I have a silly nerve for newspapers. When they are fresh and neatly pressed on my library table, I never get my hands scanning them. Fresh newspapers have this strong scent my nose cannot tolerate. A flip of the page makes my nose complain much that I cannot even finish a whole Young Blood article. And so I’ll just have to set the papers aside for mercy, and then not get updated with the news they bring about everyday. As a result, you’d end up seeing me read yesterday’s, or worse but still good, last week’s issue.
Talking about newspapers and timelines makes me remember Gary Hobson and his life with his grey cat and tomorrow’s newspapers. Yep, it’s “tomorrow’s” not today’s. Which means, yes, you’re thinking right --the future. The movie was a series me and my brother never missed to watch. It would usually alternate the family oriented Seventh Heaven during movie marathons on Holy Week. And Early Edition marathons would always make our Holy Week glorious.
The story of the series revolves around Hobson’s life as he is, more often than not, forced to save people from their untimely and even violent death as they are published in the early edition newspaper (which reports events that would happen on that day). The newspaper is mysteriously delivered at his apartment’s doorstep every 6:00 a.m. with a grey, Garfield-like, fat cat endearingly laying, or if not, sitting on it.
The series would show different stories, different cases everyday and the thrill would always be on how Hobson would succeed in saving their lives, or much more, convince the stubborn clients that if they don’t move- off of whatever the circumstance is, they will die.
Early Edition really crazed us siblings until the last time it was shown. We made it to follow through Hobson’s adventures from saving a plane, and thousands more people, from its crashing, to the time he finally saw his own news in the paper having been declared dead for saving a girl from a burning building. More than that, we sympathized Gary Hobson in each episode. Aside from him being so handsome, and real nice and hot (especially when he gets off his bed every morning), his struggles in making choices between life and death, and saving the humanity from unwanted conditions, was tougher than being Superman saving a man from a free-fall.
Now I wish we had an Early Edition newspaper today. I wouldn’t give a damn if there would be a Gary Hobson, (or so I think I won’t! this would be quite hypocrisy here, see…) atleast we will know if the prices of commodities will go high, if there even will be scarcity of rice and oil, or if there will be higher level of crisis all over the world. At least at this state, we could be just like Gary. We would easily spot the cause of each condition, and so solving the case would be much easier and life in the Philippines would be a little brighter.
I’m not really much aware of our state today, though. I could only relay the hearsays about our economy going so down, our PSP (Presidente sa Palasyo) diagnosed having Class A corruption virus which is even contagious, and the resent comment of a dear friend, that if there’s ever going to be a fourth world, we’d be part of it. They’re all I can get. Told you I read late news.
But this could be one twisted fact. If we’d have one Early Edition newspaper today, what do you think would be the first page you’d look on to?
Well, let's see...Obituaries? Try to figure out who among the big pips are going to die next? Headlines? Drug lords and politicians watch out if they’d ever get baited after dirty tricks fail? Or maybe just see who’s to pull down next in the race? Or maybe entertainment! Sports! We could have known if Marky Ceilo was ever going to die, and that Pacqiuao’s idol is Dela Hoya and not Arroyo.
Things might not turn out to be that sparkling and shiny. Think about what people might do if we’d have an early edition newspaper. We might just look on the news if Pacquiao is ever going to be the next Tyson after defeating Dela Hoya, if another senator is ever going to make another break- away in public after Mar Roxas, or if Bush is ever going to throw back his socks to the man who threw him shoes. And all will still be the same. Now I just wish to be mistaken.
But well, as I could always say, other than saying “as usual”, it’s all it is. People as we are, there are weaknesses. The series even shows it, and it is when Hobson has to struggle convincing victims off their feet. He delivers salvation right before their noses, but they deny it like rotten flesh.
Rickety, feeble, real weak weaknesses. But vulnerable and evitable enough for any man. Problem is, any man is just frail, silly, and lazy enough to build the will and the mentality to obliterate the rickety and feeble weaknesses.
Of course. Maybe we’re just as rickety and feeble as it is. Yes, maybe. But we can always choose not to...
So! If there’s ever going to be one Early Edition newspaper right at your doorstep today, what would you do? Well as for me, I think it would be the only newspaper my nose would tolerate to read on. So, what else would I do? Read it! How about you?
