Floating Letters

Dear whoever-you-might-be, my all time best friend and crime partner,


MA! Hahaha. Sure you won’t be able to read this, because (1) you’ve got BAD eyesight and (2) you don’t care about the computer and all its “craps”. Maybe I’ll say this to you in person sometime in the future, you just have to wait for that tremendous drama. Anyway, I just want to say I’m still up to continue our crimes! *smirk* No matter how crazy I may seem, I’m still going to be you superhero. You know that, and I promise that, though you’ve been my super-duper-megalicious-extraordinary-heroine all this time. I guess I cannot help but get a little cheesy here again, but I do love you! We often snort at each other when topics like this were put on the air, but it’s true. Take a good care of your health.. Errrr, I may close this part with a quote from Stephenie Meyer’s NEW MOON: “I’ll do everything I can, but I’ll appreciate a little help.” Very well said.


Dear whoever-you-might be, always-standing-there-for-US-no-matter-what-happens,

I’m not going to keep my recipient anonymous: dadsie. You may not read this, knowing how you abhor the very site called Friendster because you cannot get me AND/OR my sister to dinner during weekends. But just the same, I want to say I appreciate whatever you’re doing for us. Maybe I’m not at best when showing my gratitude, but I love you more than anyone. You’re the only man in the world I love this MUCH. I have my lapses in exposing my care for you, and I’m sorry for not being very showy. I guess you’ll know that, anyway. I just think I’m good at hiding things, but everyone’s actions seem to say I’m otherwise. You also notice that?

You yourself try to be subtle in your own feelings for us children, but you unconsciously produce BIG holes where your emotions spill out. Mother knows that, and she feels that. But I won’t deny you have your own lapses—though, those lapses were overlapped by everything you give to us. How can anyone be so kind? You’re the coolest guy around. And if ever you DO read this, please expect me to hide under the blankets ‘till you decide to drive your way—–away to your work in Tarlac. It’s the corniest piece I’ve written for you. I’m cheesy by nature, anyway (the books are the culprits!). And I take that after YOU. Ha-ha. Please take care! Even if you’re miles away from me tonight, please know that I’m praying for your safety. I love you. *smooch*

Dear whoever-you-might-be, the most mischievous pixie-like creature to ever roam…our house,

Well it’s you, sizzzlingster. Hahah. One piece of advice: keep on being the dangerous creature I know. And since I’m 101% certain you’ll not read this entry *and even if a miracle occur and you DO read this, I doubt you’re going to get at this part, since lots of reading intimidate you that easy*, I’m not going to be very corny, like my letters to mom and dad. Stay as fierce as you are, and don’t forget to study well, and don’t indulge yourself too much in Jonas Brothers, and don’t forget to wash the dishes when it’s finally your turn, and don’t forget to put your shoe rags in plastic bags before cramming them in your bag, and don’t forget to set your alarm clock so that we won’t make another round of blaming contest in the morning, and don’t forget where your portion of the bed is because it kind of pisses me off when you sprawl in my ‘territory’, and don’t forget all of what I’m saying, flashing your innocent look and that all-too-annoying, “ano ulit?” Oh well. Knowing you, you won’t obey a single word from me. But still….I heart you! You’re the best damn thing next to annoyance. *smirks* Kill me.


Dear whoever-you-might-be, keeping on pulling at my optimistic side,

Whether you’re expecting a DSLR camera, musing over a funny children’s show character, cuddling a new bunny, celebrating over 15,000php kickback or preparing for a busy modeling career in Bangkok, I just want you to know that you’ve been a good circle to me. Thank you. I’m doing all the best that I can so that I can stay with you. All will fall into their respective places, and no matter what the outcome, I know it’s God’s will. I might be the worst pessimist in this universe (just check out my previous blog entry), but I think I can take after Pollyanna as much as I can. Thank you very much, from the bottom of my little charred heart (boo-hoo!). I love you all! Thank you for everything.


Dear whoever-you-might-be, er—you MIGHT be. Yeah, you. Whatever.

Uh, hi! Keep smiling.

Dear whoever-you-might-be, the best and most rockin’ lassie in the punk world,

I know you’re doing well and that you’re very happy right now. You’re getting what you deserve gradually. Honestly, I missed you so much! We still DO talk over the internet, but I want to see you again in person. I love you, bettttch. You still have me if you have problems, though I doubt you’d run to me, since it was always ME who ran to you when I’ve got a problem. Sorry for being the klutz that I was, the reckless person you’ve come to know. FAVOR! Give me one virtual big hug! I love you. You’re like a sister to me. You’re now painting your great fairy tale. Have your happy ending, and consider me a part of the story when you’re still not encountering your fairy god mother. Please be safe!


Dear whoever-you-might-be, the person whom I trust very well and I will continue to love,

Of course you know who you are. A dear confidant, a very intelligent person, an understanding co-dreamer. Thanks! Even if I haven’t seen you in a long time now, I still feel you like you’re just here beside me. And oh, thank you for those words you say were ‘subtle’, though they ripped right through my thorax and stung my heart *sniff*. Well. I just miss you, that’s what I’m trying to say. And oh, I know you’re going to be okay, like what you’ve said. You’re one of the strongest people who barged into my life. And well, thank you for tolerating my psychotic side, about the angels we talked about and how beautiful their wings were, about trading our own distorted views of the world, about the bittersweetness we learned to keep in each other’s lockers. Just one favor: please let me worry about you. I know you could make yourself alright without help from anyone, but I’d love to help you in the best way I know. Keep in touch, sis!

