a poetic description of poetry itself by the greatest romantic poet of all time

(Neruda's somehow personal yet universal account of poetry)


Poetry
Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

behind distant hills

you couldn't see the whole of a mountain once you're in it.
hence, you're bound to stay away
forever, if you want to get hold of its beauty.
and when it is soon out of view
it only gets more and more vivid
as new eyes could now paint
an image
soft as silent tears,
coming down freely
under the influence
of gravity
and infinite memories.

The one that got away

i've read this about a year ago... and having it pass my sight this morning for the second time, mmm... i just thought it would be nice to share it! :)



The one that got away
Source: The Manila Times
By: Mark J. Macapagal


In your life, you'll make note of a lot of people. Ones with whom you shared something special, ones who will always mean something. There's the one you first kissed, the one you first loved, the one you lost your virginity to, the one you put on a pedestal, the one you're with...and the one that got away.

Who is the one that got away? I guess it's that person with whom everything was great, everything was perfect, but the timing was just wrong. There was no fault in the person, there was no flaw in the chemistry, but the cards just didn't fall the right way, I suppose.

I believe in the fact that ending up with someone, finding a longtime partner that is, does not lie merely in the other person. I can actually argue that an equal part, or maybe even the greater part, has to do with the matter of timing. It has to do with you being ready to settle down and commit to someone in a way that goes beyond the little niceties of giddy romance.

How often have you gone through it without even realizing it? When you're not ready to commit in that mature manner, it doesn't matter who you're with, it just doesn't work. Small problems become big; inconsequentials become dealbreakers simply because you're not ready and it shows. It's not that you and the person you're with are no good; it's just that it's not yet right, and little things become the flashpoint of that fact.

Then one day you're ready. You really are. And when this happens you'll be ready to settle down with someone. He or she may not be the most perfect, they might not be the brightest star of romance to ever have burned in your life, but it'll work because you're ready. It'll work because it's the right time and you'll make it work. And it'll make sense, it really will.

So that day comes when you're finally making sense of things, and you find yourself to be a different person. Things are different, your approach is different, you finally understand who you are and what you want, and you've become ready because the time has truly arrived. And mind you, there's no telling when this day will come. Hopefully you're single but you could be in a long-term relationship, you could be married with three kids, it doesn't matter. All you know is that you've changed, and for some reason, the one that got away, is the first person you think about.

You'll think about them because you'll wonder, "What if they were here today?" You'll wonder, "What if we were together now, with me as I am and not as I was?" That's what the one that got away is. The biggest "What if?" you'll have in your life.

If you're married, you'll just have to accept the fact that the one that got away, got away. Believe me, no matter how fairy tale you think your marriage is, this can happen to the best of us. But hopefully you're mature enough to realize that you're already with the one you're with and this is just another test of your commitment, one which will just strengthen your marriage when you get past it. Sure, you'll think about him/her every so often, but it's alright. It's never nice to live with a "might have been," but it happens.

Maybe the one that got away is the one who's already married. In which case it's the same thing. You just have to accept and know that your memories of that person will probably bring a nice little smile to your lips in the future when you're old and gray and reminiscing.

But if neither of that is the case, then it's different. What do you do if it's not yet too late? Simple...find him, find her. Because the very existence of a "one that got away" means that you'll always wonder, what if you got that one?

Ask him out to coffee, ask her out to a movie, it doesn't matter if you've dropped in from out of nowhere. You'd be surprised, you just might be "the one that got away" as well for the person who is your "the one that got away."

You might drop in from out of nowhere and it won't make a difference. If the timing is finally right, it'll all just fall into place somehow and you know, I'm thinking, it would be a great feeling, in the end, to be able to say to someone, "Hey you, you're the one that almost got away."

why does 28 always have to be a lonely day?

i don't know. all i know is just it's too boring to drink all alone on a 28.

walk the talk

this is an email shared by Niko Papasideris, a not-so-new indie recording artist from Nashville, TN, whom i met on MySpace some years ago. i admit, i do not entirely agree with the wordplay, but hey, it's another way of looking at the road ahead!

****************************************************************
Why I Have No Goals
Roy H. Williams

"Goal," in my experience, is a favorite word of people who talk and dream and dream and talk. And then they get together to "network" with other talkers. There's always a lot of noise in these meetings but it's unlikely that anything of consequence is going to happen. People who chatter about goals are rarely willing to die on that mountain.

I have no goals. But I do have plans.

A plan puts you in motion toward a destination. The destination you choose is irrelevant. It is (1.) motion, (2.) determination and (3.) commitment that separate destination-reaching explorers from goal-setting chipmunks.

Count the cost, explorer. "Am I willing to die on this mountain?"

A goal without a plan is wishful thinking.
A plan without action is self-delusion.

Here are three questions I'd like to ask:

1. What are you trying to make happen?
2. How will you measure success?
3. What's the first thing you need to do to get started?

no more tagay for me?

i can't believe it, but my vice is taking its toll on me this early. i miss my bad-ass alcohol tolerance because now it only takes a week of stress and three hours of unlimited shots to knock me dead. my lungs are also getting weaker. i was not like this before.

i know i'm not 100% healthy and that i should be taking medications of some freakin' sort, but i just don't think i can give up my vice/s at once and go cold turkey. god can i imagine it sending me fatal seizures! but the thing is, now i have to do it in moderation, else i'll wreck my nerves and go all the way six feet below the ground. (mmm.. why is it always six? why not seven or eight?)

if there is any absurd principle behind this equally absurd thinking, that would be the love of life. yes, i love being alive, however ridiculous it may sound, and i don't want to spend my entire life worrying about things, so i'd rather do anything that affords enjoyment whenever i feel like doing it. i'm going to die early, anyway. but of course i am also familiar with the word "control" and i know when to hit that "moderate button" on. i'm still not worrying that much, but i'm starting to feel something funny in my body, plus my eyebags have sagged down the floor—it's the final bitch slap!

in the course of wandering

memory, too, is made of water. earth is both hard and malleable, air fills all space. but water, in taking the shape of the vessel it occupies, is of infinite shape.
because memory encompasses all elements, it, too, is eternal, it includes both origin and destination, the past and the future.