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Finding the essence of Men
Perhaps, this stage they call adulthood really brings you so much you never have expected in life. Just when you think you have learned just enough to get through this stage, there come much weirder circumstances you never have imagined. And just when you think these things only happen in movies, there goes life again; slapping every little piece of it on your face making you go staggering on its topsy-turvy’s. Then all of a sudden, you’d start to feel you’re too young for the world and it’s labyrinth of uncertainties just when you have thought that you’re old enough.
One thing that has gone so weird in my life lately is having a best friend who is married. His name is Jose, I’m proud to say. For almost a long time I’ve actually forgotten about the feeling of having a best friend, that one person you would always go out with, eat together with, make jokes with, share problems with, share the most embarrassing moments and even secrets with, go childish with, and , even at most circumstances, share your bonuses and monthly salaries with.
The very last time I could recall myself having this kind of friendship was when I was 12 years old. That was when my constant best friend, Julie, and I were still neighbors. But when she had to leave to stay with her grandpips to support her high-school studies, the friendship also had to slowly depart. Nevertheless, I’m still glad that on my special days, she still gets to remember me, and on her most special day, she still called me “Bes”. She is now married.
Julie was my first best friend ever, and now having Jose in my life is kind of weirder. Why? He’s my first ever “real” guy best friend. I have to say “real” because I had a guy friend once I was so close to in college. But he was gay. So I really have to quote the word. But aside from being a real guy, what’s so unique—if not weird—about our friendship is that he is married, with a one-year-old son, and I’m an NBSL: No Boyfriend since the Last. And the last was 7 years ago.
With Jose being always around, my life since the past 7 years kind of turned up-side-down. Seems I had to start from the very beginning. From understanding a man’s emotions, his sentiments, his ways of expressing it, and his actions, to knowing his wants, his likes, his needs, and what makes up all his happiness. It seemed that through Jose, I am able to see the other face of a relationship and of life itself. Before, I was more exposed to women’s stories of life and love, our hopes, and our own sentiments. I even always stand up for women’s rights, defend weak girls who cannot fight for themselves, physically or emotionally, and even speak for them when they cannot speak for themselves at the face of a man. I can almost name myself a feminist. Or maybe I am.
But now, I’m beginning to see life in two perspectives, and slowly learning to view it from a man’s angle. And my best friend brought me there.
But despite all these things I’ve had, every lesson and enlightenment I’ve learned from Jose, there is still much in adulthood, I believe at this page of my life, I still cannot conquer—the married life.
Listening to Jose’s sentiments sometimes really makes me feel frustrated. Makes me feel I’m not of any help. When he starts mentioning words like “wife” and “son”, I suddenly feel like I have lost all the comprehension skills I have learned in my entire 22 years in life. I could not understand. Not a single sound of it. I could not feel. Therefore, I could not empathize. I cannot fit, not even one foot on his shoe. And it’s hard.
Recently, it’s the same feeling I was not able to escape from the time my best friend Julie got married. When she started walking down the aisle, all I had in mind was the word “No”. It seemed the end of days to me. But her face, her smile, clearly told me that it was all happiness to her.
This is what is currently bothering me and my friendship with Jose. Whenever he starts talking about his sick son, or his wife’s mom, I could only stare, and wonder…and listen…and nothing else. I wish to help. I wish I could say more, give advices, or maybe just warm words to elate him. But how can I when I really can’t relate? Not even with his stories with his wife? At this phase of our friendship, I could only keep silent, and within that length of silence, I could only wonder.
How does he look like when he walks with his wife? How does his smile look, his laugh sound, when he’s playing with his son? It’s all but a wonder. My friend being a husband, and my friend being a father.
Well, how could a young woman of 22 and of 7 years without boyfriend ever understand? I guess this is God’s way of making me realize the point of a man’s existence in a woman’s life. Not just in intimate relationships or in marriage, but in friendship as well. It is His one way of making me open my eyes, my mind, and my heart to a well-lay-outed plan He has made ever since the beginning of time…for a woman to trust, to have faith, and to finally, let go of one’s self to one man she would truly love. Those are some things I would barely understand about life and men. But having my new best friend around, I guess I’d make it through this stage of adulthood and finally find the essence of men.