Dear whoever-you-might-be, the same lazy high school buddy I’ve always known from giddy-hood,

HEY! I know that even if I say I’ve got a portion of you in one of my entries, you’d still decide not to look at it. I couldn’t imagine someone else THAT lazy! Anyway, as long as I know that you haven’t forgotten me, I am ok. Though, I’m still going to talk as if you’re going to read this. I missed the funny times we have together, those times you shed your held-in emotions to me, those times when we helped each other and sometimes mock each other. I just missed you WHOLLY! *hug* I hope you’re just doing well. I still have a few sources from NTC and PLM about you. YEAH, I’m keeping track of what you’re doing, hunny. Stalker? hell, like I’ll stalk anyone like you. PEACE! Please be safe, that’s all!

Dear whoever-you-might-be, you little creatures I met online, people who despite talking with digitized technology still managed to build true and bizarre friendship,

Who else? Thank you guys for keeping the bridge strong. I used to believe that online friendship were some sort of crap, but that belief changed after I met you guys here: this little sweet thing I called my popsicle, her best friend whom I share my venom with, their Indonesian friend who I can always talk to in the wee small hours of the day, their gorgeous part-Japanese, part-Chinese, part-Filipino kid friend, some more dark creatures who wanted so badly to own the perfect guy Edward Cullen, and recently a smart Murakami-addict who talks a lot like Bob Ong. You’ve got one-of-a-kind personalities that I won’t find anywhere else. I don’t make friends online just to pass time; I do that because I want to reach out to people who may want to reach out to me as well, who may want to write memories with true people connected by the modern science. Keep it stronger, and let the circle go tighter. I wish you all the best in your lives outside our digital world.


Dear whoever-you-might-be, still up at two in the morning and typing these dead letters of sorts,

Oh well. Why you’re still up? Still bored? There’s nothing left to do now but enjoy the rest of the sembreak, but how about some sleep? You could finish all those PULP back issues on some other day, and you could download songs the whole year. Just sleep NOW. You notice how big you’re eyebags were already? Umm.. how about your fuzzy mind right now? And what the heck crossed your mind to stop this entry for a while……….hey you’re back, after frying some bacon and scrapping cold rice from the pot?! Breakfast two hours after midnight?! Hey you’re crazy! You’d get FATTER, silly! Er. Whatever. You’ve got problems? You’ve got a lot of people you can run to, like the ones you wrote letters to, the ones above this letter, and the one just ABOVE. He knows what’s the best for you.

And hey? What’s with that mischievous thought? Hey wait———-

Not-so-dear whoever-you-might-be, the gremlin who keeps on squeezing into my world for me to notice your hate notes,

How about a trip to hell and back? Ah, no, ignore the ‘back’ part. Just stay where you belong.*

*I can be extremely mean when I like to.


SINCERELY YOURS,

Airiz

A Spoonful of False Hopes, a Pocketful of Maybes, and a Bucket-ful of Self-Deception

I own nothing now, and I am only holding onto the three things I mentioned in the title. Sounds a bit normal, right? How about after hearing that I’ve got my cranium oozing with worms of doubts, my eye sockets filled not with my eyeballs but with a magnifier for lies, my nostrils flaring not because of breathing oxygen but because of inhaling the scent of the rancid nature of the worst specimens of humankind? I’m so paranoid.

Maybe I really did come from an asylum after all. Or maybe I’m bound to be sent there in the near future— who knows? I’m not so sure of myself now—my mind’s floating somewhere I’ve never been, somewhere I’ll never be in. If someone’s going to swathe me in a straightjacket now or shoot my veins up with the strongest type of tranquilizer around, I’m not going to resist; I might even encourage them to lock my head up in a bird cage if ever they think I’m going to chew my restraints to escape.

I am the worst kind of person alive. I’m decaying beyond recognition that every morning when I wake up, I’ll feel like I’m not myself anymore. I look straight to the mirror and see there the corpse of the former girl I used to see a couple of months ago. I am dead.

Sure, anyone who reads this might find himself shrugging or rolling your eyes at my words. I’ll acknowledge that, because I understand that no normal being will understand me.

I feel so jaded. I cannot expect myself to be always strong, for I am NEVER strong to start with. I am so useless; I kept on manufacturing mistakes after mistakes after mistakes. What do you call someone who knows how to avoid repeating a mistake but never tried to do it? I’m worse than a fool; I never learned.

What will I do now after typing this entry? Am I going to slip into my well-made tragedy again, filled with the actors who continually slap me with the epiphany blotting up my sanity? Oh well. As if I’ve got another choice.

If only I could redeem my old self, that girl who despite being very unsightly is still full of life, maybe I’ll live through all of this and believe that life is all about skittles and beer after all. I don’t know where to retrieve that soul; I don’t know where I would see her again. She’d popped into nothing, leaving without a single trace. How am I supposed to find my way back? I’ve lost everything.