-Rio Alma

a carnival friday

i had a very disturbing Friday morning. believe me. it was my third day as a slacker-no-more and it was supposed to be a great day because during Fridays we are allowed to move away from looking like poor corporate slaves. i could wear by favorite black Tootsie Roll vintage shirt and maong pants, and just feel comfortable without any disturbing collar or blistering sandals.

the first thing i heard on the radio was the mournful passing away of Michael Jackson. i mean, i don't know him personally, but no kidding, i was really affected. maybe it's all because of—yes—him and his songs playing a big part of my childhood. you know me, i'm a fan of classic 70s to 90s music, and i can be a human music library of these decades. my childhood was fruitfully spent discovering things on my own while listening to old songs instead of playing patintero outside (sadly, i never learned to play it well). anyway, most of Jacko's socially-conscious pop music and love songs, i grew up with and learned to love. i remember making my first cross stitch design of a world with a band-aid plastered onto it and a small caption saying, "Heal the World". oh c'mon! i was idealistic even when i was eight! and now i'm getting even more affected while listening to my cousin's MJ playlist... i'm now on Gone Too Soon. it depresses the hell out of me. some of my favorites are Heal the World, Will You Be There, Man in the Mirror, Ben, I'll Be There, She's Out of My Life, I just Can't Stop Loving You, The Girl is Mine, and the list goes on. he's not my most favorite singer, though, but he's one of those, and indeed, most of my favorite songs are from him. i'm surely gonna miss his trademark—the Moonwalk. god was he a great performer!

then there are tributes everywhere, while when Michael Jackson was still alive, people loathed him. i say, when you like someone because he is a great artist, just like him because of that. you don't give a shit on what's he gonna do with his personal life. until now i still hold on to Dr. House's words: "You're dying and suddenly everybody loves you." sad but true.

so off i went to work and hardly found a good spot on the railway train. it was 7:30 a.m.—a crucial hour—and there were only few carriages making their rounds from North Avenue to Taft and vice versa! what do you expect? i just stood still in front of the crowd and found myself being pushed inside the vehicle... no effort at all! when it finally came to Kamuning station, i was astounded by the immense crowd that fell flat on my sight. god was it so overfilled, i could hardly find my way out! then on the highway was a mad congestion as if there was an assembly of some sort. i felt crazy! but the agitation didn't stop there. going down the station, i found myself in a constant elbow fight, trying to go against the current of other MRT patrons dismally lined up in two for single-journey tickets... and in between those lines was a lady lying flat on her back with either arm under her head, as if she was in the middle of a sweet dream. and she was in between the lines, for Chrissake! oh well, i don't really understand what's happening with the world today.

and about what i did at work? don't ask. i don't even know what it is. :)

pure scribbles

it's been a long while since i last had this urge to stick my thoughts on this darn-slash-newly-dressed-slash-everything-gets-confusing blogsite. i don't know. my friend Joycee even told me maybe it's because blogging is a thing lazy bums like us are doing all day that perhaps it's a way of detaching and finally freeing myself from this slothful post-graduation stage. i still don't know. put my two cents on the idea that blogging is what i usually do when i'm fired up with loads of work, and that being a three-month-old slacker is finally taking its toll rotting my very own brain. (oh well, i'm back to this blogging craze!)

i want to write about something. i really do. in the past weeks, i got to discover a lot of things which i would love to write about: poems, books, movies, issues, Johnny Depp, and the list goes on.. strangely, though, this want never turned itself into something similar to must, need, or even will. i just took the pleasure of being the sole spectator on a movie or book i was indulging into. i'm a fancier for these things. you take me into something you would like me to see, and you would readily know if i liked it or not. i'm a good liar but when it comes to compliments and adoration, i'm a first-rate jerk.

anyway, the last time i had a good shot of philosophical, better yet call it larger-than-life conversation, was long before my other friend Jaycee would fly to Dumaguete for his further intellectual pursuit. god, i miss it when i'm with someone i can share my thoughts with. most of the time when i finish reading a book, i impulsively turn ecstatic that i find just about anyone i could discuss my sentiments with; and with a lousy pick, i usually end up saying crap and suddenly wanting to exterminate the person whom i'm having a hard time explaining one times one with. that sure was selfish of me, but how can i help it? i'm excited and ecstatic, i could even kill a cat.



on reading and finding a good read

exactly a month ago, i bought this very good book, Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger. if you've read that, too, then probably you would know what's with all this cursing i'm in right now. that's what you call a book. it's not just because it's a pile of printed materials bound on a fancy cover and all that stuff, but it's the interaction with the brain that matters the most. sorry, but this is definitely not the same with Twilight. this, in fact, is what i couldn't understand with people today. yeah, maybe they're in to something like leveraging their reading habits, that taste will eventually develop in time and whatever, but, isn't it good if they start from something great? i know it's too early for new book enthusiasts to swim into the thoughts of Albert Camus, but at least they can start with something light yet spectacular as The Little Prince or To Kill a Mockingbird. i remember the time we were assigned to do a book review of Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. so we went to this bookstore in a mall and nearly everyone was screaming their lungs out upon knowing that another saga of this Twilight thing was "available, so hurry and grab your own copy now!" darn did they go gaga in front of the Twilight shelf that they looked like a bunch of asylum patients hugging their copies all the way to the cashier. it's depressing, though.

