To the Hero with Rockets on His Feet

You don't say you want, only to take back the words later. You don't say you will, only to back out at the slightest hint of danger. You do not do any of these things, but you still do, you still did, because you're only human, are you not? Like a frightened animal, you bowed your once proud head and submissively retreated from the snarling creature who towered over you.

I know your story. You once loved that monster, though in your eyes it was never such. You saw it one day when life was at its liveliest, when things seem to be falling into place. You saw it, and hated it, very much like how you hated, at first sight, every one you meet. Because that's all you can do- hate first, love later.

But when you love, you fall endlessly, never mind the fact that anytime, you might hit rock bottom and barely survive. You fill the empty crystal glasses on your nightstand with tears without fail every night, before you let yourself fall into living oblivion. You were foolish, and brave, for daring to care for such a creature with the unfathomable eyes and leathery wings, but you were whole.

It seemed to me, that it was all that mattered. You were whole.

It didn't matter that you were ravaged, desecrated within an inch of your life for even stepping near the creature. It didn't matter that you returned with shreds of cloth barely hanging off your emaciated frame, with purplish bruises littering your alabaster skin. It didn't matter that there were dry tear tracks down your once-plump cheeks, didn't matter that your hair hung in greasy clumps around your tired face. It didn't matter that sorrow nearly killed you when the creature left.

You were whole. And it was all that mattered, because being whole allowed you to see yourself in the mirror and fool yourself into thinking that there are no cracks on the surface, that the mask of the joker remained as what it is- a visage with a painted-on smile.

I could only laugh at your demise. You were alive, yes, but barely. Seeing the creature in your memories and dreams could not sustain you for long, for you yearn to touch, to taste, to feel with your bare palms. Tangibility.

We do not know how much time had faded into waste. You went on hating, then loving, every person you meet down the path. We do not know how deep the lacerations had become, how large the gaping holes had grown, because you smothered them all with pretentious peace and silvery talc.

Until it returned. And the barriers you erected around yourself started to fall, one by one.

Until you were left as you were before the creature vanished.

Until you were nothing more than a bruised bag of bones.

Until nothing, save the creature, could liberate you from the prison you made for yourself.

Lies spewed from your mouth in endless streams. You no longer love the creature, you say?

I could do nothing but laugh. I laughed and watched your face crumple, watched as youth left your body through a rattling breath. I laughed and felt the disease consume her from the outside, eating away at her vitality, at her exuberance. I laughed at the absurdity of it all, that you loved and I hated, though we were trapped in the same shell.

See, we are one and the same. I always came first, so I hated. And you were a mere second, so you loved.

To the hero with rockets on his feet.

She never stopped, though you thought she did.

She never resented, though it appeared she did.

The only truth is that she loved.

She loves.

When Boy Meets Girl

A canine love story. Enough said.

Boy.

Girl.

The first look.

His bashful question.

Her blushing reply.

They meet.

And sparks fly.

* Photos captured by my bro and sis. Check out his and her Flickr site.

Caught in His Web

It's official. I am definitely, positively a follower of the deity in human form named JASON MRAZ.

If you are wondering how that seemingly impossible phenomenon came to pass (if you know me personally, then you are aware of my quite different musical tastes and influences), then let me bring you to enlightenment.

He kinda looks like Hugh Grant here, but whatever. It's Jason Mrazzy enough for me ;)

I became aware of his glorious existence through my dear friend, Drei. The first song that graced my ears was "Melt With You" and that was sometime during March of 2008. Quite far back, if I may say so, because the next thing I heard of him is "I'm Yours", September of 2008. And you know what? I fell hopelessly, positively, downright in love.

He's not as hot as Joe Jonas, nor is he as dreamy as Josh Groban. He's got an unruly nest for hair, he's skinny and well...he's short. But you don't see me caring, do you? Well then, what makes him stand out among the endless line of musical deities?

His voice, as clear and free-flowing as aqua, is one of his strongest points. Only a handful of singers could boast of possessing that joie de vivre, and he is one of those blessed few. One could never tire of listening to his crooning, chocolate-to-the-ears voice, and right now, as I try (to the best of my abilities, might I add) to capture in words his flawed perfection, I listen to one of my favorites, Details in the Fabric feat. James Morrison from his album We Sing, We Dance, We Steal Things. I don't think I could listen to My Chemical Romance all day long (no offense to the guys, I still love this band with all my heart).

And have I mentioned his poetry? I admit, I'm not some bigwig poet or poetry critic, and I don't read much of the stuff (I adore Poe's work, though), but I know clever wordplay and glaring yet subtle innuendos that only a master word weaver can pull off when I see it. And he's got it. Jason Mraz got it in heaps.

His song "Love for A Child" (again, from his latest album) appealed the most to me for reasons other than the soothing, catchy melody and witty metaphors. This song showed me that one thing is sure about him. He just doesn't pull words out from nowhere and slap them together with music. He writes them, and he means it. He means every single word.*

I could say no more. As Thomas Mann once wrote in his novella "Death in Venice", language could but extol, not reproduce, the beauties of the sense.

- - -

*I know that I may sound like a complete idiot with that fangirly statement, assuming that I know the man behind the music, but just humor me, will you? "Love for a Child" tugged something nasty at my heartstrings, and it made me realize quite a lot of things about myself, hence that statement.

Not gonna post anything about Christmas.

The Birthday Post

I feel no different. No sudden accelerated growth of cells nor unexpected bouts of maturity. For one thing, accelerated growth only happens in science labs and sci-fi movies/books, and maturity does not come in unexpected bouts. So I think a birthday isn't everything it's cracked up to be.