Tags: memories
One thing that has gone so weird in my life lately is having a best friend who is married. His name is Jose, I’m proud to say. For almost a long time I’ve actually forgotten about the feeling of having a best friend, that one person you would always go out with, eat together with, make jokes with, share problems with, share the most embarrassing moments and even secrets with, go childish with, and , even at most circumstances, share your bonuses and monthly salaries with.
The very last time I could recall myself having this kind of friendship was when I was 12 years old. That was when my constant best friend, Julie, and I were still neighbors. But when she had to leave to stay with her grandpips to support her high-school studies, the friendship also had to slowly depart. Nevertheless, I’m still glad that on my special days, she still gets to remember me, and on her most special day, she still called me “Bes”. She is now married.
Julie was my first best friend ever, and now having Jose in my life is kind of weirder. Why? He’s my first ever “real” guy best friend. I have to say “real” because I had a guy friend once I was so close to in college. But he was gay. So I really have to quote the word. But aside from being a real guy, what’s so unique—if not weird—about our friendship is that he is married, with a one-year-old son, and I’m an NBSL: No Boyfriend since the Last. And the last was 7 years ago.
With Jose being always around, my life since the past 7 years kind of turned up-side-down. Seems I had to start from the very beginning. From understanding a man’s emotions, his sentiments, his ways of expressing it, and his actions, to knowing his wants, his likes, his needs, and what makes up all his happiness. It seemed that through Jose, I am able to see the other face of a relationship and of life itself. Before, I was more exposed to women’s stories of life and love, our hopes, and our own sentiments. I even always stand up for women’s rights, defend weak girls who cannot fight for themselves, physically or emotionally, and even speak for them when they cannot speak for themselves at the face of a man. I can almost name myself a feminist. Or maybe I am.
But now, I’m beginning to see life in two perspectives, and slowly learning to view it from a man’s angle. And my best friend brought me there.
But despite all these things I’ve had, every lesson and enlightenment I’ve learned from Jose, there is still much in adulthood, I believe at this page of my life, I still cannot conquer—the married life.
Listening to Jose’s sentiments sometimes really makes me feel frustrated. Makes me feel I’m not of any help. When he starts mentioning words like “wife” and “son”, I suddenly feel like I have lost all the comprehension skills I have learned in my entire 22 years in life. I could not understand. Not a single sound of it. I could not feel. Therefore, I could not empathize. I cannot fit, not even one foot on his shoe. And it’s hard.
Recently, it’s the same feeling I was not able to escape from the time my best friend Julie got married. When she started walking down the aisle, all I had in mind was the word “No”. It seemed the end of days to me. But her face, her smile, clearly told me that it was all happiness to her.
This is what is currently bothering me and my friendship with Jose. Whenever he starts talking about his sick son, or his wife’s mom, I could only stare, and wonder…and listen…and nothing else. I wish to help. I wish I could say more, give advices, or maybe just warm words to elate him. But how can I when I really can’t relate? Not even with his stories with his wife? At this phase of our friendship, I could only keep silent, and within that length of silence, I could only wonder.
How does he look like when he walks with his wife? How does his smile look, his laugh sound, when he’s playing with his son? It’s all but a wonder. My friend being a husband, and my friend being a father.
Well, how could a young woman of 22 and of 7 years without boyfriend ever understand? I guess this is God’s way of making me realize the point of a man’s existence in a woman’s life. Not just in intimate relationships or in marriage, but in friendship as well. It is His one way of making me open my eyes, my mind, and my heart to a well-lay-outed plan He has made ever since the beginning of time…for a woman to trust, to have faith, and to finally, let go of one’s self to one man she would truly love. Those are some things I would barely understand about life and men. But having my new best friend around, I guess I’d make it through this stage of adulthood and finally find the essence of men.
Tags: memories
The Teacher and thE Twenty-five-centavo Coin
Five years after unending battles of books, studies, projects, numbers, grids, and little kids, I can’t believe I have finally tagged myself a professional teacher. All the fears of red-painted TOR, and thesis papers rotting behind deadlines are all but gone now and suddenly have ended to be just like pages of old portfolios turning yellow over time and age. They’re soon to be but memories to fade. Soon to be under my list of choices to be or not to be forgotten.
