meeting

And I've heard Chronicle 6 will be up soon, so just keep yourselves posted.

They're not purely fiction, I tell you. ;)

meeting

2007-10-01T19:54:00.000+08:00

A small vial containing the petal, part of the letter, and the ebony liquid that held them together hung around her neck; yet neatly hidden in the folds of her blouse.

Sandra walked the trail to the Manor as the sun started to hide behind the grey clouds, sinking into oblivion. The leaves crunched under her steps; like her spirit, the leaves disintegrate into the earth. Arriving at the grand door of the Manor, she clasped the heavy brass knocker, sighed, and knocked three times.

Oddly enough, the servant let her in without any hesitation. After being led through several corridors and making several turns, she found herself in the drawing room.

And found him there as well, asleep in a worn-down rouge armchair, his face illuminated by the flickering candlelight.

petals

2007-09-30T19:43:00.000+08:00

She fingered the black rose delicately, unsure. The small note lay on the small wooden table beside her, the scarlet words repeating themselves in her thoughts.

Oh how she was confused; and she was not supposed to be. She who had the power of both Dark and Light, a trait considered rare amongst all those who practice the Craft. She had the power to have glimpses of both Past and Future, yet she was here now, lost in the Present. After all, there was a warlock that she told herself she loved, and her heart was torn.

Sandra stood up and went to the pot that was left over a fire that had burnt itself out. Emptying its contents outside, she went to a nearby spring with just the light of the full moon as her guide, and filled the pot nearly to the brim with water. Relighting the fire with just a whisper and some firewood, she put the water to a boil, and got the black rose.

One by one she plucked the petals off and threw them into the pot, the water slowly turning ebony. Next came the letter, torn into pieces, the ink bleeding into the ebony mixture. Last came a strand of her own hair, another sealing pact, yet lesser than her blood.

She asked the Goddess for a sign.

She got an answer.

choices

2007-09-29T11:53:00.000+08:00

I gaze out of my window at the now quieted tempest, the complete opposite of my own thoughts. Another soundtrack accompanies this moodswing that I'm hopelessly stuck in, yet relishing it, and I want a sign. I still haven't chosen a path yet and it will probably take some time for me to choose one. Or is the answer so evident already and I'm just in a state of denial, forcing myself to believe that my love for one is greater than my love for another?

I don't know, and I seek a sign.

wicca

2007-09-27T16:06:00.000+08:00

Sandra watched from her shack's sole window as the form of the vampire disappeared into the woods. There was no need to put up her defenses; she was not afraid of them. Only against warlocks and fellow witches does she put her guard up.

For she had been bitten once before, and for reasons she still does not understand, she did not change.

Long she had asked why didn't she change. All her books gave no answer, all her years of experience in witchcraft gave no clue. A visit to her master, though, from whom she learnt the Craft, revealed the most likely reason.

"You have, by far, the most tempestuous will of all those that I have taught," her master had said. "Your will changes faster than the flapping of the hummingbird's wings sometimes, and I once feared that you may not be able to control your power because of that. That is why you were not affected by the curse in any way, for only those who are considered strong-willed are usually the first to fall."

Yet still she wondered over the seeming contradiction. She had always watched the vampires of the Manor from afar, and knew all that had happened. She was quite fascinated with the pure-blood as well; and had come to admire him more because of the sense of honor he still held even as a vampire.

Pushing aside all thoughts, she put out the cauldron flames and got her scrying shard from her shelf. Going outside, she stopped at the edge of the woods, and bent down to trace a pentagram on the soil.

And standing in the center of the star, she chanted:

Invoking the Light
Shinest upon thee now!
None shall harm thee,
For I am the Defender
And I am your Shield!

She felt her power slowly drain into the earth, and wished for his safety. The world is hostile to their kind, and greatly she feared for his safety.

With one swift swipe, she cut her palm with the scyring shard and let the blood drip at each point of the pentagram.

Through my blood
Let this spell be bound
To the Rules and Oaths of the Goddess!

She closed her eyes, and let her power empty to the earth. Wherever he may be now, the Goddess will protect him, by the oath bound by the blood of a witch.

That was the only thing that she could give him now, aside from her answer.

conversation

2007-09-26T00:08:00.000+08:00

Fiction again, sadly.

Talk to me.

It doesn't matter if it's about what. As long as I hear you, it's good enough for me. Over cups of coffee or not even face to face, doesn't matter--it's you and your thoughts that matter.

All I want is just to listen; to taste your words and twirl them with my tongue, feeling every shape of each syllable as I imitate your speech like a baby learning her first words. New yet familiar, I sink into a state of jamais vu as your voice drops to a whisper when you reach the end and reason of all that has been said and done.

Succintly summarized in three words that I can barely say.

paths

2007-09-25T23:54:00.000+08:00

I am actually dumbfounded as accolades, some uninvited, are laid at my feet. I never believed much in myself anyway--there will and was always someone better or lousier than I am/was, and I'll always be just a little above average. Call me cynical but that's the way it is. I was never fully sure about any of my paths as well, and I feel I'm losing the spark.

Maybe because I'm currently torn between two paths and about something I used to be so sure about.

Then again, it was only society that said I can't take both. And I've almost always disregarded those constructs anyway.

-_-;;

2007-09-23T19:58:00.000+08:00

This is one of those pretty annoying days where everything seems to go out of hand.