I am not disappointed, no. Disappointment, I feel, shall not come easily to me. For one thing, memories of the Saturday get-together with my high school friends keep replaying in my head. No, they're not just friends. Such an overused and underrated word would not and could never do them justice.

They are my brothers, my sisters- those select few of similar wavelengths, those who match my wits, those who could bear my callous attitude with graceful acceptance and knowing smiles. We spent most of the day in laughter (and amused annoyance- with Ray's overly bubbly little bro) and happiness in knowing that nothing changed between us. We may have changed and grown in the span of time that we were apart, but the unyielding camaraderie remains. (Krisann, Ray, Ia, AJ, Drei, Raymond- THANK YOU) And that is the best gift I could ever receive from them.

Then there's my family. Every carefree moment spent with them is precious to me no matter how taciturn I may seem with these matters. I know too well how we came dangerously close to falling apart, how I once harbored bitterness towards some of them, how it is possible for one (or several) of us to leave and never go back. Paranoid, I may be. But I learned from the best*. And being like this makes me appreciate the things that are normally overlooked by people who have a loving family.

I am not fussy with birthdays. Many people get the idea that I want a huge bash or tons of gifts to make me happy, but all I really want are the happy smiles of the people who matter.

That's all.

***

*This shall be discussed further in another post.

Of Inky Zeniths

I haven't raised the pen in so long. It might have become rusty with alienation, dry with abandonment, or useless with uncertainty. I haven't raised it in so long that the mere thought of having it in my grasp, while feeling its unfathomable power, makes me fear its existence.

Why have I forgotten it?

No. I have not forgotten it. It is a lie just a few steps from the truth, yet I cannot face it in love or remembrance. For brief moments in eternity, I had it. I loved it. It ran in my veins and was one with me for so long that parting was hell and heaven at the same time. I wielded a power so potent that for interminable moments, I was my own god. I was the essence of the universe. I created life, and took it back. Exhilarating, addicting. It is a power that very few could brandish and still retain their sanity. The screaming contrasts would overcome and consume. Its pliancy would seduce and beckon, and once you are in the power's grasp, it would, in turn, bend you to its will.

I thrived in it, in that intangible ambrosia that would soothe and burn. Burn. I burned with it, each lick of fire had left gaping yet impalpable wounds. They had never closed, never healed, and to this moment, I am left gasping for the hand that will never reach out. I am left longing for it, thirsting and wanting, until there is nothing more left of me.

I haven't raised the pen in so long. And I may never will, in this lifetime, and all the lifetimes that may come after.

Beautiful Riddles

Vol de la mort.

Flight of death.

A beautiful vision, is it not? To have the ability to evade death's playful arms paints a picture of utter purity. Flight...suggests freedom and brings to mind vivid pictures of immense meadows and endless blue skies. But we know better. I know better.

Voldemort is the picture of pure evil, of unadulterated sin that could not possibly exist in a human. Thirst for power, immortality and dominance. Greed. Utterly human. Well, Voldemort was human. He was human when he was still Tom Marvolo Riddle.

He's brilliant. Absolutely so. And beautiful, I must not forget that. A perfect mind in a perfect shell. Raven locks, alabaster-pale skin and unfathomable, cunning eyes that shone with pure artifice and ambition. A sculpted face hid the snake rearing just below the surface, and slender hands concealed spidery appendages. Such a perfect mask.

He had armies at his disposal before he even became Lord Voldemort. He had powerful families to command before he became a god.

Fear. They say that the icy, all-consuming hands of Fear would choke me, bleed me dry, once his blood eyes met mine. They say that I would feel the magic crackling in the air around him, that I would be on my knees without me knowing, that I would be kneeling before a mortal god.

I never felt fear. And I prostrated myself before him, as a Death Eater would, before he even became the serpentine deity. The ability to inspire love had never been one of his strongest points. No. That exquisite monster never knew love, and so he never gave it and believed in it. He had been denied the love of a mother and of friends. He never had the pure love of another soul. He condemns love. Yet we loved him- I loved him, like a child would love his mother, a follower to leader, lover to lover.

Tom Marvolo Riddle could have had the world to himself. He had us, he had me, at his fingertips. All he had to do was reach out, and grasp. But he suddenly walked down a path where no others dared to venture before, and sought immortality. His name could have been immortal, but he also wanted his form to persevere. And so he delved deep, much deeper than anyone has dared before, into the Dark Arts.

Commoners could not understand what became of him. They shirked from his snake-like visage, they feared his brimming power, they wondered at the sick perfection of it all. When commoners fail to understand, they choose to oppose. And that's what they did.

He thrived from the hate. He grew from the fear. Greedily, he drank and drank the viscous ambrosia that seemd to flow from the masses in endless rivulets. He would have not grown more formidable from any other substance. Not the Elixir of Life. Not unicorn blood. Not vampire blood. And not Harry Potter's blood.

When he became Lord Voldemort, he was still beautiful. Of course he was still brilliant. What changed was that his human nature, which was so entrenched in unspeakable evil, became the nature of a god, albeit an imperfect one.

Whoever said that gods should be perfect?

***

Mon ami, c'est pour toi.

I once saw an awkward boy who loved his books as much, or probably more so, as I loved mine. That was not enough for me, and so I did not befriend him. He was quiet, and I did not know much.

He loved machines. That was what I knew next. Nothing really significant. An awkward boy who loved books and computers. That was all. That was all.

I didn't know better.

