The top part of the
cylindrical cardboard container forms an almost-perfect circle. By virtue of a
certain math law, there can be no perfect circle—but this container defies that
law. Its round shape, light green and pale yellow stripes of unequal
thicknesses at the side, and multicolored striped design on top gives it a
unique look. The top part also has the word “bench” written across it in blue. The
circular container stores letters and envelopes inside it.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
10.3 {Fil-Am Writers [A Special (Seed)]}
Themes of rootlessness and incompletion are invariably themes that make many of Filipino-American writings. The identity crisis felt by those afflicted is notably common not only to Filipino expatriates and emigrants, but also to people from other parts of the world at large, particularly those in the ASEAN region, with most being Third-World countries in this scenario. In more precise terms, the Philippines itself is a multicultural state wherein nationalism and identity are still very much sensitive topics for how those issues are known to those who have experienced or are aware of linked hardships. However, what sets the difference--between the Filipino-American indentity crisis and that of the ASEAN--is history. Given that the Philippines was an American colony for fifty-eight years (1898 to 1946), the Philippines out of other ASEAN countries is the country that has felt much of the turmoil from the period. Its consequences still ring thereafter, and its aftermath--of leaving the country shrugged--has not yet dissipated.
It seems that the already oxymoronic coinage of the term "Filipino American" becomes even vaguer by what Filipino-Americans themselves understand the hybrid to be. Each with independent definitions of the term, Filipino-Americans have arrived at the idea that being Filipino is something they choose to be, and it remains a very interesting subject for thought. It is interesting, and ironic even, that while Filipinos locals love the feeling of anything American and foreign, Filipino-Americans are dying to know more about their roots, the Filipino language, and the Philippines, so much so that their eagerness for the Philippines is reflected in their writings and projects. In contrast to Filipinos who wrote about the second-wave diaspora (the "manong generation"), this generation of Filipino American writers seem to focus more on their own inner troubles of being bracketed or marginalized.
The event that ended just a few hours ago, entitled "Moving Archipelago: Fil-Am Writers Reading at DLSU," featured a panel of four Filipino-American writers, joined by three great, established Filipino writers from DLSU. The guest writers were Amalia Bueno, Sarah Gambito, R.A. Villanueva, and Ricco Villanueva, and the highlight of panel conversation was definitely when each talked about their own separate views on what the Filipino or the Filipino-American is. To one writer, a piece of writing is "Filipino" when imbued with hints of Filipino culture like Catholicism, which is a large contributor to our culture. To another writer, the Philippines had always been a mysterious place. Likewise, adding elements of mystery in her writings is how she makes her writings "Filipino." To yet another writer, a Filipino-American (or "Asian American") audience is taken into consideration. Although views were very different, each uncertainty story disclosed of truths that are deeply rooted on issues that involved much of Philippine history. The dramatic situation of the novel excerpt was unclear to me (am a bad listener sometimes), but I am aware that the poems each had themes that dwelt on the writers' perceptions of the Filipino culture and nation as a whole. Identity, or a confusion of identity, remains an unbreakable problem to them, especially when faced with questions regarding their race or when they think in matters of where they truly belong. I have sometimes accepted the idea that "where to belong" is likely not going to be a matter of one's choice, regardless of how eager one is to choose or how easy one thinks it is to choose from between two lands.
From a personal conversation with one of the writers, I have learned that shifting back and forth from two countries can play a huge part in one's growth and life--a person will grow up to realize that his birth country is just as important to him as the country he grew up in; and to choose between two countries would be akin to keeping killing one twin and keeping the other. People of bicultural identities would always have to accept the fact that they are both parts, because of attachment, and I am of the idea that regardless of citizenship or naturalization, racial profiling is inevitable. Furthermore, I also consider nationalism to be a personal thing, an understanding dependent on one's conscious decisions and upbringing. While a Filipino can keep having his "American dream," a Filipino-American can likewise also keep having his "Filipino dream."
On top of uncertainty stories and a Filipino nationalism which many Filipino-American writers may proclaim themselves to have, the difficulty in writing will always lie in truthfulness. Until a nationalistic Filipino-American writer will live in the Philippines and immerse himself in the Filipino culture--only to arrive at a realization that the Filipino culture is not really as unified and unalloyed as idealized--his works won't be "truthfully Filipino," and he will not write truthfully because of detachment, and because of mixed roots. From observation, writers who are "far removed from time and place" usually dwell on imagination to give their works a definite setting. Although an important and often necessary element of fiction, setting does more than give character and color to a work of fiction. An idealized and quasi-existent world on paper, setting also gives feelings of genuineness so that culture and identity might be understood to a greater extent. Writers who are far removed from the actual setting can't "write Filipino" without losing themselves in the making; but perhaps they can write proficiently about said crisis.
It seems that the already oxymoronic coinage of the term "Filipino American" becomes even vaguer by what Filipino-Americans themselves understand the hybrid to be. Each with independent definitions of the term, Filipino-Americans have arrived at the idea that being Filipino is something they choose to be, and it remains a very interesting subject for thought. It is interesting, and ironic even, that while Filipinos locals love the feeling of anything American and foreign, Filipino-Americans are dying to know more about their roots, the Filipino language, and the Philippines, so much so that their eagerness for the Philippines is reflected in their writings and projects. In contrast to Filipinos who wrote about the second-wave diaspora (the "manong generation"), this generation of Filipino American writers seem to focus more on their own inner troubles of being bracketed or marginalized.
The event that ended just a few hours ago, entitled "Moving Archipelago: Fil-Am Writers Reading at DLSU," featured a panel of four Filipino-American writers, joined by three great, established Filipino writers from DLSU. The guest writers were Amalia Bueno, Sarah Gambito, R.A. Villanueva, and Ricco Villanueva, and the highlight of panel conversation was definitely when each talked about their own separate views on what the Filipino or the Filipino-American is. To one writer, a piece of writing is "Filipino" when imbued with hints of Filipino culture like Catholicism, which is a large contributor to our culture. To another writer, the Philippines had always been a mysterious place. Likewise, adding elements of mystery in her writings is how she makes her writings "Filipino." To yet another writer, a Filipino-American (or "Asian American") audience is taken into consideration. Although views were very different, each uncertainty story disclosed of truths that are deeply rooted on issues that involved much of Philippine history. The dramatic situation of the novel excerpt was unclear to me (am a bad listener sometimes), but I am aware that the poems each had themes that dwelt on the writers' perceptions of the Filipino culture and nation as a whole. Identity, or a confusion of identity, remains an unbreakable problem to them, especially when faced with questions regarding their race or when they think in matters of where they truly belong. I have sometimes accepted the idea that "where to belong" is likely not going to be a matter of one's choice, regardless of how eager one is to choose or how easy one thinks it is to choose from between two lands.
From a personal conversation with one of the writers, I have learned that shifting back and forth from two countries can play a huge part in one's growth and life--a person will grow up to realize that his birth country is just as important to him as the country he grew up in; and to choose between two countries would be akin to keeping killing one twin and keeping the other. People of bicultural identities would always have to accept the fact that they are both parts, because of attachment, and I am of the idea that regardless of citizenship or naturalization, racial profiling is inevitable. Furthermore, I also consider nationalism to be a personal thing, an understanding dependent on one's conscious decisions and upbringing. While a Filipino can keep having his "American dream," a Filipino-American can likewise also keep having his "Filipino dream."
On top of uncertainty stories and a Filipino nationalism which many Filipino-American writers may proclaim themselves to have, the difficulty in writing will always lie in truthfulness. Until a nationalistic Filipino-American writer will live in the Philippines and immerse himself in the Filipino culture--only to arrive at a realization that the Filipino culture is not really as unified and unalloyed as idealized--his works won't be "truthfully Filipino," and he will not write truthfully because of detachment, and because of mixed roots. From observation, writers who are "far removed from time and place" usually dwell on imagination to give their works a definite setting. Although an important and often necessary element of fiction, setting does more than give character and color to a work of fiction. An idealized and quasi-existent world on paper, setting also gives feelings of genuineness so that culture and identity might be understood to a greater extent. Writers who are far removed from the actual setting can't "write Filipino" without losing themselves in the making; but perhaps they can write proficiently about said crisis.
10.3
The upper arm has a
thick bag of skin below the triceps. The bag of skin, containing tofu-like formations
with small spaces that look like air bubbles, appears whiter than the rest of
the skin on that arm. The scars on the area between the biceps and the triceps
are still visibly pale brown, forming streaks of cirrus on a smooth, reddish
part.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
10.2
The
nose has a bridge that rises from between two dents on each side of the face to
the middle. From a flat area, the hard parts form an upward slope that
continues all the way to an area above the philtrum. The nose’s tip appears above
an irregular triangular shape. The area adjacent to the tip form an opening of
two small holes shaped like jellybeans.
Monday, July 28, 2014
10.1
The
liquid inside the bottle has turned golden brown. Its liquid smells of heavenly
sweet vanilla—of the kind that makes a scent aficionado faint and swoon. The
round container has a golden cap. A piece of sticker paper, with the letters “I
& e” written and gray lines forming shapes of vertical ribbon strips, is
attached to its clear, round, plastic body.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
9.7
Its
front cover has an artwork of the Philippine Senate’s coat of arms. In bold letters,
its title explains what the thick brown book is: a comprehensive reviewer of
the 1987 Philippine Constitution. It has small pieces of red, yellow, blue,
green, and orange plastic sheets sticking out of the top and right sides. Its
cover is wrapped in a protective plastic sheet so that it looks clean, shiny,
and unharmed. The inside pages are underlined and colored in various shades of
neon yellow, neon orange, and neon green, and many other shades of color a
highlight could be. It smells like pesticide.
Saturday, July 26, 2014
9.6
The
neon-yellow cylinder stands atop a desk with pieces of post-its stuck around
it. Its base looks like a gigantic screw head, and its lower body has curved
lines that look like the curved lines of a screw or the opening of a bottle. Its
circumference from top view measures to about 2.5 inches, and its height is the
length of a standard Mongol pencil. It used to be the container of a pair of
sunglasses. It now serves as wobbly paperweight to several scraps of paper and
a round surface to stick sheets of paper on.