Was supposed to go with Kat to watch some movie, but since she had a group meeting with her classmates for some school project, it got moved to next week. It was already late when I found out that her group project thing didn't push through. The UAAP game in Araneta made malling in Gateway impossible, so even if she was free, I was hesitant.

Since the movie thing was postponed, I instead went with mom to Megamall. We went to a pre-Christmas bazaar, where I saw this cute but horribly expensive silver ring--let's just say that half of my week's allowance would be wiped out if I bought that, and I'm not willing to starve for a ring. Pretty disappointed at that; so I bought a simple bag instead to replace the pink fish one that the cat chewed on. After that mom went to have a full body massage, so I went to the few internet cafes there to look for a place where I could play PW. Sadly, there was none--Netopia only had 2 PCs with PW, and both were currently being used. I for the life of can't understand why only two PCs had the game installed, so I asked for a refund (had to deposit 100 bucks at login).

I went across to Timezone instead to try my luck, but the place was too full. All games had some people waiting to play (except for those luck, spin-the-wheel type of games where winning is near-impossible). I roamed around the mall then for a bit before finally getting bored and so I ended up at the small Pacific Internet internet cafe where they didn't have any games as well. Mom fetched me there after her massage.

So we had a late lunch at Yoshinoya--the only highlight probably for the day aside from the bag. Yum. Bought some mini-donuts from Country Style and we went home; I expecting that I'd get a chance to play once I arrive here.

Turns out the connection was intermittent again, and just to access some webpages I had to refresh several times. I didn't even dare play anymore because of the fear that I'd only end up with a dead Yu Ling in my hands. While waiting for a webpage to load, I pushed back the chair, and a chair leg came off. Good thing I didn't fall.

Now I'm typing while standing up, and I need to get a new chair (it's beyond repair already). So much for playing with relative ease at home.

Oh well. I hope dinner will be better; smells nice from up here.

five things i want to do before i die

2007-09-22T00:11:00.000+08:00

1. Learn to ride a motorbike and cruise near top speed along a deserted highway
2. Volunteer for some cause even for a short while
3. Submit an entry for either the English poetry or short story category of the Palanca awards
4. Move out of the house and live in a place I own (or even rent)
5. Graduate from college

monotony

2007-09-19T21:53:00.000+08:00

Another day passing into the covers of night, only to resurface the next, like nothing has changed. Or more like, nothing will. As Last Dance plays endlessly again on the PC, I will dream, or I try to.

And I find myself leering away from my daily routine (both curricular and extra-curricular). Not that I'm not enjoying it anymore, it's just me with all other things--I easliy get bored. Then again I remind myself that events/special occasions are special because they happen so few and far between; if they happen everyday then they'd become normal and ordinary too. I don't want that.

I wish for a spark that would make me look forward to every sunrise.

propheteering

2007-09-13T23:15:00.000+08:00

Empty pages.

An apparent nonsense
unraveled
now meaningful.

Like prophets denounced
insane, madmen.
Yet when the earth dissolves into
these empty pages

why don't these prophets just buy
or build
their own bomb shelters
save themselves?

Or that save everyone shit
is just a meek ploy
to get someone
to act insane
as well.

stripped

2007-09-12T07:01:00.000+08:00

I let you
undress me
shedding off all my disguises and lies
pulling them all off
and letting them fall to the floor in a mangled heap.

For in your embrace
there is no need for illusion,
I am tired of this endless role-play.

And only when unmasked
one can see a smile
curling up at the corners of my lips.

despair

2007-09-09T20:49:00.000+08:00

It's another one of those days where I find myself just drifting between words and worlds, somehow a bit exhausted. Obligations pile up in front of me, but I don't give a goddamn and somehow I'll just worry about it later. Maybe I'm just tired and all, or maybe it's the weather, but whatever the reason, its still crazy me half-restrained/constrained and just letting myself empty like a tin can being drifted by the current down the dead dirty river of humanity.

The rain now lashes against the windows and I close them to prevent my notes from getting wet. Yet there's this side of me that wants to go out and dance in this impromptu storm like it's the best darned thing that has happened in a long time, singing a rainsong and heralding the end of the drought.

And I end up asking myself, why do I prevent myself from this release that I am after? Not just the dance in the rain, but in everything else, from saying those clichéd three words and just losing myself and my pride in the process.

self-righteousness

2007-09-01T00:04:00.000+08:00

Sometimes I doubt my reasons.

I swore to defend my people, the only reason I took on this job. But as useless, bureaucracy gets in the way. The solution was so darned easy, yet for the life of me I wonder why they won't fix it. They could've easily fixed that if they wanted to, but then again, it's not in their ballpark anymore.

And such a thousand implications of just a name. That's why I have many names--like a thousand selves, when one is forbidden, I would simply change.

This is one of the days that sometimes what people define as wrong and right aren't clear. And I wish that next time I'll find the courage to stand up and say or do what I see as the only white in a sea of grey.

dropping

2007-08-29T08:28:00.000+08:00

I'm typing this as I wait for mom to finish taking a bath.

Dropping two subjects, I taste a bit of failure and release. Sure, the Archeo I'd miss, but not the Chem, since our prof even with his credentials wasn't really a good teacher. Surprisingly mom was okay with it, even joking that life in UP wasn't complete without dropping/failing. And yes I think she's right--we do learn the most important things in life outside the classroom, and in this case, in leaving the classroom. To learn that we'd all fail once in a while, but we have to move on smiling though deep inside you feel really horrible.