I didn't know that he was a man, not a boy, in the more profound sense of the word. Yet his masculinity is different and far more alluring than that of commonplace egos and unwanted machismo. His strength lies in his enduring soul, in his precious ability to withstand all his pains and immortalize his rare joys. He does not feel the need to verbalize afflictions, and instead bears it alone to nurture his immense strength. His hands, rough from countless days of perfecting a warlike art, are the most striking of all. Pens are blessed when he uses them to weave words into splendor, words that rise from the superficial papyrus to form corporeality, words so vivid and compelling that they take a tangible form.

He is more than a man who loved his computers and his books. I know this now.

They could not see you. Commoners, the lot of them. Sadly, I was one of them, too, before I ever saw beyond the books, the computers, the strangeness. And, as pointless as this may be, I am sorry. I was a kid. That alone probably speaks for the blunder.

Flight. Go on, Loki, the Skywalker. Take to the air and shed your earthly form.

Ascend to the skies, and be. Be.

Starbucks: L'endroit de la pretentieux

Hindi ako regular sa Starbucks. Hindi ko rin yun second home. At lalong hindi kape at latte ang tubig ko. Mabibilang ko lang sa dalawang kamay ang mga pagkakataong tumambay ako dun. Kadalasan, mga barkada ang kasama ko, pero minsan nililibre din ako nila Kuya Ram at Ate Apol. (Tsk, when are they gonna get hitched?) Sa mga pagkakataong tumatambay ako dun eh talaga namang nakakaloka ang aking mga experience

Nangyari ito one week prior. Nilibre ako nila Ate Apol habang nasa grocery sila Nanay at Rjay. Eh di siyempre tatambay kami dun sa loob habang tinutungga-tungga ang pagkamahal-mahal na inumin (kapitalista!joke.) (strawberries and cream frappe ang pinili ko). So, with nothing else to do, I indulged in one of my favorite wala-akong-magawa-activities. People-watching.

Siyempre, pasimple akesh sa pagpipeople-watching (anu daw!?), baka kasi isipin ng mga tao ay isa akong psychotic freak/stalker/moron. Sa table na katabi namin ay may isang grupo ng mga kababaihan na parang mga kolehiyala, pero hindi sila naka-uniform. Sigurado akong hindi sila taga-UP, kasi iba ang vibes nila. One thing I'm sure of is that they're high-class peeps. Kung paano ko na-draw ang conclusion na iyon ay hindi ko rin alam. Anyways, lakas ng tawanan ng mga girlash. Parang sila lang ang tao sa loob ng coffee shop. At dinig na dinig pa ang mga tsismisan nila. Dyosko! Kaloka.

Pero ayos lang yon. At least, they're not pretentious. Get real, ika nga. Mas ayos na iyon kesa dito sa next person na sumagi sa aking paningin.

Honestly, maganda naman talaga ang babaeng ito. She's got the complete, physical package that most guys would fall for (id est, hair, face, body, clothes). She was not worth observing, actually, but she did this little thing that made my eyebrows rise beyond my hair line.

To girls out there, I'm sure you know this. Most girls have done this to other people who have, in their opinion, questionable fashion sense/I.Q./etc. HECK. All girls have done this sometime in their lives. Admit it. Anyways, this woman, upon entering Starbucks, made a beeline for the counter. Since our table was located directly beside the counter, I was in her line of vision. Upon seeing me, she gave me a once-over: starting from my hair down to my flats. She had this nasty, little smirk on her face, and as she passed me, she flipped her long, shampoo-commercial-worthy hair and held her chin high.

Papalampasin ko na sana 'to kung hindi lang niya inulit. Susmariajosepidal! Inulit pa niya! She went back to the counter to get her drink, and repeated the bitchy process all over again. I wanted to do something, like, stretch my leg out and trip her, or splash her java-chip all over her preppy clothes, but I don't want to sink to her level. (Haha. How terribly cliche.)

Marami pang phonies dun. Some are, literally, fakes. Mga fake na babae, id est, gay men. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against homosexuals. In fact, I love them and their spontaneity! They are actually being real when they flaunt their gayness. It's when they become shiny, hard and pretentious plastics that they annoy me.

It was probably more than a couple of years ago that the Starbucks fad literally hit the country. If you want to get technical, it was approximately a decade ago when the country's first Starbucks Coffee retail location opened in Makati, Manila's leading financial district, on December 4, 1997. But I'm talking about how it became a fad, especially among the youth. (I define youth as individuals within the age range of 15-24, in accordance with the United Nations General Assembly)

Aminin na natin. The allure of Starbucks lies predominantly on its capacity to boost one's social status. Once you're seen hanging out in Starbucks, you're automatically regarded as rich and part of the high-society. Psh. Katarantaduhan. Your friends would not let themselves be left out of the loop, and would start hanging out at S-bucks as well. This process works like a water ripple, and would just get bigger and bigger until all "contaminate-able" parties are affected.

But let me give Starbucks some credit. I'm no expert on coffee, but they make their drinks with a distinct taste and smoothness that probably attracted the sensible individuals. Not to mention the fact that the ambience is conducive to getting our creative juices flowing. Er...well...this was before sosyaleras, sosyaleros and the conio race invaded the formerly laid-back atmosphere of Starbucks and polluted the air with their foolish chatter that's primarily composed of phrases that they ripped off from Kris Aquino.

Again, I have nothing against high-society peeps. In fact, one of my circles of friends is composed mainly of rich kids from UP (how anomalous is that? Rich kids from UP?!). What annoys me is the sort of people who are not really conio but they still force themselves to act in that way, and they buy fake Louis Vuittons and Havaianas (id est, Havana) just to fit in and they blow their allowance (their parents' hard-earned money) just to buy ridiculously-expensive coffee. And to top it all off, they try so goddamn hard to speak a la conio english, never mind the fact that they sound like complete morons.

