fizzle, sputter - extinction

It's officially 2011~

I knew it the moment a shower of sparks popped out barely 500 meters to my direct right, shocking me for a moment, our neighbors' screams doing nothing to calm me down. At that time, I had been the only one left awake in our house. 11-ish, my father suddenly complained that he was feeling sleepy, and went off to take a 'nap' in the nearest unoccupied bedroom. Rosaline, after two straight evenings of standing guard during her grandmother's funeral, was barely awake while we were washing the evening's dishes. Manang Em rushed to her hometown earlier, presumably to watch Miss Gay Bobuntugan 2010, leaving us three inexperienced chefs to fend for ourselves the night before New Year's. And my mother, of course, is pining a continent and a half away, my only contact with her having been Facebook chat. Pathetic holiday, altogether. I suppose it sounds blasphemous, but I really don't see much in Christmas anymore. I'm sorry, dear Jesus, but seriously... you weren't born in December, were you?

Scared that a firecracker might suddenly swoop into the house and set my mother's prized curtains on fire, I closed all the windows I could reach, and even turned off all the lights. I even considered not waking my father up, even though it's his habit to make a racket (I kid you not) while welcoming a fresh year. And for some time, I actually thought I would spend the turn of the year alone, sitting in front of my laptop, waiting for my latest Torrent attempt to load. But then my father woke up, grabbed a red shirt, and started pounding on the car horn to make noise without his highly detested pyrotechnics.

I suppose, in the end, you can't escape merrymaking, whatever mood you're in.

Uh, my laundry.

I've run out of comfortable jeans, so I've resorted to wearing those uber-long, ultra-girly, spinster-worthy skirts my mother gave me over the summer. They're actually quite cool to wear - except when people make it a point to comment on my chosen outfit - but I think I've gotten too used to wearing pants.

Um. In case you haven't noticed, this entry isn't going anywhere. It's just a random blog post. See, I've just entered the main lib's computer room, and it's embarrassing to just leave when I haven't even been here for half an hour. I was hoping to get the call numbers for textbooks I have to read by tomorrow, see, but then it turns out even if I did get their access codes today, I wouldn't be able to borrow them, not tonight. So gah. I'm stuck. Worse, I don't have three chapters' worth of readings for tomorrow.

And it's not even my fault! I'm not being lazy or anything! Our professor had left e-copies of our readings with the PolSc department, but for the past three instances that I've tried saving them in my USB, they've been corrupted. And I doubt I can save the thing in a CD, 'cause the department might not even have a CD burner, not with an OS like that. Sigh. Sucks worrying about material. I'd actually love to start working, instead of just moping around, pondering what else I could have been doing if I had the proper stuff to read.

On a lighter note, an American kid reported on Rizal today. (Not altogether surprising, since our shared class is on Rizal, after all.) He actually put up with the rest of the class' antics quite well; I don't think a normal person could have maintained a cheerful expression while his classmates giggled at his inability to pronounce Noli Me Tangere. To think, at the start of his report, I even saw his hand shaking as he handed his report outline to our teacher - and I was sitting in the second-to-the-last row. Pretty strong character that kid's got. Moral fibre, Ludo Bagman would call it.

I wonder how I would have fared had I studied in a foreign country?

Bah. Anyway, since I can't read any 'proper' stuff tonight - not having the right material, as mentioned previously - I'm going to skim through La Corda d'Oro Chaps 70-71. I hope, pray, sincerely and fervently that Len finally confesses to Kahoko. Pleaaaase. End the manga NOW.

The Awakening

Let's pretend I'm actually good at tracking dates and say that two full weeks have passed since I started watching Bleach. To be honest, it's not that good. It's long-winded, has a tendency to underplay emotions, and to paraphrase Mary, "half of the series is spent with Ichigo trying to learn bankai." At least it was up to the point where she dropped the show altogether and gave it up as a bad job. Then again, Mary and I usually don't see eye to eye when it comes to these things. She loved Clannad, which I gave up on after Episode3. But, well.

Point is, Bleach is interesting. For all its unnecessary (in my opinion) emphasis on battle scenes - which are mostly predictable, given this is Kurosaki *freakin'* Ichigo we're talking about - Bleach keeps me hooked because of its characters. Fine. I admit to having a soft spot for handsome men (ehem, boys) with troubled pasts and stormy eyes, but even if Byakuya and Toshirou weren't there, I'd probably still watch the series. Probably. The zanpakuto are interesting in their diversity, and the enemies are swell, too.

My beef with this series (the main one) is that it gives very little thought to death. Of course, you could argue that the story deals with people who see death as a natural, inevitable end (the shinagami being what they are) but still, I watched this series after Gundam SEED, where Kira was all "What have I done? How do I atone? Can I atone? No, I can't!" I suppose it's somewhat wrong to judge one series based on another one's criteria, but still. I think Bleach slaughters too many people.

Joyce, who introduced me to the world of Bleach, once complained that the series puts too much emphasis on Toshirou. And having seen a considerable part of the show, I say, Hell yeah. But given I was a Toshirou fan even before I started watching the show, I don't mind much. Not really, no. Although I wish they'd feature Byakuya more often, too.

Love this series for its music, its characters. I also like Kubo Tite's way of creating "romance", where he doesn't explicitly say if his characters love each other or not - it's up to the audience to make sense of the "It's complicated" relationship. I hate it for a lot of things, including its length. And Ichigo being all-powerful, invincible. And the fact that a lot of things keep popping up halfway through the series - the King's Key, for example, which is apparently what Aizen's really after - just to make the plot more complicated that it originally was. Gah. A Meitantei Conan in the making. Only with hotter guys in kick-ass uniforms. Roy Mustang would drool if he saw Matsumoto in her battle gear.

PS Ep146 is in wmp min mode right now. Photo courtesy of the unsuspecting KalvinK, deviantartist extraordinaire.

Undas 2010

As I've mentioned in my previous post, I have no idea how to flip pictures like this. In any case, this is a picture of me taken just a few moments ago, sitting on top of two connected beds in Rm6 of the UP Alumni Hostel. Basically, I'm here because my dorm doesn't open until tomorrow, and I have to race to my college early so my thesis partner (Sunshine, who didn't tell me she had suffered from dengue over the sembreak) and me can get a decent adviser. And yeah, I'm scared as hell, so scared I'm plotting possible attack maneuvers vs both live invaders of my privacy and spirit fiends. Most of them involving my rather heavy water bottle and screaming at the top of my lungs.

Shame though, 'cause as I was preparing for my undeniably long evening, the idea for a story came to me. Shame 'cause it's a horror story, of all things. And yeah, I've a tendency to jump headfirst into things without thinking them through, but I'm not reckless enough to forcibly attract spirits floating around relatively peacefully by increasing the negative aura in my room through writing horror-farce. I may be in the non-sensitive side of the Uriarte Clan, but I ain't taking chances.

On the soft side, I came across a brief reference to Super Gals! earlier - natsukashii! I wanna watch it, not for the sake of watching Kotobuki Ran rule Shibuya singlehandedly, but just because I want to fall for, get hurt by, and fangirl over the Rei - Aya pairing. Sigh.

Modern Methods of Torture

A month or so ago, my friend Trisha forced me and a couple of our other friends to join the SDP "Spotted! Ikot-picture-taking-contest". Given my friends were so into winning the thing - though we didn't even know what the prizes were at that time - I won two gift certificates to Spa101 in Maginhawa. Plus, I managed to leech the GC Sunshine won, so in the end, I had three GCs to play with. [Which Julian asked to offer as a prize for the ICTUS raffle, a request which I selfishly declined.] But I digress.

Early this afternoon, I finally mustered the guts to visit Spa101 to claim my prize, and to get a much needed half-leg wax. And you know how many hours I spent there? 4. 4 freakin' hours. The ates were really nice and more than highly competent, but seriously. 4 HOURS. To think some women engage in practices like this on an almost religious level.

Then again, my waxing took too much time because I had a lot of ingrown leg hair - due to shaving, and because of this, I will forever campaign against leg shaving of any sort. Also, I had my nails done; they got ruined as I was going home because I wasn't patient enough for my nails to dry. But the thing is, I don't really care. As long as my nails are black enough to show in my creative pic, it's fine.