And by that I include myself.

I’m a breathing dead.

Be Careful With What You Say

I was wreaking havoc with the laptop before midnight last night (at intervals sipping cold coffee) and found that my dadsie forgot to log out from Yahoo! Mail.. He’s got thirty six new messages and out of curiosity, I opened the inbox.  The messages were work-related, (i.e. the latest inventory on blah blah blah, the sales update for the month blah blah—eyy, my dad’s a sales agent of SMC, btw). They all have attachments and randomly, I clicked one. I saw this and I DEFINITELY AGREED WITH IT:

DID YOU KNOW THESE FACTS?
  I’M SURE DIDNT TILL NOW

Death is certain but the Bible speaks about untimely death!

Make a personal reflection about this.....

Very interesting, read until the  end.....
It is written in the Bible (Galatians 6:7):

'Be not deceived; God is not mocked:
for whatsoever a man soweth,  that shall he also reap.

Here are some men and women who mocked God:


John Lennon (Singer):

Some years before, during his interview with an    American Magazine, he said:  

'Christianity will end, it will disappear.    I do not have to argue about that. I am certain.

Jesus was ok, but his subjects were too simple, Today we are more famous than Him' (1966).

Lennon, after saying that the Beatles were more famous than Jesus Christ, was shot six times.


Tancredo Neves (President of Brazil):  
During the Presidential campaign, he said if he got 500,000 votes from his party, not even God    would remove him from Presidency.

Sure he got the votes, but he got sick a day  before being made President, then he died.

   
Cazuza  (Bi-sexual Brazilia n composer, singer and poet):


During A show in Canecio (Rio de Janeiro ),   while smoking his cigarette, he puffed out some smoke into the air and said: 'God, that's for you.'

He died at the age of 32 of AIDS in a horrible manner.


The man who built the Titanic

After the construction of Titanic, a reporter asked   him how safe the Titanic would be.

With an ironic tone he said:  'Not even God can sink it'

The  result:   I think you all know what happened to the Titanic .


Marilyn Monroe  (Actress)

She was visited by Billy Graham during a   presentation of a show. He said the Spirit of God had sent him to preach   to her. After hearin g what the Preacher had to say, she said:  
 'I don't need your Jesus'.

A week later, she was found dead in her   apartment .  

Bon Scott (Singer)      
The ex-vocalist of AC/DC. On one of his 1979 songs he sang:
'Don't stop me, I'm going down all the way, down the highway to hell'.

On  the 19th of  February 1980, Bon Scott was found dead, he had been choked by his own vomit.

Campinas  (IN 2005)
In Campinas, Brazil a group of friends, drunk, went to pick up a friend.. ....
The mother accompanied her to the car  and was so worried about the drunkenness of her friends and she said to the daughter holding her hand, who was already seated in the car:

'My Daughter, Go With God And May He Protect You..'
 She responded: 'Only If He (God) Travels  In The Trunk, Cause Inside Here.....It's Already Full '

Hours later, news came by that they had been involved in a fatal accident, everyone had died,
the car could not be recognized what type of car it had  been, but surprisingly, the trunk was intact.

The police said there was no way the trunk could   have remained intact. To their surprise, inside the trunk was a crate of   eggs, none was broken .
  
Christine Hewitt  (Jamaican Journalist and entertainer)  said the Bible (Word of God) was the worst book   ever written.

In June 2006 she was found burnt beyond recognition in her motor vehicle .

Many more important people have forgotten that   there is no other name that was given so   much authority as the name of Jesus.

Many have died, but only Jesus died and rose   again, and he is still alive .

       'Jesus'  

The message says it all. Actually, at the end of the message, I was told to send it to 8 people if I really care. I want to spread this info through this blog, so I think not only eight people were able to read this. Please imbibe them in you heart.

Surreal Paperbacks

Reality itself is a scary and bizarre novel; some people think they don’t need anything scarier to see. Life per se is too frightening, they say. If you’re one of these people, I suggest you to read any of the books here in my list. The reality we’re often scared of becomes an actual foundation of more misshapen and without a doubt more appalling worlds. Here are the worlds I’m talking about: they topped my most surreal reading list, and after having one of them, I’ll bet you’ll have a different definition of what’s ODD, and to some extent, SCARY.

 HUSH by Mark Nykanen.

This spine-tingling tome is one you won’t be able to put down once you’ve started reading it. Seven-year-old Davy Boyce witnesses how his sociopath stepfather, Chet, murders his mother after trying to confess that the said man is sexually abusing him. Chet brings the child to Oregon with intentions of preying on the boy better, and little Davy becomes an elective mute and biter. Davy is then sent to a children’s center, meeting art therapist Celia Griswold. Celia notices the violence in Davy’s drawings and she becomes suspicious of what these mean. Seeing Celia as a threat, Chet begins to distract her in a breath-taking cat-and-mouse chase… Nykanen is good at bringing terror to its truest form, and while most reviewers find this work overdone with sexual abuse, I must say he’s just done well at describing how a literary villain sees what he does. Very dark, this masterpiece can send you gasping with every page.