Eto sample:

"Like, how kainis is that? I mean, like, they're not even sosyal like us! Like, they're poor, di ba?"

"I know, right?"

Haha. Hilarious. And pathetic, at the same time.

One of Countless Ramblings

"Forgive, O Lord, my little joke on Thee and I'll forgive Thy great big one on me." - Robert Frost. Funny, funny man.

I'm at a standstill. I find myself in an irredeemable situation where I lose on both choices. I find myself at crossroads where each one leads to rocky cliffs that would lead to certain death. The proverbial yellow brick-road crumbles into a dirt path where nothing is certain, and everything is a myriad of abstracts and non-existence. I want to cry out to the skies, but then I remember that I have no right. No right, no right- a fiend cast from the lofty realms.

But then again, on the plane in between, are beings higher than those above, and deeper than those below. I find myself among them, in the company of immortals who chose the void, of creatures who thrive in non-belief, of men who are their own gods. It was beautiful, so impure, that I found myself drawn to the dark allure.

I wake. It was not a mere dream.

And so the week-long hiatus becomes longer than a week.

Happy Halloween! :)

It's Halloween. Ya know, the time for spooks and ghosties to pop out of nowhere and scare us chickens to death. Well, I don't exactly have to wait for Halloween to experience spooks, 'cause my place could have passed for a haunted house sans the rickety staircases and cobwebs and all that jazz. I can't explain it, but there are a lot of times that I see and feel other presences in the house, especially when I'm alone. I don't usually let these things affect me, because I am steadfast in my belief that once people die, they cease to be. But there were a few circumstances when the presence was so strong, to the point that it could have been a real person. And it was very hard not to freak out.

Okay. Let me explain what I meant by a strong presence. Just imagine that living people have a certain light inside of them that tells you they're there, sort of like a burning fire that releases heat and light that can be felt and seen. Like chi, I suppose. So that's how it felt like. And on some occasions, I feel more than one presence, though I am not quite sure how I was able to separately sense them, considering that they are supposed to exist metaphysically and could not possibly be disjointed into two, different entities.

I'm babbling. Sorry. Right now, I feel so freaked out about this, 'cause my folks and pesky brother are grocery-shopping, and I am alone in this cold, dark house. Well, I do have Sasuke for company, at least. But he's not much use, anyway, that lazy dog. He's a timawa! Haha.

Happy Halloween, people! (I have always wondered how Halloween could be happy. Tsk. So weird)

Toodles.

P.S. I keep seeing Twilight everywhere!It's so annoying how people would fuss about that ********. What is the world coming to? What have I done for the Fates to punish me so?!

I Had an Overdose of Troyella

Today, I watched High School Musical 3 with my family, and it was weird. It didn't really suck, but Gabriella was like a freaking brothel dancer. WARNING: MAJOR spoilers and severe language misuse and character-bashing. And Disney-bashing. And Ryelsi-shipping. Not for the faint of heart and die-hard Troyella fans. This is not really a serious review, after all, HSM3 is not really a serious movie, yeah? And before anything else, I love HSM, so the bashing and shitting are just part of loving it, heh.

Needless to say, I almost had a heart attack when Troy's face suddenly popped up on screen in the first scene, panting like a dog in heat. It was hot, yeah, if you ignore the fact that he had excessive pink lip gloss on and he was sweating buckets of fake sweat. Then there comes the proverbial deciding shot where the unknown player (in HSM 3, the Rocketboy or whatever) makes it and the team wins. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. (What team? WILDCATS! What team? WILDCATS!)

Then there's the post-victory party, in which the puke-inducing scene of Troyella on the oh-so-secluded tree house (which just came out of nowhere) made me throw up all the cheeseburger and fries that I gobbled up during the previews (that House Bunny movie seemes hilarious. must watch it). The next scene is...AGAIN...full of fucked-up Troyella. This is the part where Gabriella dances a la brothel style, and I got hit smack-dab on the face by a hot, dripping Troy. (You just gotta admit it, Troy's man-bangs is hot. I mean, girly hair on a manly guy? Come on.)

Let's go to the new characters, shall we? Jimmy the Rocketboy is downright freaky, man. He's started following Troy around like a whore in heat ever since the Wildcats' win, and he's asking for Troy's old locker. He says that it will give him an edge or superpowers in basketball or something, but let's face it, he's a gay stalker who's got the hots for the hot captain. I seriously think that he totally wants to steal Troy's gym shorts and sleep with it. And then there's Tiara Gold. I think she's an annoying, little cockroach. And unlike what Sharpay said, her accent is so not sweet, very far from Daniel Radcliffe's steaming British accent. It's like she's got a huge wad of hair stuck in her throat and it made me want to wring her by her skinny neck, that hideous scene-stealer. She's not replacing Sharpay that easily.

Speaking of Sharpay, she actually had the guts to suggest a one-woman show, and it's no secret who that woman is, yeah? Sharpay, you're cool and all, but sometimes you tend to overdo things a bit, ya know what I mean? Good thing there's Kelsi to shoot down your stupid...I mean...err...less-than-stellar ideas. (Kelsi you totally rock!) It was funny how she signed up the whole class to the musical to prevent Sharpay's disastrous plans. Haha.

Then there's lunch, and East High's cafeteria is transformed into Sharpay's (and Ryan's, probably) world. "I Want It All" is one of my favorite songs because it's fun, it's flashy, and it's full of Sharpay glam and Ryan hotness. Then...and then...Sharpay suggests her MOST BRILLIANT IDEA EVER. She wants Ryan to seduce Kelsi with his blonde and blinding hotness, and she says, "Polish her glasses, buy her ruby slippers, take her to prom!" Sharpay, Sharpay, Sharpay. You are one smart bitch! Yes Ryan! Listen to your evil twin sister and take Kelsi to prom! Yeah! Take that, ya mothafudgers!