Friday, July 25, 2014
9.5
The
parchment sheets are ruled with 3x4 rectangles, dotted diagonal lines, and a
bolder outline framing the paper, just below the margins by half an inch. The
lines are colored predominantly pinkish orange, and so are the characters. Characters
of another language are printed vertically on the top and left margins; and on the
boxes themselves are curved shapes and blots that resemble strokes of a
calligraphy brush.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
9.4 This man is important to me
The
blood-red umbrella has a Japanese doll's head at its handle. The doll's eyes
are tiny triangle-shaped slits, and Sakura flowers are painted on its head, with
hair painted black and carved to create straight ends below its chin and bangs
on its forehead. When wrapped around the center pole, the blood-red cloth
crumples to look like a giant flower. When the umbrella opens, the dolls head
detaches from its body with a fountain of blood.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
9.3 This man is important to me
He owns a huge bronze medallion kept inside a red box, displayed on top of his desk. This doughnut-sized medallion came from many years ago when he was still into weight-lifting. This fifty-something year-old man has huge biceps and had once participated in weight-lifting championships. That round piece of ornament on his desk is proof that he did great back then. After a training injury, he stopped weight-lifting and focused on more meaningful things in life.
Although the medallion is reminder of both good and bad happenings, weight-lifting isn't all that there is in this man. Apart from loving big adventures and scuba-diving (he even has a diving group), he is also very, VERY intelligent. Entering college, he was granted the Oblation scholarship in UP Diliman. He, however, chose to study BS Botany in UST because he is a nature guy. After graduation there, he ventured into medicine and then into business administration at ADMU after the death of a cancer patient affected him immensely. His dissertation paper brought McDonald's to the Philippines. He then worked for the SM group for a time before proceeding to run his own company. He now spends most of his time in a farm as an agriculturist.
In terms of personality, this man is a person who begins all over again when a task is muddled along the way. He isn't so much a perfectionist as he is someone who just loves quality and excellence all the time. In almost every aspect of his life, excellence is seen in things he does.
Although the medallion is reminder of both good and bad happenings, weight-lifting isn't all that there is in this man. Apart from loving big adventures and scuba-diving (he even has a diving group), he is also very, VERY intelligent. Entering college, he was granted the Oblation scholarship in UP Diliman. He, however, chose to study BS Botany in UST because he is a nature guy. After graduation there, he ventured into medicine and then into business administration at ADMU after the death of a cancer patient affected him immensely. His dissertation paper brought McDonald's to the Philippines. He then worked for the SM group for a time before proceeding to run his own company. He now spends most of his time in a farm as an agriculturist.
In terms of personality, this man is a person who begins all over again when a task is muddled along the way. He isn't so much a perfectionist as he is someone who just loves quality and excellence all the time. In almost every aspect of his life, excellence is seen in things he does.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
9.2 This woman is important to me
She owns two semi-spheres with blunt-edged spikes. Most people who see it in her room call them "porcupines," but they're really not porcupines. They're called foot wakers. The foot wakers are just among the many queer objects inside her room. They're round, mud-colored, and hard. When stepped on, they give the feet a weird sensation. That's because they're used for healing purposes.
The owner of these foot wakers is knowledgeable on a vast array of alternative healing modalities. She goes abroad occasionally to learn these. She also has a sharp mind; by just looking at a person, she would know exactly what that person's problem is, be it physical or emotional. In addition to that, she owns a collection of spiritual, alternative medicine, new age, and rare-antique books. One of the rare, antique (not to mention expensive) books in her collection is the complete set of Zohar. Healing is her spiritual gift (or archetype), and she has extremely warm hands; she heals people she comes across.
The owner of these foot wakers is knowledgeable on a vast array of alternative healing modalities. She goes abroad occasionally to learn these. She also has a sharp mind; by just looking at a person, she would know exactly what that person's problem is, be it physical or emotional. In addition to that, she owns a collection of spiritual, alternative medicine, new age, and rare-antique books. One of the rare, antique (not to mention expensive) books in her collection is the complete set of Zohar. Healing is her spiritual gift (or archetype), and she has extremely warm hands; she heals people she comes across.
Monday, July 21, 2014
9.1 This guy is important to me
This person has nice lips. No, he has the nicest lips of all. It has a light burgundy color, and it forms a little frown when he smiles.
When the light from his laptop shone on his face, light and shadows outlined his facial features. His lips, particularly, had a nice curvy shape, and he has no facial hair at all, except on his brow. He had the habit of puckering his lips. When wet, his lips turned into a darker red color, although not as dark as blood or as bright as scarlet. It had the color of shashimi or raw meat.
He seems the type who puts on seriousness all the time as he almost always has either just a tiny smile or no expression at all. He's a reserved person with too much control over his personality.
When the light from his laptop shone on his face, light and shadows outlined his facial features. His lips, particularly, had a nice curvy shape, and he has no facial hair at all, except on his brow. He had the habit of puckering his lips. When wet, his lips turned into a darker red color, although not as dark as blood or as bright as scarlet. It had the color of shashimi or raw meat.
He seems the type who puts on seriousness all the time as he almost always has either just a tiny smile or no expression at all. He's a reserved person with too much control over his personality.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
8.7
Today, HJPP stayed up until midnight reviewing for the FICTWOR comprehensive exam and continuing her short story. She stopped at 2 a.m. when she was too sleepy to think, and then lay on her bed.
Lying down, she created a dream guy. She took a bunch of physical and inner traits from many cute guys and put them together to create her humanoid/cyborg.
When she was already too deep in thoughts, she couldn't fall asleep. Thinking to herself, she said, I thought I felt sleepy...
Apparently not, because she still had the mental energy to create a dream guy in her head.
While in the middle of creating her dream guy, she realized that she was wasting time. I could've just studied, she thought, and then decided to go back to work right after the dream guy was complete. After giving the dream guy his voice, she fell asleep.
Lying down, she created a dream guy. She took a bunch of physical and inner traits from many cute guys and put them together to create her humanoid/cyborg.
When she was already too deep in thoughts, she couldn't fall asleep. Thinking to herself, she said, I thought I felt sleepy...
Apparently not, because she still had the mental energy to create a dream guy in her head.
While in the middle of creating her dream guy, she realized that she was wasting time. I could've just studied, she thought, and then decided to go back to work right after the dream guy was complete. After giving the dream guy his voice, she fell asleep.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
8.6
The day was spent in school, reviewing for all four subjects of the comprehensive exams. HJPP had never felt so tensed, drained, and stupefied all at once in her whole life. She's had final exams in other subjects before--and studying for those exams were not as hard as studying for next week's comprehensive exams. Could this be how preparing for the bar exam feels like? Oh dear.
Very early again, she found her place inside the library. She pondered about literature as a whole, and then about fiction. The elements of fiction are easy to enumerate, even with eyes closed. The bigger challenge, however, is in examining them individually as part of a bigger plot. To say the least, plots in themselves are already too complicated for one's life. It makes her wonder how fiction writers master all of those.
True, fiction is the one thing that has the power to make any man feel dumber than ever. It's the most mathematical thing in the world, except unlike mathematics, it works beyond algorithms and axioms. Second to making people feel dumb, it also has the power to elicit thought and feelings. Math can't do that (...or could it?). But just like mathematics, it could be agreed that once a person has mastered the rudiments of it, writing it would be doable and bearable if not easy. That also goes to say that a person must know "rules" before he could break them. Fiction writers are so hard-core. They're liars, rule-breakers, and geniuses, too.
This conversation with a school mate came that afternoon:
Person: You're a writer, right?
HJPP: Yeah.
Person: Are you any good?
HJPP: What do you mean am I any good? That's not a thing you ask someone...
Person: Oh, sorry. I meant to say, how often do you write, and have any of your works been published?
HJPP: Poetry, yes. I don't know about those other contest entries that won, if they've been published or not. I don't really care, lol. I've been writing every day coz it's rather compulsary. And because I just like to... Well, everyone writes every day. Let's just say that if for one day you don't touch a pen, you become less human. That's just my theory.
Person: But I don't always touch my pen...
HJPP: Ever wondered why people like you are so ordinary? Yeah. Ordinary.
HJPP dodges "writer questions" all the time, mainly because she feels there isn't much about her writing to talk about. Yet.
Very early again, she found her place inside the library. She pondered about literature as a whole, and then about fiction. The elements of fiction are easy to enumerate, even with eyes closed. The bigger challenge, however, is in examining them individually as part of a bigger plot. To say the least, plots in themselves are already too complicated for one's life. It makes her wonder how fiction writers master all of those.
True, fiction is the one thing that has the power to make any man feel dumber than ever. It's the most mathematical thing in the world, except unlike mathematics, it works beyond algorithms and axioms. Second to making people feel dumb, it also has the power to elicit thought and feelings. Math can't do that (...or could it?). But just like mathematics, it could be agreed that once a person has mastered the rudiments of it, writing it would be doable and bearable if not easy. That also goes to say that a person must know "rules" before he could break them. Fiction writers are so hard-core. They're liars, rule-breakers, and geniuses, too.
This conversation with a school mate came that afternoon:
Person: You're a writer, right?
HJPP: Yeah.
Person: Are you any good?
HJPP: What do you mean am I any good? That's not a thing you ask someone...
Person: Oh, sorry. I meant to say, how often do you write, and have any of your works been published?
HJPP: Poetry, yes. I don't know about those other contest entries that won, if they've been published or not. I don't really care, lol. I've been writing every day coz it's rather compulsary. And because I just like to... Well, everyone writes every day. Let's just say that if for one day you don't touch a pen, you become less human. That's just my theory.
Person: But I don't always touch my pen...
HJPP: Ever wondered why people like you are so ordinary? Yeah. Ordinary.
HJPP dodges "writer questions" all the time, mainly because she feels there isn't much about her writing to talk about. Yet.
Friday, July 18, 2014
8.5
Fridays are library days for HJPP the way Thursdays are mistress days for stranger people. She spent a great amount of time at the F. Sionil Jose Collection, reading for love. Something about the writer impels her to keep going back to that little corner. She does for her love.
She reviewed the WRIFICT handouts on POV that day and read books on setting. Setting and characters seem the hardest elements of fiction, especially in writing. No, everything's hard. While going over reference books on fiction, she found a book entitled Telling Lies for Fun and Profit.
What a weird title, she thought. And then suddenly it made sense: liars are the craftiest people on earth. They tell stories to make people want to believe in the reality of a setting, character, or event. Fiction writers make us believe in all of those, and perhaps fiction writers, too, are liars. In fact, they make the greatest tell-tales of all. They're crafty and sly and witty and innovative.
Fiction is myth-making...or myth-"breaking." By telling seemingly true "untruths" that lead people to believing, fiction also seems to destroy the very idea of what a myth is. Myths are stories that are untrue, which people believe in anyway. Fiction tells stories that people read to believe, even in the knowing that they are make-believes.
