THECOLLECTEDWRITINGSOF NARODNIKKKI/KARAANGTAWO

multiply.com was a popular blogging site, at least in my country (Philippines) three, four or more years ago. You could upload your photos as well and share them with your multiply and non-multiply friends. The thing is, multiply, after its long years of providing their services is closing (I don't know whether all of the site, or just the blogging and photo parts.) So I decided to collect my writings from there, copy-paste them into open office, export them as a pdf, then upload it here, for future use and reference. The entries here are arranged chronologically from the most recent to the oldest. narodnikkki Dec 1, 2012

Attribution non-commerical.

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On Reading Ligotti

Dec 15, '11 10:22 AM

I am currently in a horror fiction obsession. I have made some preliminary scouring in the internet and came up with the name Thomas Ligotti. Now, reading Ligotti was a mistake, and I mean this as a good thing horror-wise. The description of his fiction is 'philosophical horror,' sort of like Lovecraft's but more, it's hard to properly explain - hopeless. Hopeless i think is the proper term. In 'The Conspiracy Against the Human Race,' a long essay, which I have started reading and am now halfway through, he explores the idea that it is better not to have existed than to exist, and that the best thing to do is to kill yourself. He presents the thoughts of philosophical pessimists, including the usual -Nietzsche and Schopenhauer, as well as some really obscure ones - the Norwegian philosopher Zapffe for example. Ligotti's short stories, for example 'The Last Feast of Harlequin,' 'Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech,' 'Alice's Last Adventure,' and 'Dr. Locrian's Asylum' - the first stories in the collection 'The Shadow at the Bottom of the World'- have as one of their strong points, atmosphere. The atmosphere of Ligotti's works are fantastical, dreamy or shall we say nightmare-like. Puppets figure prominently, playing on the fear of human beings of being not in actual control of themselves, of being merely pawns in some cosmic game with no end meaning or purpose. The problem with reading Ligotti is that it will depress the life out of you. His horror is not the in-yourface shock horror that is standard fare in mainstream hollywood cinema. I don't know, I jus have this idea that Ligotti wants his readers through reading his stories and narratives, to do The Deed That Must be Done. The strongest story plot-wise among the four that i have mentioned is 'The last Feast of Harlequin.' It is a story of an academic's descent into the dark side of his research area - clowns. The pace is hypnotic, the level is intimate as it is a first-person narration, the character is believable and easy to emphathize with, the setting is well-described. I have four of his works and collections of stories right now: Grimscribe (1991), Noctuary (1994), The Conspiracy Against the Human Race (2010), and The Shadow at the Bottom of the World (2005). Overall, I highly recommend his works. They can get a bit tedious though, but stick through and you will be amply rewarded for your patience. Tags: lovecraft, thomas ligotti, horror

against the 'nights'

Dec 9, '11 2:19 AM

i abhor the pointless (at least to me) decadence of these so-called 'nights' of the dormitory it is a waste of time, energy and other resources. we are here to study, not party. the biggest reason is that these are cultural events. but is not mingling or talking about people from other cultures enough cultural interaction in itself, without wasting precious resources, given the poverty in the world? also, it feels like this student government is not really one. for one we don't really make the crucial decisions. we are supposed to represent the students/dormers, but we were chosen already, then voted upon. there should have been an actual democratic system. this is a basic thing. tradition!! pointless fucking tradition. we just do things because that's the way that all those other people here before have been doing it. we need a rationale for doing things, and right now, the given rationale does not cut it. you cannot legislate a community. it either exists or it does not. on the issue of fees. these are not required, and i believe that forcing these unnecessary fees is illegal. there are no penalties for non-participation, which includes not paying these student fees. and it is rightly so, nowhere does it say in the dorm regulations that students, in order to be accommodated in the dormitory, should pay, besides the amount for lodging and other fees such as electricity, for a student administration fee. maybe the people just want to be left alone, and not be governed. everything just feels so pointless and arbitrary. for example, the head of the bnrr was unable to study this semester. so the vice-chairperson should have been next in line. however, what happened was in the bnrr-upica meeting preceding the previous one, we were just