finding a good book is hard, but finding out if a book is good is an entirely different story. as what our review class professor imparted, "You don't have to eat the whole egg to tell if it's rotten." i thought it was from Ernest Hemingway. i sure have it in my notes, but it's from Joseph Parisi anyway, and i don't know the guy. my mistake. good thing we were not given objective tests in that subject, though. in my case, and i know it's also the same with yours or some of you, at the very least, chasing your study (in this case, READING) spirits is quite a hard job. most of the time, especially when you're reading a novel or literature of some sort, the story goes all the way confusing as it grows and sets out different branches of thought you wouldn't understand in the first place what the hell they are for in the story. some books i left half-read because of this. but one sunny day (oh, i'm trying to be poetic), i heard from this bookstore-sponsored radio segment what i needed to learn in the course of reading. "Read. Just keep on reading. Never force yourself to understand the book chapter by chapter. Later on you will come to a point where everything will just fall into the right place, and soon you'll realize why some things needed be there." how i loved these words! this is the same thing i experienced while reading Of Mice and Men. just for the sake of reading it and being able to cook up my own thoughts about the book, i did, and when i came to that revelation part, i nearly got killed with it! it was brilliant. only a genius like Steinbeck can seize readers by the throat like that.

indeed, in a good story, there is a purpose for every word. sometimes you can feel that they're only there to arouse emotions and all, but more than anything, symbolic representations are there to build up the story. they are, in another sense, its foundation. so read. it's a good investment.



one thing about the grownups... and us

last night i was teaching my grandmother how she could put the "my webcam" window on top of the other applications so she could see herself on the computer screen. make it more complex with yahoo messenger photo sharing. it was a pretty hard task, me teaching her about computer stuff and all, and especially because we were just talking online. she hardly even knew any part of the computer, so i had to explain everything, even how a touchpad looks and works and all. i was like goin' back to my old job of explaining things to customers when i was still in that darn call center. but it felt good anyway. not the call center job (my goodness!), but that thing between me and my lola. it's not just because her blood runs through my veins that i had to be patient with her and all. it's the same thing when i was still teaching my mother how to use the computer. patience to the test. but isn't it great, the reversal of roles? how they patiently taught us to walk.. read and write.. and now it's our turn to introduce them to the things that are new to them, like computers and cellphones. it's pure bliss!



one more thing about the grownups... and us

this one is not good, not even funny. and this is the type of grownups i wouldn't even understand. i once had this conversation with two people about relationships, marriage and all. i finally said that i don't want to be beholden to nothing and to no one, and that i don't even see the idea of marriage as glamorous as others do. and so they went on saying, "Bata ka pa. Haha. (with 'haha', believe me) Bata ka pa nga." i nearly poked their eyes out with a pen. personally, i'm open with the idea of spending each other's lives together without marriage, and they were saying that i'm a kid?! c'mon! i don't even like the thought of me doing other person's bed, preparing his breakfast, putting on his tie and all. it sucks! and mind you, annulment is way more expensive than a wedding. maybe the guys i talked to and i we're not on the same page when it comes to things like this. and maybe i would change preferences come some enlightening years or when i just feel like marrying. who knows? but the thought of people saying that i'm still a kid surely gets to my nerves. just because what i believe to be true is different from the truth other people embrace does not mean that one has the right to say that i'm just a kid. right? that's why we were given our own bodies, and brains, for that matter. this would surely be a sad, boring place if all of us were to think the same way.

some grownups still have to grow up.



one last thing about the grownups... and us

i'm not dropping any name. but to say that i wasted four years of my life for enrolling a course that is not nursing, which Person A wanted me to take to have an easy ticket to America, is a lousy remark. i love the degree i have right now, and i know i would have other means of going abroad. i also understand that Person A only wanted the best for me (at least the best that he thinks is best for me), but to say "WASTED FOUR YEARS"? that's extremely annoying.

grownups are sometimes lousy speakers. one must not listen to them all the time.. and, indeed, it will take eons for them to grow up.

for we are all lovers of words

Since Feeling is First
E.E. Cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

___________________________________________________


The Theory of Absence
By Dunya Mikhail
Translated by Elizabeth Winslow

The Hypothesis: I am tense and so are you.
We neither meet nor separate.

The desired result: We meet in the absence.

The proof: As tension turns people into arcs, we are two arcs.
We neither meet nor separate (the hypothesis)
so we must be parallel.
If two parallel lines are bisected by a third line
(in this case, the line of tension)
their corresponding angles must be equal (a geometrical theorem).
So we are congruent (because shapes are congruent
when their angles are equal)
and we form a circle (since the sum
of two congruent arcs
is a circle).
Therefore, we meet in the absence
(since the circumference of a circle
is the sum of contiguous points
which can each be considered
a point of contact).

___________________________________________________


A Boundless Moment
Robert Frost

He halted in the wind, and -- what was that
Far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?
He stood there bringing March against his thought,
And yet too ready to believe the most.

"Oh, that's the Paradise-in-bloom," I said;
And truly it was fair enough for flowers
had we but in us to assume in march
Such white luxuriance of May for ours.