Although I did wait for about ten minutes for my nails to "dry". And because I was so bored, I tried out the Super Macro effect Phill had been playing with in my camera, producing very satisfactory effects. Wanna take a look?

And I actually took more pictures, but as I'm technologically illiterate, I don't know how to post them flipped.

Mary, statchu?

The strangest thing happened.

Mary was on Facebook this morning - and no, that's not the weirdest part, although, admittedly, it's not a normal occurrence - and we started chatting. (This is Mary, and yes, she rode that thing out of her own volition.)

She said she woke up too late to attend her first class, and because her next class wasn't until 3PM, she was considering not getting out of bed yet - note that we were having this chatversation at 11AM. I told her to get the hell out of her room and get some sunshine. And then I logged off under the pretense of having to do some serious studying.

In truth, I just went to sleep. 11-ish to 1-ish. I snapped out of my snoozing for a short while to read Mary's text message: It's a good day to look at the clouds and the grass. Or something like that. And then I went to sleep.

Phone kept ringing the whole time, and when I saw it was Mary calling, I didn't pick up or bother to call back. I thought she wanted to talk about what a sunny day it was - because yes, Mary and I are prone to talking about the weather - so I didn't think there was anything serious she wanted to tell me. (In fact, I vaguely, sleepily considered the possibility that she had altogether decided to ditch her 3PM class, and, knowing I didn't have classes for the rest of the day, wanted to hang out somewhere along the Katipunan strip.) And then! I woke up.

2 Messages, both from Mary. Message 1: Sandy, is it all right if I call you now? Message 2: Hey Sandy. Your friend left her phone. We found it at secwalk.

After reading the second message, I texted back: Sorry, fell asleep. My friend who?

And then I began wondering how on Earth Mary recognized Trisha's phone - because Trisha is the only UP friend I've ever introduced to her. I took a shower, mulling about the absurdity of the situation, and just as I was stepping out of the bathroom, the truth hit me.

And, haha, no wonder Isay L. called Mary's mother instead of me.

learning by teaching

I read in an ad for a volunteers' teaching center some years ago that you learn 90% of what you teach. Whether this is true or not, I've never been bothered to confirm, though it must be true if teachers generally subscribe to it. Why else would they assign reports as part of a standard curriculum then? Granted, it could also be because: (1) they can't think of new ways to grade their students; (2) they want the rest of the class to learn from kids their age; or, (3) they enjoy making students' lives hell. Whichever.

Since high school, I've been convinced that I am a curse when it comes to group reporting. I don't recall a single report I did with groupmates where everything went perfectly - although maybe this is only due to my propensity to remember the worst of the worst. I remember this particular report for Comm3 about ethos, pathos and logos - and, big surprise, I can't even recall exactly what they're supposed to be - where my part of the report dragged on FOREVER, leaving very little time for the rest of my groupmates to do their part. And Sir Dave... well, he's nice, but he can't exactly go around giving time extensions to students who can't use their reporting time wisely.

If I relayed to you, dear nonexistent reader, a comprehensive account of my encounters with the horrors of group reporting, this entry would span the length of an entire FB homepage - and note that this blog's font is tiny. So to save time and effort, why don't we zone in on a particular event that will serve both as evidence for my argument, and as an interesting conversation piece for parties when drunk people decide to play the let's-embarrass-each-other game.

I promised myself that I wouldn't blog about this, as it's too irritating to think about without resorting to hair-pulling antics. But anyway.

Psych108 (Filipino Psychology) is a fairly lax subject. Requirements: the one thing our readings have been focused on for most of the semester, the concept of kapwa. Apparently, it's the Filipino core value that every nationalist scholar has been trying to unearth beneath all those other qualities the Americans tried to inculcate in us. So shrewdly, our teacher made sure kapwa was the center of everything we did in class: group activities, team building disguised as pakontest, questions on readings disguised as group performances, a group paper, a group performance...

The day of our performance, most of my groupmates - who are a batch younger, although we all belong to the School of Econ - had exams in some of the most horrible subjects I've ever had to go through in all my four years at SE. Naturally, given my thick-faced nature, I volunteered to do the powerpoint for the performance - we had settled on doing a skit inspired by Hiraya Manawari and revolving around the idea that the Americans tried to instill 'unnatural' values in us through the textbooks they made our kids read during the early 1900's. It took me SEVEN HOURS to finish that powerpoint; I am honestly very proud of it, because almost each slide has a video or SFX, and I gathered all the pictures despite my crappy Internet connection.

Given I spent seven hours on that thing, and I started working on it late at night, and I had to wake up at six the next morning to get to the seven AM class that I could not afford to miss, I SLEPT FOR JUST ONE HOUR. Normal to others, yes, but a highly disturbing thought for me, a girl who reverts to zombie mode if forced to function with less than six hours of snoring. Surprisingly, though, I held up pretty well, even given my poor experience with lack of sleep. Until the report proper, that is.

The man who set up the LCD projector had told me NOT to step on any of the wires he had laid out on the floor near my feet. He had told me that if I put a single toe on that extension wire near my left foot, the LCD would die, and so would our group report. I told him I understood his instructions perfectly; I had spent SEVEN HOURS on this one twenty-slide strong ppt - I was not going to put all that hard work to waste. And so the play began. The speakers weren't working so well - tough luck, but we tarried on. Our lead actress didn't seem to have internalized her role properly - heck, at least she's trying. And now, now, it's my part -

Oops. Did I step on the wire? Why is the wall suddenly a spotless black?

You get the idea. Surely. Another mishap care of yours truly. The good news is that none of them felt like I was at fault for our disastrous performance - and to be honest, even I don't think it was all my fault. The bad news is that things would have gone a lot better if the ppt had worked; after all, things we work SEVEN HOURS on can't be all that worthless when applied, can they?

This whole thing has unleashed in me a fresh fear that I'll bungle up my next group report, in Geog105 (Economic Geography) this time. I mean, how good can your report be if you're tasked to answer the question: What is the role of economic geography in the development of different countries? Attempting to answer that would be a lot like attempting to answer the question Why do birds have wings? only to find out you weren't supposed to research on the topic - you were expected to say, Because they were destined to fly. Or something as in-your-face as that.

Making It, Breaking It

The hosts of Miss Universe 2010, that beautiful woman and that "lost-looking" celebrity host - who kept me wishing that more competent Mario guy was there - predicted during the beginning of the show that the Question and Answer portion would make or break a candidate's shot at the crown. For Venus Raj, Miss Philippines Universe, it broke her. Badly.

All things considered, her answer wasn't stupid. Her question was: What's the biggest mistake you've ever made in your life, and what did you do make it right? Her answer was that she had never done anything "major, major" BAD in her life, and that her family had always given her everything she'd ever needed. Which is a pretty decent, honest answer to the question, methinks. It was relatively well said, too, disregarding the whole "major, major" incident and all.

Still, Molave's entire TV area erupted in cries of horror - complete with the act of hair-pulling, care of me, of course - as Venus' laughing face was magnified on the TV before us. And I'm pretty sure the reaction isn't unique to this group of rather arrogant, relatively intelligent college students who expected much more from Venus. I think it's safe to guess that nationwide, Filipinos from all walks of life, possessing varied levels of educational attainment and personal wealth, cringed, internally or externally, at Venus' answer.

Being me, though - that is, a person prone to yakking off incoherently once placed on an elevated platform, whatever the height - I completely understand how her answer transformed into that. Stress. Self-consciousness. Her firm belief that she'd never done anything "major, major" wrong EVER. So in case anyone's reading this - and I'm not banking on THAT - don't laugh at her. And no rolling of eyes, either. I mean, imagine if we sent Janina San Miguel instead.

This whole fiasco made me realize three things though: 1) that no matter how beautiful you are, or how well you carry yourself, what's inside that skull of yours makes or breaks everything; 2) that life boils down to a few moments; and, 3) that if I had been asked that question, I'd say I never took my studying seriously - ponder where that can take you.