So I ended up looking for some short courses (since I would end up with just one class on Tuesdays and Fridays, and mom didn't want that) and I'll probably take one on Photoshop at Informatics, something I really wanted to do for so long but always kept on being railroaded by other more pressing stuff like advance classes and such. And there's the issue of my other subjects on Thursday as well.

Oh well. There's a time for everything, and everything a time.

of casts and napkins--a girlish rant

2007-08-27T21:47:00.000+08:00

My cast got yanked off earlier after tempers flew--apparently those clinic staff didn't list my appointment, and my ortho who was currently down with the flu had to drive from Bulacan to Megamall just to remove it since we're already there, which shows how good as a doctor he really is. And yes that was a very long run-on sentence, but since I'm rushing I'm going into my "hell with grammar" mode again. With that cast off, all I have to contend with is 2 weeks' worth of theraphy (one on Wednesday again, which again removes my play/work time, and means that I'll be back to almost sleepless nights again).

And to contend with my period which conveniently decided to start today, too. x_x Since earlier my foot was still in the cast, after a quick shower, I was about to dress up when I noticed (since I was still unable to walk that morning and I was just in a towel) that there were no napkins around. My grandmother, of course, didn't have any, and my mom and aunt were both upstairs.

So I had no choice but to bloody yell my heart out for either my mom or aunt, and to my utter frustration, my mom was still taking a bath and my aunt was just dressing up.

My grandmother came, though, and my grandfather. But since my grandmother wasn't able to climb the stairs (well according to her, but she's well enough), my grandfather asked me what I needed upstairs. And I told him I needed a napkin, forgetting the facts that a) Some men still don't know what those are for and b) My grandfather was born before those were invented, which further complicates the issue. So all I get is a blank stare.

Thank goodness our maid, Ate Mely, comes to the rescue, and she was able to procure not just one but two napkins from my aunt before I had to yell again for napkins and shatter the imagined peace of the neighborhood.

So all's well that end's well, for now. The real battle begins tomorrow, when the deluge of schoolwork drowns me--and I can barely swim.

the simpsons and online gaming

2007-08-25T18:26:00.000+08:00

Marge: Wow Moe, you're a troll!
Moe: What? No! My character's supposed to look like me! Why does everyone keep thinking I'm a troll!?

LOL.

sein

2007-08-24T23:06:00.000+08:00

I've finally finished his layout--one of the hardest job that I had to do, owing to the fact that the screenies he sent were a bit small. I'll upload it tom., and I hope he likes it.

the isle and the mariner

2007-08-24T09:08:00.000+08:00

You discover me one night
emmeshed in white cotton seas
a lone isle.

You, trusting the stars
intuitively and foolishly
like a Mariner of old.

First you chart my every contour,
every ridge, cliff, overhang
Your hands swiftly yet firmly
mapping every nook and cranny.

Then you disembark
and scale my peaks
discovering treasures I've once so hidden
Now, I offer out to you.

As you grow weary
you pitch camp
and sleep soundlessly
upon my bosom.

And though you may leave
at the crack of dawn
to seek out other lone isles
with the stars as your guides

I know you'll return to me
home
a lone isle in these seas of cotton.

layout, layout, layout

2007-08-23T11:39:00.000+08:00

Because of this layout (which surprisingly many found to be, err, cute) I've accepted requests to make backgrounds for Blogger and well also Friendster (he asked me to). Not entirely layouts, since I'm not that good at coding (I only know basic HTML and CSS) and there's the issue of hosting as well. I've already finished one for smoking engine, but I'll have to wait for later to try it out. The sad thing is I don't know if I'll have the time to finish the requests. Specially for his Friendster background, since he'll only mail it on Saturday.

I'll have to make time for it then. :)

on the wings of a dream

2007-08-22T10:54:00.000+08:00

Finally finished a new background for this blog--one of the easiest I've done, since it didin't involve me rushing around the whole expanse of cyberspace looking for pics. The main pic is just my character's screenie from PW-Ph (the same one I sent him), the uncial font from Lord Kyl's Medieval and Fantasy Fonts and all others just the defaults from Photoshop CS. And the quote thingy is related to my last post.

online/fantasy/on life

2007-08-17T10:13:00.000+08:00

I'm sitting here, alone, with only my old kimono for company. Good thing the connection's pretty stable today, or I'd be a bit annoyed again; the dog's asleep, and I can't really relate to my grandfather and grandmother's conversations.

Another petty argument with mom last night--she threatened to rescind all my gaming priviledges, which of course I (or the gamer side of me) didn't want to happen. Like all other petty arguments with mothers, you kiss and make up after around 5 minutes (the worst was only a day). You can't blame mothers either, you know they love you but they just don't seem to understand the life of a gamer (or even a one-part gamer like I am).

They'll never understand that for a gamer, the online life is as important as the real life, and without one, there wouldn't be the other. It was never just a mirror, for mirrors just reflect, but they do not cause change on either the real or the reflected side.

Virtual worlds, I believe, is like the whole genre of fantasy in the arts: it's our dreams as kids, spilling over into the real world. It's the nearest thing that our dreams can come to a concrete form, our dreams of worlds where we could be justice and treachery, where we can become both ruler and pauper, with only one phrase uttered online/in-game and one click of the mouse.