told that the secretary is now the bnrr head, with the actual vice-chairperson there sitting in the meeting with all officers and representatives not objecting or even expressing her opinions it's not even the actual political dynamics that irks me, but the way that this particular person feels like she is in control of everything, that everythiing rests upon her shoulders. i hated how she basically just badgered people into submission, assigning tasks here and there. given the lukewarmness of the head officials of these organizations: upica and bnrr, maybe we should not force the actualization of these events, these 'nights,' since it seems no one is particularly interested in them, except those who seek to perpetuate these pointless and wasteful traditions. this is what it feels like to be part of a puppet government. i am thinking of resigning my post. i would just be casual about it, maybe saying that i could no longer perform my duties for this or that reason, i'm going to make it as vague as possible, but if someone asks me to justify myself, i would list these grievances, among others that are much more basic. maybe i'm just lazy and irresponsible, that could also be it, but looking at the faces of my fellow-student officers, with their seeming incomprehension of what is going on, of their confusion as to what to do with the responsibility that has been thrust upon them without them knowing the full implications, i am led to believe that this is something more than my personal failings. it is out there, it is real, and i need to do something about it. Tags: dorm politics

sunday market trip

Dec 6, '11 12:45 PM

when the military started shelling the enemies, they did not shell any enemies. what they did was reduce an entire village to ashes. what they did was create sympathy for the rebels they were supposed to annihilate. of course, it could be reasoned that these people were harboring rebels, the villagers were rebels themselves because of cooperating with the rebels. the cattle, the chickens, the dogs, the cats, these are all communist sympathizers. speaking regarding the decades-long communist movement, the new president emphasized the continued efforts towards peace by the government. we see the familiar face in the television screen standing with the podium in front of him at chest level. these communists do not want peace he says, they only want whatever it is that they want. he calls then for cooperation from the people. he clears his throat, then he sings frank sinatra's classic 'my way.' the media people covering the event sings with him. people watching the broadcast they sing too. all showered themselves with applause afterwards. the communists, using magic, have swelled their ranks. one of the method they use can be described as some sort of hypnotism aided with a drug. i hear this from my cousin while he's driving the car one day, to the market to buy some crabs. he says this happened to the neighbour of a friend of his. what the communists did was put something in the young person's coca-cola drink, then it was easy to convince the young person of the merits of the communist revolution against the reactionary government who only works for the bourgeoisie, the landlords, the big businessmen and the capitalist foreigners who exploit the country for resources. the parents of the young person reported that she was missing, to the police. they aired their plea for her return in the local radio station. and then somehow the young girl was returned after several weeks. she said that she did not know what happened. some reported though that she was seen lugging an AK-47 around in the mountains somewhere, visiting remote villages and talking about the upcoming revolution that would liberate everyone from the evils of capitalist society. the people sold them a few chickens and also gave them a few sweet potatoes. they were real nice people, the villagers in the deep mountains said, they catch thieves and execute them after giving them a revolutionary trial for crimes against the people. so the young girl came home and she had no memory of what happened. she spends the day inside the house, and her friends visit her, and they say she's the same though she doesn't remember anything about the time she disappeared. the market place, the wet market specifically, where they sell meat - beef, pork, fish, seafood; as well as green leafy vegetables, calamansi, fruits - mangoes, bananas, smells like life. we go out of the car and i stand outside, by the side of the road, as my cousin goes inside the wet market to buy some crabs. this is a small but very active town. it will not be long before it will be declared a city. already it is much more interesting than the older, bigger city an hour's ride from it. i used to go here a lot, now only when i really have to. grandmother is visiting and we have to prepare something special, my cousin said. i said of course, we have to. the dust from the road, the smoke from the vehicles, the noise from the vendors shouting and people talking and music coming from the stalls and the stores, make the heat twice as hot. the sun is burning high and the the warmth penetrates to the bones. some people are wearing shades, some are just walking around, most are wearing slippers/flip-flops, t-shirts, shorts and jeans and mini-skirts. there are a few dogs by the side of the streets, walking, inspecting the occasional piles of garbage for food. the stalls across the road from where i stand, sells pirated dvds and cds. this trade is cornered by the muslims, the maranao ethnolinguistic group to be exact. i used to look at what they sell. it's usually the