Ahem..hehe. Sorry. Got carried away. Then there's the scene where the gang performed "A Night to Remember", and Ryelsi's entrance is grand! Just grand, I tell you! They just look so damn good together, the Composer and the Choreographer. Cue Ryelsi shippers' screams and giggles. Man, I am so smashed.

And then..and then.... *Tentenenententeeeeeeen!!!* We come to one of my favorite parts: the grand scene of Ryan and Kelsi where they drink tea and sing together! (cue *awwwww!*) It was perfect, and I bet my brother's balls that they were totally made for each other. *Sigh*

We all know that when good things happen (i.e. Ryelsi), then foul things must come right after (i.e. Troyella). I hate this part, hate it to the bottom of my long intestine, and I can't even bear to see the overflowing Gabriella emo-ness. The whole thing reeked of the most annoying sap I've had the misfortune to watch, and I almost empathized with Troy (and his hot man-bangs).

Then we come to another favorite of mine. The whole let's-act-like-toddlers-and-play-with-plastic-swords thing was cute, and the choreography was downright nifty, though the kiddie version of Troy looked slightly...off. Little-Chad is cute, though.

Gabriella's emo-song...is unmentionable. "Walk Away" is aggravating, and it's grating on my nerves (and ears). Y'know what, let's just NOT talk about it.

Moving on..moving on...Troy has a fight with his Dad, and he runs off to the school (how the hell did he get inside?) and suddenly, there was a thunderstorm (it rains waaaay too much, if you ask me). The following scenes are either oozing with hot Troy manliness, or still hot Troy gayness, I was spazzing and going nuts. There was grinding, bumping, shaking, swaying, leaning and over-all STEAMING gyrating with lots and lots of dreamy emo-ness. Oh freaking gods.

Then the freakiest thing happens. Miss Darbus suddenly appears from out of the darkness, and starts yapping about finding yourself and self-discovery and all that jazz...Ms. D, we love you and all, but that appearing-out-of-the-darkness thing is just...plain scary. Don't do that again. And how many teachers stay at school until late at night? No one. Besides murderous teachers from hell.

More Troyella shit. I can't even begin to think about it. Yeah, yeah. We get it. Troy loves Gabriella, Gabriella loves Troy. Now that we've settled that matter (repeatedly), I think it's high time for some RYELSI!!!

Then, there's the play. Ryan and Kelsi fluffiness! I love all the winking-and-smiling-at-each other part. I've said it once and I'm saying it again. Ryan and Kelsi are totally made for each other. FREAKING YEAH!

I wish that they could've included Zeke, Jason, Martha and Kelsi in the last part and not just the main six. It would've been awesome to the point of ultra-awesomeness. To sum it all up, Gabriella is sickening, Troy's man-bangs are hot, Troyella is sickening, Chad is cute, Taylor is funny, Tiara and Rocketboy are weird, Sharpay is her usual exaggerated self, Ryelsi is AWESOME, the scores and songs are waaaay better than HSM2, and I enjoyed it. Really. You guys should watch it.

Toodles.

A Bitter Bite from Twilight

I see myself as an ardent reader who is up-to-date with the best (and hottest) works of literature that ever hit the shelves. I usually make frequent forays to different bookshops and booksales to keep up with all things literary. But on top of all these, I am a passionate vampire literature bibliophile. I was Lestat de Lioncourt's lover before Harry Potter came along. I was Anne Rice's faithful disciple before Jo even finished writing The Sorcerer's Stone. And imagine my surprise when one of my college friends gushed about Twilight, THE vamp-lit by Stephenie Meyer, a book I haven't even heard of.

I was undeniably and utterly intrigued. A new vamp-lit, you say? Well, I do love you, Lestat, Marius and Khayman, my dahlings, but I must move on to...ahem...greener pastures and newer conquests. And so, I rushed to the bookstore and (miraculously) found a copy.

Somewhere at the back of my mind, my non-existent conscience kept muttering that I would be terribly disappointed with my new purchase, because it is, primarily, a romance lit. Like a normal human being, I ignored my (again, non-existent) conscience. Halfway into the novel, I can't help but feel a sense of foreboding, an unshakeable feeling that the book is just that, full of dark romance, perfect knights-in-shining-armor and forbidden love. Disappointed, I am, yet somehow I expected it. I am not going to delve into the most intricate technicalities of the novel since I have better things to do (i.e. write my English 12 term paper, yet I don't know why I'm wasting my precious time with this), but let me just give some of the things that have been persistently bugging me since I've finished the book.

I was, at first, wondering how this became so popular among young adults since this generation is not known to be fans of the supernatural and fantastical. I know that vamp-lit would have appealed to the more mature readers and not to a younger (female) audience who rant and rave about Gossip Girl, but after finishing the book, I understood.

Allow me to raise my points on two, different bases. Academically, there's nothing much laudable with Meyer's work. Sure, she was able to establish impressive contrasts between downright opposite variables, e.g. Phoenix and Forks, man and vampire, and was able to paint an alluring picture of light in darkness that tickled my imagination, but Meyer must have been using Twilight to practice her descriptive-narrative writing style, because there is an omnipresence of excessive descriptions that, ultimately, subjugates the more critical elements of plot development. There is a recurrence of how prodigiously perfect Edward is to the point of exaltation, and trust me, it gets aggravating after a while. I was saying to myself, "Yeah, yeah, Edward's scorchingly hot and could give Lestat a run for his money, but do you have to rub it in and repeat it every goddamn page?"