If once we had authors and artists, now we have game developers. If once we saw ourselves in the shoes of a wizard slaying dragons or a elven warriors, now we are the wizards and the warriors.

Online is also the unification of our shared myths and legends--there's the concept in lit (I can't remember the exact term right now) that some myths are common in many cultures, such as the Great Flood and that of the Celestial Maiden. Pick any one game, and you'd see echoes of myths and legends mixing into one cohesive mix--if not in the storyline, in the design of the surroundings. Take Ragnarok Online for example--you have everything from Asian (Payon) to Western (Prontera) and even Middle Eastern (Morroc).

Sometimes we can't avoid the negative sides of our selves spilling over into these virtual worlds, too. We have people metamorphing into tyrants, their dreams of power overriding the dreams of others. We've had people who've dreamed of becoming strong irl becoming strong in-game, and exact revenge over those who they've think have oppressed them, including many innocents along the way, not realizing that it was them merely oppressing themselves with hate.

But since online is a spill-over of our offline lives, we can't avoid the reverse, too. We've heard of friendships and loves budding in the evergreen forests of any given online game and blossoming irl (or sometimes broken hearts as well, like in the case of the chixilogs). There's also the issue on RMT, where the rich irl are also the rich in-game. We've had people, wishing to be rulers, but being unable to do so because of society and the system irl, giving up their lives offline because they've found fulfillment in-game.

This is what always shows in the media--the sordid stories of people giving up their real lives just to play.

Yet we forget to ask, why do they do forsake their offline lives? Maybe because they've found a voice online; when offline they aren't heard. Maybe because they have the power in-game, and not irl.

And maybe, to bring them back, it's time to hear them and help each other build our dreamworlds irl too.

This post is written for the first week of the gmtristan.com Group Writing Project. Want to join? Clicky here.

little spats

2007-08-09T12:58:00.000+08:00

Had a little spat with mom again last night. All about my gaming again, and how I'm neglecting my studies again. For the record, I'm not--I didn't purposely put my foot in a damn cast on purpose. And my profs haven't emailed anything for me to do yet, so I'm pretty much clueless about what's happening in all of my classes right now.

And on me staying on the PC so long? Doesn't she realize that I talk to everybody in YM now? So what if Mark's the only one calling on the phone? The only reason why I'm not calling all my irl friends is that a) YM is cheaper because b) they're scattered all across the country already. If I really get pissed off I'll call them all on long distance and have a phone call marathon. While she's at it, I'll ask for three-way.

Sorry mom, I still love you, but you'll never understand. And I won't understand your side either. Can't we just live in cold tolerance?

I'll post more on this prolly later or never--either I'll type from what I jotted down on another notebook or start from scratch. Well whatever.

cast

2007-08-06T16:13:00.000+08:00

Stuck at home again for at least two weeks.

It all started with the PW Consumer Launch last Saturday. It was fun--well except that I tripped over that tire-obstacle thing in the Multi-terrain battle thing. Because of my (already wounded) pride, I refused first aid, and well basically ignored the pain. It was afternoon when that happened, and well I went home around 8, expecting the pain to subside the next morning with a little rest. After all, I had a field trip the next day.

Well I can't even move my foot yesterday, so I had to forego the field trip, and ended up having my foot cast in plaster of paris. Then returned earlier to the clinic to had the cast changed to a lighter but more expensive fiberglass one.

So no class for me again for at least two weeks. Oh well.

signs of the times

2007-07-30T22:17:00.000+08:00

I was poking around in Friendster earlier and well, being the curious idiot that I sometimes am, clickied on this site:

http://salaamlove.com/

Well, it seems that they are also trying to catch up with the times.

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

I promise I'll write about the previous days' events in detail. I'll just have to finish some schoolwork and several writing jobs, that's all.

a bit jaded

2007-07-27T23:49:00.000+08:00

I am driving myself into the ground. Been up since 5am this morning, and only had a wink of sleep around 7am-ish while stuck in traffic. And I can't really stop; my mind is still damn awake and I'm past the threshold of sleep.

So I compose a little mental to-do list and posting it so it'd be final--

To-do list:
>Greenhills tom. for Geog 1
>Sunday: movie marathon with mom
>Archaeo 2 article review on Tues.
>several Deutsch worksheets for Monday
>and several more writing jobs (indefinite)
>and also a new skin (until I get an idea)

Then add my cold that's not going away. I should really go and seek medical help since it's already a week, but then I have no time. Or rather I have time but I'd rather spend it somewhere doing something else.

Never got to send an entry to the Catharsis contest. Had started on a poem earlier in the day, about 2 lines, which is enough to get the ball rolling, but other more important matters like class intruded my self-induced trance-like state. Oh well there's always next year. I hope.

selfish self-expression.

2007-07-26T21:31:00.000+08:00

Three posts in a day. Yes, this is bad and it's getting worse.

The poetry contest for Catharsis closes tomorrow, and until now I am faced with a blank screen, empty as I am. If only in the midst of this despair I can find the muse, but she never speaks about ending; she only speaks of what is. Time is immaterial to her, the one entity never facing any deadlines. Or is she afraid; for she hides when I seek her voice in the midst of the chaos of the end.

And again I question my reasons for writing.

Why do I write? I believe writers are pretty selfish souls torturing pieces of paper--and now the expanse of cyberspace--through the act of unburdening their feelings that in normal circumstances would be just swept under the rug in the run of things. All in the name of self-expression.