THE DEAD LETTERS  by Tom Piccirilli.

Personally, I think Tom’s got the darkest poisoned pen when it comes to writing horrible tales. In ‘The Dead Letters’, Eddie Whitt’s five-year-old daughter becomes the first of the victims of the serial killer billed as “Killjoy”. Grief engulfs him deeply and he vows to hunt the culprit no matter what the cost. A decade after, Eddie hears that the serial killer is now bizarrely abducting children from abusive families and giving them to the families of his original victims. Killjoy starts sending Eddie pointless letters that soon lead him to a cult. Eddie then starts to believe he’s losing his mind, sensing odd activity in his daughter’s doll house filled with talking dolls… As dark forces rise around him, Whitt must choose—between believing that evil can repent…and stepping into a trap set by a killer who may know the only way to save Whitt’s soul.

A CHOIR OF ILL CHILDREN  by Tom Piccirilli.

Guilty here: I can’t get enough of mister Tom. Here’s my Multiply review for this book: It’s Violence with all a capital V. When someone says the word Kingdom Come, anyone will think we are talking about heaven, a paradise, or an everlasting life. But not everybody has the same perspective. Our gothic pen-pusher Tom Piccirilli has another definition of Kingdom Come: a decaying swamp backwater that imprisons the lost, the ill-fated, and the damned. It is a place where violence is normal, where frogs and bats were leashed with ribbons and toyed by young children, where doctors were degraded and witches are admired. A total opposite of heaven, plus a bunch of characters that can surely pinch your heart at the same time conjure up a comical fear you surely haven’t felt before.

Thomas, our protagonist, has grown immune of all the twisted norms in his town, and he didn’t bother ‘locking’ his closet stuck with all his family’s “skeletons”. When the time comes that he should sacrifice his pride so that he could save the ones he loved and despised, he must at the same time confront his past that has haunted him inside for years.

I enjoyed the book because of the gasps induced by each brutal page, because of how each character manifest their own showcase of violence in sour playfulness. The plot is more or less apocalyptic, peppered with ghoulish laughter and unconventional drama.

But there’s more to it other than finding the sweet spot on the skull of your adversary to strike and make it shatter like ancient pottery. In almost two hundred thirty pages, Piccirilli was able to tell a tale of great lessons underneath the brutality of the words: about facing your inner demons in the shape of your past, responsibility, love, grudge, redemption, and about life as a whole. It’s one gothic masterpiece worth reading.

             

HEART-SHAPED BOX  by Joe Hill.

Joe Hill’s too good that he doesn’t need to ride his father’s—Stephen King’s—coattails in order to get a name in the limelight. Here’s my Friendster review for this novel: A chess game with severed fingers as playing pieces. A cannibal cookbook. A skull penholder. A Mexican snuff movie. For middle-aged rock star Judas Coyne, buying a ghost in the internet will complete his bizarre collection. He thinks he can handle the poltergeist as easily as handling the ‘ghosts of his past: an abusive father,an uncaring mother, a suicidal girlfriend and dead bandmates.He never realizes that this ghost, sent to his house in a heart-shaped box, is actually a part of a fatal conspiracy and will drive him to insanity when it starts lurking around his house to exact revenge for a dead stepdaughter.

In this hair-raising thriller, Joe Hill proved that he doesn't need to ride his father’s (Stephen King) coattails to gain a sizable, admiring audience. He is original in himself, making the book a great deal of whopping realities about the life of rock stars as well as the lives of those who are seeking for justice. He showed how a victimizer fell trapped in his own victimizing-games effectively, seasoning the plot with macabre thoughts, bloody violence, and dramatic flashbacks from a boy Judas once have been. Readers won’t even notice that goose bumps are already surfacing on their skin!

There are large amounts of half-hidden sentiments here, too. Hard-hearted rock star told his assistant not to tell about his being kind for he wants to show everybody that he is heartless—an outcome of his sad childhood as Johnny Cowzinsky—a situation utterly not unfamiliar for it happens in real life . It is true as well that somebody can die for a lost love.This story tells as well the ‘karma’ of those guys who collects girlfriends just for the sake of showing the public their ‘manhood’. Not your typical thriller, I loved this book for I somewhat imagined how a rock-music lover writes what he wants in a unique way that he can stun large audiences. A must-read book.

THE WIND-UP BIRD CHRONICLE  by Haruki Murakami.

How does a lost cat drives a man crazy? Haruki Murakami never fades when it comes to surprises of blurry dreams, warped reality, and quirky bittersweetness all mixed up in the head of the main protagonist. Toru Okada finds himself searching for his wife’s lost cat one day, and eventually the search extended in finding his lost wife as well. In the process, he meets a handful of peculiar characters: a psychic prostitute, a morbid teenager, a sinister and mediagenic politician, and a war veteran who offers him secrets about the forgotten campaign of Japan in Manchuria. Find the surprising love stories twisted the Murakami way to be imprinted in your mind forever.

ANGELby Cliff McNish. 