We stood a moment so in a strange world,
Myself as one his own pretense deceives;
And then I said the truth (and we moved on).
A young beech clinging to its last year's leaves.

a very creamy chocolate

they say chocolates are aphrodisiac. if you'll ask why a lover gives you a whole box, then at least now you know.

a part-"Como Agua Para Chocolate" (Like Water for Chocolate) and part-"Dream of a Ridiculous Man", this screenplay of Joanne Harris's novel, "Chocolat" unleashes the roughness and sweetness of life through the story of an unmarried mother, Vianne Rocher (Juliette Binoche), whose wanderlust has blown her into a traditional French village set in a bygone era of innocence and simplicity, inadvertently awakening its sleeping desires and passion. by putting up a chocolate shop across the church, she found herself at the center of gossips as the neighborhood becomes curious of her resistance to follow the norms, as well as her refusal to attend mass.

traveling with her dead mother's ashes, Vianne darted into the lives of religious and conservative villagers who are either long-repressed or faithfully trying to keep up with the collectively-accepted form of morality, dictated by Comte Paul, the village head. played by Alfred Molina, 2005 MTV Movie Awards for Best Villain nominee for his portrayal of Doc Ock in Spiderman 2, the ever righteous and reserve Comte Paul, who's muddled by his own busted-up family affairs and constrained by the limits of what he knew was best for everyone, would do anything to keep the village's inherited pattern of thought, as he makes a slick villain of himself through exercising authoritative control over their new young parish priest, Pierre Henri (Hugh O'Conor), taking part as far as to edit or even write his sermons, and urging people to despise the threatening influence of the radical Vianne. people are compelled to confess and repent for the slightest offense, and even for their so-called "too much indulgence" in chocolates, as if it would contaminate their spirits.

the way the churchgoers passively abide by their traditional guiding principles reminds us of the dear Miss Maudie Atkinson in Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird" as she recounts to Scout Finch her observations of how people seem to live in a circus: "There are just some kind of men who - who're so busy worrying about the next world they've never learned to live in this one, and you can look down the street and see the results."

when Roux (the demigod Johnny Depp) and other gypsies—otherwise called pirates—sailed into the rivers of the village and found a good spot in its banks, Vianne forged friendship with them, which exasperated the comte and the townspeople. their ire called forth a protest against her and her chocolateria, as summarized in a pretext of the comte's ordinance, "Boycott Immorality." Roux, the only person whom Vianne fails to guess his favorite chocolate, offered to repair the chocolate shop's door, which is expressive of shielding Vianne from the persistent unjustified criticisms of the people who are reluctant to accept changes and new ideas.

as for me (yup, that's right, FOR ME; don't protest), any movie with Johnny Depp in it is a good film, though there was not enough of him in this story. working again with Director Lasse Hallstrom after "What's Eating Gilbert Grape", Depp exuded his distinguishing trait as an actor once more in this poetic story of people seeking acceptance and a sense of normality.

aside from the use of food as symbolic imagery, the story partly resembles "Como Agua Para Chocolate" in terms of magic realism, although in this movie, it is very lightly unfolded. at the same rate, Dostoyevsky's short story only does affect the screenplay throughout the entire extent of self-liberation. a traffic of thoughts is revealed to one's judgment, bordering feminism and Christianity.

"Chocolat" oozes in fragrance and sweetness with every delicate scene of melting and molding chocolates, and at the same time, this concoction of sweet tales about individuality, family, and coexistence has a fairy tale look and feel, and is narrated on a light, enchanting note. the peculiar thing about this, though, is the tralatitious spreading of chocolate syrup on every dish, as seen on the birthday of Vianne's landlady, who later on became her friend. spending the rest of the party on a decadent evening of dance at Roux's boat—a pre-taste of the fertility feast on the coming Easter Sunday—is not surprisingly bothersome for the comte and his followers, and which they also find extremely immoral. the viewer soon learns how strong his words impact his subordinates. however, in the attempt to topple down the chocolateria, the comte finds himself caught in a dilemma of his own cynicism and blinded by the same idea he is selling.

and although Vianne was only brought to that land by a sly northern wind, bearing her mother's kismet, dispensing ancient cacao remedies and traveling forever with the wind, she finds her roots in the village in an enchanting tale of standing up for one's belief and finally, the glorious feeling of being released.

"I think that we can't go around... measuring our goodness by what we don't do. By what we deny ourselves, what we resist, and who we exclude. I think... we've got to measure goodness by what we embrace, what we create... and who we include."- Pierre Henri

oftentimes, a movie with what seems to be a simple plot on the surface turns out to be something wonderful, and it's amazing how people can make sense so deep and philosophical with the use of sweet little things like chocolates. four out five stars for "Chocolat"!






*photo from The Reader's Eye
*my god, this has 913 words in it, and this is not required! (longer than what i passed in our Reviews class. haha!) :p
*oh well, i'm soooooooo bored...

sometimes it's also in the name

i have a theory. a very lame theory. for years i've been trying to formulate a fail-proof technique on how to gain favorable outcomes from almost everything i do, although i know things don't always come as planned and expected. i was just thinking, is there something in me that dictates what i would become, as well as the actual part of getting there? above all, i admit that the basic equation is effort plus a little luck plus what you know and who you know. but, could it be that it is also in the genes? zodiac signs? size and shape? color of the eyes? birthmarks? or even in names?

i can't help sharing my self-woven fact that the most successful people (here in the Philippines at the very least) have peculiar names or those that are sure to ring a bell on one's ears. of all the names i've heard, it is almost always true that either real strength or metaphoric rays is radiated through one's name. here, people with non-generic names, i think, have an inherent "plus 50 points" or bluntly said, are 50% ahead in terms of making and building a name.

in the literature and arts, we have Bienvenido Lumbera, Nicomedes Márquez Joaquin, Virgilio S. Almario, F. Sionil Jose, Mario Eric Gamalinda, Mauro Malang Santos, Juan Nakpil, Levi Celerio, Lucrecia Kasilag, Lino Brocka, and Ang Kiukok, to name a few. in politics, it is pretty obvious that their names are as strange as their personas. how these corrupt politicians kill and steal our money and come home to dine with their families at night is just bemusing! but, yes, their names are strange and they are famous.

my very lame theory was somehow supported by a blog i've seen on www.good.is, which is a well-substantiated explanation of how names eventually affect the lives of people in terms of their chosen careers, and i had a good laugh discovering that there are actually people whose names have amusing connections with their professions. read and find out if you are one.