And writing in the hopes that somewhere someone out there would say that "I feel the same" and they would find each other through fanmail then mope/laugh/cry/share the same emotions. So slowly more would find more and they'd be one whole community sharing the same sentiment, and the seeds of a revolution are planted. And as they say, rinse and repeat, though some revolutions do prosper but some sputter out and die like an old car engine that's been maintained poorly.

Yes, I do believe I'm pretty selfish myself; then again, who's not? I remember Tine's words: even the act of compassion is selfish, since you help because the act of seeing someone else happy makes you happy.

So everything can be consdered as selfish.

Sorry little paper but I've got no one else better to talk to right now.

annoyed

2007-07-26T18:09:00.000+08:00

Now a shift back to reality and for some odd reason, YM decided to conk out when I need it most: me and Victoria's report making process+some storywriting. Don't know if it's my connection or what, since browsing is still normal but PW's also too laggy to be playable (died 2 times without even getting halfway through the quest).

So yes, I am visibly annoyed right now. Sorry Delirium, but Despair's winning me over.

still another random rambling

2007-07-26T16:33:00.001+08:00

Like a little lost kid I flip tabs of webpages littered across the vast expanse of space called the internet, looking for some map that will lead me home or somewhere, whichever is nearer.

Ambivalent.

Delirium passed me by on the steps leading down to the FC earlier, and I suppose that's the reason why I'm feeling halfway between obnoxiously happy and seriously depressed right now. Or it's the after-effect of listening to the story of the butcher (who was reincarnated as a cellphone vendor in this age) and the many other koans.

And I hope that you don't interpret this like the younger monk did.

writing and playing

2007-07-23T08:41:00.000+08:00

The problem with good games is that they tend to get me hooked, which explains the absence of very recent posts here.

PW-Ph's open beta started on the 18th, and except for Friday (was knocked out by a terrible cold and until now I'm still not completely well), I played most of my free time away. Not that I've completely stopped writing--there are too many nice thoughts whispered by the muse that cannot be ignored--but they're jotted down hurriedly on random scraps of paper and my trusty old notebook. Some of them were actually bordering on the fanfic side, which again shows how hooked I am again to gaming.

Well I expect it to be just in the first few months of playing. When I get to the grinding side of levelling, I probably would go back to writing straight to PC again. And posting here as well.

rambling again

2007-07-15T16:31:00.000+08:00

I pop another tablet into my mouth; downing it with more than enough water to get it into my system. Hoping for relief would be an understatement--looking for a cure is more like it. More like looking for an escape hatch down some hole into nowhere, where I am untied from all responsibility. But I fear in that escape, words would not find me anymore.

another end

2007-07-11T00:49:00.000+08:00

PW-CBT is ending much later today (it's already 1am on my clock), and well, it was a fun ride. Thanks to all who've made it memorable, and hope to see you all in OB! :)

Here's what I made in waiting-->here. It'll be my sig too tomorrow (I'll make a smaller version).

Now the waiting game starts.

words

2007-07-09T22:12:00.000+08:00

Originally written on 08.07.07

Odd that for a (or rather an aspiring) writer, words don't affect me that much.

That wasn't always the case. When I was younger, only a little tease and I'd burst out crying. I was the unofficial crybaby in our circle of cousins, and our almost everyday dialogue would go like this:

Pinsan 1: *teases me* Haha! Di mo abot o!
Me: WAAAH! Abot ko naman eh! *starts crying*
Pinsan 2: Iyakin! Iyakin!
Me: *starts bawling* Di ako iyakin!
Pinsan 3: Hala lakas ng iyak o!
Lola: *comes out of house* Ano na naman ginawa ninyo?! Magsiuwian nga muna kayo!
*all cousins leave*
Me: *would still be crying*

But now, hurl those insults at me and I'd either a) reply sarcastically, b) laugh (if you're one of my close friends) or c) just smile so annoyingly sweetly. This is so effective especially ingame; I remember the time that an arrogant player in (the soon to be defunct) pRose Polaris was mocking me. I just used tactic c and it went like this for at least 15 mins. in the entrance area of Luna Temple:

Player: Hoy weak!
Me: *silent*
Player: Weak!
Me: Ano naman kung weak ako? :)
Player: *shows off and uses that Raider poison skill on the monster that I'm killing, whatever that was called* Eh weak ka eh!
Me: ^_^ ok.
Player: Weak wag ka nga dito! *hits again the monster I'm killing*
Me: ^___________^ *hits screenie button*

That went on for some time and he just gave afterwards. I never got to report him anyway, and never did see him again.

Maybe because now I'm older and a tad more jaded, that words don't hurt me anymore. Sometimes I'm jusst enclosed in a shell of steel and mythril, apathetic to the world. For I have learned that there'll be always idiots in this world, and if I let them piss me off, it's only me that'll be having a hard time.

Some have managed to breach my shell, though. But it's more on because they've fired from inside; like the time that the CMship of Ethereal was suddenly left to us and everything fell apart. I have to admit that I didn't share the same vision, the drive and the time as my predecessor did. And when ideals clash, it's the start of the end. Words flew fast and swift, to and fro, and when the dust settled, nothing was left.

