I didn't know he did really metamorphose into a cockroach. Anyway, it's so like him. and what do the critics say anyway? The roach was a symbolism of Kafka's kept emotions to his father. Whether they were of resentments or what, it's only him (Franz), and HIM, of course, who knows dearly. That is my view, ok? Others say it's about the attitude. That one shouldn't work hard for others, making his own happiness utterly at stake, as of a bug, while the others just lie waiting for the clean sheet. Oh, cockroachy... so you also feel happy. While Nabokov, in his lecture on Kafka's "The Metamorphosis", mentioned about Freudian postulates saying, "The bug, (postulates say), aptly characterizes his sense of worthlessness before his (Franz's) father."
I, myself, am not a certified literary critic. So i definitely can't say anything authentic regarding Kafka's story. I did submit an analysis regarding this for a requirement. But it must be in the trash already. Anyway, we're on postmodern. Then i guess i have my share of freedom of speech...or critical analysis. (Now, I hope the bell has saved me.)
But if you may allow a simpleton to speak, writers belong to sensitive people who tend to find an outlet for their overflowing emotions. They have the kind of lives you never thought to have existed. And from it sprouted emotions that are freakish and sometimes even inevitable. Some, psychedelic. Now, unfortunately, it was the blank sheet of paper and the pus from the pen that served them the outlet. The least ersatz for their mute mouths and dry eyes. Although it's never assured that every piece of writing is a piece of their eerie life, it's sure that in it is a shard of their painful or happy experience. And to every piece of paper is a catharsis.
The nitwit has spoken. And now it's Multiply's fault for allowing it. Or maybe the internet cafe. And yours for reading it's catharsis.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Buot Ko
Ya, tambagi ko
Gikasab-an
kay
Nagbuot-buot ko
Unsa'y buhaton
Ko, Ya?
Magbuot lang ko?
Di mahimo, Ya.
Kasab-an ko.
Mahimong
Dili na lang?
Wala na lang?
Mahimo ko
lang kining
Hikalimtan.
Ya.
Tambagi ko.
Gikasab-an ko.
Gitamay,
Ug mitikoko
Ang kalag ko.
Mingloklok,
Gitaban ang
Akong dughan
Ug ang nagpahipi
Niini,
Sa dapit,
Hain na?
Wala ko kahibalo.
Ya, tambagi ako.
Hain ka na?
Gikasab-an ko.
Kay way buot
ko.
Gahini ako
Ning ilang
Gimandong
Buot.
Ya...
Hain ka na?
Tabanga ko.
May buot na ba ko?
Gikasab-an
kay
Nagbuot-buot ko
Unsa'y buhaton
Ko, Ya?
Magbuot lang ko?
Di mahimo, Ya.
Kasab-an ko.
Mahimong
Dili na lang?
Wala na lang?
Mahimo ko
lang kining
Hikalimtan.
Ya.
Tambagi ko.
Gikasab-an ko.
Gitamay,
Ug mitikoko
Ang kalag ko.
Mingloklok,
Gitaban ang
Akong dughan
Ug ang nagpahipi
Niini,
Sa dapit,
Hain na?
Wala ko kahibalo.
Ya, tambagi ako.
Hain ka na?
Gikasab-an ko.
Kay way buot
ko.
Gahini ako
Ning ilang
Gimandong
Buot.
Ya...
Hain ka na?
Tabanga ko.
May buot na ba ko?
On Rizal's Fave; The Count Of Monte Cristo
Subject: Reaction on Alexandre Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo
The Count of Monte Cristo was a story created by a famous romanticist Alexander Dumas. The story runs around a young man named Edmund Dantes, who, living life in penury and illiteracy but with innate abilities of a talented and skillful hand, was left lured by a friend after being grudged for his possession of the beautiful Mercedes. Dantes, fraud to have committed a crime, was sent to jail and there met an old man who, coincidentally, had in his years fell in the same lure as Dantes'.
On Dantes' bitter stay behind bars, he found company with the old man who was once a priest and knew of a secret treasure owned by Napoleon Bonaparte. The old man taught Dantes of the things he was worth knowing, thus, bestowed literacy and knowledge upon him.
