reklamador

Waking up with a fever is trip, a drippy trip at that. Your bones ache and you feel that something like a tarantula is balancing itself on the edge of your nose. Everything feels uncomfortable and you SWEAR you are seeing all these things.

I woke up to the sound of my head imploding. Well, at least, that was what it seemed. The insides of my brain feel like it was slowly retracting into its neat, little core. I groan and realize that I don’t want to go to school today (wow, what a difference) but then remember that I have SO many things to finish. Maybe that letter i suppose. I try to get up and encounter my first problem: my arms cannot support my body. I stare at my arms and my hands - they seemed to have grown several sizes overnight.

I realize that I am stalling and proceed to get up (against all odds). After wearily fixing myself to an acceptable level, I go out of the house and walk towards the jeepney stop. I pass by our neighbor’s gate and I see a floating head out of the corner of my eye. My head swivels towards the apparition and it flies away. I hear giggles. It sounds awfully similar to marion’s. The horror. I was suddenly conscious of the fact that it was raining-AGAIN. This is probably how a lobotomy feels like.

The PUV stop is littered with people who are either moving way too fast or too slow. The colors of their clothes glare at me and I fear for my life suddenly. I see SW’s little sister and notice that she is taller than me by three feet. I give a short hello and then run towards the first jeepney I see, cutting in front of a doodle wearing a green shirt.

Boulevard draws near and I scream for the angry monkey to stop the jeep. The barker for the Pueblo tric beckons me to walk like 50 meters to get inside. I find a seat away from the oppressive hygiene of my "escort." I look at the person at the back and am surprised to find myself staring at a penguin with long hair. The penguin was sitting very still, her eyes closed and her hands stiffly folded on the handle of her umbrella. Sitting at the back of the penguin is a gigantic cat dressed as a canary. The cat’s eyes dart around suspiciously, as if trying to scout the people who find her costume unbelievable. A couple of blocks away, Ma (of Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress) is sleeping with his mouth open. A few mins till ateneo,  the Stay Puft Marshmellow Man is fiddling with his cellphone. I feel that a fireball is about to escape from my throat thereby killing all of us within ten feet away. I try to stay calm and close my eyes.

When I opened my eyes, I was amazed to find that the tricycle has moved and we were already in the middle of La Purisima. The waters were churning something terrible and just as we were nearing the gate, a huge fish with wings leapt from the sea and smiled at me. I smiled back.

My calves burned. I give my fare and wait for the driver to give my change. That was when I noticed that the driver was the poltergeist. Not a poltergeist. I mean, THE poltergeist, the one in the movie series. It astonished me that the poltergeist had a hearing problem pala.

My stop draws near and I draw the string in front of me. The red bulb glows in front of the poltergeist. He chortles and finally puts on the brakes. I go down and look at my hands. They are back to normal but I suddenly feel irrepressibly light, like I could to tiptoe up to the fourth floor if I wanted to. That was when my stomach grumbled. I decide to buy from Lolas, the place to be.

A small tree was eating pansit there. I had to stop myself from staring at it. The tree looked menacing with its trunk and branches. But I just had to laugh. It was wearing a polka-dot dress.

I SWEAR.

"When women are depressed,
they either eat or go shopping.
Men invade another country."

- Elayne Boosler

While I was watching Troy, Wolfgang Petersen’s gloriously uninspired flick, I thought of ate. (tin) - "The Greeks sounds suspiciously British." I got a response the next day, prisha pointed out that one should be unable to diss a movie where a naked Brad Pitt is featured. I wholeheartedly disagreed.