On Family

I was scratching the cat in the Faculty Center earlier this afternoon when a certain professor briskly walked past me, a little girl held in his right arm. Instantly, I lost track of what my companion was saying - which was pretty irresponsible, considering we were discussing how we would handle our report next week given two of our groupmates have completely evaporated - and got to my feet, following said professor with my eyes as he walked on, completely oblivious of the stare glued to his remarkably clean blue shirt. (Ehem. Let me clarify he wasn't exactly Best Dressed Faculty Member of 2007 when he taught me.)

I thought he would keep that pace until he reached SC, which is where I think he goes whenever he walks via the Freshie Walk, but when I saw him again - I was momentarily distracted by the perfunctory goodbye I threw at my groupmate - he had turned left of the road, down the literal untrodden path, into the woods, and whatever cliche you wish to use for Diliman's lagoon area. He wasn't exactly talking to the little girl, but I'm sure he didn't just wander off that way because he was looking for the proverbial fertility tree. Seeing him, the little girl held close, I thought of my father, what we must have looked like fifteen years ago...

And then, yes, perhaps the thought of a certain friend being a dad did cross my mind.

***

Eiga Sai is here again; it's depressing my schedule won't allow me to watch everything I wish. Good thing though, that my father came for dinner late, so I managed to watch 3/4 of TOKYO TOWER Mom and Me and Sometimes Dad starring Odagiri Joe.

It was honestly bizarre, seeing the guy whose name I'd been playing in my head forever - fine, ever since I discovered Kashii Yu was married. Surprisingly, he's not just a handsome face; he actually made me cry. Or maybe the actress playing his mother did. Either way, it was heartrending to see the cancer slowing sapping away his mother's life. I never want that to happen to my family, to anyone I love. And just when he was starting to make it up to her, too....

Stagnation

16th August, 12:29 AM

Has it ever bothered you that 12MN is also known as 12AM when it actually follows 11PM?

Had a long, enjoyable, enlightening talk with Chinnie at the Araneta complex earlier. We sat on those stone borders separating the Araneta Coliseum plant life from the sidewalks, chatting for hours, pondering the behavior of our friends, discussing the concept of stagnation.

Stagnation. To me, it seems the complete antithesis of progress. So if one doesn't progress at all, that's literally decay, even if one does manage to produce "something". Personally, the idea is vague to me. I'm not an artist, or even an artsy type, so I don't know how to gauge my "progress" as a person. Is growth measured by the number of friends you accumulate in your Facebook account? Is it the steady rise of your grades from freshman year to senior year? (Empirically, I would argue such a case is close to impossible, but anyway.) Is it the number of books or movies you've read or seen, including the amount of reviews you've written about them? What is growth? How do you know you're maturing, developing as a person?

Is it always something other people have to point out for you to understand? Must your opinion of yourself always be based on what other people - regardless of whether they know you well or not - have to say about you? Doesn't that mean that somehow, your happiness is hinged on what other people think of you?

...

On a lighter note, Sassja and I saw Orosman at Zafira, the 3PM screening today. That was my second time seeing it, and I believe it's gotten better. I didn't recognize most of the faces onstage this afternoon, but all the same, the production was beautiful. Some pictures from the show:

Good show, good show. Makes me proud to be part of the UP family, even if I'm not DUP at all.

Schoolgirl Tendencies and Long-Forgotten Twinges of the Heart

During my inner-child bonding moments, I tell myself I will never subscribe to my peers' tendency of talking too much about their love lives - both real and imaginary. It's not that I don't enjoy the hormonal fluctuations that leave me feeling high for weeks on end - because I enjoy kilig stories just as much as the next girl - it's just that there are times when I feel talking about "love" is excessive. For example:

Oh my God, I just saw him today, and he was so cute!

Despite that random impersonation being an utter failure of an illustration, I'm sure you get the idea. I do not enjoy going fangirl over people I see up close on a regular basis - the idea of seriously stalking a person and dreaming about being together with said person just didn't appeal to me.

Lately though, I've (involuntarily) been waking up to the image of one person - and it's becoming increasing difficult to pull myself from dreams which I find lucid enough to be alarming. (This snooze syndrome has "encouraged" me to cut through two early morning classes this week alone - but that's another story.) What's worse is that during my supposedly waking hours, I also think of said person - the WORST part is I actually enjoy thinking about him.

Whatever happened to the me who was cynical about "love"? Katkat once commented I was "too young to be jaded"; this she concluded after one conversation - in McDo Philcoa, no less. I've never been particularly emotional, or prone to posting love-related status messages on Facebook. So why why why does my balance go berserk with a single thought of this person?

I wanted a solution to this personal dilemma. Predictably, I turned to signs from heaven for help:

If, on the 23rd of July, any of these three events would NOT occur, I would quit him for good:

1. Airplanes by BoB feat. Hayley Williams playing somewhere

2. Seeing Baby James Yap anywhere

3. Sunny weather from 2:30PM-4:00PM

The morning flitted by uneventfully - though I dreamed about him again, I managed to get out of bed 45minutes before my first class. Early afternoon came and I was beginning to feel depressed; owing to my absent-minded nature, I actually sang Airplanes to myself. Also, I had scoured the day's PDI, and there was no sign of Bimby on any page. Around 1:50 in the afternoon, I was sitting in my NatSci1 class, wondering how the day would end.

And then thunder boomed. I knew it was going to rain, tsk. What I didn't expect was for the skies to pour all its pent-up raindrops - hoarding, just to spite the presently-smelly people of Metro Manila - from 2 to about 4PM that day. God's just got the funniest sense of humor, doesn't He?

After that, I knew this was my customized wake-up call; the high was just too good to be true. And although this evening, I came across a picture of the Aquino-Yap family (minus Josh) on the cover of Buzz, wala na, alam na. I'm surrendering. I'm too transparent to lie about my feelings anyway, so nipping a potential love story in the bud is my best course of action.

I'm posting this rant here just to humor myself. Ma'am Grace, after my heart broke that year, told me that one day I'd look back on everything that had happened and laugh - which was true. I'm hoping that at the end of this year, when I look back on this post, I'll laugh. And I'll think how hilarious it is that I was so frustrated by a scenario that was too vague to cause any serious problems in the first place.

INTJ - "Mastermind". Introverted intellectual with a preference for finding certainty. A builder of systems and the applier of theoretical models. 2.1% of total population.

Free Jung Personality Test (similar to Myers-Briggs/MBTI)

loner, more interested in intellectual pursuits than relationships or family, not very altruistic, not very complimentary, would rather be friendless than jobless, observer, values solitude, perfectionist, detached, private, not much fun, hidden, skeptical, does not tend to like most people, socially uncomfortable, not physically affectionate, unhappy, does not talk about feelings, hard to impress, analytical, likes esoteric things, tends to be pessimistic, not spontaneous, prone to discontentment, guarded, does not think they are weird but others do, responsible, can be insensitive or ambivalent to the misfortunes of others, orderly, clean, organized, familiar with darkside, tends not to value organized religion, suspicious of others, can be lonely, rarely shows anger, punctual, finisher, prepared

favored careers:

scientist, dictator, forensic anthropologist, systems analyst, philosopher, nuclear engineer, political analyst, researcher, statistician, scholar, research scientist, computer scientist, software designer, curator, computer programmer, aerospace engineer, electrical engineer, paleontologist, english professor, philosophy professor, chemical engineer, epidemiologist, forensic scientist, museum curator, research assistant, mechanic, astronomer, figher pilot, librarian, systems administrator, neurosurgeon, book editor, biotechnology, archeologist, lab tech, bookstore owner

disfavored careers:

advertising executive, job in entertainment industry, performer, singer, art therapist, childcare worker, bartender, dj, even coordinator, hair dresser, wedding planner

Happy Stress

So I haven't written for a coupla weeks now - it's school, darnit, school. Admittedly, I had plenty of time to drop a line or two, but I didn't really have anything remotely interesting to share then. I guess I still don't have anything remarkable to relay... But anyway, I miss blogging. So please pardon this half-brained exercise of ranting random thoughts. It's a habit I haven't been relishing lately....