Or a still-hypothetical time when the right him would whisper those three words. After all, a smile can obliterate my defenses, though I'm having second thoughts about the whole thing already.

waiting/warten

2007-07-05T20:44:00.000+08:00

Based on a picture, originally written in English, auto-translated and tweaked a bit into German for my assignment. Love that online translator--yes, I can't translate it all by myself yet. There's too much that I must learn, or must give up on learning.

Auf Englisch

Under this umbrella I've waited. A few days have passed, the days passing, fleeting across the horizon. And the rain thundered You ask me, why do I wait?

It is because he said he will come back for me together with our daughter. See? I even have her baby bag with me. And here's her milk and her little stuffed teddybear inside her bag. She would be happy when she sees these.

You say that I'm crazy?

Well is loving your daughter considered crazy? I'm sure she'll return to me, even if it takes a long time.

I must go with you?

No. I will wait here, even if it takes forever.

Auf Deutsch

Unter diesem Regenschirm habe ich gewartet. Wenig Tage hat passiert, die Tage passiert, über den Horizont flüchtig. Und der Regen donnerte, das Tanzen über das Land. Sie fragen mich, warum warte ich?

Es ist, weil er sagte, dass er für mich zusammen mit unserer Tochter zurückkommen wird. Sehen Sie das? Ich habe sogar ihre Baby-Tasche mit mir. Und ist hier ihre Milch und ihr kleiner vollgestopfter Teddybär innerhalb ihrer Tasche. Sie würde glücklich sein, wenn sie diese sieht.

Sie sagen, dass ich verrückt bin?

Das Lieben von jemandem ist nicht verrückt. Ich bin sicher, dass sie zu mir zurückkehrt, selbst wenn es eine lange Zeit nimmt.

Ich muss mit Ihnen gehen?

Nein. Ich werde hier warten, selbst wenn es für immer nehmen wird.

luna

2007-07-04T21:03:00.000+08:00

At the crossing of frozen wings
And at the end of worlds
I will pour out
like a waterfall.

Upon these frozen plains we first met.
And upon these frozen plains
Everything will end.

And night shall fall
on the frozen heart of the second goddess.

disconnect

2007-07-04T20:04:00.000+08:00

So there I lost my phone earlier, and after getting the customary sermon from mom, I'm pretty back much to normal. Except that there's this feeling of being cut off from all the latest chikka. And not being able to receive all those forwarded jokes. *sigh*

Oh well.

emo(ticon)

2007-07-03T21:21:00.000+08:00

I look at shooting stars
laying crumpled inside the wastebasket.
A quick glow
then fading away
ready to be carted to the dumpsite
just like my words
and just like
my every emotion.

Hiding behind punctuation marks
smile, cry, laugh
I lose myself
in a mesh of words.

Sometimes
a couple of symbols
define emotion.

snippets

2007-07-03T08:49:00.000+08:00

Interspersed with fiction and reality, my thoughts having fluttered in the space between waking up and breakfast.

Fiction.

I wake up to the smell of brewing coffee downstairs.

It's his last pot before he leaves, and I know he wouldn't want to wake me up just yet.And as I tie in a bow the ribbon of my robe, I know I would miss that smell; it's useless brewing a pot of coffee just for one person.

I started to go down the stairs to the small living/dining room, silently, to surprise me. The suitcases stand near the door, neatly packed, all ready to leave. And on top of the small coffee table was a letter addressed to me, my name printed with his steady handwriting. Had he had it his way, he would've left without even saying goodbye, leaving me with just a note and a cup of coffee.

He was never good with farewells; I'd be usually the one who'd be saying goodbye whenever we attended some party or whatnot. He once remarked that he sometimes finds goodbyes were cruel, as if you'd never see that person again; he liked "see you" better.

I saw him sitting at the small dining table, facing the small patch of unpaved earth overran with small plants and weeds that we liked to call a garden. He was sipping coffee--it was one of the milder blends that I preferred, not his usual black.

"Morning," I whispered in his ear. "Getting from my coffee again?"
"Hey, after this I won't be brewing you coffee for a year, or until I come back."
"Who said I was complaining?"

I managed a weak smile and went to get my own cup. It's only a year, I remind myself. Only a year. I returned to the dining table just to watch him finish his coffee; breakfast just later on the plane. Then the customary goodbyes--or rather, see yous, before he loaded his luggage and boarded the cab.

It's better this way, I try to convince myself.

And after the cab drove away, I went back inside and drained the remnants of the coffee into the sink. I washed the pot, and packed it inside the box. Shame really, it was a pretty new coffeemaker, makes just enough coffee for two.

I'll be sticking to instant until he returns.

Fact

I woke up to sunlight streaming through my bedroom windows. It's another day of supposed rest; I'll be going back to school tomorrow. And today, there's nothing but me and an empty sheet waiting to be filled with random musings.

There's still no certain "he" in my story, no scent of coffee to wake me up. But there's also no pain of leaving, no pain of separation. Simply because there's no pain to speak of.

Only a hollow feeling; and I am reminded of what a wise writer once left in my sig sheet.

Live. Write. Live.

neunundneunzig

2007-07-01T17:54:00.000+08:00

For non-Deutsch speakers: sorry for the title (if you can't pronounce it).
For Deutsch speakers: Yes, I am just bored.

As the title suggests, it's my 99th borne-out-of-sheer-boredom-post here (yay~!); a record by my blogging standards. Since everyone's either a) at the soft launch, b) studying and/or c) not in the same plane as I am, I'll just write to pass the time.

So...what to write, what to write.