It’s a mess - two hours of alternating scenes of extreme wussiness (happy now, Ailene?), annoying pretentiousness, and tributes to guy-ish stupidity where men prance around with weapons and complex artillery and women constantly need to be rescued (The cast must have been required to drink two pints of testosterone every morning). Oh and yes, we get several mindless scenes where we see Eric Bana and Orlando Bloom’s chests and Brad Pitt’s butt (It seems that the sole purpose of casting Brad Pitt in this role is that his butt was connected with the rest of his body). No, they don’t make sense at all but look! Those buns are just perfect! (rolls eyes)

I don’t get it. I don’t get the point of humanizing Homer’s beautiful epic. Instead of getting a beautifully scripted tale of cantankerous deities, manipulative characters and real heroes, we get a childish plot that reads like a complicated version of a game of tag (I’ll take your wife! I’ll invade your city! I killed your cousin! I’ll kill your best warrior! No, I’ll kill your best warrior!).

The storyline just felt dry and witless. Though despite this, it ran too long for the depthness (or lack thereof) it showed.

Brad Pitt? I don’t know. It’s just so easy to dismiss him as one glorified pretty boy. Here, he looked more a like  "a long lost Hanson brother." See how easy it is? But I do admire his seeming penchant for picking rules just for the heck or fun of it. He’s not going to be winning any Oscars but at least he’s not deluding himself that he will (I think he got nominated for seven monkeys though). Bana was believable as the role of the weary big brother (indignant outcry from the younger siblings of the world) but we could do without all the affected pep talk. And his nose looks a bit squashed (see, I can be shallow too). Orlando Bloom seem to be fulfilling the great prophecy that he can never outshow his LOTR character. We can see that producers all over are determined to put a bow and arrow in his hands. And the women here (Diane Kruger et al) are really good examples of what women look like when all forms of political correctness are thrown out the window.

But I digress.

I don’t get the appeal.

I don’t get the point.

I just don’t get it.

(paulo writes about movies nowadays. I’m off to iligan on thurs though. yay!)

I don’t know why, but I felt agreeable when my cousins suggested that we go see Maryo J. Delos Reyes’ A Love Story, a movie being touted as something that will change all your preconceived notions about love, relationships, Aga Muhlach, Angelica Panganiban, Maricel Soriano and, I don’t know, the economics in the free world?

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But instead of our mindsets being blown to smithereens, we were left with very strong opinions against the filmmakers and explicit and varied suggestions on how we can hurt them physically. There are seriously too many things wrong with this damn movie.

First, the wretched, wretched story and dialogue. I mean, it felt like screenwriter Vanessa Valdez watched a succession of increasingly bad American soap operas with her laptop propped on her lap and was hitting Shift F-7 indiscriminately.

It also seemed that the whole premise came from a brainstorming session of this sort:

Deluded Filmmaker/Producer: Oooh! Oooh! Let’s make a movie about a guy who is in love with two women — one, a meek, middle-aged pediatrician who likes to frequent Cheesecake, etc, the other, a young, whore-ish flight attendant who jumps random men at Casinos.

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Some Random Lemming: Yeah!

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Deluded Filmmaker/Producer: Aaaand! Aaand! Let’s make it ironic. Let’s make everyone think that the wife is actually the meek, borderline pathetic pediatrician and the mistress is the nympho flight attendant when it’s actually the other way around!

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Some Random Lemming: Yeah! Ironic! That’s so deep!

Le sigh.

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Doesn’t anyone else find the idea of Angelica and Aga canoodling (there’s an understatement) highly detestable? I mean, wasn’t it only a few years back when she was calling him Tito Aga?

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Angelica dear, will you ever stop passing off whining as acting? You whined all throughout your pre-teen and teen career. You’re basically doing the same damn thing except you’re doing it in an ill-fitting top and shorter skirt; you’re just slut-whining.

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And who on earth is responsible for Angelica’s wardrobe? It was like she was dressing during the height of a fabric shortage and is either making do with just enough stretchy material to barely cover her boobs or resorting to wearing random pieces of clothing that she had lying around the house. (Incidentally dear, was that a man’s undershirt you were wearing there at the end?)

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And what of Maricel? The main thing that she has going against her is her complete lack of subtlety. She can just do two kinds of characters — mataray/bitch or mousy pushover (as is the case here). Now, she might just have it in her to do more than extremes — and I’m saying that mainly because the person in front of me is a big diamond star fan and might just poke me in the eye with his cigarette if I don’t stop yapping — but she doesn’t bother coming out of her comfort zone and insists on phoning it in every single time.