Some reminders for myself now that I'm a senior, supposedly mature and street-smart:

1. Get off at the right stop. Since June 1, you've gotten lost TWICE because you didn't get off where you were supposed to. The first time, you rode a jeep in Philcoa, which wound its way through Cubao, before it passed by Philcoa again and you finally realized you were back where you started. The second time, you rode a Katipunan jeep, fully intending to get off at Balara, only to realize you missed your chance to say para, thus, leaving you no choice spare getting off in front of Petron. Again. Presence of mind, dear. This ain't a reflex contest, but it's not playtime in tellytubby land either.

2. Jog around the acad oval to boost your stamina. If you don't, you'll feel faint in Women's Basketball again; do you want Coach Juliano to force you to lie down? That aside, energy is a prereq for this game. Just imagine how many calories you and your classmates burn each time you scream whenever the ball's within a three-meter radius!

3. Don't go to the tambayan if you want to study. If you go there, you'll think of nothing but playing Mismo, exchanging playful barbs with Ging, or attempting to answer crossword puzzles with Simoun. Don't. Even. Think. About. It. The girls might even force you to teach them Nobody if the Desabelles aren't around.

4. Watch a movie more than once if you really like it. Chances are, you'll shed that tear you've been keeping in check the first time around. Say, Toy Story 3, which you watched with Mary the first time - the cinema being so jampacked you had to sit apart - and with PC the second time. The first time, the Andy-Woody drama made you sniff; the second time, a tear actually rolled out of your tearducts. So rewatch movies if you like them. Just not on a Nodame-marathon level, okay? You don't have time.

By the way, time can't be gold. Gold can be exchanged, it can be a commodity, or an alternative to money. But time? Can't be exchanged. If it flits by, it's flitted by. There's no catching it back.

summer aftershocks

If anybody from UP is reading this (and no, Tichang, in case binabasa mo 'to, you're not counted) I'd like to apologize for my kasabawan this week. Granted, yeah, I've always been a bit off my rocker, but these past few days I've been... something short of crazy. I have a theory regarding this weird phenomenon:

During the summer, I was stuck in a house in a foreign country, barely going out, having nothing to do. I literally was unproductive, an even bigger shame than being unemployed. I could argue with myself and say I'm unproductive at home (in CDO) too, but the thing is, I'm not. Er... complicated, yeah? Thing is, if I were at home, even without my laptop to write with, I could have bought several books and DVD's and drowned in them all. I could have gone out with friends, bullied Mac til he attended the k-oke session at my house, maybe even bonded with the cousins over lunch shifts at Saimato. But noooo, I was in Israel, turning what promised to be an exciting new adventure into a boring period of isolation.

Over the summer, I realized I wanted company. I needed friends. As much as I love my Auntie Fely, my mum, and my father, I really needed, wanted people my own age. All I had to vent my feelings on were the Nat Geo Adventure channel - which later disappeared from our cable TV because we didn't pay for it - and my mother's numerous romance novels. Given these circumstances, I guess it's understandable how I returned to UP obnoxious, excitable, bossy and perpetually hyper, when in the past, I sought silent refuge in Lavinia the Laptop.

I will fix this. I will shut up next week, promise.

The Lea Salonga Love-Hate Club

"YouTube is a big fat flamebait." (Desabelle, 2010)

That pretty much sums up what it is. I used to think MySoju would be better off if it allowed comments at the bottom of each video, but after seeing how ugly and bigoted some people's thoughts can be, I realized a clean video page provides the best viewing experience possible. [I mean, if WoWoWee accepted feedback re: each episode, what a nightmare that'd be.] My irritation - and building obsession - with this perfectly innocent video provider stems from some of the comments I've seen on Lea Salonga's videos. Some have made me want to bash my fist into something, and all have got me thinking - which is pretty difficult for me to do at the moment, considering I haven't been keeping my brain in shape these past two months.

For the first time since University, I found myself wanting to become a lawyer, to develop my logical processing (which seems dormant at present) so I could use it to defend the Philippines from YouTube idiots like BERNARDO712.

We 'met' after watching this video of an under-20 Lea Salonga auditioning for the role of Kim in Miss Saigon. Imagine a replies page half-filled with comments branching from the general SICK idea that 'All Filipinas are prostitutes'; that was the status of the crime scene when I wandered into it. Majority of the remaining comments were replies to BERNARDO712's statement, most going for the pathos route instead of the logos route Our Boy obviously wanted to pursue. I tried arguing with him, but I doubt he understood my point. He's too narrow-minded for that level of thinking.

In this video, I met firsttenor76 - who I really like. I don't actually have a beef with him; I'm only writing about him because he got me thinking about the international community's perception of us Filipinos. He's a Filipino singer based in the United States, and in that page, he commented that the 'proud to be filipino' shout-outs were excessive - he was right in that. He says:

There is something self-promoting, obnoxious and extremely arrogant about being so proud that people have to post their race at all!!! It's just stupid. There's only one race, the human race. Stop with the bashing and self-promoting. There is such a thing as being TOO proud.

I tried to make him see why that was happening - you know, our nature of latching all our hopes and dreams on specific figureheads like Pacman, and now, Noynoy - but I don't think we really understood each other. And I think that's because he's in the States, where it would be embarrassing to hear your fellowmen say they're proud of their race all the time. Whereas I'm Philippines-bred, and I've gotten used to traffic coming to a full halt whenever there's a Pacquiao game on. We're both proud to be Pinoy; we both know our countrymen can go rave-overboard sometimes. But we still have different views on this one simple issue.

This whole issue makes me wonder what foreigners think of us. I seriously hope the general perception isn't anywhere near BERNARDO712's skewed paradigm.

swimming lessons

My mother is fond of recalling that I once wanted to become a fish. As a kid, I was a beach bum, and once, I even developed a fever because I stayed too long under the oppressive Philippine sun. A decade and a few years later, however, here I am, afraid of even stepping into large bodies of water because my legs are scarred and chapped owing to all my depilatory cream experiments, and I'm still suffering a horrible case of bacne. Puberty was rougher on me than on most kids, and I can't remember the last time I went to the beach - blame it on my constantly rebonded "delicate" hair. So I guess today's swimming trip was the long-awaited break from my hiatus, eh?

After a trip to Masada earlier this morning, my family and I - along with some rowdy friends of my mum's - trooped to the Dead Sea to fulfill my father's wish of floating there just for the heck of it. To be honest, I've seen better; nothing beats Camiguin's White Island. I still had fun though, mainly because the adults I was with were whacko. Here's proof of how much I enjoyed myself:

As much as I enjoyed floating around though (I can't swim, so it was nice to pretend like I could) I found myself wishing the people around me had a great time, too. I'm not talking about my cohorts - 'cause they were busy sowing disaster in the beach for fun just as I was. Twas the locals and the other tourists I was worried about. It seemed to me that swimming in the Dead Sea was, for them, nothing spectacular. And maybe it's not as breathtaking as say, foiling a terrorist attack just in the nick of time, but really! They were just floating around with emotionless masks for faces! Not one genuinely happy smile!

My assessment is that the Israelis think of the beach as a place for sunbathing, socializing, and introducing one's beloved dog to seawater. They don't think of it as a place to relax, a place to have fun, a place to laugh, to make noise, to let go of all inhibitions and to just be. I never really liked noisy people, and there were even times I detested OFW's for talking loudly everywhere. But seeing these foreigners walking around looking as if there's nothing more to life than getting some passable tan lines, I'm happy I'm a citizen of beach nation. I'm happy to be Filipino.

peer pressure

UPSE 2010 produces 2 Summa Cum Laude, 24 Magna Cum Laude, and 55 Cum Laude among 155 graduates. And who knows how many Dean's Medalists there are?

I've never really cared about my grades in the past, because in the small, sheltered world of Kong Hua, which produced our Senior Batch of 109 students, surviving came easily. I never studied, and was more immersed in extra-curriculars and "getting the most out of life". Somehow, even with my rather pathetic grades, I got into the UP School of Economics - I think all that praying helped. And now, for the first time in my life, I'm worried about not finishing on the top half of my batch - which I've never had to worry about before.

There's a very slim chance of me graduating with honors. In fact, there's barely any chance of me qualifying for the Dean's Medal, which is like "honorable mention" of our School. I'm not particularly worried about the future, or getting a job, so in that sense my grades don't really matter to me. But I do care about not getting left behind, and when more than half your batch graduates with honors and YOU don't... That sucks. Seriously.