This isn’t actually a scary story; it just tells about a tale of a girl whom her father believes to be mentally unstable for seeing angels. Freya Harrison was hospitalized for several  years because of this, but she cannot stop seeing the winged creatures. Soon she learns that she isn’t an ordinary human at all and that she has some responsibilities that she must take for the sake of protecting the ones she loves. This is a tale of everyday reality—why people never seemed to be contented in what they have, the sour truth in each and everyone’s social circle, the hurt of being misunderstood and not believed, and most of all, the human nature called selfishness: wanting to do the right thing, but afraid to make mistakes and endangering oneself. You might wonder why I put so light a tale to come with these heavy titles. ‘Angel’, in my view, just ranks with them in terms of telling us that the reality we’re often scared of is actually just a part of an overly complicated world. The story rips through the human skin for us to see the ‘we’ we often refuse to recognize.

THE OLD KINGDOM TRILOGY  by Garth Nix.

 The books—Sabriel, Lirael, and Abhorsen—are not at all scary, but they will tell you there’s a lot to learn about destiny and death. The Abhorsen (a necromancer not of the common kind; where others of the art bring back the dead to walk the earth once again, the Abhorsen brings the undead back to the graves—or try to) revolves around teenagers who were hesitant to take up the said title. In the first book, dauntless Sabriel embarks on a journey to save her father and discovers about the importance of acceptance and choices. The second book tells about the story of the suicidal half-sister of Sabriel, Lirael, who learns the essence of life and how to accept responsibilities that can save not only herself, but everyone around her. The third book, Abhorsen, is a loose continuation of Lirael, and is a nail-biting thriller that emphasizes the importance of holding on, togetherness, choices, and second chances.

ACROSS THE WALL by Garth Nix.

This is an anthology of short stories that are somewhat related to Nix’ Old Kingdom Trilogy. The first novella features an ordinary young man (a supporting character in the trilogy) finding himself torn between choosing paths that will dictate his future. Doubts, fear, and reluctance stop him from choosing what he thinks is right, but in the end, what he wants prevails. The other stories featured here are a story of two siblings in the middle of the war, a modern version of Hansel and Gretel (complete with cellphones and cars), an old-ish fable that changes Nix’ real life, a sort of dice game adventure, and some self-made Arthurian legends. Lots of lessons here—a guidebook-of-sorts for real life. :D

SOPHIE’S WORLD  by Jostein Gaarder. This Norwegian story of fourteen-year-old Sophie Amundsen and a fifty-year-old philosopher Albert Knox, this novel is filled with philosophies from Pre-Socratic Greeks through Jean-Paul Sartre, done in the cute Alice-in-Wonderland way. But no, it’s not as childish as it sounds. There’s a lot to learn in here: almost everything, I say, from the existence of Lego to how an innocent child will react upon seeing his father ‘flying’ above the dining table. This title might be old, but when you read it, you’ll always find something new. This is not a scary novel to start with, but I put Gaarder in the roster for I consider this work “So real yet surreal”.

THE SANDMAN:the book of dreams 

by Neil Gaiman and Ed Kramer.

This book is an anthology of short stories inspired by Gaiman’s graphic novels in the DC Comics, where seven siblings—Destiny, Death, Dream, Destruction, Despair, Desire, and Delirium—rule the world (see my blog entry “Morsels of Me in Gaiman’s Cranium for more information). Short stories authored by famous writers such as Colin Greenland, John M. Ford, Lisa Goldstein, Barbara Hambly, Will Shetterly, Tad Williams, and even singer Tori Amos were featured in this compilation. This is the most convenient Gaiman work that I could ever have now, since I can’t find any graphic novel AND because a single graphic novel costs at least 1,000 bucks. That’s…well, a bit too pricey.

***************

WHEW! I think I should end here. That’s the reading list for now, so run now to the nearest bookstore and dig these up in the bargain pyramid.

You won’t regret it. :D

Race between Hesitant Heartbeats and Ticking Clocks

The clock’s second hand will catch us.
Like it always does.

It’s going to be my final day of my first semester as a sophomore tomorrow. You may think I am just wasting my time here typing this entry (mainly because the finals exams ARE NOT yet over and I ought to be reviewing my notes—shucks, it’s Sociology-Anthropology!!!), but I think these wasted minutes here are worth, well, reading. For future purposes.. to remember how foolish I am to prioritize blogs over exams. Pshaw.

Oh well. My semester has been great—the original thirty-plus members of the A104 now have depleted into ten Journalism students. Fear swept over me upon learning of our small number at the start of the semester, for the course might get dissolved. Fortunately, it does not— even if it looks absurd to have a world-renowned media practitioner and professor to sit inside the circle of ten journalism newbies (actually, attendance sheets were often numbered up to five only, since the other five intermittently attends the subject) like we were in a picnic of sorts. XD

The semester was crammed up to the brim with new experiences that only college life could give us. We took up our first major subjects—News writing and sports writing, with the *ahem* personality I just talked about earlier, Mr. Guillermo Santos. He was a great professor, and he fully understood how we procrastinate in his subjects *bad students!* He was extremely patient, for I know how irritating it was to have students like us. XD. Under sir Gil, I managed to set foot in Destiny Channel studio and watched a live episode of sir Gil’s talk show. I remembered getting too occupied with what we were going to do there that when the time to go home came I realized that I don’t actually know how to get home. XD I took a cab with one of my classmates and I safely managed to get home *and without any interrogations, as my mother has finally fallen asleep when I arrived*.