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But then, if I loathed iffy cross-generational boinking, the premise and the lead actors so much, why on Earth did I see this wretched, wretched movie? I don’t know. Like the filmmakers, I am left without a clue.

"So, that thing the other night, you heard it right?"

"Of course. I’m not that dense you know."

"Then why didn’t you say anything?"

"Because it isn’t that big of a deal…"

"Are you sure? You aren’t pissed? Is this faux indifference?"

"Of
course not. Besides I doubt that she meant it nastily. Maybe it was
something like when people around school insist on calling
everybody bayot"

"Or rather, bayoooot. And what if that’s not the case?"

"So effing what? I don’t want to waste my energy on obsessing over that. Puh-leeeze."

"Wow, how zen… (stiffles a laugh)"

"Oh stop mocking me. Why, aren’t you sick of overreacting to every single thing in the whole universe?"

"I don’t know. If we stop doing that, wouldn’t we lose our thing?"

"What thing?"

"I mean, isn’t that our thing? Overreacting?"

"What is this thing? Why do you want to hold on to something that you can’t even name?"

"Haaaayyy… whatever. So, you won’t be all crazy-awkward the next time you meet them?"

"Of course not. Well, at least, I don’t want to. I’m trying to stay clear of the drama mode."

"But… isn’t this post kinda drama mode in itself?"

"Shut up. It isn’t."

"So, it’s just a way to prove to them that you are not as dumb as you look/act/babble…"

"Shut it. And I’m not trying to prove anything."

"Then why make this post at all?"

"Wala… I’m bored."

"And you are putting off that accounting assignment again aren’t you?"

"Yes. Shut up."

"But aren’t you paranoid that they regularly stand around, smoking and talking about exactly this when you’re not around?"

"What is "this"? Spit it out."

"Oh shut up. You can’t say it yourself."

"Le sigh. Let them talk. I guess it’s rather karmic the way I have aided in this thing in the past."

"See. What thing? You can’t say it. That won’t stop you from joining in the next time."

"Of
course, because if there is anything about me that remains constant is
that I never learn my lessons. I’m like a dumbass in that way."

"And that you can’t act."

"Oh shut up. I so can."

"Seriously. Your confused face is incredibly fake and crappy. Stay away from theater. Please."

I want my own theme song.

You know, a song that can perk me up or put a, ugh, smile on my
face whilst I am in an jeep going to Ateneo. A song that can vindicate
me, my life, my tastes and my terribly inconsistent thought trail. A
song that can make me see hallucinations - maybe of dancing babies or
Lucy Liu slicing somebody’s head off. A song that can give me a
compulsion for butting into other people’s lives and for smelling other
people’s butts. A song that is REALLY me… or could be me, at least.

Can anyone suggest any?

Oh, No Frank Sinatra. Please.

When I was younger, I had this strange fascination with fire.

Every now and then, I would clean my room and place every single paper-based thing I could find into a plastic bag. Armed with the bag, a fresh box of matches and a bottle of Green Cross alcohol (If I had money, I would buy a matchbox. Perhaps this is one of the marks of my future world ruler-ship - how many eight year olds do you know who would buy matchboxes for personal fun?), I would strut to the grassy lot beside the church and proceed with the cheery art of creating small fires. If you go see that lot now, you would see evidence of my leisure time - blackened parts of our garage wall, bald spots on the ground and the permanent stench of smoke.

Yes world. I, your future ruler, was a budding arsonist.

Doing this during the long stretch of summer vacation was particularly good. (When the rest of the kids my age were busying themselves with trivial things such as play groups, camps, workshops and summer sports, I was at work mapping out my plans for world chaos. Play groups… pfff.) The grass would dry up because of the intense heat providing me with a bigger canvass for my art. I would plop my bag of paper-y goodies in the middle of the lot and would start to pour my wondrous fuel and give out a satisfied smirk.