The believability of a lie lies in a liar's skill in telling a lie. But unlike fiction, lies aren't mathematical. Fiction seems the most mathematical thing in the world... :/
That afternoon, she watched a music show in support of a cellist friend named JERP. She watches all of his shows. All.
She told him to break two legs...
She reviewed the WRIFICT handouts on POV that day and read books on setting. Setting and characters seem the hardest elements of fiction, especially in writing. No, everything's hard. While going over reference books on fiction, she found a book entitled Telling Lies for Fun and Profit.
What a weird title, she thought. And then suddenly it made sense: liars are the craftiest people on earth. They tell stories to make people want to believe in the reality of a setting, character, or event. Fiction writers make us believe in all of those, and perhaps fiction writers, too, are liars. In fact, they make the greatest tell-tales of all. They're crafty and sly and witty and innovative.
Fiction is myth-making...or myth-"breaking." By telling seemingly true "untruths" that lead people to believing, fiction also seems to destroy the very idea of what a myth is. Myths are stories that are untrue, which people believe in anyway. Fiction tells stories that people read to believe, even in the knowing that they are make-believes.
The believability of a lie lies in a liar's skill in telling a lie. But unlike fiction, lies aren't mathematical. Fiction seems the most mathematical thing in the world... :/
That afternoon, she watched a music show in support of a cellist friend named JERP. She watches all of his shows. All.
She told him to break two legs...
Thursday, July 17, 2014
8.4
In pursuit of coming up with a short story, HJPP turned to FICTWOR and WRIFICT notes and readings. She then decided that it can be an effective way of studying for the comprehensive exams, of the sort of hitting two or more birds with one stone. She liked the idea. After all, what better way to spend rainy, flood days than to write-study, right?
In coming up with character names, she consulted with her mom who knew a world about chakras, unity consciousness, enlightenment, colors, natural healing, semiotics, and other mystical things. Any girl raised in a kind of environment will grow up weird in a good way. HJPP's mom gave her a handbook on chakra healing and a bunch of PDFs, saying with a nice encouraging smile, "Do you remember the time we healed your chakras?"
HJPP replied, "Mommy, I just need character names. What's the color of loss and confusion?"
There was a ton of explanation. Information was too profound and vague for naive ears of hers. HJPP got the book and marveled at the section that explained semiotics and religion. It was unlike anything she's ever learned from school. The idea goes like this. There is a lot of difficulty talking about some concepts (i.e. power and powerlessness, loss and gain, and other opposites that create a pendulum effect) because of the limitations of language in the dual system. The Buddhists use the analogy of a finger pointing at the moon. The finger represents language, and the moon represents unity consciousness or enlightenment. We can approximate where the moon is by pointing at it with a finger, although we cannot really touch it. We can never touch the moon with our finger, but our finger can point the way.
The process of naming a character is hard. It's like naming a newborn baby. Trust that whatever name you give a baby will affect his or her entire life. Do you want a deeply contemplative, annoyingly calm, bitter baby?
While thinking of a name, her smartphone made a weird buzzing sound. She received a ginormously long letter from KHJ1. His language was careful and proper, and his formality was beautiful. Although serious, it was sincere. It had the marks of a wise, educated man.
Two middle paragraphs read with godly counsel and knowledge. The rest of the letter, however, was strewn with apologies. She felt that it sounded "too Jane Austen" for how most male characters sounded like--cold, emotionless, soft, sincere. It ended the way a good short story should end--powerfully, efficaciously. For fiction's sake, she then thought of immortalizing parts of his letter onto the short story she had begun to write that morning, beginning with the last-most paragraph: "I apologize again, HJPP, for avoiding you, and I realize that I cannot do that anymore. Please forgive me."
For all a lengthy letter was worth, HJPP had no clue how to write back. Even if a "Yup, you're forgiven" seemed a proper response, it wouldn't do the letter justice on emotional grounds. A few days ago, KHJ1 was the meanest, cruelest, evilest man on earth. He made her cry. When she fought back in retaliation, he cried. The letter, on the other hand, showed a lonely writer--and because of a soft spot for lonely people, she was inclined to making him feel better. If only he were beside her after the letter was read, she could have hugged him right away. Fiction, however, tells you that letters can be very deceiving. Think "Roman Fever."
If KHJ1 were a baby and apologized the way he did in the letter, then HJPP's heart would surely have melted. She would have held the baby close and rocked him gently until he falls asleep.
But KHJ1 is not a baby. He's a grown man, and he had done unthinkable things. Thus, forgiving would be hard to do. As yet, something about him or his personality makes forgiveness unconventionally easy. She should probably just give him a hug next week. :/
In coming up with character names, she consulted with her mom who knew a world about chakras, unity consciousness, enlightenment, colors, natural healing, semiotics, and other mystical things. Any girl raised in a kind of environment will grow up weird in a good way. HJPP's mom gave her a handbook on chakra healing and a bunch of PDFs, saying with a nice encouraging smile, "Do you remember the time we healed your chakras?"
HJPP replied, "Mommy, I just need character names. What's the color of loss and confusion?"
There was a ton of explanation. Information was too profound and vague for naive ears of hers. HJPP got the book and marveled at the section that explained semiotics and religion. It was unlike anything she's ever learned from school. The idea goes like this. There is a lot of difficulty talking about some concepts (i.e. power and powerlessness, loss and gain, and other opposites that create a pendulum effect) because of the limitations of language in the dual system. The Buddhists use the analogy of a finger pointing at the moon. The finger represents language, and the moon represents unity consciousness or enlightenment. We can approximate where the moon is by pointing at it with a finger, although we cannot really touch it. We can never touch the moon with our finger, but our finger can point the way.
The process of naming a character is hard. It's like naming a newborn baby. Trust that whatever name you give a baby will affect his or her entire life. Do you want a deeply contemplative, annoyingly calm, bitter baby?
While thinking of a name, her smartphone made a weird buzzing sound. She received a ginormously long letter from KHJ1. His language was careful and proper, and his formality was beautiful. Although serious, it was sincere. It had the marks of a wise, educated man.
Two middle paragraphs read with godly counsel and knowledge. The rest of the letter, however, was strewn with apologies. She felt that it sounded "too Jane Austen" for how most male characters sounded like--cold, emotionless, soft, sincere. It ended the way a good short story should end--powerfully, efficaciously. For fiction's sake, she then thought of immortalizing parts of his letter onto the short story she had begun to write that morning, beginning with the last-most paragraph: "I apologize again, HJPP, for avoiding you, and I realize that I cannot do that anymore. Please forgive me."
For all a lengthy letter was worth, HJPP had no clue how to write back. Even if a "Yup, you're forgiven" seemed a proper response, it wouldn't do the letter justice on emotional grounds. A few days ago, KHJ1 was the meanest, cruelest, evilest man on earth. He made her cry. When she fought back in retaliation, he cried. The letter, on the other hand, showed a lonely writer--and because of a soft spot for lonely people, she was inclined to making him feel better. If only he were beside her after the letter was read, she could have hugged him right away. Fiction, however, tells you that letters can be very deceiving. Think "Roman Fever."
If KHJ1 were a baby and apologized the way he did in the letter, then HJPP's heart would surely have melted. She would have held the baby close and rocked him gently until he falls asleep.
But KHJ1 is not a baby. He's a grown man, and he had done unthinkable things. Thus, forgiving would be hard to do. As yet, something about him or his personality makes forgiveness unconventionally easy. She should probably just give him a hug next week. :/
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
8.3
A sleepy HJPP woke up in the morning today from the sound of the howling wind. She watched as maya birds smashed onto the glass window just beside her bed. She worried that the rain might enter and drown her papers and books that were temporarily on the floor (too many readings, too little space). However, she felt so thankful, so blessed that the shelter was sturdy enough to keep the whole household safe.
She sat up on the bed and watched as the winds blew rain water as if blowing sand. The wind was so strong that even birds could not race against it. HJPP laughed as birds were thrown onto the window. It was a funnier than watching fish bump their faces onto the glass surface of an aquarium.
The rest of the morning was spent cleaning the living room. Afterwards, she read contemporary Chinese short stories. Having read Chinese short stories gave a strange feeling.
Anything Chinese felt so familiar yet also so distant nowadays. It clearly was unlike the old days. She wondered how much a bicultural identity crisis could affect her life, or her writing. She's always considered herself Filipino, but history and eveything else proved otherwise. Identity will remain a touchy subject.
The book was lovely though. It reminder her so much of a province far away from here. She's only ever been there twice, but the memory lingers.
She met a dude there, a childhood sweetie. His name is RDL1. Today, upon learning that RDL1 had a twin, she banged her head on a desk. Well, they didn't look alike. How unfortunate. He has a twin brother named RDL2, younger by a few minutes.
In every stage of her life, it seems, she meets an important guy. RDL1 from childhood, JSA1 from pre-teenage, and now KHJ1. These important men come with a twin sibling.
KHJ1 is a brother's namesake. He has a twin brother, KHJ2, who is a seminarian. They're cool brothers (no pun). JSA1 and JSA2 are neighbors and running buddies of HJPP. They're both engineering students and are so good at math that it makes her want to cry. RDL1 relates to her in everything. That was how they started out as friends. Many years ago in a faraway province, they kissed among tall uncut grass--well, they were barely five and too childish to comprehend what coupleship meant, but if childhood sweeties were to count as actual boyfies, he would have made the first and only one.
Today, HJPP got into an actual fight with KHJ1. It was hell.
She sat up on the bed and watched as the winds blew rain water as if blowing sand. The wind was so strong that even birds could not race against it. HJPP laughed as birds were thrown onto the window. It was a funnier than watching fish bump their faces onto the glass surface of an aquarium.
The rest of the morning was spent cleaning the living room. Afterwards, she read contemporary Chinese short stories. Having read Chinese short stories gave a strange feeling.
Anything Chinese felt so familiar yet also so distant nowadays. It clearly was unlike the old days. She wondered how much a bicultural identity crisis could affect her life, or her writing. She's always considered herself Filipino, but history and eveything else proved otherwise. Identity will remain a touchy subject.
The book was lovely though. It reminder her so much of a province far away from here. She's only ever been there twice, but the memory lingers.
She met a dude there, a childhood sweetie. His name is RDL1. Today, upon learning that RDL1 had a twin, she banged her head on a desk. Well, they didn't look alike. How unfortunate. He has a twin brother named RDL2, younger by a few minutes.