latest movies from hollywood - action movies where there's the guy who will save everyone, the world, something, from the evil machinations of some underground group, or corrupt government organization. love stories about young beautiful caucasian people where it starts really bad for both of these young people romantically, but in the end everyone's happy, except those who are against their love. there are children's shows too. little cartoon dinosaurs, who dance around and sing and teach children the alphabet and how to count, these are really popular. i personally am a fan of horror movies, not the ones from hollywood, but the latest asian horror, these are made in japan and south korea, starring japanese and korean actors. with regards to local or national cinema, some are ok, but most are tripe. it's all the same few people doing the same few stock characters. the indie ones are basically almost unknown in the provinces, where i am in now. my cousin comes back and he's carrying a bundle with at least ten large crabs in it. we go back home. as we ride back, i stare at the scenery outside. the rice are ripening, turning yellow, and from the road, as far as the eye can see, it's a sea of yellow making waves as the wind blows. i look at the occasional houses, patched up thatched-roof houses of the people who live by the side of the road. they let their children run around outside without clothes, mucus flowing from their noses. where are the parents? somewhere, singing, drinking, working. usually it's the eldest sibling who takes care of the house, cooks the rice and food, washes the clothes, feeds the younger siblings. the sky is a heavenly blue, dotted with light clouds, i could stare at forever.

i was up until the early morning

Nov 28, '11 6:50 AM

i was up until the early morning, conjuring up demons in my head, when suddenly one of the korean girls appeared, following a kitten. she walked slowly across the wide open space which is the lobby. she's wearing short shorts, exposing the milky porcelain white skin of her legs. she has the hugest thighs i've ever seen. it's been hours and i still could not think. she has gone out of the front door which leads outside, towards the entrance of the lobby. further outside is the parking lot where there are a few cars parked. there is a particular car there that has not been moved for several years now, it's been there since i started staying in this dormitory three years ago. its red paint is peeling off in small strips, and the windshield and all the glass are covered with a thick layer of dust. walk further, across the abandoned street, turn right and you'll see the old, decaying structure known as

the 'arcade.' the rusting metal sign says it's the arcade. the windows are all broken and the walls are spraypainted, tagged by the various gangs with their signs, claiming the building as theirs. there is a room inside where the furnitures are all broken and looks as if they've been there since the late 70s, covered in cobwebs and dust. the ceiling has a huge dark hole in the middle where if you'll stare long enough you'll swear that you saw something.

dream. sleep. Nov 16, '11 10:57 AM "Here we see two of our professors engaged in a heated gangsta rap battle" nov 16, 2011 for the first time in weeks, i slept really well. the time was from the mid to late afternoon to about nine in the evening. that's almost six hours of sleep. though it was not continuous. there were periods during that slumber when i was really relaxed and dreaming, there was a fantasy-like atmosphere to everything. there were also moments when i was conscious, this can be called 'shallow' sleeping. what i am doing is recording my observations so i can best replicate the conditions that gave rise to the sleep that i just had earlier. i remember i dozed off while watching the japanese horror movie 'noroi:the curse.' hours before that, before noon, i took a neozep antihistamine-analgesic tablet as i was having slight symptoms of allergic rhinitis. while sleeping i noticed that i was sweating profusely, though i was too sleepy to do anything about it. it must have been warm that time. my pillow has a large wet spot on it that has now dried. the thing about my dreaming was that i was able to somehow manipulate it. i managed to dictate the course of the narrative, the flow of the vignettes. it's a combination of fake memories as well as truly fictional events. (i remember a scene where i was setting up a computer monitor along with a screen and also another screen so that all would show the same thing. another weird fake memory is of my cousin and I cleaning my room and stowing away all the christmas decorations, one of which is a whole box of fake-looking gold coins with the markings of some bank with the year 1967 on them. the quote from above this paragraph also came from this process of me controlling the narrative or vignette flow of my dreams. there were a lot of funny scenes, though like all dreams, most are forgotten when waking up.) Tags: japanese horror, dream, horror, noroi the curse, sleep