Another awe-inspiring professor, Ms. Renalyn Valdez, “resurrected” to create a sequel to her communications subject with us. I loved her subject, seriously, and I was a bit sad that the semester has ended that soon. I would surely miss how we imbibe the lessons on the theories and how we apply those theories in our lives, I would miss the pressure we felt in the essay-type exams that was the unique Ma’am-Ren-style, I would miss the days of funny activities, the furtive camera shots we took when the atmosphere got too soporific… One particular memory would keep on pulsating in my mind for a long time, I know: the time when I, Mamu Kit, Debbie, and Kianah invaded a small space outside Starbucks to make our journal entries, at intervals inserting jokes and sipping our Frappe. XD That was a remarkable day.

This sem is remarkable in my lame sports history. We got to have bowling for P.E., and it was exciting! Yeah, I admit I’m not really good at it (with every ball lofted or thrown into the canal) but I enjoyed playing it. Professor Victoria Banzon was a rather friendly teacher. Chatting with her is more like chatting with a friend

Then there enter Ma’am Consolacion Sauco, who like Ma’am Ren came to teach us again, with Philippine Literature this time. I’ve got a bunch of genuine classmates in this minor subject. Most of them were HRM students and they loved to mock our professor by shrieking “number one!!”, whenever Ma’am Sauco would talk about her achievements. And of course, would I ever forget the day when she got infuriated with me when I allegedly laughed hard that it irritated her? No way. And for final defense, seriously, I DIDN’T laugh hard. I just smirked *bang*.

And speaking of the professors who ‘came back’, let’s put Professor Dindo Danganan in the roster. He’s back to teach Broadcast Journalism. His subject was a dead ringer of his last, and this sent us a little irritated. We didn’t even have the chance to get full service from the MAClab!! Anyway, it was in his subject that we first made our first documentary about a radio station and our very own petite news show. Though that doesn't necessarily equate to the wasted P1,500 paid for the lab services.

Moving on… I didn’t mean to always look forward on Tuesdays and Fridays like there haven’t any other Tuesdays and Fridays that passed my life, but I felt like it. This has many reasons: first, it was the day of the Writing in the Discipline subject. I like English. In Professor Josephine Galicha’s subject, I, together with two co-journalism students and a taekwondo jin, produced our very first college baby thesis. It was about the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle, and we were able to interview one of those who lived to tell about the tale of the said mystery—Mr. Bruce Gernon (Time out! I am planning to post a separate blog entry about him, by the way). Her class was okay, but I took note that more students here were more interested in talking to each other than listening to our professor. Her surname was often punned to “Galit cha”, loose Tagalog equivalents of the words “she’s angry” *AND to avoid plagiarism, I acknowledge Ms. Kianah Amil for coining the terms*.

In the process of making our paper, our Sociology-Anthropology professor, Mr. Nestor Velasco, helped in giving us almost all the necessary things we need. That was very kind of him; he was in fact very kind to everyone. There were times that he felt his kindness was ‘abused’, and those times were the moments where his life stories would come out to either inspire or bug us (at some level, for there are stories that were repeated and repeated and he didn’t seem to notice that he was actually repeating them). But his kindness was undisputed. He was generous and considerate. He would be happy, I know, whatever path he might take in his life. God knew who the real kind people were, and He will make them happy. XD

I’m growing up and sooner or later I know I will be leaving this college, too. For now, I will enjoy my stay here, with all those people I have mentioned above. The memories that swirled in this electronic page and in the gutters of my head will stay forever—and EVER.

And with these ending lines, I say THANK YOU to everyone for this semester. I felt really great, and no matter how hard my hesitant heartbeats race with the ticking of the clock, the second hand will always catch us to get us back to reality. Like it always does.

Morsels of Me in Gaiman's Cranium

I’m ugly. Short, clad in the unwholesome burnt caramel of my skin, topped with a tangled nest of black hair, crammed with baby fat, and semi-permanently plastered with a hideous smile—I can qualify as one of Cinderella’s ugly step sisters. I’m the farthest thing from beautiful and perfect, but get this—I don’t mind.

I am imperfect and I am perfectly proud of it. No one’s perfect in this world and everybody seems to know that, but there are persons who feel that they are—talking about how good they are, bragging about their noble achievements and the noble families they came from. By doing so, they are putting themselves far beyond the terribly flawed me. Unconsciously.

Sometimes, it’s better to sulk to an imagined world than to spend all of your life in a world of lies. It is in fact a human nature. I always do, whenever feel I was wronged or whenever I feel the need to talk to a PART of me. Neil Gaiman, one of the greatest writers I met in this world, created seven dreamy siblings that constitute the me I knew today. Gaiman’s almost omniscient, I must note, for in creating these seven gods-of-sorts, he actually unveiled the puzzle pieces that if fit together will make someone whom he never met.

Let’s get to know these ‘puzzle pieces’.

DESTINY.

I take into account the existence of Destiny in my life. I talk to him when I’m making a decision, and to tell the truth he doesn’t do very well when it comes to helping. He just shrugs. He just nods. He never really tells me what I am going to do.