In every stage of her life, it seems, she meets an important guy. RDL1 from childhood, JSA1 from pre-teenage, and now KHJ1. These important men come with a twin sibling.
KHJ1 is a brother's namesake. He has a twin brother, KHJ2, who is a seminarian. They're cool brothers (no pun). JSA1 and JSA2 are neighbors and running buddies of HJPP. They're both engineering students and are so good at math that it makes her want to cry. RDL1 relates to her in everything. That was how they started out as friends. Many years ago in a faraway province, they kissed among tall uncut grass--well, they were barely five and too childish to comprehend what coupleship meant, but if childhood sweeties were to count as actual boyfies, he would have made the first and only one.
Today, HJPP got into an actual fight with KHJ1. It was hell.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
8.2
Although arrogant and careless HJPP scored top 5 in a midterm exam in a finance subject, she felt so humiliated, so demeaned for just one shallow thing: FAFA scored higher.
HJPP solved problems with great speed, and FAFA had always asked for her help. In fact, many of her classmates asked for her help. They would text her and call her up the night before the test just to ask her to explain things. Come exam time, HJPP was confident--too arrogantly confident that she made sure to submit the exam booklet thirty minutes before the rest of the exam time ended.
Many of her classmates remarked with "WOW, tapos ka na???"
HJPP, arrogant as always, replied with a "Yup, dali lang!"
When results came out today, the arrogant one got a 90 percentile. FAFA got a 96.
HJPP heard FAFA say, "Yes!!! I'm higher than HJPP!"
HJPP frowned in dismay and humiliation. A really important lesson was learned today--that grades mean nothing if one's character is rotten. HJPP dared to change that side of herself today.
HJPP solved problems with great speed, and FAFA had always asked for her help. In fact, many of her classmates asked for her help. They would text her and call her up the night before the test just to ask her to explain things. Come exam time, HJPP was confident--too arrogantly confident that she made sure to submit the exam booklet thirty minutes before the rest of the exam time ended.
Many of her classmates remarked with "WOW, tapos ka na???"
HJPP, arrogant as always, replied with a "Yup, dali lang!"
When results came out today, the arrogant one got a 90 percentile. FAFA got a 96.
HJPP heard FAFA say, "Yes!!! I'm higher than HJPP!"
HJPP frowned in dismay and humiliation. A really important lesson was learned today--that grades mean nothing if one's character is rotten. HJPP dared to change that side of herself today.
Monday, July 14, 2014
8.1
True story: HJPP (my fictional name henceforth) lost a dear good friend today. He did not die. She just turned him invisible, the way the US turned the Philippines invisible from their history.
Yet another true story: Daydreamy HJPP almost forgot to go down the right train station today. With a messed up head, she had the weirdest realization that trains were no different from elevators, except that they moved sideways and elevators upwards/downwards. Either supermachine squished people inside all together and had scary doors.
HJPP hated commuting. The train stations always smelled like urine and garlic breath, even when not much people were in it.
Upon arriving home, the rain fell. She was glad, though, that warm monggo soup was for dinner. HJPP raged when her sister said that F. Sionil Jose looked like Jabba the Hutt.
On the toilet seat, HJPP read KHJ1's hate mail on the smartphone. She didn't know what to feel or say. In response to the hate mail, she decided that the better thing to do is that they ignore each other for good.
"Let's...ignore (no interaction, don't even say hi) each other and keep playing invisible until we forget that we had ever met," HJPP said that night.
There was no response to that. The truth is that KHJ1 fell asleep while chocking up a message to reply with. Many hours after, at midnight, he accidentally pressed the "send" button while dreaming.
Yet another true story: Daydreamy HJPP almost forgot to go down the right train station today. With a messed up head, she had the weirdest realization that trains were no different from elevators, except that they moved sideways and elevators upwards/downwards. Either supermachine squished people inside all together and had scary doors.
HJPP hated commuting. The train stations always smelled like urine and garlic breath, even when not much people were in it.
Upon arriving home, the rain fell. She was glad, though, that warm monggo soup was for dinner. HJPP raged when her sister said that F. Sionil Jose looked like Jabba the Hutt.
On the toilet seat, HJPP read KHJ1's hate mail on the smartphone. She didn't know what to feel or say. In response to the hate mail, she decided that the better thing to do is that they ignore each other for good.
"Let's...ignore (no interaction, don't even say hi) each other and keep playing invisible until we forget that we had ever met," HJPP said that night.
There was no response to that. The truth is that KHJ1 fell asleep while chocking up a message to reply with. Many hours after, at midnight, he accidentally pressed the "send" button while dreaming.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
7.7
I'll probably have to imagine myself today to have been like a "Giselle" character, a girl who died of a broken heart.
First, I woke up from a nightmare. My nervous breakdown continued until the morning. Hence, I cried on my desk before going on with my usual morning routine. After crying, I got dressed and did whatever I had to do for the day.
The latter part of the morning was spent in church. After church, I drove to another church to have a Bible study session while my family and went to SM Aura. They ate ramen without me. :(
I caught up with them at SM Aura to have "tea time." My family would typically look like a very studious bunch on any table. While in any coffee shop or restaurant people only sat down and dined, we kids always had school work with us, and my parents had their books/newspapers/financial documents/contracts. I have no idea why we always brought those things outside with us.
In the afternoon I sent Ho Jae a message before I proceeded with studying. It was compulsory. Ho Jae is a person I talk to about God and the Bible because he always, always understands. I've not yet met anyone who is as patient, understanding, and disciplined as he. He's so disciplined that talking to him makes me feel weak and inadequate.
I also tell him about men I dislike/liked and about my problems involving them. He makes sure I don't stalk [hot] guys' walls because it leads to infatuation which leads to self-destruction. If I do, I owe him coffee for every one stalk. I guess, even if we never talked about not stalking his wall or his brother's wall, those count as well.
Second point in relation to feeling miserable today: he sent me the longest, guilt-laden message ever. He feels too much. I accidentally called his brother "hot" and he didn't like it. Oops, forgot that they were identical. I probably owe him a cup now.
Well, besides my morning hysteria, I didn't really feel all that miserable today at all.
After the drama, I killed the internet and shut my phone off to retract from the rest of the Facebook world. I studied henceforth.
My day ended boringly.
First, I woke up from a nightmare. My nervous breakdown continued until the morning. Hence, I cried on my desk before going on with my usual morning routine. After crying, I got dressed and did whatever I had to do for the day.
The latter part of the morning was spent in church. After church, I drove to another church to have a Bible study session while my family and went to SM Aura. They ate ramen without me. :(
I caught up with them at SM Aura to have "tea time." My family would typically look like a very studious bunch on any table. While in any coffee shop or restaurant people only sat down and dined, we kids always had school work with us, and my parents had their books/newspapers/financial documents/contracts. I have no idea why we always brought those things outside with us.
In the afternoon I sent Ho Jae a message before I proceeded with studying. It was compulsory. Ho Jae is a person I talk to about God and the Bible because he always, always understands. I've not yet met anyone who is as patient, understanding, and disciplined as he. He's so disciplined that talking to him makes me feel weak and inadequate.
I also tell him about men I dislike/liked and about my problems involving them. He makes sure I don't stalk [hot] guys' walls because it leads to infatuation which leads to self-destruction. If I do, I owe him coffee for every one stalk. I guess, even if we never talked about not stalking his wall or his brother's wall, those count as well.
Second point in relation to feeling miserable today: he sent me the longest, guilt-laden message ever. He feels too much. I accidentally called his brother "hot" and he didn't like it. Oops, forgot that they were identical. I probably owe him a cup now.
Well, besides my morning hysteria, I didn't really feel all that miserable today at all.
After the drama, I killed the internet and shut my phone off to retract from the rest of the Facebook world. I studied henceforth.
My day ended boringly.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
7.6
I don't think I could lie about my day. All I did today was study, and that should be boring enough to write/read about. I slept at 9 p.m. yesterday, woke up at around 12 a.m., and then worked all the way. I was being sedentarily productive.
In the middle of studying, at around 10 p.m., I wanted to talk to friends. I messaged Jeremy with "Jer!!!!!!" but he would not reply; so I next turned to Ho Jae who always replied, even if talking to him had always made me feel guilty and awkward.
Besides studying and chatting with Ho Jae, I don't think anything else that happened today could classify as interesting. Oh, Isagani Cruz shared my picture and it got 9 likes. Besides all of those, nothing else really happened interestingly. I didn't even eat. Eating would have been interesting.
Ho Jae was offline. I texted him with "go online!!!!" and then he did. I like that he always did, even if it meant interrupting his schedule. I think I should be more polite next time.
After feeling messed up after the chat, I went back to work. I felt like Ponos, the spirit of hard labor and toil, because I worked the whole day.
I'm realizing how much of the Greek mythology characters/creatures I still do not know, and that is just terrible.
In the middle of studying, at around 10 p.m., I wanted to talk to friends. I messaged Jeremy with "Jer!!!!!!" but he would not reply; so I next turned to Ho Jae who always replied, even if talking to him had always made me feel guilty and awkward.
Besides studying and chatting with Ho Jae, I don't think anything else that happened today could classify as interesting. Oh, Isagani Cruz shared my picture and it got 9 likes. Besides all of those, nothing else really happened interestingly. I didn't even eat. Eating would have been interesting.
Ho Jae was offline. I texted him with "go online!!!!" and then he did. I like that he always did, even if it meant interrupting his schedule. I think I should be more polite next time.
After feeling messed up after the chat, I went back to work. I felt like Ponos, the spirit of hard labor and toil, because I worked the whole day.
I'm realizing how much of the Greek mythology characters/creatures I still do not know, and that is just terrible.
Friday, July 11, 2014
7.5
I arrived at the library a few minutes before the clock struck eight, just for the enjoyment of being earlier than most of the library. I did a homework for one of my subjects there. The homework is due Tuesday next week, but I submitted it at the department at William Hall a while ago just to get things over with. My professor allowed early submissions. When I finished, I went back to the library to read up on my favorite topics.
The bigger chunk of my awesome day was invariably the turnover ceremony of the F. Sionil Jose Collection, a day I had waited the entire week and last month for. An intense researcher of sorts, I snooped around the Collection during its preparation stage this whole week. I helped with the decorating and organizing, mingled with artists, and talked to the daughters of F. Sionil Jose. I enjoyed it so much that I wanted to do more of it today, and so I went up to the twelfth floor at 1 p.m. to help again.