What's in a name? Sometimes, a job
by Mark Peters


The Synchronous World of Aptronyms

Have you heard about the gardener named Alan Bloom or the defense attorney Scott Free? How about the brilliant professor of genetics, Dr. Murray Brilliant? Or the winner of the the Nez Perce County Fair hog-calling contest, Jolee Bacon?

Such perfect marriages of profession and handle sound like old-fashioned jokes from a paleo-comedic era.

Nuh-uh.

These kismetic combos of name and job are truth, not truthiness. Preposterously well-named people like Rita Book the librarian and Diane Berry the mortician have aptronyms—names that are particularly suited to a person’s profession. Folks have been wondering about “nominative determinism” and the “name-career hypothesis” for decades, and collecting the words also called aptonyms, jobonyms, namephreaks, perfect fit last names, and euonyms is a perennial hobby of word-herders.

The word aptronym dates back to at least 1925, and no less respectable a publication than New Scientist has been the home of much aptronym-discussing, though they prefer the term nominative determinism, a name for the phenomena that is both science-y and destiny-ish. In 1994, New Scientist introduced that term and discussed such cases as Dr. Misri (a depression-focused psychiatrist), R.A. Sparks (author of electronics textbooks), C.J. Berry (a make-your-own wine maven), and J. Angst, who co-wrote a book on bipolar disorder. Over the years, the letters page of New Scientist has been an ever-replenishing source of aptronyms, and I particularly enjoyed a 2005 issue that mentioned fish researchers Andrew Bass and Steven Haddock, as well as the journalist Elaine Lies, who probably does not agree that her aptronym is apt.

Timothy Noah of Slate—who lacks his own aptronym, unless he collects a metric ark-load of animals—is a top contender for collector laureate of the aptronym world, as his pieces have brought many to light. He’s collected dentists named Fear, Hurt, Toothman, Chu, Plack, and Puller, as well as an economist named Dollar, a gastroenterologist named Colon, a professor of religion named Godlove, an ophthalmologist named Blinder, and a urologist named Peters. (I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that…) Noah’s crowning glories are the discovery of sexual misconduct researcher Charol Shakeshaft and lawyer Sue Yoo, two professionals whose names must make their lives very interesting (and annoying).

For aptronym insight, you can’t do better than Verbie Prevost, literature professor and head of the English department at the University of Tennessee-Chattanooga, who I heard give a paper on this topic at the American Name Society conference a few months ago. As to whether or not the name influenced her, Verbie said her parents probably did not intend to steer their daughter toward an inevitable destiny as an English prof: “They were simply naming me after my grandmothers—Verbie for the maternal grandmother and Ann for the paternal one. I’m not sure it ever occurred to them to think about the connection even when I displayed an early interest in become a writer or an English teacher—as early as elementary school, in fact.”

In her paper, Verbie said that taunt-bearing schoolmates were equally uninterested in her name’s meaning: “I also do not really recall much reference being made to the aptronymic quality of my name during my K-12 school days, but then my classmates probably weren’t fully aware of my future plans. Instead, they primarily teased me about the unusualness of the name.” Admirably, Verbie has managed to not go bonkers from endless jokes about her name, like an old boyfriend who said her sister was named Nounie and another friend who calls Verbie’s children the pronouns.

You could say I have an aptronym, though it’s a bit of a stretch. As I’ve heard tell, my great-grandmother, who was more than a tad bonkers, wasn’t thrilled with the choice of Mark, saying, “What’s that? Like a mark on the wall?” (Guess she never heard of the Bible. Yeeps). But since making marks on paper is my favorite thing to do, even more than plowing through a bag of barbecue chips while watching about five episodes of The Shield in one sitting, the name does fit. I am a mark-er.

What about you, oh nameless readers? Is there a Randall Anonymous, who floats name-free notions across the web, or a Carol Comment with something to say? You know what to do, commentadores.

Ely Buendia for senator?

after sleeping away my three-day battle for four 1000-to-1,500-word reviews of a classic movie, new and old books, and theatrical plays, strange musings dawned upon me and necessitated me to finish the most pretentious assignment ever in our marriage and family class (imagine me writing a ludicrously odd breakdown of expenses in my—ehem—future wedding; WTH). and for the heck of passing it—yup, two energy-charged hours at dusk that never got drained until the next day. with much vigor left unexpended, i brooded over an issue of the Philippines Free Press—P50 in Manila, but free and plenty indeed from a seminar on Pinoy reading habits the other week.

"The perfect political animal" is the phrase that the author, who's an incredibly great speaker, used to frame the picture. Ely Buendia for Senator? i almost couldn't imagine it. no, i could never imagine it. as i started to immerse into the text, i could feel that the writer merely wanted to set-up some ironies, which somehow proved me right.

but whether Ely is fit for office or not, i didn't care. well, at some point i did because it raised relative issues then. what disturbed me was the way the article was written. i never expected that style from a reputable magazine—a fortress of Philippine journalism for that matter; and i was disappointed because it was my first time to finish a whole thing in that publication. it's as if i was just reading a blog like this—a mare's nest, cluttered. i had awkward moments while reading the interview. more than that, i felt uneasy to find myself abhorring that same article that excited my neurons when i first saw its title on the front page. i was thinking that if the writer had spent more time for that, then it could have been crafted into a close-to-perfect account of political stance. the points were made clear; but those points were downplayed by incorporating them into an informal interview type.

it's reminiscent of a remark from our historical/cultural writing professor, who's also the big man behind our reviews, on a 3000-word draft article i wrote lazily three hours before the deadline: "This is a research material for an article on Quiapo. Kindly fix this." ('yun oh!) but i knew it was still for editing, and was definitely not for nationwide circulation. my scruples wouldn't allow me to pass something like that had it been for publishing anyway.