In the School of Econ, they take "competition" to a whole new level. Except in this case, you can only win or lose to yourself.

PS Allyanna Anglim was my classmate last semester, in Econ 141: International Economics. How she could have maintained her godlike GWA despite going through that class, I have no idea. That girl's a genius!

I wish I had an Arima

The girl is Miyazawa Yukino, who tricks her classmates and teachers into thinking she's THE perfect student. The guy's her boyfriend Arima Souichirou, who IS the perfect student - although he's not exactly a sane person. Their story is chronicled in the manga series His and Her Circumstances, which I'm hooked to at the moment. I've never had the patience to read manga scans online - because I reeeally hate having to click all the way to the bottom of the page, and then the next - but for this particular story, I don't really mind all the clicking. It's THAT good. Now, I'll go read.

the bored and the ornery

That's the name of a certain Maiko (MaixZuko) community on fanfiction.net. Right now, I really want to read through the fics they've archived, but I can't. Because the nearest, decent internet cafe from our flat charges 20 shekels per 1.5 hours. That's 200+ pesos devoted solely to Facebook and keeping FnQ together - a vain attempt.

Life in Israel is actually pretty swell. Gorgeous people - seriously. Tel Aviv is like a scene out of Europe, not the Middle East. Walking to the net cafe I'm at right now, one passes through more clothes-boutiques than all other shops combined. At least that's what it seems like. Also, every woman who flits past is decked in what would seem in the Philippines like fitting nightlife wear. I don't mean promiscuous, or Gossip Girl-worthy, just... so fashionable it's slightly surreal.

I am in constant danger of being run over by bikes, of getting sniffed by dogs - both of which are abundant in the streets of Tel Aviv. The people from the building next door have a balcony overlooking our bathroom - and I didn't notice that until two weeks after I got here, spending more than 30 minutes on my daily showers-cum-meditation sessions. I am desperate for Nissin Cup Noodles, Fuji apples and seafood. There is an excess of what Auntie Fely calls pita bread, but really, I never liked bread.

Israel is beautiful. It really is. But I've yet to see more of it. So far, my favorite out of all the places I've been to with my family that one day we actually went out for sightseeing is Mount Tabor, where the disciples sought refuge after the death of Jesus Christ. I truly wish I could properly describe the feeling of driving up that mountain in a narrow, two-lane street. The whole time I was thinking the car would fly off the mountain and crash hundreds of meters in the city below.

I am not thinking straight. Seriously. Maybe, just maybe, I am bored and ornery due to my own lack of initiative to find something interesting to do with my summer. I am looking forward to more of Israel, and although I always argue with my family, I sincerely love them to bits and do not mind living under the same roof as them. But I know that our living situation (wake up at 10, sleep at 12, eat, bathe, watch TV in between) is not helping my sanity. I am going insane here. Almost.

PS. I used to think Tel Aviv was the capital of Israel. Actually, it's not. It's Jerusalem.

hunting fics

I've taken to reading a lot of Ghost Hunt fanfics lately - blame it all on having nothing to do while I wait for my summer to officially start. The good thing about this particular fandom is that it has a lot of really good, mature, well-thought of stories. I guess that's the upside of having fics written about an anime series that's relatively "unpopular" compared with, say, Full Metal Alchemist. I shudder to think what its fandom would be like had it been as famous as Harry Potter. If then, the quality of the fics would undoubtedly go down - and I'd probably be too frustrated with the poor stories that I'd abandon a promising fic fandom altogether.

Found some talented writers, namely:

Amaranth Adanae is one of the best writers I've read in ffnet. I think it's partly because she's got a background in writing (if I'm not mistaken, she's an English teacher) but her critical observations tell me it's not just that. I've read most of her NaruxMai fics, and I'm happy someone as talented as her is a NaruxMai shipper like me - that way I can leech off her work. Rules of Engagement you must definitely read.

Azamiko, whose candid wit amuses me greatly. I love her collection of shorts called Spirited, particularly the last two chapters and the crossover featured in the Part-Time Workers United arc.

Calkat writes solely on Ghost Hunt so it's something like her specialty. I like her Seasons, and I'm still getting ready to read her one-shots.

curatorangelus, whose Vesta's Bonds archive I'm skimming as of the moment. I'm still reading 1oI: Goddess, and so far it's really good. Lots of paranormal information in it, which means that the author probably researched heavily or she's really into the occult.

ravyncat, whose Echoes scared me in a "woe-if-that-happened-to-me" way. I wish she'd update soon, but oh, well. I guess she has RL business to take care of.

Some fics you must definitely read (most, if not all, are NaruxMai):

Years by Azamiko

Actually LinxMasako but it's set against the event of Mai and Naru's wedding, so what the hell. I like the fact that's it's not just NaruxMai. Moreover, I love how it features two of arguably the most "unlikeable" characters Ghost Hunt, giving them their own chance to shine with their self-reflection moments that are actually quite interesting.

Echoes by ravyncat

Shame this isn't Complete. I love the opening though, with Mai and the clown - in fact, I think the demon being in clown form makes it even more creepy, which is probably with the author devised that clever disguise. It frustrates me that this story hasn't been updated in years (literally) because I have a feeling the story hasn't actually started yet.

Love Spell by Azamiko

Interesting one-shot borne from an interesting premise. I love how the characters don't go OOC, or at least too OOC, and for a one-shot, it's actually action packed and generally fulfilling.

Meeting the Parents by Azamiko

Has been left hanging at a very awkward stage. On one hand, it seems as if it's Complete judging by the update date and the way the last chapter ended. On the other hand, it's not classified as Complete yet. Either way, I wish I could read more about it. Like Echoes it hasn't started yet.

MESSAGE DELETED by -X-.Giggles.-X-

Very short, very cheesy, abundant in errors, but still a very satisfying read. The type that makes your insides turn to mush - or whatever the term is.

Rules of Engagement by Amaranth Adanae

Indubitably one of the sharpest commentaries available in ffnet; the upside is it's complete. One page into this fic and I extracted two quotables for my words collection. I swear, this thing is epic. Might not appeal if you're a staunch NaruxMai hater though.

Seasons by Calkat

I didn't like the ending, but it's very well written. Also, I thought Mai was a bit OOC; I just can't imagine her being a flirt. Naru was adorable - or maybe I'm just biased. Written in two parts, with chronology that baffled me mainly because I wasn't paying attention.

All this reading's giving me a headache.

Procrastination: Two Themes

As I write this, I have two days left till my final exams for this semester, but I’m watching movies instead of studying. I’m not going to say I can’t help it, because that sounds so irresponsible, but honestly, I was not in the mood to hit the books. Besides I’m waiting for my midnight snack to arrive from Bermontz.

Regarding the first movie, Ninja Assassin, as I told Ate Dee, it had all the elements of a great film, although even all those couldn’t turn it into one. In fact, it’s one of those movies you can play while playing minesweeper. Yep, it’s that forgettable.

Synopsis: Mika Coretti (Naomi Campbell) is a Europol forensic researcher obsessed with figuring out the truth behind years’ worth of Ninja legends. While she investigates recent newsworthy assassinations, a rogue Ninja named Raizo (Rain) is roaming Berlin free, trying to find people who will help him take down his old clan, the Ozunu. As Mika’s leads get hotter and more dangerous, she attracts the attention of Raizo – not to mention, the eye of the Ninja clan he has betrayed.

Cinematography-wise, it looked too fake, from its too-red blood down to its very fake looking landscapes and gadgets. Acting was good, for a film that requires very little from its actors, and music was all right – not too much, in fact, which was good. The story wasn’t shallow either; perhaps a bit underdeveloped, but passable, if not predictable. The highs include Rain’s voice and English (which is very smooth) and Naomi Campbell’s facial expressions - especially during the scene where she’s driving a car to get away from some Ninjas on her trail. Oh, and yes, the climactic sword-slash scene was wonderful – I swear I will someday marry a man who will have Sho Kosugi’s physique even at the age of 60. The only low I can think of is its very poor plot development; everything seemed to happen in a blur. Or maybe that’s because I was playing Minesweeper while watching it?