I couldn’t say I haven’t forgotten, as much as I dearly want to forget, how the years have passed so quickly and how all the hard works have equally been paid-off. When I think about five years ago, I could only see the 18-year-old who doesn’t know how to study, doesn’t know merely the purpose of doing it and having teachers at the same time (They seem to do you the same thing. So, why not have one instead of having both? It seemed a waste of time and effort.), and doesn’t know how to do reportings when they’re the major competency one has to attain to earn the degree.
Huh! Pedigree. I can’t believe the kind of person in society I’ve now become. All the more, I can’t believe I have to say goodbye to torn cargo jeans and worn-out Chucks. Slacks, pencil skirts, ruffled blouse, pointed high heels...I don’t know.
But who says I was supposed to be here anyway? All those years, I never actually thought, worse, dreamed, to be a professional, top-rank teacher and take all the hassles of board examinations, late lesson plans, erroneous grading sheets, crying pupils, and father-daughter quarrels all because of failed expectations. Who says I was looking up to all of those? If I was to follow my dreams, I would have held tight on my guitar, laid arms wide on my piano, and invaded the stage to become the next big rock star. I’ve got what it takes! But see, bitter as it is, my songs have all but gone rotten dead behind my diary pages. Unsung, unknown, unfelt. It has failed to meet its goal—to inspire anybody.
But all those years have gone. And here I am now, waiting for Mondays to kick-off with Literature, and Fridays to end them off with a choir. And, well, not to mention, 15’s and 30’s to meet the cash. Not bad. You report to class, you have all authority and power over little rascals, you make them work, you get paid. Major cool, huh? I don’t think so.
Third year college, I was waiting for our literature teacher to arrive and start rolling with our only 6:00-7:30 p.m. Lit. class so we could finally go home. To ease out my stirred, bored, and irritated brain, I went out of the room to check out if our prof was coming. There by the door, I saw him had a chat with some of my mates. Nice. Pissed, I walked to them with a prepared speech to kick their asses back on their chairs, crazily wanting to know what was with that Lit class already that it had to devour my dinner time, and dearly wanting to go home. Finally there, I searched their faces, and found them all flirtatiously smiling to each other. Wow, they’re really something!
I was about to blurt when suddenly I got stuck. My teacher held something beneath his hand. He took it out of his pocket, played around it with his finger, and then held it back tight under his pocket. It was really…nothing. But of course with the cool over reactions of the flirt gals, it got me something. “Hala, sir, what’s that?”
It’s a coin, dumb, I was to say, but kept it by rolling my eyes to mockery. “ Pangpa-wa kulba, sah? Baynchingko?” ( To calm your nerves, ain’t it? 25 cents?)
Gracious, this is crazy. Calm your nerves? 25 cents? I didn’t know you take it as anti-depressant! My teacher took out the coin from his pocket and shewed it to us from his side. “ Ah, kani…” (This?) he looked at the coin and churtled. “ May nalang. Huwasan sad ta gamay. In-ana man nas mga intsik” ( Makes me feel a little better atleast. It’s what the Chinese do.) he said. “Bitaw, sir, sa Chinese bitaw.” (Yeah, sir, you’re right. It’s from the Chinese.) the flirts seconded.
Suddenly, weirdness.
“Intsik diay kuno ka, sir?” (So you mean you’re Chinese, sir?) Princessly laughs. Corny.
“The coin tends to absorb your negative energy according to them, therefore taking away your nervousness. I don’t know how true it is. It’s just something to cling on atleast.”
Woah!!! Now that’s really something! Super powers from 25 cents! Hope for the poor don’t you think?
They ended up their conversation and finally we started class. The board was suddenly filled with sketches of theory of deconstruction, postmodernism, negritude, Semitism, holocaust, pastiche, kitsch, and third world literatures. But my mind was elsewhere. I didn’t understand.
The 25 cents, no, it wasn’t about it. Not about the Chinese’ beliefs on its elemental powers absorption whatsoever. Or the weirdness of my teacher clinging to it. I didn’t understand why my teacher had to fear coming to school and teaching us.
Today is my tenth day in a university as a basic education teacher. Right now I’m waiting for Monday to come, but I’m wishing within me for some one year holiday in celebration of a Marsian’s arrival on earth to flash on the headlines. I don’t feel like going. It’s still like the first day of classes when you were 7 years old. I’m scared.