When everything is set, I would wipe my round, sweaty face, light the gas path and admire my handiwork. Things would go horribly wrong of course. One time, a gust of wind blew a flaming piece of plastic at me and it burned the back of my left thigh (I still have a tiny scar of it) and left me screaming for toothpaste to soothe my skin. Another time, the fire grew out of control and threatened to climb the wall of sari-sari store beside the lot. I left abruptly after my failed attempts to put out the fire and went inside to watch Alladin on channel seven. Up to now, I’m still unsure how my village managed to survive having half of it being burned to the ground.

On most days, the fire spreads fast, making the plastic bag pop and the paper-y things inside and the grass nearby shrivel up into ash. There was something about the black smoke emanating from the fire that I particularly liked. It made me feel strangely calm - like everything is in the right place, that everything is organized. It was a great stress reliever then. At eight, my nerves were already frayed. I was very irritable. Then again, it just might be the cups of coffee I down every so often. My grandmother had already taught me to drink coffee at that age (that’s a different stroy).

Weeks after the votation for the temporary leaders of this country, I think strangely of fire.

That might just mean something good.

Or deranged. *insert evil laugh*

^_^

I was walking home last night and I noticed a couple of words written in chalk along the La Purisima sidewalk:

"Chavit consistent #1 in the surveys"

"Chavit is the next senator"

"Cesar Montano #2"

I don’t know whether it was the pollution, the streets full of
noisy, catankerous people, some weird planetary alignment (then again,
this is the Philippines, I should be used to these) or plain adrenaline
but that really got me worked up about the whole ‘politics’ thing here.

I give up.

I really, really give up.

You want tthese guys in the senate? Go ahead and vote for Them. All 20 million or so of you.
Oh, and while you’re at it, feel free to vote for Gomez, anti-droga.

But a bit of warning: don’t you dare complain during their three-year term.

Don’t you dare pipe up that our students and our children are
dumber than before, that the exchange rate is 100 pesos to a dollar,
that there are more unemployed Filipinos, that you are starving, that
corruption has become a ridiculously comfortable concept here, that our
national debt has tripled, that the minimum fare in jeepneys is P10,
that we need to resort to random homicide in order to control the
population, that breathing the air in Manila has become a fatal
mistake, that 99% of Filipinos are dirt poor while the remaining 1% is
yachting somewhere in Subic, that we shouldn’t have been persuaded by
his vague speeches and cheesy commercials - "iboboto kita! (I’ll vote for you)" says the grandmother, that we all need help NOW, that we should have learned from the Erap incident. 

You wanted ‘em.

You’ll get ‘em. 

And we will all suffer for it.

I’m trying to get to bed decently early so I can drag myself up out of
bed early enough tomorrow to throw together something resembling a
halloween costume and shower the remnants of kisha’s and my internal fight off of me.  But, for a review of me:

I feel:  Bad.

School:  Sucks, albeit not as much as usual, but still.

Relationship:  doing fairly well.
Friendships: All intact except me and my high school cmates…other than that, this is the one high point.

Writing:  HA!  WHAT writing?

Health:  I think I have chronic fatigue syndrome.

Family: My mon’s in Davao right now, and all of us left at home had to put ice on our heads due to…accidents. Don’t ask.
Upcoming events: Today i have like three quizzes; which in Ateneo means SUICIDE…and that if I’m well enough tomorrow to make an
entry, it should be damned interesting. I’ll only be well enough
assuming I DON’T run into breakup urges, if I do, possible affects include:
staggeringly high long distance bills, extended absence from school,
sudden crying spells or violent streaks, and a lack of me on the
internet.  Sunday..*sigh* the band, NOT going to be fun, thank "God" Jed is playing sub for jas. If you’re reading this, thank you soOOOOO much. You’re holding us together. 

i miss the pk’s though.
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So yeah, back to real life, as it were.  On with it.

"Well, hellhounds on your tail now, once again, Boy. It’s groping on your leg until it sleeps. The emptiness will fill your heart with sorrow. ‘Cause it’s not what you make, it’s what you leave."