Another anomalous element that I've spotted is the conflicting developments made on Bella's character. She was made out to be an awkward, run-of-the-mill teenager, yet she somehow managed to ensnare the hearts of the boys of Forks. Not to mention the hot yet frostily unattainable vampire. Was this an attempt of Meyer's to incorporate a touch of realism in her characters and, in due course, develop Bella's characterization? If so, then she failed miserably in that area, because her stab at realistic characters ended up in quasi-pragmatism.

On a lighter yet not necessarily positive note, the relationship of Bella and Edward disturbed me greatly. I don't know if it's just me, but Edward's character practically consumes that of Bella's, to the point that she cannot and WILL not live without Edward's presence in her life. It became obssessive to a subtle point that Bella's existence depended on Edward. At one point in the book, though, I had this impression that Edward was Bella's father with the way he steers her to the right direction.

To all Twilight fans, don't fret, the book isn't wholly devoid of commendable points. Primarily, I would have to laud the nearly-imperceptible theme on morality that runs its course through Edward Cullen. This is most perceivable in his entirely apparent reluctance to turn Bella into a vampire, and his relinquishment of human prey, along with his "family". There are more impressive complexities that Edward's character encompasses, such as his inner struggle conceived from his awareness of the inherent danger on Bella's life. Anytime, he could lose control of the blood lust that he feels in the presence of Bella, and add the band of vampires who want Bella's blood into the mix and you get a histrionic amalgam of suspense and romance. The sexual tension is so palpable, I could almost taste it.

Honestly, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed lambasting it. It was thrilling and had the "danger" factor in abundant heaps, and offers a fast-paced turn of events (so fast it elapses the character and plot development, but that's beside the point).

I think that I lost a couple of IQ points by the end of the novel. It's no Shakespeare, and you don't even have to be an educated reader to appreciate this. My only advice is, don't think, just enjoy, and you'll probably forget that you squandered your precious, hard-earned moolah on this not-really-thought-provoking romance tale. It is, as they say, a vampire story for people who don't like vampire stories.

A part of me still can't understand how this managed to crawl its way up to the Times list, but predominantly, I know that it's because of the colossal popularity (and profit) that it managed to draw from millions of love-struck teenagers that jumped mindlessly onto the bandwagon. And unbelievably, yet predictably, Twilight is still garnering more fans by the minute. Just wait for that movie adaptation with Robert Pattinson as Edward. I bet my brother's balls that nearly every seat in every theater in every country will be occupied by a squealing/giggling/lovestruck female and/or an unwilling/reluctant/embarrassed person of the male species forced to take said female on a date.

And all I can say is, "Good luck, boys. At least you can drag your ladies to the next Jessica Alba movie without them complaining."

The UP experience

Reading the following article made me realize a lot of things about my university. Seven months ago, I had to force myself to accept the fact that my parents cannot afford an Atenean education, and that UP would have to suffice. I had to say a bitter good-bye to BS Health Sciences, and say a reluctant hello to BA European Languages. Inside, I was kicking and screaming a fit like an immature child. Now, I am thankful that I ended up in UP, because I learned more than academic knowledge that I'm sure I wouldn't be able to derive from just any institution. Being the premier national university doesn't have anything to do with it. Being the most desired choice for a tertiary education is irrelevant, because what UP offers is beyond that superficial drivel, and cannot be taken from just any other institution. I do not mean this as an affront to other schools. On the other hand, I really want my friends from other universities to experience this kind of exposure, because it evoked from me such an overwhelming sense of solidarity, such a precious feeling of empowerment and a desire to help and improve society. Being in its endless grounds made me realize, truly realize, that I am a Filipino, and that I have a responsibility to my compatriots.

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The following article is taken from Mish's blog
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This in no way should be taken as an affront to those who came from other institutions of learning.
First published 6 June 2008
The Manila
Standard Today
INTEGRATIONS
maya baltazar herrera
Voyage

The value of the UP Experience

There are no children here

This week, I went to a meeting at the UP School of Economics and I came
away with renewed belief in the value of the UP experience.

If you speak to anyone from UP – student, professor, alumnus - you will get
no Latin slogans or apologies about how the school teaches values in spite
of its outward materialism. This is not a student population that thinks about
basketball games or memorizes school songs. This is not a school that
chooses one statement to drill into the minds of its students.

This is not, of course, to say that UP does not care about values. It is that
UP, in its own inimitable way, believes that values cannot be force-fed.
The statue of the naked man that guards the entrance to the campus in
Diliman best represents UP's approach to all education and the respect for
students that is the center of its educational philosophy. All who come to
this university, regardless of origin, bring themselves naked, carrying nothing
but their thirst; like the proverbial empty teacup, making an offering of self,
waiting to be filled.

Adults

For many students from private schools, the first lesson that is learned
here is that this is a school for adult education. There are no children here,
and that is why no parents are allowed either at freshman orientation or
during enlistment.

The spirit of the oblation lies not in a mother or a father offering up his
child to the world, it is that of the newly adult, freely offering of his self.

I remember quite vividly that moment that drove home how different the
UP education continues to be. It was my daughter's first semester in
university and she had invited a group of her high school friends to our
house. One of them asked a classmate whether she had gotten her parents
permission form approved for that weekend's outreach activity. From the
UP population around the table came the mock horrified responses of:
"Permission? " and "Outreach?"

I thought about it and realized that all of these students were, in fact,
legally adults. I thought it interesting that only the UP students appeared
to appreciate this fact.