everyone can write. i believe that. but it's a different story in terms of serious publications. the same goes with social and street blunders like "no parking on BOTH sides," which should have been EITHER SIDE; "fill-UP the form," which must be fill-OUT; "sign up FROM 6am to 5pm," which seems too tiring if you literally sign up for 11 hours, it should have been BETWEEN 6 a.m. AND 5 p.m. (woohoo! i love you, sir!); plus the "NG vs NANG" and "IBA-IBA vs IBA'T IBA" errors.

more people, mostly children, live by these mistakes. it would be a happier world if there's a regulating body that checks and approves signboards to spare people from ignorance and hapless cognitive content. there is a proper way of speaking, and a proper way of writing. it's not enough that we all get each other's point. remember McLuhan, "The Medium is the Message," whose book, when it came back from the typesetter's, had on the cover "The Medium is the Massage." see what i mean?

p.s.
sorry, this really has nothing to do with Ely being a good pick for senator. i just thought it would be a catchy title. just blundering some lousy ideas here. hehe. wooo! three days na lang, E-heads concert na ulit!!! :)

how do i hate 28? let me count the ways...

six hours earlier, i retired myself to a queasy hibernation after my mother gleefully remarked that i looked like an Igorot as she greeted me at the doorstep. and that was it. with my native-looking headband that strangely takes its roots all the way from Japan and my bouncing iron-curled hair still primly fashioned on my apex, i reluctantly went upstairs without a single word. another six troubling hours earlier, i lost my four-year-old school ID somewhere on the cigarette-butt flooded Dapitan steet. something must be extremely wrong with 28...

as much as i would like to dismiss this thought, i simply could not help it. i myself do not subscribe to feng shui and the rest of the occult-smothered fortune telling schemes, but the thing is, i am persistently endowed with an indistinguishable first-hand misfortune every, before, and after 28, and whether or not i am thinking of it, hell and earth never miss their commitment to give me that slimy shit, that sometimes i feel i can even transmit the relatively undeserved bad luck to persons i am with.

i hate 28 as much as i hate bugs and cockroaches, and people who aren't responsible enough to keep their wet umbrellas shut when walking on a covered pathway. i hate 28 as much as i hate big chunks of ginger and garlic on my food, and children who touch your knees when making their way inside public transportation. i hate 28 as much as i loathe muds of spit on the trodden path, cherry-topped with some yellowish slimy phlegm. i hate 28 as much as i hate chewed bubblegum on my skirt, the snatcher of my phone, and people who flaunt their English on streets, subways, and in places like Quiapo and Divisoria. and for the creamiest crap, i hate 28 as much as i hate the terribly no-brainer commercials, soap operas, and films in the Philippines, particularly that possessed Tiki-Tiki ad, the frenzy Gagambino, and the ultimate summary of downright Pinoy psychological error, KC and Richard's When I Met You.

2008 is yet the most dreadful year i struggled to survive-- faulty termination and a series of unfortunate, i mean UNFORTUNATE, very unfortunate (did i say unfortunate?) events. 2008=28. and if my memory serves me well, the first time i had this shedding of my uterine lining accompanied by excruciating cramps, which i naively thought of as a C-level diarrhea, minus all the BM, was on the 28th of January when i was in grade five. but menstruation isn't really an unfortunate event in womanhood, although disturbing and distressing. and maybe i was not at all unfortunate every 28. maybe i really have to thank this day for giving me an excuse for my inherent idiocy and absent-mindedness. and if you happen to be born on the 28th of any effing month or if you're into celebrating whatever event on the same date, i'm sorry for wasting three minutes of your time and for relentlessly dissing you special date, but... it's 28 and i'm in deep shit!

sweet potatoes

scientific name: ipomoea batatas
sa Tagalog, KAMOTE.

***************************************

lately i've been having difficulties in writing. i believe it's not because i've been running out of things to say. in fact, whenever i'm slapped with a certain topic, a web of intertwined ideas clutter my brain; too much, that i do not seem to know how to put them into words. so i end up thinking and planning carefully how to sort them, until the time is up and all that's left is will, coupled with my mastery of procrastination, and Jesus Christ. wow. one must know that most sacrilegious writers and writer wannabes suddenly become religious roughly an hour before the deadline.

beyond the wee hours of idle daydreaming and planning how to make a manuscript less stupid in the critical eyes of professors—

(random: talk about being OC. upon checking if the term "wee" would properly address my thoughts, i stumbled upon this thing in urban dictionary:

wee - the time spent in your life peeing

i wasted my life in the wee hours tags: pee, time, bathroom, life, important) rotflmao!

—i find it more convenient to read books and magazines, look at old pictures and make silly slideshows, or update this multiply site. holy cow! i'm less than 20 days away from finally getting this shit off, and until now i still regret (sometimes) having worked only to lose my drive in studying, thinking that i could have done better than those it's-a-little-point-zero-three to dean's list, and that 3s in those subjects i swallowed like bitter pills because i stubbornly did not want them like that lame PGC and Pol Dy are beyond repair, so why waste my effort when i know there's no silver tint at the end of my effin' gay rainbow? i can really be such a pessimist at times. i'm not a fan of numbers, but i know i could have made it only if i willed, but i did not, and this remorse is buggin' me 16 days before classes end. sweet Jesus!

***************************************

our supposed thesis defense day is over, but not yet the "grilling of asses and butchering of students alive," as how my friend Jaycee puts it. good thing Sir Nikki Salandanan, one of our panelists (i intended to put this thing near Jaycee's name for good luck. yiii!), who was all crabbed and harassed last night after nearly 12 hours of baking the balls of hopeful kids, agreed to call our presentation off and move it tomorrow, this time, with the other panelist, so it would be easier for his part, and so was heaven's grace for us.