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-In these words from the song "Misery", Green Day demonstrates an unsettlingly insightful knowledge of one of those fundamental truths of life that so many people lose sight of: too often, the circumstances of your life will not be driven by the effort you put in, day after day, to foster relationships, shape careers, and make what you want of your life. Too often, they will be determined by the moments where you think, feel, or pretend that these things aren’t important to you.

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Take a relationship that’s had it’s ups and downs, one that has proven it can weather frustration, anger and sorrow. But sprinkle in a dash of indignation, and you have a recipe for disaster. Take a lifelong goal, one that’s driven you around every curve of your life, and see what happens when you let go of the wheel.

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Take a friendship, one that’s seen better days. Two people. A connection. Maybe one or both of them has gotten off the track. Maybe one of them seems to have stopped trying to find it again. And maybe the other says some things that she can’t frankly remember whether or not she was right to say.

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What he needs to understand is the way it feels to watch from the sidelines as something you care about lets go. What he needs to understand is that not putting forth that effort is like spitting in her face, telling her that something she loves isn’t worth his time.

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"Tough Love" is kind of the ugly stepchild of love. It’s underappreciated, it looks different, and people act like it’s not even a part of the family. There’s this criteria to love that we, the media-minded, have put in play. It’s gotta be soft yet supportive. It’s gotta be intense but joyful. It’s gotta be Barbie Dreamhouse pink and in frilly cursive lettering. It’s gotta be a hallmark card or a teddy bear or a hug.

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Whatever it is, it’s certainly got nothing to do with concepts like "the truth hurts" or "it takes someone who cares about you to tell you what you don’t want to hear." It’s not about making someone take their medicine when they’re sick, even if it tastes bad; making them clean up a mess when it’s theirs. It’s about politely ignoring someone’s faults, even if they’re more like fault lines. Whatever it is, it’s definitely can’t be looking someone straight in the eye and telling them they not only can do better, it’s their responsibility to.

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"Step one, you say ‘We need to talk.’ He walks; you say ‘Sit down. It’s just a talk.’ He smiles politely back at you, You stare politely right on through. Some sort of window to your right As he goes left and you stay right Between the lines of fear and blame. You begin to wonder why you came."

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Later, if she is alone, she will wonder about all the things she was supposed to understand: how much he was hurting, how lost he felt. She’ll have plenty of time to think about all the years between them and plenty of reminders in case she’s not inclined: christmas songs they used to dance in the street to; phrases they used to use with each other over and over again, movies they watch, plans they made. Promises they made. She’ll have plenty of time to think about those, and, without him there to force her to be defensive, she’ll wonder. How much of what she said was below the belt, how much of what she did was in his best interest. How much of what she felt was really about him. She won’t have answers. Without him there, all she has is the questions. "Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend somewhere along in the bitterness." There are no answers, probably, just a hundred different sides to the story and too many feelings too remember. His, hers, the poor unwanted stepchild’s, and the seemingly absent viewpoint of Hallmark card love. In the end, there are only two things floating around her mind at night, when she’s alone, that really ring true. It was both of our responsibility to do better. And this, this is what happens if you go too long letting yourself believe you don’t care.

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"I would have stayed up with you all night, Had I known how to save a life." ~The Fray, How to Save a Life

i’m in koronadal (is that right?) now, for the G.A. And we even have a convention for pastor’s kids! hah! -christianity look!?

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-In all my 18 years on this earth, 97% of my enemies emerged when I became a Christian. I have had unbelievers laugh at me when I tell them about the Good News of Christ’s salvation – some of them my friends who jokingly remind me of what I used to do before I became a Christian. I’ve had colleagues and fellow students debate with me when I tell them about my faith. I’ve had my family cry when I speak of the need to become born again. I’ve met indifference, wonder, interest, disbelief and a host of other reactions, but not once did I get hurt when I spoke to unbelievers about sin and Jesus –- not once, until I spoke to my fellow believers.

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