To my astonishment, I saw one friend there. He was arranging books to do his practicum duties. I asked if I could help.
Me: Hey, can I help? c:
Friend: No thanks, I can manage...
Me: Okay... [in my head: Fine, bahala ka...]
I roamed the Collection, took a lot of pictures, and talked to the people around (the librarians, organizers, the daughters--everyone except for my friend because he was boring). I also talked to Regie, the main artist. I asked him questions regarding the design concepts and arrangement of the place. He explained that the arrangement mimicked that of Solidaridad, the actual book shop. The quote on the wall which read "Uni boni tacent, malum prosperat" came from the publication called Solidarity. The Latin phrase meant "In the silence of good, evil prospers." That phrase was used as an epigraph of Solidarity. I knew an adequate amount of information about F. Sionil Jose from stock knowledge and a lot of research because I wrote about him for an essay competition last month. When Regie showed me an actual copy of Solidarity, I teared up, thinking I now hold in my hands...an actual copy of Solidarity. Wow. :">
I joined in some of their conversations on F. Sionil Jose, filling their stories in with stock knowledge of my own. We talked about his hometown, childhood, travels, writing life, etc. I guess it pays to know stuff? Coupled with a little stock knowledge on Philippine history, I remember inserting a topic on the Colorum uprising. Everyone then said "Yeah!!! That was in Pangasinan!" One of them said "I'm so impressed! How do you know so much?" I said, "School," giving a thumbs up, and then everyone laughed. Incidentally, that conversation took place around the long table, and it felt metaphorical. Many years ago in the Solidaridad book shop, I knew that people also used to have great conversations around a similar long table.
An F. Sionil Jose documentary played on a big LCD screen all throughout the afternoon preparation stage. While my friend was on his laptop at the far end of the room, I watched on the big screen, directly in front of it. I had the awesomest privilege of having watched the documentary that early afternoon--and I feel so thankful, so blessed that I had seized that opportunity to watch it, because they did not show it during the main event anymore, strangely enough. They only kept it running while the event transpired.
At 2:45 p.m., Dr. Lua arrived. She went directly to the buffet table to arrange the pika-pika goodies (different kinds of cheese, saltine, small sandwiches, chicken fingers, orange juice, and wine). I approached her and said hi.
Dr. Lua: Serina! You're early! Good yan ah.
Me: Always am!
Me: Can I help? c:
Dr. Lua: (excitedly) yes, sure sure SURE!!! Okay, since you and --- are early and are nicely dressed, why don't you both stand at the door and help welcome the guests?
Me: Okay
Friend: What did Dr. Lua say again?
Me: We stand at the door and welcome guests
We stood at the door and stared awkwardly at each other. A person with laughing tendencies, it was really hard for me to control my laughter. I guess I had made it too awkward for him that he walked to the CR. When he came back in, he walked past the door and toward the other end of the room to his laptop, leaving me at the door. I didn't mind being left alone at the door. When guests came in, I brought them to their seats, shook some hands. Suddenly, F. Sionil Jose arrived. The main librarian hurried to the door to shake his hand. His daughters also went to the door and welcomed him.
One of his daughters took me by the hand, slapped F. Sionil Jose at the shoulder, and said: "Papa! Let me introduce you to Serina! She's the person who's been telling us all about you!" F. Sionil Jose said "Ah ganun ba? Nice to meet you!" He took his cane by his left hand and extended his right hand to shake my hand. I felt incredibly happy. Photographers, people from the press, librarians, and organizers trailed after him; and so did I. I stood at an angle where it was possible to listen to everything he said. I guess he sensed that I was following him around.
When other people went back to minding their own businesses, finally, he sat down on a lonely monoblock chair. I remained at my spot three feet away from his left side and kept watching him. After some time, he looked at me and then called me to come near: "Halika, iha." I thanked the universe. I sat on a cube-like couch beside his monoblock chair, and he began with questions. I brushed feelings of enthrallment and awestrickenness away. I had always wanted that conversation; and because I was already having it, there was no point of feeling giddy or childish any longer. I could only look back to more than five years ago when I had started dreaming of conversations with fine old men. For those thirty minutes, I had lived five, long, crazy diary years of dreaming.
We sat very near the entrance. When guests came in one after another, he would stand up to shake their hands and take pictures with them--I might have photobombed on almost every picture because I never left my seat. After he greeted guests, he sat back down and continued with our conversation. I saw Dr. Lua looking so proudly at us.
FSJ: What are you...(unfinished)
Me: I'm a student
FSJ: No, I mean, what are you studying?
Me: Literature po
FSJ: what do you like to read?
Me: historical fiction po... I read a lot of historical fiction, memoirs, or anywhere I can find historical data
FSJ: what's your forte? do you write poetry? fiction? drama?
Me: I try to write fiction, but I also write poetry
FSJ: mostly what?
Me: fiction
FSJ: Do you write in English or Filipino?
Me: I write in both, but predominantly in English
FSJ: You should write in the language you know best
Me: Sir, why do you write in English?
FSJ: Because history declared that I write in English. That is a question I've been asked very often. If it were not for the Americans, I would probably be writing in Japanese or maybe in German.
Me: Sir, you've been traveling a lot po. How did you manange traveling with a writer's wage? I mean, you've always said it in your essays na walang pera kapag writer. How did you do it?
FSJ: There was always the benefit of writing grants and institutions that subsidized for my travels... Pero mahirap rin talaga, walang pera ang pagiging writer, but it's a very fulfilling and noble career
Me: Sir, how are you able to sustain your writing? You've already written so much, yet here you are, still writing... You even published another article in your column just four days ago. How do you do it?
FSJ: Passion. Without passion, you can't write. You can, but writing won't live and die with you. It's not easy to write, but as a writer you have to have the passion because it's what makes a writer a writer.
Me: How did your writing start?
FSJ: Because of Jose Rizal. Jose Rizal has the greatest influence in my writing. I remember, when I was ten years old, I cried when I read the scene about the two sons of Sisa, Crispin and Basilio. At that young age, I felt outraged by the injustice. Looking back, I think that is the reason why I feel outraged every time there is an injustice.
Me: Ako naman, sir, I cried at grade two during Makabayan, when we learned about the execution of Jose Rizal. I even remember that some of my classmates made fun of it. They played the "shooting" scene for fun. That wasn't right eh, so I got really angry. Na-detention ako nun...
FSJ: Hah?!!! Anong ginawa mo ba?
Me: sinigawan ko po sila... I said "You're all so immature!!! Stop disrespecting our national hero!!!" I got a detention for calling them immature.
FSJ: Hahaha
At some point, Brother Ricky came in. They both shook hands. F. Sionil Jose asked about Brother Ricky's collar. I said hi. We also shake hands.
Me: Hello Brother Ricky...
BR: Hello, how are you?
Me: I'm fine... when are you leaving for Rome?
BR: [he pats my head and smiles nicely] Next month pa, in late August. August 25 or 26.
Me: I've always wanted to go to Rome... and I've read your letters!
BR: Oh really?
Me: Yup. Can I touch your collar?
BR: go ahead. This collar comes from a long tradition of collars from the brothers in Rome.
Me: Wow, interesting
BR: [walks away after F. Sionil Jose takes his seat] sige, good luck with school.
Me: thanks!
When Brother Ricky left, more guests arrived. Because I sat next to him, one of the guests thought that I was F. Sionil Jose's grandchild. During intervals, we continued with our conversation. Oh that was fun.
Me: How did you feel about not winning the Nobel?
FSJ: (there was a change of tone) Wala eh...nothing... I was nominated twice. One was last year. I thought that by last year I was already going to get it. That would have been a really good opportunity. Sayang eh.
Me: Oh... sorry to hear. Can you talk about Solidarity, the book shop, and the art gallery?
FSJ: I'll talk about that later in my lecture. Later.
Me: Why do you write from history?
FSJ: Because tomorrow, today will also be history. I write from a memory.
Me: What in your opinion is the best kind of novel?
FSJ: A novel that gives a person memory. I always tell people that the primary function of a writer is to give a person memory, to help a person go back to the past.
Me: I agree.
FSJ: Wala ka na bang itatanong?
Me: Nope, sir, they're about to begin na kasi.
FSJ: (stands up with his cane and walks to Dr. Lua)
While walking, he was interrogated by some more guests for handshakes and photo-ops. Dr. Lua introduced my classmates to him. He said "Aba at akala ko ba mga sampu silang lit majors?!" Dr. Lua then explained that some were still on the way or late. He asked some of my classmates (Riddick, Anis, Katrina, Andrea) one by one about the topics they were interested in and the writings they did. My classmates answered. When he turned to me, he said "Ah, kausap ko na 'to kanina."
I observed that his speech borrowed anecdotes from many of his essays. They were told in exactly the same manner, and I found it adorable. Most of the anecdotes he shared were familiar ones because I'd already read them from his column and other essays. He finished, however, with a quick note on the opening of his Collection. He said that he turns his memory over to an institution with hopes that when a person visits the manuscripts and memorabilia, a person might remember.
Immediately after the signing of the contract, the ribbon was cut. I rushed from my back-row seat to the ribbon-cutting ceremony at the other end and pushed my way through the crowd and paparazzi to take good shots of every moment of the Collection's ribbon-cutting and after. I felt incredibly stalkeresque and energetic. I followed F. Sionil Jose everywhere, from inside the little room to the larger spaces he would go to to have pictures with guests. I also took pictures of him with guests and promised to upload them (we're friends on Facebook). After my turn as a photographer, I headed to the buffet table where I spoke to more people.
I spoke with Ms. Asuncion David-Maramba and promised to look for her books in the library. She mentioned that she taught in my university for a time and had authored several books. I also spoke with Dr. Vince Gomez.
Vince Gomez: Hi, are you the one doing a study on F. Sionil Jose?
Me: Yes!
VG: Ah, that's great! For how long have you been studying about him?
Me: For four months already.
VG: Oh, good. Are you also studying here?
Me: Yup, third year. (popping a piece of blue cheese into my mouth)
VG: Okay. I'm the person who made all of this possible, from asking F. Sionil Jose to turn over his collection to making arrangements, etc.
Me: Wow, that's amazing. May I know your name, sir? [I felt like spitting the blue cheese out but I couldn't because I was in the middle of a conversation. I had no choice but to swollow the disgusting blue cheese.]
VG: I'm Dr. Gomez
Me: Vince Gomez?
VG: Yes
Me: [in my head: Shucks, kilala ka ng tatay ko] Oh! I'm sorry, I hardly recognize people by face. I usually only know them by name, including many of the writers here...