It’s my choice, he murmurs, voice a feather in my ear. Every step I take in his realm is equivalent to a choice, and every choice means a corresponding future path. He got the Garden of Forking Ways where I—and every human—choose a path. Even if I thought I leave the garden when I revert to reality, I never really have. I will travel there as long as my heart beats.

DEATH.

I am in love with Death.

She might be aware of it, for as far as I know she’s omniscient. Maybe because of all the siblings it is her I am most frequently with. Hanging out with her is like hanging out with a friend—we’ll talk about random stuffs, like her newest hats that she’ll add to her floppy collection or how she feeds her pet goldfish. We

’re ebony and ivory; she’s got a lovely pallor that shines stark against the night when we share earphones to listen to music. It might be an irony, but when I’m with her I feel less and less morbid. She breaks the stereotypical personifications of Death. It isn’t true that when she visits, it is your time to die; sometimes she just visits for a chat. Once, she walked the Earth as a mortal for one day so that she can feel how it feels when life is taken away by her.

DREAM.

He is neurotic and pretentious. Dream’s appearance depends on who’s watching. When he interacts with white people, he appears to be pale. He appears as a starry-eyed black man when he talks to Africans. When he talks to me, he appears to be a brown-skinned young man who mutters a lot about my frustrated ambitions, the all-too-high stars I am striving to reach, and my fancies that only he and me (and most probably Death) know. I respect him for cradling me in his arms when I need to be in his realm, and I was always thankful that he argues with my self-creation Insomnia (a flighty pixie who chews pillows and feeds on dreams). We are often together, too.

DESTRUCTION.

He’s this big, red-haired man with a beard (in a fashion that makes him a dead ringer of actor Brian Blessed). ‘He’s the one I has never been with, for he abandoned his responsibilities back in the seventeenth century—the onset of the human Age of Reason that will culminate in invention of atomic bombs. Destruction was unwilling to be responsible for the destruction this would cause, and therefore left the family. He did not cease to exist as the active aspect of Destruction, he simply stopped directing the affairs over which he has control.’
There’s nothing so much to say about him—as I say, I’ve never been with him. He’s been gone for countless of years now. But still, as long as I feel my heart cringing at the sights of destruction that claims many lives (which Death has to deal with), I somewhat feel that he is just around, abhorring what has been his realm hundreds of years ago.

DESIRE.

Desire is a he and/or a she. He can be a male, female, both, or neither, whatever he/she wills. He/she is referred to as sister-brother by his/her siblings. He/she is largely omnipresent, so I know every second he is everywhere on Earth. I don’t really need to hang-out with Desire, ‘cause as I have said he/she is fundamentally EVERYWHERE. Dream told me Desire can be cruel at any time, and I knew that by heart. I myself desire; everyone’s heart desires. And in the process, we are actually immortalizing his presence in our world.
He/she has actually taken a great part of me—he/she and Dream, actually. I dream and desire (not the sexual desire, by the way) a lot. Both of them, at some point, almost eat me whole. Destiny helped me by giving me a chance to choose. I still hold fast to my dreams, but I'm in complete control now: my dreams are not only for me, but for others, to boot.

DESPAIR

Despair is the twin sister of Desire. Next to Death, she is the one I am almost always with. She is a squat, flabby woman with black hair, pointed teeth and pallid skin--a perfect embodiment of how ugly a person feels when he is in misery. Despair is naked; she carves her flesh with a hook in her ring. There are lots of rats in her realm. Her kingdom is full of mirrors, to which she stares so that she can see everyone on earth who plumbs the debts. I can see no reflections in them, but her reactions tell me that there are millions of human beings who lose hope every millisecond. I don't know, but everytime I'm with her I always feel like sighing all the time, telling myself that life is unfair and all that.

DELIRIUM

Though I've been annoyingly reiterating in this entry that I love Death, it is actually not her that I can best relate to. Death is a comrade, a friend, and I love her for being the entity that she is. Delirium, the youngest of them all, seems to be the creature I always see in the mirror ( though not in appearance. Go figure). She is just that--Delirium. She was once called Delight but after a supposed heartbreak of a failed betrothal, she suddenly transformed into Delirium. I loved her too, but not as much as I loved Death. Maybe it is because she reminds me of my self--the exact part that I used to abhor. Meeting Delirium changed this: I learned to love myself whol ly .



When she envelops me childlishly in her arms I can smell her scent--a mixture of sweat, late nights, sour wine, and old leather. Her appearance always change. One minute you'll stare at her tangerine-colored hair swimming in the breeze, and then you'll looking into a bald head the next. She never wears the same clothes, but I'm somewhat accustomed to the fishnet she wears on one leg. Her realm is a chaos of head-spinning colors. She is scatterbrained and easily distracted; she often forgets the thread of her conversations, and comes out with offbeat and see mingly inconsequential observations. Very Delirium. Very me. And all I know now is that almost half of the soul typing this entry is actually Delirium.

So to end this blog entry, I am giving tribute to Sir Neil Gaiman for creating a world that is somewhat a refuge where everyone is free to go, where everyone is free to talk to any of the Endless.
Kudos.