As of now, I don’t have the books needed for my discussion, yet. My lesson plans are still incomplete. I don’t have the complete list of competencies I have to associate in my activities to enhance my students’ and pupils’ skills. My brain is empty of strategies to apply next on my most unruly class. Unsecured as this, I’m scared I won’t be able to give my class what they need to learn. I’m afraid they’d lose the fun in learning. I fear I won’t make them learn anything.
Remembering my teacher, I’m having that old feeling again of weirdness seeing him hold that bronze coin and trying to make it absorb all his nervousness. I wonder what all his anxieties were. I wonder how much nervousness a 25 cents can hold. I wonder if right now I’m feeling the same as him that night 3 years ago. I wonder if he still feels the same.
I’m not sure, but now I think I understand. Teachers are noted to be tough. They are well respected by people. They cater the learning needs of your sons and daughters. We beg for all the patience in the world to continue teaching until words are told from the tongues of the young. We bring hope, even when we’re losing it. We mold dreams, even when we’re breaking our own. It’s the toughest sacrifice we take. But it’s the greatest happiness we enjoy.
But that is why we fear. For a little word from us can make or break a young one’s heart. One sweet nod can take them higher. But one wrong move can tear them apart. And all sacrifice and happiness we are building for are easily gone.
And that is why we cling on to something to balance things. Some resort to their families or relatives. Others take strength from achievements received, or take inspiration from relationships built. Others take a plunge on art, or drown their selves to music and studies. But most find hope in prayers, and in faith to someone Who is always on hold of everything. As Sir Januar Yap quoted it, “A teacher, is most of all, human.” We ourselves also break apart.
It’s a good thing we get something in the end to reward us. We see parents who support and understand their child, who make follow-ups and tutorials to them on their everyday lessons. We see students from time to time showing us how they struggle for ways to improve theirselves, and students who come by to tell you how much they are grateful for having you as their mentor. It’s good to hear that there are people around you who support and appreciate. Parents, students, co-teachers, and university staffs ready to help.
Yes, we do fear our jobs sometimes. Everyone in each of their own field can feel that. It’s a normal case. And it’s good to have something to cling on at those hours. There’s the twenty-five-centavo coin, and more.
I couldn’t say I haven’t forgotten, as much as I dearly want to forget, how the years have passed so quickly and how all the hard works have equally been paid-off. When I think about five years ago, I could only see the 18-year-old who doesn’t know how to study, doesn’t know merely the purpose of doing it and having teachers at the same time (They seem to do you the same thing. So, why not have one instead of having both? It seemed a waste of time and effort.), and doesn’t know how to do reportings when they’re the major competency one has to attain to earn the degree.
Huh! Pedigree. I can’t believe the kind of person in society I’ve now become. All the more, I can’t believe I have to say goodbye to torn cargo jeans and worn-out Chucks. Slacks, pencil skirts, ruffled blouse, pointed high heels...I don’t know.
But who says I was supposed to be here anyway? All those years, I never actually thought, worse, dreamed, to be a professional, top-rank teacher and take all the hassles of board examinations, late lesson plans, erroneous grading sheets, crying pupils, and father-daughter quarrels all because of failed expectations. Who says I was looking up to all of those? If I was to follow my dreams, I would have held tight on my guitar, laid arms wide on my piano, and invaded the stage to become the next big rock star. I’ve got what it takes! But see, bitter as it is, my songs have all but gone rotten dead behind my diary pages. Unsung, unknown, unfelt. It has failed to meet its goal—to inspire anybody.
But all those years have gone. And here I am now, waiting for Mondays to kick-off with Literature, and Fridays to end them off with a choir. And, well, not to mention, 15’s and 30’s to meet the cash. Not bad. You report to class, you have all authority and power over little rascals, you make them work, you get paid. Major cool, huh? I don’t think so.
Third year college, I was waiting for our literature teacher to arrive and start rolling with our only 6:00-7:30 p.m. Lit. class so we could finally go home. To ease out my stirred, bored, and irritated brain, I went out of the room to check out if our prof was coming. There by the door, I saw him had a chat with some of my mates. Nice. Pissed, I walked to them with a prepared speech to kick their asses back on their chairs, crazily wanting to know what was with that Lit class already that it had to devour my dinner time, and dearly wanting to go home. Finally there, I searched their faces, and found them all flirtatiously smiling to each other. Wow, they’re really something!