Even more interesting was the "outreach" comment. I think back to my own
university years and the last three years that my daughter has been in UP
and am certain there is no lack of civic activity. There are medical
missions, house building projects, tree planting, community work and barrio
work and so on. I realize now that the reaction was not to the activity as
much as it was to the use of the word.

One of the most important differences of the UP campus from all the other
campuses my children considered going to is that this campus has no walls.
Many parents fear this. They are afraid their precious children will not be
protected from the ills of society in a campus that is so open to the rest of
the world.

But UP is open to the world in more ways than just not having the physical
walls.

Community

Being in UP means much more than being a student. This campus is
enmeshed in a community. This community is made up not only of the
transient population of students who go home each night. It includes the many,
many students who lay their heads on dorm pillows each night, enduring time
away from families in the firm belief that this campus will bring them closer to
their dreams. This community includes the families of faculty and employees
who live on campus. It also includes the many people who work not for the
University, but nevertheless work on campus. This community includes the
lady who remembers the brand of cigarette you smoke and automatically
hands it to you in the morning. It includes the gentleman who remembers you
like pepper on your egg sandwich or the one who knows you will dip your fish
balls into two of his sauces, who patiently waits for you to eat your three
sticks before being paid. It includes the woman who saw all her children
through college by selling peanuts every day on campus.

To a UP student, the daily heartbeat of the school is never far away from
the realities of the country. The word outreach suggests that civic activity is
something outside of the normal, something you do once in a while. It must be
immensely difficult to think of community as a thing apart when your campus
experience brings you face to face with all of the world's realities every day.

Character

All of this probably explains that unmistakable sense of self that you will
find from students who come from this campus.

Here is a campus where all have the same opportunities to learn. But also,
here is a campus that will give all the same opportunities to fail. There are no
guidance counselors who will chase after you because you have been skipping
classes. The attitude this university takes is that you must take the initiative –
for learning, for seeking help, for realizing you need help.

That is not to say that no help exists. But it is help that is not forced upon you.

This is a university rich in both introspection and conversation. On this campus,
the student is constantly exposed to people – faculty, administrators, community
members, other students – who care deeply and passionately about the world.
The conversations are almost never purely cerebral. A single graph can provoke
comments about government policy and its effects on people.

As a result, UP is home to a student population that looks at the world and cares.
It is easy to see pictures of protesting students and dismiss it as radicalism. But
there are few campuses in this country where students go beyond a passing curiosity
about what is happening in the world beyond their own lives. There are even fewer
universities where students not only care but also actually believe they have a
responsibility to make a difference – not in some hazy future – today.

And that, I believe, is what truly forges character. Character is not molded by
speeches or long classes in ethics or theology. Character grows from within. It
begins by being handed the keys to your own self and being told you are in charge;
you now have power over yourself and your own actions – and with that power, you
take on responsibilities.

Each student in this university goes through his own unique voyage of discovery.
On his voyage, as he decides what he cares about, what he will fight for and what
he will sacrifice, he crafts his own personal values. That is what education is truly about.

Like, the hell?!

Okay. Something really freaky happened today. I saw Bayani Fernando on TV, in the show called Celebrity Duets. He was with the esteemed Pelita Corales, and they were singing some sort of groovy song. Trust me, it was unintentional. My father was the one watching the show and I, unlucky me, stumbled upon it.

I mean no disrespect, but I find the presence of a public servant (this is in reference to Bayani Fernando and all others) in a TV show other than a news program highly disturbing. It's like an actor-turned politician, how the actor has become a prototype for our next leaders, only this case is in reverse.

I don't like to think of the extreme, but our leaders have a history of getting into show business whenever the...ehem...elections draw near. Commercials, or INFOmercials (as they like to call those sudden appearances of senators/congressmen/who-the-hell-are-yous yapping about this-bill-that-ordinance that they passed/ratified/vouched for or adverts about skin whitening products/champion Pinoy boxers), start popping about twelve months before the elections and highly-suspicious talk show guestings about their fashion sense/family/latest business/whatever invade the boob tube.

I guess our statesmen have realized that the masses look to television for a possible candidate and derive from them a sense of security that sprang from the actors' lives being so out in the open. This kind of mentality shows that Filipinos have truly lost their trust in politicians. Instead, they take the actor and choose the lesser evil during elections. And so our politicos thought, "Hey, why not get into show biz, too? Might increase my popularity ratings a bit."

It's one thing for actors and non-political celebrities to step out of the tube and into the office, but it's completely another thing for respected (relatively speaking, of course) politicians and public servants to invade the equally dirty world of show business.

And, another thing. Saying "I. Am. Sorry." on national television with an obviously fake remorseful face isn't going to score you any brownie points, either.

An Open Letter to the Blindfolded One

When I was a kid, I have always imagined that I'm talking to God. I was so steadfast in my belief back then, to the point that I would pray every chance I got. When other kids would bully me, I would curl up in a bed and sob my heart out to an invisible friend. But that was years ago.

Fast forward to nine years, and here I am, a person who can't even bear to think of believing. It's like a roaring fire was suddenly extinguished by a swift, cold wind (pardon the poor metaphors). What's left? Just a pile of boring, lifeless ash, with no sense of purpose whatsoever.

Don't get me wrong. I am enjoying this state of non-belief, this exhilarating freedom where I have no obligations whatsoever to a Higher Being. And contrary to the belief of most believers, I still keep my morals intact despite the fact that I am what they would call an atheist, thankyouverymuch.