Maganac Corps: OFW's in the Arab Kingdom

Thirteen years ago, there was a Japanese mecha-themed series that featured an Arabian private group of forty guerillas. They were called the Maguanac Corps, whose members were all gestated in test-tubes due to problems of natural pregnancy in outer space (the series was set in a modern era called After Colony or AC when Space colonies were established outside the Earth Sphere and were capable of sustaining life).

They were by no means major characters, but they stamped an ineradicable mark in my head, and well, heart.

The name of the paramilitary group, Maguanac, was derived from the Tagalog word “Mag-anak”, which means family. After a few researches about why the Japanese creators came up with this, I learned that that our Overseas Filipino Workers (OFW’s) were not only renowned in our country as heroes, but also in other neighboring countries—and possibly even around the world, since the show was aired in almost every corner of the planet after it gained huge audiences in the United States.

The most famous ‘heroes’ were the OFW’s in Saudi Arabia, as it seems, thus the name of the Middle Eastern group in the show. The camaraderie between the Arabians and the Filipinos were also known internationally. In the show, the group was backing up a fifteen-year-old Arab in his fight against oppressors.

I noted that the Filipino trademark ‘close family ties’ was globally known, too, as was shown in the series. All of the forty members of the circle were test-tube babies but they treat themselves with pride as though they were born normally; they live as one family, supporting and loving each other unconditionally even though they were never really connected by blood. This was a flattering truth, but I would like to emphasize that this fact was just a trivia and was not entirely the center of my blog entry.

The underscore was on what was happening to the Filipinos in the Arab Kingdom.

Last October 14, an overseas Filipino worker was executed after the Appellate Court and Supreme Judicial Council of Saudi Arabia affirmed the OFW’s death sentence. Jenifer Bidoya, also known as Venancio Ladion, was convicted of murder of a Saudi national. President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo wrote two letters to King Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al-Saud in December 2007 and July 2008, requesting clemency, but the family of the victim pushed for ‘quisas’ or appropriate penalty.

In June 2007, another Filipino, Reynaldo Cortez, was also beheaded in the same country after he was convicted of murdering a taxi driver who allegedly tried to sexually assault him.

In July of the same year, three of seven Filipinos were meted the death sentence by a Saudi court for killing their three compatriots whose bodies were dismembered and found in Southern Jeddah in 2006.

The list went on like an exaggerated roster of criminals I remembered laughing at when I watched it from a kiddie cartoon. But honestly, there was nothing in this situation was funny at all.

One day, I found myself grimacing at a TV commercial (and a conspicuously premature political campaign for the 2010 presidential elections by a well-off senator) about the stories of the rescued OFW’s. The narrator of that commercial was lazily annoying, and it somewhat added to my chagrin. Violence against women was something that always gets on my nerves and it sets my mood almost on the verge of irrationality. What was happening? Where was the almost-perfect image of the Arab-Filipino camaraderie–or the non-blood family ties they shared as it was shown in the thirteen-year-old series I mentioned above? It could be argued that the series was fictional, but the creators themselves said that the said characters were molded after the real relationship of Arabs and Filipinos. Moreover, you could never make something like that if it has no basis for reality.

Going back to the murder tales, I never really know when the list started, whether it was even more than thirteen years ago or less than a decade ago. No matter how old it was, it made an impression to me that the world once knew that everything was all right long, long ago. It was almost sickening, in my opinion, how the government repeatedly takes actions to save the OFW’s who were precariously near the mouth of death. I did look to the other side of the story to weigh everything, and the stories no normal person could barely stomach were, at an angle (if not at EVERY ANGLE), unforgivable. That rings a bell: An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. When you take a life, you must send a kind of payment in the form of life too.

I am by no means a traitor; I’m still a Filipino, but even if I would be in the shoes of the family members of a convicted OFW, I would just leave it all to God. God would forgive, that was unquestionable—but how about the family left by the murdered? I heard about self-defense tales, abuse stories (to a high extent I did sympathize about these especially about women), inescapable tortures that led to murder…But let us widen the range of our perspective—aren’t the Arabians humans too? Whether they were killed intentionally or not, they did still have life. They breathe. They have families. Why should we put the law in our own hands? Sure there would be a way—God, or whom the Arab people call their Allah, would make a way for these crimes to be brought to justice. We have no authority for the precious thing called life.

God is the judge. Let destiny roll in His own will.

Then, there were still stories about the Arabian victim’s family pardoning the murderer—saved OFW’s. That would be a relief for the nation, and I was somehow left dumbfounded at the divine power that a few people could give nowadays. I guess that would be it: FORGIVENESS. Probably the most deific act in human history that could change one or thousands of life. It was sad that it was in the nature of humans to slowly— so, so slowly grow up to know the meaning of true forgiveness. And as a human myself, I wouldn’t paint white whiter. It takes me time to forgive, but when I do, the burden locked in my chest would be suddenly removed.

So to end the entry here, I would leave a silent wish (with a flurry shower of imaginary dandelion seeds! Wee!) that the Maguanac Corps image would somehow float back after being drowned by years of dark tales. I hope it would be sooner.



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(BTW, the Japanese series I was talking about was Shin Kidousenki Gundam Wing. :D)