I was about to blurt when suddenly I got stuck. My teacher held something beneath his hand. He took it out of his pocket, played around it with his finger, and then held it back tight under his pocket. It was really…nothing. But of course with the cool over reactions of the flirt gals, it got me something. “Hala, sir, what’s that?”
It’s a coin, dumb, I was to say, but kept it by rolling my eyes to mockery. “ Pangpa-wa kulba, sah? Baynchingko?” ( To calm your nerves, ain’t it? 25 cents?)
Gracious, this is crazy. Calm your nerves? 25 cents? I didn’t know you take it as anti-depressant! My teacher took out the coin from his pocket and shewed it to us from his side. “ Ah, kani…” (This?) he looked at the coin and churtled. “ May nalang. Huwasan sad ta gamay. In-ana man nas mga intsik” ( Makes me feel a little better atleast. It’s what the Chinese do.) he said. “Bitaw, sir, sa Chinese bitaw.” (Yeah, sir, you’re right. It’s from the Chinese.) the flirts seconded.
Suddenly, weirdness.
“Intsik diay kuno ka, sir?” (So you mean you’re Chinese, sir?) Princessly laughs. Corny.
“The coin tends to absorb your negative energy according to them, therefore taking away your nervousness. I don’t know how true it is. It’s just something to cling on atleast.”
Woah!!! Now that’s really something! Super powers from 25 cents! Hope for the poor don’t you think?
They ended up their conversation and finally we started class. The board was suddenly filled with sketches of theory of deconstruction, postmodernism, negritude, Semitism, holocaust, pastiche, kitsch, and third world literatures. But my mind was elsewhere. I didn’t understand.
The 25 cents, no, it wasn’t about it. Not about the Chinese’ beliefs on its elemental powers absorption whatsoever. Or the weirdness of my teacher clinging to it. I didn’t understand why my teacher had to fear coming to school and teaching us.
Today is my tenth day in a university as a basic education teacher. Right now I’m waiting for Monday to come, but I’m wishing within me for some one year holiday in celebration of a Marsian’s arrival on earth to flash on the headlines. I don’t feel like going. It’s still like the first day of classes when you were 7 years old. I’m scared.
As of now, I don’t have the books needed for my discussion, yet. My lesson plans are still incomplete. I don’t have the complete list of competencies I have to associate in my activities to enhance my students’ and pupils’ skills. My brain is empty of strategies to apply next on my most unruly class. Unsecured as this, I’m scared I won’t be able to give my class what they need to learn. I’m afraid they’d lose the fun in learning. I fear I won’t make them learn anything.
Remembering my teacher, I’m having that old feeling again of weirdness seeing him hold that bronze coin and trying to make it absorb all his nervousness. I wonder what all his anxieties were. I wonder how much nervousness a 25 cents can hold. I wonder if right now I’m feeling the same as him that night 3 years ago. I wonder if he still feels the same.
I’m not sure, but now I think I understand. Teachers are noted to be tough. They are well respected by people. They cater the learning needs of your sons and daughters. We beg for all the patience in the world to continue teaching until words are told from the tongues of the young. We bring hope, even when we’re losing it. We mold dreams, even when we’re breaking our own. It’s the toughest sacrifice we take. But it’s the greatest happiness we enjoy.
But that is why we fear. For a little word from us can make or break a young one’s heart. One sweet nod can take them higher. But one wrong move can tear them apart. And all sacrifice and happiness we are building for are easily gone.
And that is why we cling on to something to balance things. Some resort to their families or relatives. Others take strength from achievements received, or take inspiration from relationships built. Others take a plunge on art, or drown their selves to music and studies. But most find hope in prayers, and in faith to someone Who is always on hold of everything. As Sir Januar Yap quoted it, “A teacher, is most of all, human.” We ourselves also break apart.
It’s a good thing we get something in the end to reward us. We see parents who support and understand their child, who make follow-ups and tutorials to them on their everyday lessons. We see students from time to time showing us how they struggle for ways to improve theirselves, and students who come by to tell you how much they are grateful for having you as their mentor. It’s good to hear that there are people around you who support and appreciate. Parents, students, co-teachers, and university staffs ready to help.
Yes, we do fear our jobs sometimes. Everyone in each of their own field can feel that. It’s a normal case. And it’s good to have something to cling on at those hours. There’s the twenty-five-centavo coin, and more.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Allow me, For Kafka
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.
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.
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.
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