For me though, Ninja Assassin redeemed itself towards the end. I love the embedded significance of the scene where Raizo climbs the wall of his old home. Poignant ending for a forgettable film.

Regarding the second movie (because yes, the irresponsible girl watched two), Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children Complete, I found it even worse than Ninja Assassin because it was thirty minutes longer and admittedly less engaging – although maybe the lack of subtitles made being attentive extra difficult.

Synopsis: (From DBD case) Continuing the story line based on the hit Playstation game Final Fantasy VII, two years have passed and the ruins of Midgar stands as a testament to the sacrifices made in order to bring peace. However, the world will soon face a new menace. A mysterious illness is spreading fast. Old enemies are astir. And Cloud, who walked away from the life of a hero to live in solitude, must step forward yet again.

As expected of a first timer to a Final Fantasy movie, the art blew me away. The landscapes, in contrast to those of Ninja Assassin, were breathtaking, and the story was good, too. Acting wise… er, I can’t really say anything because you can make CG characters play their parts perfectly, with your only obstacle to proper expression being technical limitations. But yes, the characters played their roles well – although it slightly bothered me the way the kids nodded so much; even Tifa’s movements were distracting.

Music was not bad, not good, nothing spectacular; dubbing was good, as expected. The lows include a REALLY dragging, complicated storyline. You don’t have to be an FF VII fan to understand the plot, but seriously, it’s not your usual “the world is facing a major crisis and So-and-So is the only one who can prevent mankind’s demise” story. In fact, for three fourths of the film, I was confused regarding “Mother’s” identity. And the fact that almost half the whole film was composed mainly of fight scenes featuring dragon-like creatures that fell from the high heavens did not make me happy at all. Some of the highs were Rufus (the President of Shinra, if I’m not mistaken?) and that pretty little girl who later on becomes Denzel’s friend. Oh, and yes, the ART. The ART saves the whole film. Square Enix rocks!

ditching John Lloyd

A few minutes before the final scene of the movie One More Chance, it became too cheesy for me to stand. Seeking a reprieve from Bea Alonzo and JLC’s tennis match of love quotes (with tears on the side) I trudged over the TV area just in time to see Perfecto Yasay and Jojo Binay interrogate each other on Harapan: The ABS CBN/ANC Vice Presidential Debate. I told myself, “You know the movie sucks, anyway. Why don’t you watch Mar wow the crowd instead?” So I said goodbye to John Lloyd-Bea during the commercial break (because, no doubt, Manny Villar’s face is the only one I’ll see) and returned to watch Mar Roxas and Loren Legarda battle wits armed with credentials.

[On a side note, I now understand why Sir Nogoy always berates orange-wearing students in his class. One time, he commented so acerbically on my classmate’s orange lanyard that the guy actually took it off his neck and stuffed it into his bag, prompting Sir Nogoy to half-apologize. But if I hated Villar that much, I suppose I'd hate orange as well.]

Mar and Loren’s face-off was the only one from Round 3 that I bothered to watch. Mar asked his question first: Why did you choose an environment advocacy when the Philippines is insignificant in terms of causing climate change (producing greenhouse gases)? Loren replied that the Philippines is one of the top 10 most vulnerable places to live in given that we’re mostly coastal, and politicians should pay environment-related matters utmost attention. Then she went on naming all her projects (environment-related and not) as politicians are wont to do, before she slipped and mentioned her “shared” origin with Mar Roxas, citing that he comes from Capiz while she hails from Antique.

She dug her own grave.

Hearing this probably made Mar Roxas happy (although whether he was happy because of their shared heritage, one can’t be too sure of) because the next thing he did was speak to Loren in “their” native tongue. Although I’m not from the Panay area, I actually understood what he was saying; basically, he argued that although it’s true that we’re highly affected by climate change, we can’t really coerce the high polluters into limiting the waste discharge, can we?

I only wish Loren understood it half as lucidly as I did. The moment Mar finished asking his question, she replied very defensively, saying her grandmother came from Antique, and Relative So-and-So came from San Pedro, etc. To put it mildly, Loren lost it, ending her speech very badly, talking about red tide and obviously not really understanding what she was saying.

I can’t blame her though. If someone targeted my weakness in front of THE WHOLE PHILIPPINES, I’d probably panic and suffer instant foot-in-mouth disease as well. It’s a miracle she managed to keep talking. Her broadcasting background probably saved her, but barely.

Anyway, she was so shaken up that she couldn’t wait for the timer to start ticking before she asked Mar Roxas her question: Why is it that you keep changing sides? Initially you were on Erap’s side, but then you severed ties with him. Then you were part of the Arroyo administration (under DTI), but years later you were badmouthing her in public. And now, you recently asked Erap’s blessing to run for the May 2010 elections. So kindly explain why you keep switching sides.

Mar Roxas’ answer to that (and to the follow-up question which was similar to the first one except that it focused more on the Liberal Party instead of just Mar) basically revolved around the idea that “my boss is the people” such that he’ll do whatever they want him to do. Regarding the Erap issue, he said that he severed ties with the ex-president on very civil “lalaki sa lalaki” terms. He even sort of dared Loren to call Erap, because he was sure the guy would speak well of him; apparently, they separated on “good” terms. Regarding the issue with Ms Arroyo he said he went all opposition because he saw that what was happening was not right. And then he ended his defense with another “my boss is the people” statement, much to the delight of his yellow-clad supporters.

Oh and yes, he also said, "hindi naman ako yung paiyak-iyak sa Senado".

It came as no surprise that Mar’s trust rating in that particular segment was 91%+. Loren’s was 40%+ or so. She looked seriously forlorn, she did.

The lessons to be derived from this whole fiasco (which will undoubtedly show up tomorrow morning with highly sensationalized headlines) are: 1) Never pretend to be someone you’re not; and, 2) When you know you haven’t done anything wrong, there’s no reason to panic. (Unless you’ve got intense stage fright, that is.) The first lesson we learned from Loren: claiming to come from a province just to get votes from the people in that area is a very bad idea – which is also very irritating, if you’re someone from that place and you know a particular politician isn’t your kababayan at all. For all aspiring politicians, learn from Loren’s example: at least pick a province with a language you understand.

Lesson Two we learned from Mar. (I daresay he was a bit maangas tonight, but, oh well. He’s a politician, and those guys are about as predictable as the Kamia bed check system.) When Loren “politely” inquired about his loyalties – she actually felt the need to use the phrase “walang personalan pero…” – he was smiling as he waited for her to finish asking her question. In fact, he actually looked excited to answer it, as though he was hoping to get the chance to explain his reasons for all that switching he did. Somehow… I feel scared for him. His chances of winning the vice-presidency are too high that the only way to stop him now is via sabotage.

reading miss jing

My one-sided love affair with Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo began when Trisha lent me her copy of Likhaan. Being practically incapable of comprehending poetry, I immediately turned to the short stories section, stumbling into The Art of Understatement and emerging from the experience hooked. That story... was very much unlike everything I had previously read. Although it was slow-paced relative to, say, Meg Cabot, and very ordinary, as if the story was just being retold by a friend who heard it from a friend, it transported me. After reading it I paused, book in hand, digesting the last line. And then came that soft "aaah" of realization, a reaction that would have, had I been in my French 11 class, prompted Sir Nogoy to wonder aloud how many cows there were in his classroom.

I can't say that I became a huge fan of Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo after reading that short piece. For a few months, I ventured into other things to entertain myself *fanfiction, ehem, fanfiction* so I wasn't able to read a lot of 'quality' literature. Then one lazy evening, as I wandered along the aisles of National Bookstore in SM North, I saw a book with a beautiful cover on the Filipino lit shelf. Given that most of the books displayed on that particular shelf have ugly, peeling covers, that particular novel stood out easily.

It was called Catch a Falling Star, and at first, I was too busy humming the song with the same title to take note of its author's name. But when I finally saw who had written it...