Dantes being innately intelligent, learned sharply and profoundly. He was now a man his friends, and bitter, yet, enemies who had put him into such fate, had never expected he would become.
On the other hand, life outside the cell had a cruel offer Dantes was not supposed to know. Fernand, the traitor, made false letters to Mercedes with feigned signatures of Dantes, addressing she must forget him and move on with her life. And as a quick catch, Fernand asked for Mercedes' hands in marriage.
After years of entrapment, Dantes escaped the ill fate in prison and went on with a plan of revenge as Count of Monte Cristo.
That's all i have for the story. It was fun. More of the adventure and widely enthralls you into the vengeful, yet romantic topsy-turvey's of Dantes and the Count of Monte Cristo. It is no question why Rizal arrived at making Alexander Dumas' craft a favorite. It's not anymore to me a wonder why this links to Rizal's movement to ever correct, or safer to say, demand for reforms on the Spanish administration.The story is quite encouraging for a man with principles as his, considering psychology. ;D
Prev: Ordinary Miracle
The Count of Monte Cristo was a story created by a famous romanticist Alexander Dumas. The story runs around a young man named Edmund Dantes, who, living life in penury and illiteracy but with innate abilities of a talented and skillful hand, was left lured by a friend after being grudged for his possession of the beautiful Mercedes. Dantes, fraud to have committed a crime, was sent to jail and there met an old man who, coincidentally, had in his years fell in the same lure as Dantes'.
On Dantes' bitter stay behind bars, he found company with the old man who was once a priest and knew of a secret treasure owned by Napoleon Bonaparte. The old man taught Dantes of the things he was worth knowing, thus, bestowed literacy and knowledge upon him.
Dantes being innately intelligent, learned sharply and profoundly. He was now a man his friends, and bitter, yet, enemies who had put him into such fate, had never expected he would become.
On the other hand, life outside the cell had a cruel offer Dantes was not supposed to know. Fernand, the traitor, made false letters to Mercedes with feigned signatures of Dantes, addressing she must forget him and move on with her life. And as a quick catch, Fernand asked for Mercedes' hands in marriage.
After years of entrapment, Dantes escaped the ill fate in prison and went on with a plan of revenge as Count of Monte Cristo.
That's all i have for the story. It was fun. More of the adventure and widely enthralls you into the vengeful, yet romantic topsy-turvey's of Dantes and the Count of Monte Cristo. It is no question why Rizal arrived at making Alexander Dumas' craft a favorite. It's not anymore to me a wonder why this links to Rizal's movement to ever correct, or safer to say, demand for reforms on the Spanish administration.The story is quite encouraging for a man with principles as his, considering psychology. ;D
Prev: Ordinary Miracle
Literature is art. So is music.
Literature is art. So is Music. Sep 23, '07 8:24 AM
for everyone
Everyday seems to be a torture to me. To the writer side of me. The days seem to drag me down, pulling the sleeves of my soul, grabbing its shoulders, forcing it to quit the job. Like a detective utterly executing the meanest tactics in the world to squeeze out from the suspect’s, or the “victim’s” mouth—if you may consider—words that would bring access to their lifetime of torment; people, situations, and things around me run amok my mind like a last song syndrome disheartening my hopeful self.
Words and phrases seem to spit at my face the slimes of unworthiness. They’re telling me I shouldn't’t write. Telling me that the pen is going against the paper, and that blotting the ink in neat curves is a waste.
Ah, no. Negative. Impossible. Yet, it’s affirmed.
A friend just reminded me of one writer’s words at the course of defining a writer. “ A writer should be a reader, else, you shouldn't’t dare write…” she told me. This line followed after asking me whether I was a book worm, to which I answered no. For I really am not. Name me laziest reader in the world, to hell would I care. Books hate me, and I hate them, too. Therefore I shouldn't’t write.
I shouldn't write for I don’t read. I shouldn't stroll the pen for I don’t dig the pages. Thus, I shouldn't waste an ink’s drop for a frivolous dream.
‘Course. Why am I writing anyway? To impress? Maybe. Because I’m not a writer. Cause I was never for literature. It was never my dreamer and never my lover. Cause I was wed to music. I was engaged to the piano and not to the pen. I was made to listen, not to write. Molded to sound, not to read. Brought up to strum, not to dig. For notes, not for words.