***************************************

28 is my "malas day" and not friday the 13th. i've celebrated a couple of birthdays that fell on this widely-anathematized day, but hey! i'm still alive!

in a hopeless attempt to dispose off my P68-resume, my friend-slash-thesis-mate Joseinne and I signed up in any, i mean ANY participating company in the job fair, just because Reuters' booth was not manned (but we placed our resumes at the table anyway) and Inquirer's was, to our dismay, all emptied; plus, the other publishing companies have already packed up. imagine us applying in Ayala Land Corporation. what the heck are we going to do there? sell houses? write PR newsletters or make advertorials for houses? we just did not think any job would suit us there, but we signed up anyway instead of going for Maynilad or 7-11.

and my friend? well, she ended up submitting her last copy of resume in the Kumon booth. holy guacamole!

then i suddenly remembered that my cover letter was like "I am seeking to align myself with one of the most respected news agencies in the Philippines today." come on, Ayala Land!

***************************************

and i thought i was lucky on friday the 13th...

cookie-dookie

i mixed everything
butter and cream
the tips of my fingers
all dressed with flour
two cups of water
and gone was the hour

if not for the bright moon
and the falling of leaves
i had used the right spoon
and watched over my cookies
'cause they turned out so sweet
i wanted to believe

i cried for my cookies
and how bad it felt
then i remembered
how much i loved salt
now i know i need not bake
any bread of that sort

'cause all i had to do

was let it all loose

shut my eyes close

and stick my tongue out

on eggs, pregnancy, and night sky

"What makes the desert beautiful," said the Little Prince, "is that somewhere it hides a well..."


December 18 marked the last day of our classes this year. No one was feverish and swarmed with school works because there's not that much to do, except for some encoding and revisions of theses, which practically compensated for the hours wasted on absolute idleness. In short, pang-walis sa nagbuburak na utak.

If Christmas is not a thing for apathetic and semi-anti-social students like us—the notorious bunch of seniors that constantly ignored parties, general assemblies, saintly seminars, and even the upcoming retreat—gift-giving, ironically, does count, at least in some groups, and especially in our last year as kolehiyalas.

"Sirain mo para maraming sumunod," is an automatic line people will surely never forget while anxiously waiting, and sometimes getting even more excited for what the other has received, or dying to see what kind of reaction one would throw upon discovering a slimy toad gum from that silly gift box.

I knew it was an egg; an odd sort of egg—that thing my friend, Joy, gave me last week—and indeed, eggs are supposed to be broken before they can be useful. It was an egg-shaped plush toy with a zip fastener at the midsection, as if inviting you to take a peek at what it cloaks inside. Under the velvety white sheet, much like a scrotum (kidding!) or just plain bonnet, was a happy duckling with 10 hoops of yarn and a perfectly tied orange ribbon on its head, and short flappy wings, unable as that of the tearjerker kiwi animation in youtube. I am not a fan of stuffed toys, but that one was great.

Nevertheless, i prefer to keep the egg closed and figuratively unbroken most of the time for sentimental reasons. Like magic that makes us smile as we look at the swollen tummies of soon-to-be mommies, we slowly fall in love with the idea that there is something beautiful inside it; that there's a little man, sucking his thumb under that pack of lard; and simply because there is life inside it, which gives that ball an extra glow... And for us, lovers of the Little Prince, it is always sweet to look at the sky at night and see the faint white glow with the freshness that comes only with new eyes, knowing that in one of the stars, he is living.

Stars do change, in some measures, as we change in larger ones, and until now, it still gets me to thinking, has the sheep eaten his rose—or not? "And you will see how everything changes... And no grown-up will ever understand that this is a matter of so much importance!"

where are you Christmas?

i heard this thing last night which asked, "if you were given a chance to change the 'ho-ho-ho' trademark of Santa Claus, what would it be?" answers came flying as hoy-hoy-hoy, hey-hey-hey, wahahahaha, hihihihi (as if Santa was some sort of a witch), and a lot more crappy sounds.

if i were to be asked, i would suggest that Santa just shuts his mouth up (what's so funny about Christmas?) and never let the hopeful children notice him coming, which is what he intends to do in the first place, because if not, he would just bang the front door or whack the windows instead of squeezing himself dirty in that darn chimney. and by the way, how about the children in tropical countries, who have nothing but holes in the roof, and worse, no roof at all? won't they have their gifts? i'm thankful that i stopped believing in tales at an early age, lest i would have thought of myself as a naughty kid all these time.

well, i don't want to sound like The Grinch, because i also had my own share of putting big red socks under the stairs, waiting for something lovely beneath that plastic tree, and getting myself all mesmerized by the fairy lights that cover the whole city at night; but now, i just don't feel it coming. this year, i don't want to get myself involved with Christmas parties and reunion-slash-beer-drinking session, or whatever. i don't even want to look at plain yellow fairy lights because all they do is make me feel a little melancholic and alone.

again, i say, if i were to choose, i'd rather die on a Christmas season. scanning my older posts, i found this younger piece of thought:

on living and leaving (part 2)

"...it is mostly during the cold December that people feel loved and special. gifts flushing into your house, greetings clogging in airwaves, and friends, those you've known ever since you said your first hello to the earth, coming into sight, and making you feel important, remembered, cherished - is there anything more you can ask for? you feel great, you feel loved, you feel more than what the great dead people felt. what happens after life, you know no more, but what matters is that you keep those memories with you and preserve them like a jar of fragrant kisses which, while the grownups fooled us, multiply into thousand sweet little memories... i can't think of spending another year with those love messages diminishing like decaying trees and being thrown into a state where they were totally lost and out of my grasp..."