I bought it without hesitation. A few days later I finished reading it, loving it so much that I recommended it to my roommate Joyce. While she was reading it, I stalked Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo online and discovered *gasp* that she was on Facebook. Shortly after we became "friends" - the period during which I was waiting for her to confirm my invitation agitated me greatly for some reason - Joyce finished reading the novel and joined my raving, and together we discussed the implied ending of one of the stories, The Woman in the Apple-Green Dress. With Joyce adding Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo on Facebook, our fanaticism became official. Or maybe I'm the only one breaking into sweat whenever I see an update about her on my Home page?

I'm still waiting for Joyce to PM Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo regarding The Woman in the Apple-Green Dress. (Because, no, we still don't get it.) I told myself that while waiting for 'the truth' I'd drop by UP Press during the sale so I could get a copy of Recuerdo. But March, wretched hell month, got in the way, so now I'm waiting for finals week to end. In the meantime, I'm content stalking Miss Jing on Facebook. She doesn't know I exist, but what the hell. I've finally found my favorite writer.

Generation Alpha

Read about it in Reader's Digest Asia March 2010. Supposedly, it's made up of kids born starting 2010 until the next 15 years. These "on-the-way" babies are expected to be more tech-savvy and materialistic than their immediate predecessors, the children of Generation Z, and I agree with a comment on the magazine about that thought being "scary".

So anyway, I was reading the article and one bit in it irritated me. The description of people born under Generation Y, like me, was flighty and transient... the "me now" generation. I won't deny the accuracy of that assessment - one look at the rest of this blog, and you'll see just how self-absorbed I am - but the most depressing thing is just that: its accuracy. It nailed the actual state of things in two right-on-target phrases, and we can't blame whoever wrote it because it's true.

Who wants to belong to a generation deemed superficial AND selfish to boot? I certainly don't and yet I am.

Wanderlust

When Mac found out that I had been to Hong Kong (a fact which I’m sure he knew before but forgot over time), his initial statement was: “I envy your travelful life.” To which I really wanted to reply, “I haven’t even been anywhere! There are so many places I still have to, want to, definitely will visit! Venice, Prague and Nepal – they’re all waiting for me!” But, of course, I didn’t tell him that. He’s never been out of the country so he’ll probably just text a cynical, slightly acidic, “Hahaha, funny” back to me.

And yes, I know there are other more important things than giving Filipinos the opportunity to travel for leisure – things like job opportunities and better public health care and a competent educational system – but is it so wrong to wish that my countrymen experience the one privilege I hold most dear? (Right next to having my education subsidized by the government, of course.) I want Filipinos to travel. I want Filipinos to realize there is more to the world than this country we live in. I mean, the Philippines is undeniably beautiful, but I think all of us (not just Filipinos) need to explore the rest of the planet – to see how people of a different culture live, to observe their ways, and to learn from one’s observations.

I have to disqualify some things though: 1) I do not consider trips to the US as part of “travel”; and, 2) One really has to inhabit that place for a while, none of this one-night in the airport “connecting flight” crap.

Why Number 1? In the case of the average Filipino (and yeah, I guess I’m a bit biased because I’m basing this on myself) the American culture probably isn’t very culture shock-worthy. Just think. We speak English as well as we speak our native language, we watch American sitcoms, read American novels, listen to American music. If there’s one thing that might shock Filipinos who go to America, it might be the efficiency of things, the fluidity of daily operations like shopping for groceries or whatever.

And Number 2? It’s counted because I don’t think any person can develop a clear idea of what a different country is like unless s/he lives in it, among its people, bound by its rules and customs for a certain period of time. Staying in Hong Kong for a total of almost one year, I’ve learned a lot of things about the Cantonese. Like the fact that they don’t let kids in their Horse-Race Betting Office and the fact that they also sell pirated CD’s and the fact that they’re addicted to shark’s fin soup and the fact that their wedding photos are shot in mall rooftop gardens, sometimes with brides wearing sneakers under their wedding gowns, etc. I’ve learned so much, even during the time when I wasn’t allowed to go out of the apartment because of the SARS alert. All I had to do was turn on the TV and watch anime and the home shopping network in Cantonese, and at noon, I’d stick my head out the kitchen window and watch the kids from a nearby school walk by in neat lines, just like characters out of the anime shows I love watching so much. Also, when I wasn’t out exploring the city with my dad (often ending up wondering where the public toilets were, given that my father, at that time, already had a very temperamental bladder) I was inspecting a book-map of Hong Kong, tracing the churches and the schools, and coming up with little stories as I strolled along the roads with my imagination.

I wish Mac had experienced all that. I think it’s pretty useless studying International Studies if you don’t go out there to see all the things you’re learning about in class. If I had money, I would send him to South Korea. Then, maybe, he can get Kim Bum’s autograph, and have a life-long high or something.

ghost hunt mysteries

Again, my habit of reviving the long-dead love for a long-forgotten anime at the most inopportune time, aka a few days before a major exam, is kicking in. For the past two days, I've been waking up every morning to the image of JC Staff's Ghost Hunt, which I firmly believe is one of the best anime series ever.

Shame though, 'cause it lacks closure. BIG TIME. The first time I watched the series I was left at a loss, so I had to spend a couple of hours searching the Net via my very slow dial-up collection just to quench my thirst for answers. For those who are wondering, and might be reading this, here are the answers to some questions regarding Ghost Hunt that might be bothering you.
Why does Naru react so badly the first time Mai calls him Naru? Moreover, if Naru is a nickname given by Mai, a new acquaintance of Naru, why does Lin Koujo call Naru Naru?That's because Shibuya Kazuya's nickname is Noll, which is read as Naru in the Nihonggo. In truth, Naru's name is Oliver Davis, the renowned psychic who is constantly praised throughout the anime. Why a child named Oliver would have a nickname of Noll... is a different story.
Regarding the effectivity of the curse that plagued Naru during the After-School Spellcaster Arc, my theory is that his Japanese name is Shibuya Kazuya, but after he and his twin brother Eugene were adopted by the Davises, his name was changed to Oliver.
Whoa! Naru has a twin brother?!Yes, actually, it's Eugene, Naru's apparently kinder brother, who appears in Mai's dreams. In fact, in the original story (not the anime) when Mai confesses her love to Naru, the latter says it's his brother that she's in love with, not him. Eugene is also the person refers to when he tells Mai of someone who once told him the same thing Mai said: Hate me because I'm me, not because I'm Japanese. Apparently, Eugene died in a car accident in Japan, which is why Naru is in Japan in the first place - he's looking for his brother's body.
So Naru's weakness... the one Masako uses to blackmail him...?It's the fact that Naru is Oliver Davis; a secret he wants to keep hidden, which is why he's so aloof to the media. Masako once saw him at a public demonstration of his PK abilities, so she knows his real identity.

You know, writing this, I realized it's pointless answering questions this way. If you'll read Ghost Hunt's Wikipedia page [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghost_Hunt] you'll find the answers to most of your questions by reading the character profiles. So hop hop! Go on, find the answers, and join me in praying for a second season!

writing fiction

After a very complicated ICTUS Miting de Avance last night, I took the long route home with Banana and Melbert. We ended up talking about light stuff - I think because we all wanted to relax after a very tension-filled event. Somehow, we began talking about Melbert's little notes in Facebook, stuff he had written, stuff I had read, stuff Bana will no doubt be able to read one day. Melbert, knowing I had read his work, asked what my thoughts on his writing were. And I told him, honestly, that I believe he's more suited to commentary than fiction. In fact, I think he'd make an excellent opinion columnist, should he wish to pursue that career path.

Earlier this morning, after reading more stressing stuff out of the ICTUS Execom YG, I wandered into Edzel's page hoping to ask him some stuff about the org newsletter, which we're handling as a two-man team. On his profile, sorta, I found a link to our mutual friend Simoun's notes page, where the latter had written his "very first attempt at short-story writing". I read it, and, boy, was I impressed. Jealous, even. Such talent! Such intelligence! Great story, especially if it's only his first attempt. And having read his work, and the praises heaped upon it, I remembered Aiko's Gakuen Alice fanfic My Heart's Back, with its 170+ reviews, and I thought... of everyone else.