VG: No, it's fine. At least you know them by name. It's good noh, and how old are you?
Me: I'm 18
VG: Still young. What do you plan to do after college? Do you plan to teach? Study abroad?
Me: I could teach, but I don't teach well, so I could also go to law school or study abroad. I actually used to have so many plans for my life but it gets harder to decide as I get older.
VG: Take it slow, don't rush. It's better to be careful, because that's how you end up somewhere
Me: Yup, okay.
In the middle of that conversation, one of F. Sionil Jose's daughters came with her mother and introduced me to her mother.
Daughter: Mama, this is the girl who's been telling us all about Papa! She was here every day of the week and helped us with the set!
Tita Tessie: What's your name?
Me: I'm Serina
T: You've been here all week?
Me: Yup (I try to avoid the praise/pressure)
T: Thank you for your dedication and for helping them set up!
Me: No, thank you for collating all of his manuscripts! I now have a favorite spot in the library.
Tita: (friendly smile) Have you gotten something to eat?
Me: Yes, tita
The day ended splendidly. Two of F. Sionil Jose's daughter's friends also approached me and asked questions. We all had a picture together. In fact, I had so many pictures taken with people that day that I felt I couldn't touch a camera anymore. One of the friends said "Get your dreams!" I'll definitely heed these words.
I have two Biblical stories in mind: one, the story of a young Jesus sitting among teachers at the temple; and two, the story of Mary sitting at Jesus' feet when He came to their house.
I'd never like to directly compare myself to Jesus, but today's experiences had led to this assimilation. It was refreshing to have been able to convene with older people. For thirty-something memorable minutes, I sat down with F. Sionil Jose and just talked. I loved that part of the day. In my world, I meander about relationships between young girls and older men with whatever kind of relationship conceivable. Strangely, I found myself living inside that meander today. It's something I would do every day if I could.
The bigger chunk of my awesome day was invariably the turnover ceremony of the F. Sionil Jose Collection, a day I had waited the entire week and last month for. An intense researcher of sorts, I snooped around the Collection during its preparation stage this whole week. I helped with the decorating and organizing, mingled with artists, and talked to the daughters of F. Sionil Jose. I enjoyed it so much that I wanted to do more of it today, and so I went up to the twelfth floor at 1 p.m. to help again.
To my astonishment, I saw one friend there. He was arranging books to do his practicum duties. I asked if I could help.
Me: Hey, can I help? c:
Friend: No thanks, I can manage...
Me: Okay... [in my head: Fine, bahala ka...]
I roamed the Collection, took a lot of pictures, and talked to the people around (the librarians, organizers, the daughters--everyone except for my friend because he was boring). I also talked to Regie, the main artist. I asked him questions regarding the design concepts and arrangement of the place. He explained that the arrangement mimicked that of Solidaridad, the actual book shop. The quote on the wall which read "Uni boni tacent, malum prosperat" came from the publication called Solidarity. The Latin phrase meant "In the silence of good, evil prospers." That phrase was used as an epigraph of Solidarity. I knew an adequate amount of information about F. Sionil Jose from stock knowledge and a lot of research because I wrote about him for an essay competition last month. When Regie showed me an actual copy of Solidarity, I teared up, thinking I now hold in my hands...an actual copy of Solidarity. Wow. :">
I joined in some of their conversations on F. Sionil Jose, filling their stories in with stock knowledge of my own. We talked about his hometown, childhood, travels, writing life, etc. I guess it pays to know stuff? Coupled with a little stock knowledge on Philippine history, I remember inserting a topic on the Colorum uprising. Everyone then said "Yeah!!! That was in Pangasinan!" One of them said "I'm so impressed! How do you know so much?" I said, "School," giving a thumbs up, and then everyone laughed. Incidentally, that conversation took place around the long table, and it felt metaphorical. Many years ago in the Solidaridad book shop, I knew that people also used to have great conversations around a similar long table.
An F. Sionil Jose documentary played on a big LCD screen all throughout the afternoon preparation stage. While my friend was on his laptop at the far end of the room, I watched on the big screen, directly in front of it. I had the awesomest privilege of having watched the documentary that early afternoon--and I feel so thankful, so blessed that I had seized that opportunity to watch it, because they did not show it during the main event anymore, strangely enough. They only kept it running while the event transpired.
At 2:45 p.m., Dr. Lua arrived. She went directly to the buffet table to arrange the pika-pika goodies (different kinds of cheese, saltine, small sandwiches, chicken fingers, orange juice, and wine). I approached her and said hi.
Dr. Lua: Serina! You're early! Good yan ah.
Me: Always am!
Me: Can I help? c:
Dr. Lua: (excitedly) yes, sure sure SURE!!! Okay, since you and --- are early and are nicely dressed, why don't you both stand at the door and help welcome the guests?
Me: Okay
Friend: What did Dr. Lua say again?
Me: We stand at the door and welcome guests
We stood at the door and stared awkwardly at each other. A person with laughing tendencies, it was really hard for me to control my laughter. I guess I had made it too awkward for him that he walked to the CR. When he came back in, he walked past the door and toward the other end of the room to his laptop, leaving me at the door. I didn't mind being left alone at the door. When guests came in, I brought them to their seats, shook some hands. Suddenly, F. Sionil Jose arrived. The main librarian hurried to the door to shake his hand. His daughters also went to the door and welcomed him.
One of his daughters took me by the hand, slapped F. Sionil Jose at the shoulder, and said: "Papa! Let me introduce you to Serina! She's the person who's been telling us all about you!" F. Sionil Jose said "Ah ganun ba? Nice to meet you!" He took his cane by his left hand and extended his right hand to shake my hand. I felt incredibly happy. Photographers, people from the press, librarians, and organizers trailed after him; and so did I. I stood at an angle where it was possible to listen to everything he said. I guess he sensed that I was following him around.
When other people went back to minding their own businesses, finally, he sat down on a lonely monoblock chair. I remained at my spot three feet away from his left side and kept watching him. After some time, he looked at me and then called me to come near: "Halika, iha." I thanked the universe. I sat on a cube-like couch beside his monoblock chair, and he began with questions. I brushed feelings of enthrallment and awestrickenness away. I had always wanted that conversation; and because I was already having it, there was no point of feeling giddy or childish any longer. I could only look back to more than five years ago when I had started dreaming of conversations with fine old men. For those thirty minutes, I had lived five, long, crazy diary years of dreaming.
We sat very near the entrance. When guests came in one after another, he would stand up to shake their hands and take pictures with them--I might have photobombed on almost every picture because I never left my seat. After he greeted guests, he sat back down and continued with our conversation. I saw Dr. Lua looking so proudly at us.
FSJ: What are you...(unfinished)
Me: I'm a student
FSJ: No, I mean, what are you studying?
Me: Literature po
FSJ: what do you like to read?
Me: historical fiction po... I read a lot of historical fiction, memoirs, or anywhere I can find historical data
FSJ: what's your forte? do you write poetry? fiction? drama?
Me: I try to write fiction, but I also write poetry
FSJ: mostly what?
Me: fiction
FSJ: Do you write in English or Filipino?
Me: I write in both, but predominantly in English
FSJ: You should write in the language you know best
Me: Sir, why do you write in English?
FSJ: Because history declared that I write in English. That is a question I've been asked very often. If it were not for the Americans, I would probably be writing in Japanese or maybe in German.
Me: Sir, you've been traveling a lot po. How did you manange traveling with a writer's wage? I mean, you've always said it in your essays na walang pera kapag writer. How did you do it?
FSJ: There was always the benefit of writing grants and institutions that subsidized for my travels... Pero mahirap rin talaga, walang pera ang pagiging writer, but it's a very fulfilling and noble career
Me: Sir, how are you able to sustain your writing? You've already written so much, yet here you are, still writing... You even published another article in your column just four days ago. How do you do it?
FSJ: Passion. Without passion, you can't write. You can, but writing won't live and die with you. It's not easy to write, but as a writer you have to have the passion because it's what makes a writer a writer.
Me: How did your writing start?
FSJ: Because of Jose Rizal. Jose Rizal has the greatest influence in my writing. I remember, when I was ten years old, I cried when I read the scene about the two sons of Sisa, Crispin and Basilio. At that young age, I felt outraged by the injustice. Looking back, I think that is the reason why I feel outraged every time there is an injustice.
Me: Ako naman, sir, I cried at grade two during Makabayan, when we learned about the execution of Jose Rizal. I even remember that some of my classmates made fun of it. They played the "shooting" scene for fun. That wasn't right eh, so I got really angry. Na-detention ako nun...
FSJ: Hah?!!! Anong ginawa mo ba?
Me: sinigawan ko po sila... I said "You're all so immature!!! Stop disrespecting our national hero!!!" I got a detention for calling them immature.
FSJ: Hahaha
At some point, Brother Ricky came in. They both shook hands. F. Sionil Jose asked about Brother Ricky's collar. I said hi. We also shake hands.
Me: Hello Brother Ricky...
BR: Hello, how are you?
Me: I'm fine... when are you leaving for Rome?
BR: [he pats my head and smiles nicely] Next month pa, in late August. August 25 or 26.
Me: I've always wanted to go to Rome... and I've read your letters!
BR: Oh really?
Me: Yup. Can I touch your collar?
BR: go ahead. This collar comes from a long tradition of collars from the brothers in Rome.
Me: Wow, interesting
BR: [walks away after F. Sionil Jose takes his seat] sige, good luck with school.
Me: thanks!
When Brother Ricky left, more guests arrived. Because I sat next to him, one of the guests thought that I was F. Sionil Jose's grandchild. During intervals, we continued with our conversation. Oh that was fun.
Me: How did you feel about not winning the Nobel?
FSJ: (there was a change of tone) Wala eh...nothing... I was nominated twice. One was last year. I thought that by last year I was already going to get it. That would have been a really good opportunity. Sayang eh.
Me: Oh... sorry to hear. Can you talk about Solidarity, the book shop, and the art gallery?
FSJ: I'll talk about that later in my lecture. Later.
Me: Why do you write from history?
FSJ: Because tomorrow, today will also be history. I write from a memory.
Me: What in your opinion is the best kind of novel?
FSJ: A novel that gives a person memory. I always tell people that the primary function of a writer is to give a person memory, to help a person go back to the past.
Me: I agree.
FSJ: Wala ka na bang itatanong?
Me: Nope, sir, they're about to begin na kasi.