Therefore I’m a mistress. Literature’s paramour. A traitor to music.
But does anyone hold the difference between Shakespeare and Bach? Or of Poe and Schubert? Or, venturing into contemporary times, Pamuk and Marley? Marquez and Maxim? Oh, now I’m hoping I’m making good pairs.
Aside maybe from the fact that they come from different places, bear different nationalities, or exist in different periods, each one’s passion for their kind of field doesn’t utterly separate them from each other. For who could have known? Shakespeare might have indulged into Bach’s masterpieces as he was creating all his most appreciated sonnets. Or maybe that Schubert’s Goth-weaved pieces motivated E. A. Poe to create more cunning stories of mystery.
There isn’t a handful of similarities. Only a pinch of differences. To me, they aren’t far relatives, but siblings under one root. In other words, literature and music have enough qualities to be relatively close to each other.
Literature is art. And so is music. As always defined by students. And so it is. If not for you, then to me, and to some—as usual—it is. Guess it’s only books that define them differently.
for everyone
Everyday seems to be a torture to me. To the writer side of me. The days seem to drag me down, pulling the sleeves of my soul, grabbing its shoulders, forcing it to quit the job. Like a detective utterly executing the meanest tactics in the world to squeeze out from the suspect’s, or the “victim’s” mouth—if you may consider—words that would bring access to their lifetime of torment; people, situations, and things around me run amok my mind like a last song syndrome disheartening my hopeful self.
Words and phrases seem to spit at my face the slimes of unworthiness. They’re telling me I shouldn't’t write. Telling me that the pen is going against the paper, and that blotting the ink in neat curves is a waste.
Ah, no. Negative. Impossible. Yet, it’s affirmed.
A friend just reminded me of one writer’s words at the course of defining a writer. “ A writer should be a reader, else, you shouldn't’t dare write…” she told me. This line followed after asking me whether I was a book worm, to which I answered no. For I really am not. Name me laziest reader in the world, to hell would I care. Books hate me, and I hate them, too. Therefore I shouldn't’t write.
I shouldn't write for I don’t read. I shouldn't stroll the pen for I don’t dig the pages. Thus, I shouldn't waste an ink’s drop for a frivolous dream.
‘Course. Why am I writing anyway? To impress? Maybe. Because I’m not a writer. Cause I was never for literature. It was never my dreamer and never my lover. Cause I was wed to music. I was engaged to the piano and not to the pen. I was made to listen, not to write. Molded to sound, not to read. Brought up to strum, not to dig. For notes, not for words.
Therefore I’m a mistress. Literature’s paramour. A traitor to music.
But does anyone hold the difference between Shakespeare and Bach? Or of Poe and Schubert? Or, venturing into contemporary times, Pamuk and Marley? Marquez and Maxim? Oh, now I’m hoping I’m making good pairs.
Aside maybe from the fact that they come from different places, bear different nationalities, or exist in different periods, each one’s passion for their kind of field doesn’t utterly separate them from each other. For who could have known? Shakespeare might have indulged into Bach’s masterpieces as he was creating all his most appreciated sonnets. Or maybe that Schubert’s Goth-weaved pieces motivated E. A. Poe to create more cunning stories of mystery.
There isn’t a handful of similarities. Only a pinch of differences. To me, they aren’t far relatives, but siblings under one root. In other words, literature and music have enough qualities to be relatively close to each other.
Literature is art. And so is music. As always defined by students. And so it is. If not for you, then to me, and to some—as usual—it is. Guess it’s only books that define them differently.
So, Am I One Of Them?