How many kids in this planet hope to become writers when they grow up? When I was in Grade 4, even more gullible than I am now, I believed what my father said about making a wish upon entering a church for the first time. And I remember that, aside from praying for all the stuff my righteous, strict Catholic school had taught me I should wish for, I sincerely requested God to make me a writer someday. Like JK Rowling and RL Stine. So I could spend my whole life writing the things I love coming up with, and earn enough money to survive, and have people read my work and appreciate it, having thought of the same ideas themselves.

How many people out there are like me? I can write, but I can't write. I can come up with thoughts well enough, but they're the same old thoughts that have been swimming the pages of lit-dom for centuries. I don't think I'm meant to be a writer, and I've known that for quite some time now, but I still write simply because I love writing. I love the feeling of committing my thoughts to paper (or electronic media, in most cases) and knowing that I can always return to them any time I wish. I'm not sure I consider my lack of talent a curse or a blessing. On one hand, I wish I could write better, so I could write more, and perhaps get more satisfaction out of the act of writing. On the other hand, if I did have the talent... I'd probably just be writing day in, day out. I wouldn't be able to "spread out" and try all sorts of things the way I am now. Most probably, I wouldn't be talking Econ and PolSci and MATH; consequently, I'd never be embarrassed by board work and recitations, and I'd probably never grow.

My heart feels bad now that I'm sure I'm not meant to create life-changing literature, but my mind's telling me it's all right because I'm meant for other things. Thing is... I wish I knew what I'm really meant for, what my true purpose is. Now that the greatest thing I've aspired and worked for for most of my life has been "taken" away from me, I find there's nothing else left. Just a girl with a bit of grit, floating around with nothing but her naive optimism in tow.

To Start a Day

Here's something I started writing last Saturday and finished this morning. It's funny that I was working on this when I said I'd be working on my PolSc midterm papers. Drat.

To Start a Day
by beaple leone michaelmas
IT IS A CHILLY FEBRUARY MORNING, and she is late for her seven o’clock class. She hops into the first yellow-topped jeepney she sees, muttering a couple of distracted excuses at those whose feet she unintentionally steps on, all the while wondering if her professor had felt the sudden urge to give a pop quiz on last meeting’s discussion. With furrowed eyebrows and an inward curse, she settles at one edge of the half-hard, half-soft benches of the vehicle, positioning herself right behind the whistling driver. As she takes out her coin purse and begins fishing for six pesos, her eyes find themselves magnetically drawn to the figure sitting near the mouth of the jeepney, her fingers freezing for a moment before moving involuntarily as though her heart has not just skipped a bit.

He is yawning now, his pale, lanky frame bent towards the window. As his face relaxes into a sleepy expression, she sees that his eyes are heavy-lidded and glassy; apparently, he has just woken up. Not that she has the right to pry into his life, but at that moment, she wonders what kept him up all night. Homework? A movie? Or did he stay up until dawn, texting that Tourism major who was rumored to be his girlfriend?

As she hands the driver her fare, she frowns at her own stupidity. What business does she have thinking about his love life? She was not even sure he knew her by face, let alone by name. After all, in their college nameless, faceless people come and go – there is not much need for social interaction in Engineering.

Still, she believes it is natural for any girl to develop some semblance of crush on the smartest guy in the entire batch. What harm will it do anyway, catching his eye in an early morning ride to class? At most, he might find her intriguing, but in all likelihood, the incident will be forgotten by lunchtime.

And so she tries to catch his eye by staring at him intently, willing him to look away from the scenery outside, wanting him to look straight into her eyes for once. To really see her. To be intrigued by her presence. So she stares.

And stares.

And stares some more.

Suddenly, he stops looking outside, and his gaze shifts, bored eyes panning the faces of other passengers. Upon reaching her face, he pauses, and recognition flashes before his face. He frowns thoughtfully, and stares back at her, just as she is beginning to blush at the sudden eye contact. Then his eyebrows suddenly rise, before he finally smiles.

A rather weak, foolish smile.

A simple smile of recognition.

And yet it makes her day.


IT IS A CHILLY FEBRUARY MORNING, and he is riding an early jeepney to Math as usual. He sits on one edge of the half-hard, haft-soft benches of the vehicle, near its mouth, looking at the world outside with tired eyes and a bored expression caused by reading until midnight. It was a half-assed novel, in all honestly, but for some reason everyone in the council is addicted to its pettiness. Whether he likes it or not, however, he has to read it, too – it is one of those things that automatically fit into his job description as an officer of the student body.

As the jeepney passes by the twin dorms, a girl enters the jeep, and accidentally steps on his shoes. He is slightly irritated, not only at the act itself (because these are new shoes after all) but also at the way she apologizes – haphazard, half-meant, an altogether pathetic apology. He frowns up at her decidedly, but as she sits on one end of the half-hard, half-soft benches of the jeep, he recognizes her as that ditz from last sem’s English. The one who answered every question their professor posed. The one who laughed too loud with her friends at the back of the classroom. The only other upperclassman in a room filled with freshmen.

And yet he has never spoken to her. Although, strangely enough, he has always wanted to.

Her gaze falls on him, and he sees her hands freeze, her eyes widen in a shock of realization. His pulse quickens – has she recognized him? If she has, she makes it a point to look as though she has not; she hands the driver her fare and goes on about her own business, albeit very consciously.

He frowns for the second time that morning. Partly because he has just been ignored, and partly because his gut is reacting adversely to being snubbed by this girl. As he trains his gaze at the world outside, he tells himself she is inconsequential to his happiness. Life will not change simply because this one girl refused to recognize him. Ditzy, noisy, inelegant – she was not his type anyway.

Still, as he feels her gaze targeted at him, he finds his eyes magnetically pulled from beyond the window, involuntarily, almost instinctively, meeting her eye. Despite himself, his lips form into a small, amused smile – she really is weird. His brain automatically works on full capacity, thinking up a few topics of conversation to spring on her. Hey, long time no see. What grade did you get for English? Do you have a class this early? You’re from Engineering, aren’t you? Will you be attending the event this weekend?

Just as he finishes outlining what he wants to say, she shifts her gaze to the person on his left, acting as though she does not recognize him at all. Eyebrows rising, he turns to the passenger beside him: a slouching, yawning teenager much like himself, spare the distracting lime-green shirt, tousled hair and bloodshot eyes.

Is she seriously ignoring him for this?

He looks away as the guy catches her staring. He tries not to see the face that scrunches up thoughtfully or the blush that creeps up her cheeks as they continue to stare at each other. He forcibly reminds himself of all the things he has to do today: finish paper due on Friday, read the next chapter for 180, remind his Vice-Chair that they have to meet a sponsor for the event this weekend, remind everyone else that there is a college-wide GA tomorrow…

And yet, he is very much aware of the other guy finally smiling at her. And at the corner of his eye, he sees her smile as well.

A rather weak, foolish smile.

A smile of one who is recognized.

He tells himself it should not ruin his day.

sucking up the subtle way

Here's an idea. When you're writing a paper, do you honestly say what's on your mind, disregarding what your teacher might think?

Case in point: In my Global Studies 197 class on Cultures and their Global Entanglements, our course coordinator is obviously against (economic) inteconnectedness aka Globalization aka free trade, which, being an Econ major, I'm predisposed to tolerate, if not welcome. I can tell she really loathes it, even when she doesn't show open hostility when the topic is brought up, because she keeps showing us films like The Corporation, Bordertown, and Manufactured Landscapes, which show the butt-ugly side of globalization.

Despite being shown the ugly truth, however, I still write reflection papers for globalization. I can't help giving it "the benefit of the doubt", given people like Muhammad Yunus, and concepts like positive-sum theories, and teachers like Dr C who say we should keep sending OFW's abroad because they're the only ones keeping this country afloat. I have never considered writing a paper against globalization - before now. I briefly toyed with the idea of seeing things from Ma'am's POV even once because, after all, some "side effects" of interconnectedness really are vomit-inducing, and I really do want her to think I have some semblance of a heart. The disgusting fact is I don't want to clash against her. I'm non-confrontational, after all.

What I'm trying to ask is: Do most students write papers that really contain what they think? Or does a large fraction of the student population write papers that are "doctored" so they're forced to fit with the teacher's line of thinking? It's a pointless question in the UP case, but I was wondering how essays were done elsewhere...