FSJ: (stands up with his cane and walks to Dr. Lua)
While walking, he was interrogated by some more guests for handshakes and photo-ops. Dr. Lua introduced my classmates to him. He said "Aba at akala ko ba mga sampu silang lit majors?!" Dr. Lua then explained that some were still on the way or late. He asked some of my classmates (Riddick, Anis, Katrina, Andrea) one by one about the topics they were interested in and the writings they did. My classmates answered. When he turned to me, he said "Ah, kausap ko na 'to kanina."
I observed that his speech borrowed anecdotes from many of his essays. They were told in exactly the same manner, and I found it adorable. Most of the anecdotes he shared were familiar ones because I'd already read them from his column and other essays. He finished, however, with a quick note on the opening of his Collection. He said that he turns his memory over to an institution with hopes that when a person visits the manuscripts and memorabilia, a person might remember.
Immediately after the signing of the contract, the ribbon was cut. I rushed from my back-row seat to the ribbon-cutting ceremony at the other end and pushed my way through the crowd and paparazzi to take good shots of every moment of the Collection's ribbon-cutting and after. I felt incredibly stalkeresque and energetic. I followed F. Sionil Jose everywhere, from inside the little room to the larger spaces he would go to to have pictures with guests. I also took pictures of him with guests and promised to upload them (we're friends on Facebook). After my turn as a photographer, I headed to the buffet table where I spoke to more people.
I spoke with Ms. Asuncion David-Maramba and promised to look for her books in the library. She mentioned that she taught in my university for a time and had authored several books. I also spoke with Dr. Vince Gomez.
Vince Gomez: Hi, are you the one doing a study on F. Sionil Jose?
Me: Yes!
VG: Ah, that's great! For how long have you been studying about him?
Me: For four months already.
VG: Oh, good. Are you also studying here?
Me: Yup, third year. (popping a piece of blue cheese into my mouth)
VG: Okay. I'm the person who made all of this possible, from asking F. Sionil Jose to turn over his collection to making arrangements, etc.
Me: Wow, that's amazing. May I know your name, sir? [I felt like spitting the blue cheese out but I couldn't because I was in the middle of a conversation. I had no choice but to swollow the disgusting blue cheese.]
VG: I'm Dr. Gomez
Me: Vince Gomez?
VG: Yes
Me: [in my head: Shucks, kilala ka ng tatay ko] Oh! I'm sorry, I hardly recognize people by face. I usually only know them by name, including many of the writers here...
VG: No, it's fine. At least you know them by name. It's good noh, and how old are you?
Me: I'm 18
VG: Still young. What do you plan to do after college? Do you plan to teach? Study abroad?
Me: I could teach, but I don't teach well, so I could also go to law school or study abroad. I actually used to have so many plans for my life but it gets harder to decide as I get older.
VG: Take it slow, don't rush. It's better to be careful, because that's how you end up somewhere
Me: Yup, okay.
In the middle of that conversation, one of F. Sionil Jose's daughters came with her mother and introduced me to her mother.
Daughter: Mama, this is the girl who's been telling us all about Papa! She was here every day of the week and helped us with the set!
Tita Tessie: What's your name?
Me: I'm Serina
T: You've been here all week?
Me: Yup (I try to avoid the praise/pressure)
T: Thank you for your dedication and for helping them set up!
Me: No, thank you for collating all of his manuscripts! I now have a favorite spot in the library.
Tita: (friendly smile) Have you gotten something to eat?
Me: Yes, tita
The day ended splendidly. Two of F. Sionil Jose's daughter's friends also approached me and asked questions. We all had a picture together. In fact, I had so many pictures taken with people that day that I felt I couldn't touch a camera anymore. One of the friends said "Get your dreams!" I'll definitely heed these words.
I have two Biblical stories in mind: one, the story of a young Jesus sitting among teachers at the temple; and two, the story of Mary sitting at Jesus' feet when He came to their house.
I'd never like to directly compare myself to Jesus, but today's experiences had led to this assimilation. It was refreshing to have been able to convene with older people. For thirty-something memorable minutes, I sat down with F. Sionil Jose and just talked. I loved that part of the day. In my world, I meander about relationships between young girls and older men with whatever kind of relationship conceivable. Strangely, I found myself living inside that meander today. It's something I would do every day if I could.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
7.4
Dinah Roma's poetry collection entitled Naming the Ruins is amazing. I've now found a book that I can have a romance with this weekend. Today was the book's launch and I helped in ushering the event. Very early I waited at South Gate for writers and guests to come. Katrina and Anis stayed at North Gate. When two other ushers, Joey and Jeline, came to take my place, I went back up to assist with the registration table. There I saw a fellow lit major. Being under the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center for his practicum, he was among the earliest in the room. He said hello. Feeling awkward, I went back down to South Gate. I normally wouldn't, considering the distance from 13th floor Learning Commons to South Gate--ew--and the heat. I just feel really really awkward around him now, I could not figure out why.
Finally, after my stint as a South Gate usher I went back up. The lecture hall was then more occupied than it was a few minutes before. There, I recognized some writers. I dared to start "writer conversations" with some of them, or at the very least listen to them talk, which I did during the pika-pika session. I spent the most of the time talking to Virginia Moreno.
I was assigned to the video camera. My practicumer-friend took pictures.
My very awkward nature gets the better of me a lot of times. During the event, I played "boss" by ordering him around to do things. A naturally kindhearted and well-mannered person, he did as I said. Realization seeped in only afterward when after the event, he looked weary and tired. I said sorry for being too pushy.
Me: There!!! Take pictures of every person or group of people who registers! That's what we do on every event!!!
Me: Count how many people had signed up
Friend: 16
Me: You just missed 16 people!!! Gah.
Me: There!!! Take pictures of the book-signing!!!
Friend: yeah okay...
Me: okay, good job
Weird thoughts ran on my mind that afternoon--thoughts that bothered me and woke me up. To brush those thoughts away, I dared myself to turn around with eyes closed, and at any time I felt like opening them I'd open my eyes and face a writer. The very first writer I see, whether familiar or not, I will approach. The mechanics of the "randomly-walk-up-to-a-writer-and-talk" game was pretty simple, and I needed it.
This made me think of myself as Phoebus who followed Daphne.
When I opened my eyes, I saw Virginia Moreno. At first, I had no idea who the heck she was; I then made use of my stalking abilities to find out who she is and what she did. I do that. I approach her not long after. She ended up telling me all about her life in UP and in America--and heck how I enjoyed listening. Nothing beats the thrill of listening to writers, especially senile ones, talk. I am amazed at how much of their past they can still remember.
Listening to F. Sionil Jose talk to the person from Vagabond Press was also a great stalking experience. F. Sionil Jose said exactly: "Filipino poetry in English is a language of its own." He sounds exactly the way he writes. He's amazing.
Finally, after my stint as a South Gate usher I went back up. The lecture hall was then more occupied than it was a few minutes before. There, I recognized some writers. I dared to start "writer conversations" with some of them, or at the very least listen to them talk, which I did during the pika-pika session. I spent the most of the time talking to Virginia Moreno.
I was assigned to the video camera. My practicumer-friend took pictures.
My very awkward nature gets the better of me a lot of times. During the event, I played "boss" by ordering him around to do things. A naturally kindhearted and well-mannered person, he did as I said. Realization seeped in only afterward when after the event, he looked weary and tired. I said sorry for being too pushy.
Me: There!!! Take pictures of every person or group of people who registers! That's what we do on every event!!!
Me: Count how many people had signed up
Friend: 16
Me: You just missed 16 people!!! Gah.
Me: There!!! Take pictures of the book-signing!!!
Friend: yeah okay...
Me: okay, good job
Weird thoughts ran on my mind that afternoon--thoughts that bothered me and woke me up. To brush those thoughts away, I dared myself to turn around with eyes closed, and at any time I felt like opening them I'd open my eyes and face a writer. The very first writer I see, whether familiar or not, I will approach. The mechanics of the "randomly-walk-up-to-a-writer-and-talk" game was pretty simple, and I needed it.
This made me think of myself as Phoebus who followed Daphne.
When I opened my eyes, I saw Virginia Moreno. At first, I had no idea who the heck she was; I then made use of my stalking abilities to find out who she is and what she did. I do that. I approach her not long after. She ended up telling me all about her life in UP and in America--and heck how I enjoyed listening. Nothing beats the thrill of listening to writers, especially senile ones, talk. I am amazed at how much of their past they can still remember.
Listening to F. Sionil Jose talk to the person from Vagabond Press was also a great stalking experience. F. Sionil Jose said exactly: "Filipino poetry in English is a language of its own." He sounds exactly the way he writes. He's amazing.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
7.3
My friend and I agree that I've already crushed on far too many guys in my lifetime.
If Jose Rizal had 15 girls, then I have most probably already outrun that in terms of the number of crushes I've had. A few minutes ago during our chat, we talked about how I mustn't keep my attention focused on hot men. Instead, I must guard my heart because it determines the course of my life. I told him that if I did not care about what's right, then I'd probably be very promiscuous today.
Me: give me a number
Friend: 23
Me: then I'd probably have 23 boyfriends today
Me: If I didn't care about what's right, I'd probably be the sluttiest girl you've ever known. I'd have so many boyfriends and momol with everyone until my hormones kill me.
Me: it's haaaaard okay?
Friend: I know it's hard
Friend: And God knows that too. So don't despair.
Friend: Patience is really painful, but you know the fruit of patience.
Me: I've shown you the pictures of those guys I like. They're all very hot. Hottttt guys are hottttt.
Friend: Stop thinking about them! Protect your thoughts and eyes first. Don't keep looking at their Facebooks...
Me: okay, it's a dare! Give me a number.
Friend: 9999
Me: oh fudge, that's forever. Lower!
Friend: 0.1
Me: no, a two-digit! A whole number!
Friend: 10
Me: okay, I won't look at the walls of the following men for 10 days: name, name, name, name
Friend: and if you do, you owe me coffee from CBTL
Me: yup, that's a deal
Friend: let the deal begin!
Me: one cup of coffee for every time I look at any of the aforementioned guys' walls
Me: 9999 looks is to 9999 cups of coffee
Friend: that is awesome!
Me: 28 years free supply of coffee!
I guess I won't be looking at any of those guys' walls starting tonight.
Because of the big figures, I remember the story of Jesus feeding the five thousand. That was a lot of people, excluding women and children, and the large amount of food was even too much for them to consume.
That memory of today reminded me of that Bible story.