Everyone was so busy about teachers' day. Students were running round the campus planning for an ambush for their fave sensei's on the early rise of 7:00 a.m. My... guess 'tis gonna be a jolly day!
i sat on my dusty table at the library watching everyone just strolling around. well, well, this is just one jolly day,indeed! teachers receive roses from most rambunctious studes despite the daily dose of mandates and, well, maybe sometimes, insults, their painted bright-red lips give. add there the pale lips, too. yeah, and it's oh so jolly! aside from the fact that the day's gonna be one funny parade of teachers dancing like their students have never seen, it's gonna be one day no discussion. one day no assignments. one day no irksome quizzes and seatworks! one day no classes! and at the back of their minds students yell out on the highest peak of their brains, "ALL HAIL NO TEACHERS DAY!" oh, boy, and i'm gonna yell that, too!
but then suddenly, just when i thought it's gonna be one library day, my mentor came up to me saying, " Adto na tas stage, dai...". Oh, and with her ever soft voice. Oh, and forgive me, how i really wanna strangle her. I was on my way to Linda Woolverton's Running Before The Wind when her cottony-soft voice just kicked the butt of me off my chair.
Right. So, do i have a choice? Of course not! Being a student teacher, it's just one hell of a requirement!
i sat on stage watching teachers do their silly, humiliating shows, and just got that old feeling of boredom again i usually have shoving myself along with teachers. You see, i only go along with teachers i know -- and teachers i like. Being around them ,specially with the old conventional ones, makes me feel tied up in a cage. Feels like standard setters hurl around you-- eyes searching everywhere you go, guarding everything you do. Man, this is one heck prison cell!
but then i saw this touching scene when students began giving flowers to their most loved teachers. One teacher cried hard kissing every student, who gives her roses and gifts, despite the sweat and the limpid odors they bear. She looked happy, but her eyes were real teary. I suddenly felt crying, too.
Woah, wait! Wasn't I bitter about the whole thing? Didn't i complain being on stage?
I suddenly remembered Teacher's Day back at CNU. Suddenly remembered the comics i made for my best teacher, Dr. Levi Atibula. I suddenly missed them. Suddenly realized i've long been away from school. And suddenly realized...
...this was the place i used to look at...i used to wonder why i can't stay here...i was once one of them...and i'm supposed to be there...with them...jumping...cheering for my teachers...i'm supposed to be...
...I'm a student no more.
Back in the library, one teacher passed by me, and to her i greated, " Happy Teacher's DAy." She stopped and looked back to me. " Happy Teacher's Day sad, dai! Di na man ka kinahanglan mogreat kay apil na man ka ana...so, Happy teacher's day to you!"
She left me with a smile.
I wondered. For so long, up to now, i wondered. I wondered.
Wondered....wondered.
That day another teacher came up to me and gave me four, yellow roses. " Share 'ta o." ,she said.
At that minute, I stopped my wondering. And, for a few hours, accepted the fact that i'm no longer a student. And not just a student teacher--
At the end of the program, a student went up to me, shook my hand, and said, "Happy Teacher's Day ma'am!"
--a teacher.
i sat on my dusty table at the library watching everyone just strolling around. well, well, this is just one jolly day,indeed! teachers receive roses from most rambunctious studes despite the daily dose of mandates and, well, maybe sometimes, insults, their painted bright-red lips give. add there the pale lips, too. yeah, and it's oh so jolly! aside from the fact that the day's gonna be one funny parade of teachers dancing like their students have never seen, it's gonna be one day no discussion. one day no assignments. one day no irksome quizzes and seatworks! one day no classes! and at the back of their minds students yell out on the highest peak of their brains, "ALL HAIL NO TEACHERS DAY!" oh, boy, and i'm gonna yell that, too!
but then suddenly, just when i thought it's gonna be one library day, my mentor came up to me saying, " Adto na tas stage, dai...". Oh, and with her ever soft voice. Oh, and forgive me, how i really wanna strangle her. I was on my way to Linda Woolverton's Running Before The Wind when her cottony-soft voice just kicked the butt of me off my chair.
Right. So, do i have a choice? Of course not! Being a student teacher, it's just one hell of a requirement!
i sat on stage watching teachers do their silly, humiliating shows, and just got that old feeling of boredom again i usually have shoving myself along with teachers. You see, i only go along with teachers i know -- and teachers i like. Being around them ,specially with the old conventional ones, makes me feel tied up in a cage. Feels like standard setters hurl around you-- eyes searching everywhere you go, guarding everything you do. Man, this is one heck prison cell!
but then i saw this touching scene when students began giving flowers to their most loved teachers. One teacher cried hard kissing every student, who gives her roses and gifts, despite the sweat and the limpid odors they bear. She looked happy, but her eyes were real teary. I suddenly felt crying, too.