Or maybe it's time to think about a new skin for the blog again. I have a few ideas already, but I can't seem to get them into a coherent visible form (like the heretic skin I was to make before but never seemed to materialize even with the aid of Photoshop).

And i give up on studying already--the zu+Infintiv thing doesn't make much sense. There's only so much that self-studying can do.

Oh what to do, what to do.

hospital food

2007-06-30T17:54:00.000+08:00

So I'm finally back after vegetating in the hospital for one week because of a mild case of dengue, after missing a week's worth of classes, being hooked (and overdosing) on the IV, and well, getting sick of hospital food.

You'd appreciate the taste of a McDonald's cheeseburger after a week of almost uncooked veggies; though some of the breakfasts made up for it.

philosophy

2007-06-21T17:12:00.000+08:00

So there we were, discussing the unaswerable question "What is Philosophy", which cannot be really answered either (like all other things in Philo, accdg. to Russell's essay). And when we got to the question "What is the value of Philosophy?", everybody's answer ranged from the essence of questioning to the definition of value in that particular sentence. Since, again, no completely right answers in Philo, the question continued to float around my conciousness until the ride home.

Then it struck me; the comparison that seems the most right for me (it's the nearest that I can come to an answer).

Maybe, Philosophy is like life. "Why live when we are going to die?" seems almost parallel to the principle of Philo that "Why ask questions when you know that it is just an endless search for the truth?" As Edmund Hillary once answered (on the reason why he decided to climb Everest): "It is there." It's probably the only thing that might separate us from animals; we question, we philosophize, even if it is utterly futile to do so in the constraints of society. It is human nature to ask why, and why not.

And maybe, these questions and this act of questioning will bring about change. For there are no right answers; change may be the nearest that we can get to an answer.

I hope I can be a part of it; no, I will become a part of it.

duality

2007-06-17T00:39:00.000+08:00

My head is spinning. Lack of sleep, perhaps.

He hasn't logged on today. For what reason, I don't know; probably he went back home, or a night out with his friends. He probably told them last night, before he logged out, on whether he was going to play today or not. He was gone when I returned last night.

Status messages fill the chatbox.

And I am going insane. Silence fills the once noisy box; noisy in the context of voiceless playing where words speak for oneself. This made-up world seems all so real, and sometimes I feel that I would gladly trade it for the real one. If only if it was to be with him.

Diffuclt, to define what's real and not.

delirium

2007-06-16T10:42:00.000+08:00

Words flow out like water. I am in the midst of a few conversations, but strangely enough, I still find meaning and solace in this blank text box waiting to be filled. Intermittent chats punctuate my musings, but I do not complain; sometimes these are all that I can hang on to. Silly as that may sound, but nonsense becomes meaningful when you are empty.

And fishies are soon to swim on the horizon.

deutsch 14+15

2007-06-15T13:59:00.000+08:00

The rumors that a German prof was going to handle Deutsch 14+15 was true; we met Frau Mende earlier, and yes, she's still not used to the weather. She apologized for not being there on the first day of classes: she only arrived in Manila Tuesday night; some mix up of schedules I believe. She's pretty young too: only 26 and it's her first time in this crazy country with a charm all its own.

She explained that in perfect German; in her words (well one of the few English sentences that she said during the whole period): "My English is not quite perfect and my Tagalog is nonexistent." We only half-understood everything that she said; mostly from context clues and the remnants of our Wortschatz. Not that she's a bad teacher, but she should go a bit easy on us in the meantime (as Jevic mentioned, she's already speaking to us as if we were in Deutsch 30+31 already).

Plus she gave us an assignment. Good luck to us.

flickerlight

2007-06-14T17:41:00.000+08:00

The astronomer peeks at his telescope
But what am I to him?

I am only the flickering star
Not even seen
In this night.

I exist merely as a small pulse
A wave
Barely felt in the vastness of the cosmos.

I am only given a number:
OGLE-TR-122B.
This number defines my existence;
Not even enough to warrant a proper name.
After all, I shine not enough.

Yet probably, to the astronomer
through his telescope,
I am his star
The one he found on a lonely night atop a mountain observatory.

moodswung

2007-06-13T09:00:00.000+08:00

I think it's just one of those mornings that no matter how hard you try, the sun doesn't just seem to shine so brightly and the air's all so gloomy and stuff. A morning, even with the scent of cinnamon and coffee, doesn't seem to go all well. And all that for no concrete reason at all; just waking up and not even deciding to be emo because it didn't need a decision on your part. It's just because it is.

But outside, you try to get along with the flow of the world, for it won't stop for you anyway. And slowly you wish that'd if fade in the course of the day, but it's highly unlikely that it would; after all, night will still fall and you'll be alone at the end.

Moodswings may pass, but they don't totally go away.

indie day

2007-06-12T13:14:00.000+08:00

This'll probably be the weirdest Independence day that I've had so far, since it's also the first day of classes for us. For one, it's supposed to be a non-working holiday; and it's a Tuesday: I almost followed my MTh sked. I only realized that I was looking at my MTh sked when we were already talking about PE and prerog. Thanks Vic and Dheu for the reminders.

Like it mattered; only my Archaeo 2 class met and we were dismissed after around 10 mins (or the time that it took us to fill up the classcard and get the syllabus). I like the ASP room; filled with the shattered remnants of lost civilizations, cold aircontditioning, and a smorgasboard of junk and treasure. Perfect in my eyes.