If Jose Rizal had 15 girls, then I have most probably already outrun that in terms of the number of crushes I've had. A few minutes ago during our chat, we talked about how I mustn't keep my attention focused on hot men. Instead, I must guard my heart because it determines the course of my life. I told him that if I did not care about what's right, then I'd probably be very promiscuous today.
Me: give me a number
Friend: 23
Me: then I'd probably have 23 boyfriends today
Me: If I didn't care about what's right, I'd probably be the sluttiest girl you've ever known. I'd have so many boyfriends and momol with everyone until my hormones kill me.
Me: it's haaaaard okay?
Friend: I know it's hard
Friend: And God knows that too. So don't despair.
Friend: Patience is really painful, but you know the fruit of patience.
Me: I've shown you the pictures of those guys I like. They're all very hot. Hottttt guys are hottttt.
Friend: Stop thinking about them! Protect your thoughts and eyes first. Don't keep looking at their Facebooks...
Me: okay, it's a dare! Give me a number.
Friend: 9999
Me: oh fudge, that's forever. Lower!
Friend: 0.1
Me: no, a two-digit! A whole number!
Friend: 10
Me: okay, I won't look at the walls of the following men for 10 days: name, name, name, name
Friend: and if you do, you owe me coffee from CBTL
Me: yup, that's a deal
Friend: let the deal begin!
Me: one cup of coffee for every time I look at any of the aforementioned guys' walls
Me: 9999 looks is to 9999 cups of coffee
Friend: that is awesome!
Me: 28 years free supply of coffee!
I guess I won't be looking at any of those guys' walls starting tonight.
Because of the big figures, I remember the story of Jesus feeding the five thousand. That was a lot of people, excluding women and children, and the large amount of food was even too much for them to consume.
That memory of today reminded me of that Bible story.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
7.2
Today, I pounded my brother's blade for his sword. I felt like Hephaestus, the blade smith, except not crippled. The experience of whetting and "cutting" the blade with a huge tool brought extraordinary feelings of strength and might, even if I didn't really know half of the stuff I was doing. I felt accomplished but way too worn out.
Monday, July 7, 2014
7.1
I ran 2.8 kilometers today in the rain. I could have run more, but because the rain was getting stronger, I had to head back home. The experience of running in the rain reminded me of that scene in Lady and the Tramp (part one) when Jack and Trusty chased the dog pound car to save Tramp. I also think that experience of running in the rain could also be Herculean in a sense that running in the rain is a feat of great difficulty. Having conquered a feat of difficulty made me feel akin to Hercules.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
6.7
-I'd never trade my parents for other sets of parents... shucks, they're awesome as they are, okay? Listening to a friend talk to me about parent issued had made me realized how lucky I am that my parents are the way they are, even if they do get annoying sometimes
-my craving for Ramen lasted for more than a week...
-I think a lot about food these days
-there are people who think that the current president of the US is George Washington
-there's a guy in school named John Paul George, and his nickname is Ringo
-I've often wondered what life would be like if I pursued engineering at UP or DLSU
Engineering at DLSU--what life might have been like
I'd probably die. Do not get me wrong, AB-Literature is the best program any person could ever be in, but I've often wondered what life would be like if I ever pursued those other programs. I guess I wouldn't be writing this seed blog entry today if I did.
Just yesterday, my friend bought me a DLSU Engineering t-shirt from his booth as a gift of sorts. He wouldn't tell me why, but I gladly accepted the gift anyway. That shirt would be my very first engineering shirt. I wear it sometimes when I go running, and donning an outfit that reads "engineering" gives me strange feelings of being in another life or body, and I don't think I'd like that life...
-my craving for Ramen lasted for more than a week...
-I think a lot about food these days
-there are people who think that the current president of the US is George Washington
-there's a guy in school named John Paul George, and his nickname is Ringo
-I've often wondered what life would be like if I pursued engineering at UP or DLSU
Engineering at DLSU--what life might have been like
I'd probably die. Do not get me wrong, AB-Literature is the best program any person could ever be in, but I've often wondered what life would be like if I ever pursued those other programs. I guess I wouldn't be writing this seed blog entry today if I did.
Just yesterday, my friend bought me a DLSU Engineering t-shirt from his booth as a gift of sorts. He wouldn't tell me why, but I gladly accepted the gift anyway. That shirt would be my very first engineering shirt. I wear it sometimes when I go running, and donning an outfit that reads "engineering" gives me strange feelings of being in another life or body, and I don't think I'd like that life...
Saturday, July 5, 2014
6.6
-there is a lot of power in the act of giving
-John Singer is a disappointing character
-But he was pretty okay at the start; I'd like to have a John Singer friend
-I stalked my running buddy today and found him among bookshelves at the Learning Commons. It felt so The Catcher in the Rye
-Jose Rizal had fifteen girls. The list of men I've crushed on outweighs that number.
-the world's largest swimming pool (San Alfonso del Mar) can be found in Chile... and I thought the one in Melbourne was already "biggest" enough :o
I'd like to have a John Singer friend
I'd like to have a "John Singer" friend. John Singer was portrayed as a kind of character who readily helps people out of good will. I guess I could say in a most childish way of saying it that the Mick Kelly-John Singer tandem made me feel bad for myself. I found him a really interesting, over-complicated, annoying character--and these are traits I'd like to see in people. Most of the time, I just really need people to listen. He listens; so many people nowadays don't.
I'd like to have a John Singer friend
I'd like to have a "John Singer" friend. John Singer was portrayed as a kind of character who readily helps people out of good will. I guess I could say in a most childish way of saying it that the Mick Kelly-John Singer tandem made me feel bad for myself. I found him a really interesting, over-complicated, annoying character--and these are traits I'd like to see in people. Most of the time, I just really need people to listen. He listens; so many people nowadays don't.
Friday, July 4, 2014
6.5
-Ho Jae has a twin brother named Glenn :o
-Paul Ricoeur is a terrible, scary keynote speaker...but he's got some great ideas
-my running buddy might be gay
-a simple handshake can transfer so much germs from one person to another
-wearing black for a day causes my mood to shift from being cheerful to downright emo
Ho Jae has a twin brother named Glenn
Ho Jae walked up to me when I was in one of the computers at the Learning Commons. We talked about twins. I then remembered some friends say that he has a twin brother, and so I asked about his twin brother. I asked him to show me his brother's Facebook and I was amazed that they really did look alike. Ho Jae happens to be older than Glenn (Ho Jeong) for sixteen minutes and I find it so cool. Glenn studies in a seminary and wants to become a pastor someday.
-Paul Ricoeur is a terrible, scary keynote speaker...but he's got some great ideas
-my running buddy might be gay
-a simple handshake can transfer so much germs from one person to another
-wearing black for a day causes my mood to shift from being cheerful to downright emo
Ho Jae has a twin brother named Glenn
Ho Jae walked up to me when I was in one of the computers at the Learning Commons. We talked about twins. I then remembered some friends say that he has a twin brother, and so I asked about his twin brother. I asked him to show me his brother's Facebook and I was amazed that they really did look alike. Ho Jae happens to be older than Glenn (Ho Jeong) for sixteen minutes and I find it so cool. Glenn studies in a seminary and wants to become a pastor someday.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
6.4
-Mozart came from Salzburg
-writing at daybreak is the most fun thing to do in the world!
-engineering is useful and necessary for daily living
-my friend Raymond is the nicest guy I've ever met
-my running buddy is much too vain for my life
Mozart came from Salzburg
I never knew Mozart came from Salzburg. I always thought he was German. I've dreamed of traveling to Salzburg ever since my friend Raymond told me about it. Raymond has been to Salzburg and he dreams of going back to it for one week of writing and walking around. If ever I do visit Salzburg in the near future, I would most definitely tour Mozart's home.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
6.3
-Persians are the weirdest people on earth. I secretly dislike them for some reason.
-Thursday is mistress day (woah, what?)
-23 is old for un-virginity
-Play Store has a really cool Nike+ Running app!
-The White Hat's yogurt is plain heavenly, I love it too much
-my dad was in a press conference with Enrile just a few days before his imprisonment
My dad was in a press conference with Enrile just a few days before his imprisonment
My dad was in a press conference with Enrile just a few days before his imprisonment. In that press conference was also Winnie Monsod, with whom he had a seat beside. That press conference was when they deliberated on final matters of the issue before Enrile's imprisonment. They had a picture taken afterwards. Unfortunately, my dad was not able to catch up with the group picture because he had elsewhere to go.
-Thursday is mistress day (woah, what?)
-23 is old for un-virginity
-Play Store has a really cool Nike+ Running app!
-The White Hat's yogurt is plain heavenly, I love it too much
-my dad was in a press conference with Enrile just a few days before his imprisonment
My dad was in a press conference with Enrile just a few days before his imprisonment
My dad was in a press conference with Enrile just a few days before his imprisonment. In that press conference was also Winnie Monsod, with whom he had a seat beside. That press conference was when they deliberated on final matters of the issue before Enrile's imprisonment. They had a picture taken afterwards. Unfortunately, my dad was not able to catch up with the group picture because he had elsewhere to go.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
6.2
-my brother's sword smelled like toyo--but it was not toyo
-I learned how to polish a sword
-Sir Jeremy listens to Johann Hummel, too!
-I learned how to edit a video using my sister's Mac
-YouTube has a 60-minute recording of the Moonlight Sonata, awesome!
-time lapse videos are cool...
I polished my brother's sword today. An accomplished blade smith, he makes swords for leisure and money. In the afternoon today, he had to meet with his parkour group and so gave me instructions for his sword. His sword was drenched in toyo-smelling liquid. I had to peel the covering with my bare fingers and run the blade under running water for about three minutes. Right after that, I had to coat the blade with another strange-smelling substance before wiping it in ethyl alcohol and leaving it out to dry.
I polished a sword today.
-I learned how to polish a sword
-Sir Jeremy listens to Johann Hummel, too!
-I learned how to edit a video using my sister's Mac
-YouTube has a 60-minute recording of the Moonlight Sonata, awesome!
-time lapse videos are cool...
I polished my brother's sword today. An accomplished blade smith, he makes swords for leisure and money. In the afternoon today, he had to meet with his parkour group and so gave me instructions for his sword. His sword was drenched in toyo-smelling liquid. I had to peel the covering with my bare fingers and run the blade under running water for about three minutes. Right after that, I had to coat the blade with another strange-smelling substance before wiping it in ethyl alcohol and leaving it out to dry.
I polished a sword today.
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