i just don't think something has changed in the way i see it.

and since it's the time of the year, and 2008 is slowly making it's way out (thank God, just a minute shadow of 28 for me to endure) i might as well share with you some of my favorite Christmas songs and an audio book of A Christmas Carol by Orson Wells.

happy Christmas...

malkovich, malkovich, malkovich... malkovich?? malkovich!!! malko-malko-malkovich!!!

at a certain point in people's lives, they tend to dream of being in another person's shoes. sometimes it's because of misery, lack of opportunity, envy, or just plain curiosity on how it feels to be somebody else, say, Bianca Araneta or the Ayalas. i myself have my own share of wishing my soul to be transported into another mass of flesh for a day, or even just for an hour. i still want to know how ecstatic it feels to be a Katie Holmes and be kissed by my future ex-husband, Tom Cruise, or be an Angelina Jolie and sleep with the oh-so-damn-hot Brad Pitt. when i was younger and naive on politics (i'm not even wiser on it today), it was during the turnover of the presidency of Ex-President Fidel Ramos to Ex-(okay) just Erap, i wondered if i could transfer into the dilapidated vessel of this then president-wannabe action star, take full control of his movements minus the feeling, punch his chest endlessly, hit his head on a rock, then escape from his body afterwards, leaving him no decent temple to go back into anymore. until now it makes me laugh whenever i remember myself lying on the couch while watching that political threat, and asking Voldemort if Ramos could declare martial law just in time before Erap could get the position.

but what if there really is a way to experience this kind of phenomenal insanity? if Stuart (Liev Schreiber) made his way into 1876 to know more about Leopold (Hugh Jackman) in the 2001 film Kate and Leopold, Craig Schwartz (John Cusack) discovered a portal into the eyes, and him being an excellent puppeteer, he found a way even into the whole being of John Malkovich (himself) in the film Being John Malkovich, which is two years older than the former. wait, i'm not making a movie review, am i? poor me, had i not been curious about Jessica Zafra's The 500 People You Meet in Hell, i won't know this movie anyway. well, at least now i know that there was a response the same year the corniest song ever "Stay the Same" by Joey Mcintyre was released.

i did find it amazing to see the reality (or fantasy) behind being in another's body, whereas mine, the audience, an absolute panoramic view of what people see and think while being in Malkovich for 15 minutes, like they were somehow capable of doing the things this universe has deprived them of since they were breathed life into, i felt omniscient.

realizations and the urge to detach myself from total entertainment (because the film was way hilarious, weird, and full of nuance) dawned upon me when Malkovich entered the portal to his own self. what he saw, heard, and felt was about nothing else but himself. everyone had his face. even women and children did. every word written was Malkovich. every word said was none other than Malkovich. he bumped into a man, and instead of welcoming a crisp "fuck you," he absorbed a curse labeled after his very own name, "Malkovich!!!"

it... i mean... you see the point? that, indeed, is what happens when we use our own eyes to perceive the world, because the truth is, seeing life through the eyes alone means a view of nothing more than ourselves. WE ARE ALL SELF-CENTERED. shoot me straight in the head if you know someone who's not. has anyone never ever thought, when he was younger, of him being the only real person on earth and the rest of humanity being obstacles given by the good Lord to test his strength? this might be a strong statement and/or accusation, but people are so used to saying the absolute cliché, "everything happens for a reason," yet they refuse to admit the idea that they see other people as instruments to realizing their own selves. pathetic...

my college friends will kill me for this ego-centrism post, but this certainly is not in a limited-theory-of-mind sense. we all have our take on this thing, and as they say, "we are all generally selfish, but as usual, it is in varying degrees." i believe that it is because our consciousness has been incarcerated and repressed for the longest time, that sometimes, it's like we feel that our minds are being betrayed by the movements of our bodies. we are slaves of our own faculties. we all crave for freedom, and we find ways to somehow take a replacement for that feeling which can never be completely ours.

then again, of course we are all capable of loving others, yada yada, and all the corny stuff, but, admit it or not, it is a love that emanated from the love of thy own SELF. we love people and we want to be with them because they put US in cloud nine. we help others for the fulfillment of OUR being. we do not want to see them suffer because their misery gives US greater pain, and WE are tired of grieving, aren't WE? this world is full of I-LOVE-MYSELF-and-I-LOVE-PEOPLE-AROUND-ME-because-I-LOVE-MYSELF-period attitude. i suddenly remembered our professor when he reminded us of our Bible code that God created us to love, know and praise "HIM".

now we must not wonder why we are all egocentric...

chamber of secrets

(don't worry, Twilight fans, this is not a Harry Potter post in response to your addiction.)




as i was bloghopping earlier, i came across this entry of my classmate, Monique, about secrets shared anonymously over the net... and as i visited the site, i happened to have my own favorites...

some of those are the naughty ones,

uplifting,

and others, sentimental...

some pictures were posted with corresponding messages, and there's this one that moved me the most:


I googled my secret...

Frank,

In April of this year you posted a secret of mine, it was a painting that read "when you stopped loving me...i stopped painting."

A friend of mine asked to see my paintings while I was at his house yesterday. I don't have any of them online, so, I did a Google Images search for "PostSecret Painting" not expecting to actually find it.

It was the first image to show up!

I was surprised, but more than that, I was moved. I felt like that secret was personal to me, that very few would identify with it. It's posted on blogs and in personal photo albums, even on myspace pages!

Seeing it again reminded me what it felt like to send it in. It reminded me how great it feels to be free from it.

- The Painter


now, with my being so-not-over-this-letting-go-thing, i wonder if there's any site where we can entrust the things we would like to detach from. there's a fine line between "throwing" and "letting go." i just know that one day, when your eyes landed on the things you have let go of before, you will feel the same way the painter did.