Woah, wait! Wasn't I bitter about the whole thing? Didn't i complain being on stage?
I suddenly remembered Teacher's Day back at CNU. Suddenly remembered the comics i made for my best teacher, Dr. Levi Atibula. I suddenly missed them. Suddenly realized i've long been away from school. And suddenly realized...
...this was the place i used to look at...i used to wonder why i can't stay here...i was once one of them...and i'm supposed to be there...with them...jumping...cheering for my teachers...i'm supposed to be...
...I'm a student no more.
Back in the library, one teacher passed by me, and to her i greated, " Happy Teacher's DAy." She stopped and looked back to me. " Happy Teacher's Day sad, dai! Di na man ka kinahanglan mogreat kay apil na man ka ana...so, Happy teacher's day to you!"
She left me with a smile.
I wondered. For so long, up to now, i wondered. I wondered.
Wondered....wondered.
That day another teacher came up to me and gave me four, yellow roses. " Share 'ta o." ,she said.
At that minute, I stopped my wondering. And, for a few hours, accepted the fact that i'm no longer a student. And not just a student teacher--
At the end of the program, a student went up to me, shook my hand, and said, "Happy Teacher's Day ma'am!"
--a teacher.
Highest Hopes
I've long been triggered by this walk instigated by these poor laborers. On my first glimpse of the news, i heard they were still going for a sail to manila. ( oh, but before that still, i saw them on t.v already walking past a town, which i know is farther than where they're from, bringing banners which now i thought have worn out even before they've reached malacañang.) On which i wondered where the money for the fare could be from. It actually made me think at first they were---sorry for saying---silly for wasting their money for the ship fare when they could just use it to do a call or for some other things more important. (I actually attempted to make a research, know about where the "fare pennies" were from---or was the ride given for free--- but got hooked up with some other things anew so, never mind.) but later i understood. THIS was "more important". This is what that trip was for. The fight for their land. Something which was greater than anything. The land held their life, made them live, bore their happiness, grew their solace, and gave them relief. It was their family's "ace on a hole", as Cassandra Jane says it. It was their life.
Even then, i was still doubtful about the walk. But inside me i had high-hopes that people from SAn Miguel and those from Malacañang would hear them out.
When priests, seminaries, and other people from the religious sects made their way into helping the farmers when they reached the gray grounds of the Malacañang, i actually thought it was going to be one big controversy that's, again, gonna shake the whole listening---or eves dropping---- Philippines. Had in mind those issues bout church and government. I feared it was gonna slow down the move for the farmers' real intentions.Still the high-hopes in me remained. Now, higher-hopes.
But when Ms. President accepted the farmers and their co-"hikers" into the palace with warm welcome (or, should i say, warm finger-lickin'-good dinner and red wine in an elegant wine-glass (it could be Novelino), i was relieved. It could be a good sign. Yet, after the meeting, they had nothing but a full stomach and a heavy heart. The land still isn't theirs.
Now, i don't know what to say to this woman. Highest hopes. Maybe that's the word.
Pray...that they may be given what's right for them.
Even then, i was still doubtful about the walk. But inside me i had high-hopes that people from SAn Miguel and those from Malacañang would hear them out.
When priests, seminaries, and other people from the religious sects made their way into helping the farmers when they reached the gray grounds of the Malacañang, i actually thought it was going to be one big controversy that's, again, gonna shake the whole listening---or eves dropping---- Philippines. Had in mind those issues bout church and government. I feared it was gonna slow down the move for the farmers' real intentions.Still the high-hopes in me remained. Now, higher-hopes.
But when Ms. President accepted the farmers and their co-"hikers" into the palace with warm welcome (or, should i say, warm finger-lickin'-good dinner and red wine in an elegant wine-glass (it could be Novelino), i was relieved. It could be a good sign. Yet, after the meeting, they had nothing but a full stomach and a heavy heart. The land still isn't theirs.
Now, i don't know what to say to this woman. Highest hopes. Maybe that's the word.
Pray...that they may be given what's right for them.
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