I kinda skipped my Chem1; the "no class today" message was odd. It had my section on it but a diff time. Well, I paid for it already, so they can't cancel my slot. Besides, Dheu was commenting how she was always late+absent and still not dropped, getting a 2.00 in the process. Just in case, I have 5 absences left. lol

Our German 14+15 prof is still a mystery; but Jevic says that he/she might be a new prof. A foreigner, to boot, which will be a double-edged sword since a) he/she may be a native speaker of the language and b) at least it's not the terror prof but c) the accent and the teaching method may be vastly different and d) everybody's Deutsch is rusty (Jefra: Inaral ko lang yung "Ich habe vergessen." That's I have forgotten in Deutsch). We missed Frau Neri because of that; she was the only prof that I had that was never late in any of her classes.

And yes, you can now call me "Ate" irl if you're a freshie. I'm free from the freshie label! But god, now I feel so old.

'fessing up

2007-06-07T09:11:00.000+08:00

I admit it, I am not good at 'fessing up. I tried to tell him last night, but with a poorly constructed figure of speech he (I think) misread it, and well, it got nowhere. I was nearly in tears because of that, but then, I could never manage to be sad when he's around. Like a picker-upper drug I, well, just smiled and laughed afterwards like nothing has happened.

Well he won't be online for a few days. Enough time to get my bearings.

wingkind

2007-05-31T10:23:00.000+08:00

As you might have guessed, PW's closed beta has taken up most of my time. It is really one of the best games I ever played--truly quest-based, not much of the grinding (although I have to grind a bit, I ran out of quests). I'm playing a Yu Ling, the Wingkind support class, currently at lv38. Pretty slow, though, but at least I'm levelling. Then again, that's only half the reason I play; he's there too. And too bad that cuddle function only works on guy-to-girl characters, he's chixi forever. He wanted to cuddle. Damn. I'm the Yu Ling to his Yu Mang. Nuff said.

Oh well.

...

2007-05-17T23:07:00.000+08:00

Around a week has passed since I last posted (well, a decent post) here, and a lot of things have changed.

I'll post a separate entry on last Friday--or I won't. All I can say is that last Friday convinced me to join HOL. With a suprisingly fast-tracked application, I'm now considered a member, and now part of the all-day confes in YM. I think. LOL

And the CBT for PW is just a few hours away--I've checked the shops earlier, and they looked okay, though they said they won't install it until tomorrow.

Well, just wait and see.

death quizzie...too lazy to write decent post

2007-05-16T21:59:00.001+08:00

You scored as Poison. Your death will be by poison, probably because you are a glutton and are around so many people that it would be easy to get away with it. Several important people in history share your fate.

Suicide

100%

Poison

100%

Disappear

100%

Eaten

73%

Stabbed

67%

Suffocated

67%

Accident

67%

Gunshot

53%

Cut Throat

53%

Bomb

53%

Disease

47%

Drowning

33%

Natural Causes

13%

How Will You Die??
created with QuizFarm.com

roleplay

2007-05-10T14:08:00.000+08:00

The desktop's power supply has gone kaputt and so I'm forced to bring the laptop down--the LAN cable is tacked to the wall and hence, immobile. Probably the desktop' internal power supply; I've already checked the sockets (working well), the connections (seems to be in order), and the AVR (ok too). Good thing these things don't cost an arm, a leg, and half of the other arm--mom jokingly said that I might be forced to take an LOA from school just to pay for the repair costs. And good thing that all files are on the external hard drive--at least no data lost.

On the Roseboards a roleplay is in the planning stage--got one of the main character roles (protagonist, though), and well, let's just say that the casting looks interesting. I'd have to say though that some of these who will be RP'ing are realtively new to the art, and I myself am pretty rusty when it comes to this. And the plot is still not clearly planned out from my POV--the main diff between this and the LOTR roleplays is that the main LOTR roleplays that I've joined have definite endings like the massive Last Alliance plot. This, I guess, will be mostly play by ear.

I won't expect a lot from this either--it's just a start, and with the choice of the main antagonist, I'm afraid that the antagonist would turn out to be a one-dimensional character. I'm still using Annatariel for the RP--as usual, she'd be more in the gray than just the plain old black+white, good vs. evil protagonist.

And I'm looking around for a new template idea. I'm prolly doing one with Annatariel in the bg--which will entail a lot of work since a) I don't have a colored sketch of her and b) I'm not good when using irl drawings. And screenies won't do it either.

randomly generated passwords

2007-05-08T20:22:00.000+08:00

I got terribly bored earlier and since I wasn't willing to pilot a character for a siege in RO (for one, I don't have an installer), I settled for Corum Online instead. And since it was ages ago that I last played the game, I had forgotten the password and so clicked on the forgot pass link at Gpotato.

I got one of those randomly generated passwords--an 8 number password, to be exact. So I got back into the login screen for Corum, and wonder of wonders, it's still incorrect.

I retyped it again. And again. Still incorrect.

So does that mean that their password generating machine is incorrect?

cheap knock-offs

2007-05-07T22:38:00.000+08:00

Some idiot ran away with stridermaster's sigs and decided to pass it off as his own. So earlier we were pretty much flamed that idiot on his sig-ordering thread (the nerve), and almost his friendster account--though we decided that went too low already. Good thing the final card plans are in storage...I think. >_<