But there's just something missing, and I would feel really out of place when my friends or family would pray, as if I didn't belong because I don't believe in a Higher Power. But no matter how I try, I just can't bring myself to believe again. There's just so much decadence in the system, so much SIN, that it would feel like I'm just making a fool out of myself if I pretend.

My Catholic friends can't understand how I am able to live without seeking Divine Providence, without the assurance that someone up there, someone omniscient, omnipotent, omni-everything is watching over me. They'll ask, "Saan ka pupunta pag namatay ka na? To heaven or hell?"

And I'll answer, "Wala na. Eh di patay kung patay. I'll cease to exist, in particle and in being. And that's it. No after-life adventures for me. And certainly no sojourns as a different person in the far future."

And they'll reply, "That's sad."

I do agree, of course. The prospects of life after death, of a paradise so perfect, or of a chance to once again walk the earth as a different person are so alluring, like promises of a presidential candidate, so alluring that you would have no choice but to believe, so beautiful that you would have no qualms about living in despair and poverty, because as soon as you die, those sweet promises would become reality. And that's what matters, right?

I envy those who believe. Not because they have those gifts, those promises of paradise after death for as long as they live blameless lives, and certainly not because they have someone to watch over them and account for their mistakes. I envy them because they have the strength of heart, their ardent faith, and their fearlessness of the unknown, for it is certainly not easy to put your life in the invisible hands of an invisible god.

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Image taken from http://zalandria.files.wordpress.com/2008/03/housemate_atheist.jpg

It's Not Wholly Their Fault

It started with the music. What followed were the eyeliners and square-rimmed glasses. Oh, and don't forget the side fringe that obscured half their faces. It started with a handful of teenagers parading around in their black clothes and black auras. A year or so later, it managed to take nearly half the youth population by storm.

Emotional. Or "emo", if you would like to abide by what pop culture dictates. These are very different things, in my opinion. Being emotional is expected of every human, while being emo is not. Many sites define "emo" as a genre of music that stemmed from punk sometime in the late 90's, but in this generation, it is certainly more than that. It has evolved into something more significant, something that warrants careful attention and something that attracts discrimination.

I asked a friend to define emo in his own terms. Here is exactly what he said:

"They're those suicidal guys, right? They wear black stuff and eyeliner, and they slash their wrists to attract attention. And the hair, it's either covering half their faces or it's stiff with wax. They need serious help."

It was, admittedly, quite bigoted to say despite the fact that it is quite real in some cases. Alarmingly, "emo" reached a point when it is no longer just a fashion statement. It became more than just an expression of teenage angst and it went beyond the appreciation of emo music. It evolved into something bigger than a fashion statement. Some people took it much, much further, to a point when even they cannot handle the consequences. I'm talking about self-harm. And the extreme: suicide.

This is the point where everything goes down the drain. People who look the least bit like emo receive the worst treatment possible. They are accused of being deranged, attention seekers, homosexuals. They get bullied, jeered at and teased maliciously. Been there, done that. I admit that I was once charmed to the allure of the emo culture. And I like their style of dressing up. But that was it. There was never any self-harm involved. The phase ended there. But that, and being female, didn't spare me, and I was just lucky enough that all I got were cruel words. Some even get roughed up. And this, this blatant and heartless discrimination was what drove some kids, who were not even thinking of self-harm before, to commit suicide.

I don't know what to call it. Is it merely a trend, a fad? Or is it something much more to those who follow it? Is it a culture, a lifestyle to which a person must live by? Is it worth dying for? Is the glorification of this culture worth your life and everything that you've lived for before you even became "emo"?

It's fine to use eyeliner and tight, dark clothes. It's fine to dye your hair black, to write poetry and it's definitely okay to cry. But it's not okay, and definitely not cool, to use the blade.
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Oooookay. One of the reasons I ranted about "emo-ism" is the fact that I have to write a term paper about it. I can't figure out where to start, and then I realized that, maybe, writing a blog entry about it would get the creative juices flowing. But another reason is the fact that the problem exists, even here in the Philippines. Even kids below 12 years of age are becoming hooked to this. But they shouldn't be. I swear to Immanuel Kant that they shouldn't be.

This is sooo NOT cool, people. Hurting yourself and taking your life should never be an option in the first place.

And these are not right, either. Do you know what these are called? It starts with "b" and ends with "y". I think I don't have to spell that out for you. All I'm asking is, please, let's behave and don't judge other people by what they wear or by the music they listen to. It's just as bad as self-harm, because you're hurting others.

Disclaimer: these images are not mine and were just taken from: http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii48/boroP/, i275.photobucket.com/.../anti-emo-1.jpg

Again

This is the nth time that I've made a blog.

If memory serves me right, I have three blogs that remain unused after some time due to a couple of things: a) I forgot the passwords and everything and, b) I got tired of having to maintain it. Yes, I know. I have a bad memory for my age. And I ran out of things to say.

Now, nearly a year later, I realized that I can never run out of things to say. Especially now that I am constantly ensconced in a very different environment that deals a serious culture shock to my poor, sheltered self. Everything is completely different that I had to pause and check if I'm not trapped in a very realistic dream.

I'm talking about college. You know, that proverbial circus of diverse people with uncontrollable and questionable hormones? Add nutty professors to the mix and you've got a pandemonium on your hands. Yeah, you know. Who doesn't?

Now, I'm rambling. I have the tendency to do that, especially when I'm doing something while I should be doing something else. Does that make sense? Let me cite an example. Right now, I should be wholly immersed in the completion of my term paper instead of indulging myself in the addictive arts of blogging. But I don't feel the least bit guilty, the reason why I'm still typing this right now.

Well, it is good to be back. At least, my little brother won't have to be the receiving end of my daily tirades about inane things.