Subterranean Homesick Semestral Blues

Nov 10, '11 11:39 AM

I am going to start this semester with this narrative. This is a narrative of confession, slightly similar to most of my postings in this website, and would re-visit the theme of school fears and repetition. I have a recurring nightmare where I am back in my last year in high school and I could not graduate. I am on my seat near the back of the classroom and I am thinking to myself how embarrassing my situation has become. I must have repeated this year for the third time already. There is something weird going on. I am stuck in this grade forever while my classmates graduate and move on with their lives. I did drop out of high school, that high school in my dreams which was my actual first high school. Also, I did repeat high school in another school, the neighbouring private school which was also in the same city. But it's been more than several years and I still have that nightmare, my heart still feels like it's bursting out of my chest each time I dream it. The worst thing about the dream is its repetition. In life, past the need for food and shelter, boredom is a big issue. This situation has been aptly described by the author Henry David Thoreau when he wrote that the majority of human beings "lead lives of quiet desperation." I remember walking through the dim, ill-lighted halls of my old high school during my last months there, feeling precisely this. The repetition of an activity that you dislike, doing something because it's what you've been used to doing, merely following the original momentum, always wondering, while in that moment, of when this is going to end. The imagery of the city where my high schools were located is partly a reason for my delving deeper into books and reading. The place is boring and old, its golden days already decades past. My teachers there kept repeating how great everything was before, during the logging boom there in the 1950s. The main political dynasty, the ruling family shall we say, of that province, became rich through their logging companies and associated industries during said time, employing the labor of the population to destroy the surrounding forests. My first time in that city alone, I got lost and wandered around. There are sections of the city that are crumbling large buildings, no longer maintained, the walls cracked and the paint peeling off in countless endless patches. There is a particularly large building there which was planned to be a shopping center. In just a few years, the last time I visited, that building has become another gargantuan tomb. During the afternoons, the city gets so hot you can see the air several meters from you undulating, shimmying like Arabian belly dancers. The noise, the dust, the smoke from all

kinds of vehicles, beggars of all ages and stages of degeneration, the grime clinging to the walls of the buildings and their gates, all present the feeling of suffocation. Recalling now my first high school, that high school where I spent three years and several months of my life, I realize that I actually loved that place. My descent into alienation came at a later time. My first years in that high school were pretty well. I met some new people. I was introduced into a much greater world than the small town where I grew up. I competed in many activities and won, reaped some awards and honors, became a part of something that I deemed useful and important, something which my parents were really proud of me doing. My teachers always complimented me on my writing ability, I was an all around guy for the school newspaper - I wrote editorials, news pieces and feature articles. Back in my elementary years, I was the writer guy as well, dabbling in sports writing, feature writing, news writing and editorial writing. My teachers supported and motivated and helped me through all these. [writing this in the main lobby of the international center dormitory, there is a really cute japanese girl lying on her side upon this yellow sofa, while staring at her laptop. i can see the bright white light of the computer screen being reflected on her glasses. she is wearing a violet tight-looking shirt with white horizontal stripes which hugs her body; she is wearing gray-brown cargo shorts, her sandals are on the floor on the side of the couch. it is almost midnight now, and the lobby is mostly deserted. i am listening to liszt, i am slightly sleepy, but the kind of sleepiness where it's a pleasant buzzing sensation which you want to last forever. there is a sense of calm and concentrated attention that i am experiencing right now, a focus that can only be described as a mini-spiritual experience. i could write forever. i could listen to liszt forever.] 'Labyrinthine' best describes the whole structure of my first beloved high school. It is a vast scrawling compound, where there are new parts and old parts, new buildings, old buildings, clean spaces and parts so filled with garbage you'd think it's a dumpsite. Imagine a mandala, a series of concentric circles. The wide basketball court at whose front side is located a raised cement platform for the flagpole, is the geographic and mental center of that school. This center is then immediately surrounded by the new better-equipped buildings where the best of the best students of that school have their classes. There is a rigid hierarchy in that school. From the first to the final year, there is great pressure to remain on the top. Staying in a class is based on one's grades. Those who retain their academic standing will remain in the first section through all their four years in that high school or are promoted in the higher ones if he or she came from the lower sections. Others, like me, who were not able to do so, fell into the lower sections. During my first and second years, I was in the first section. My third year I was in the second section; and by my last year, I fell down to the third section. It was during that time, with only a few months remaining for us students to graduate, that I stopped going to school and finally dropped out of the educational system of the Republic of the Philippines. My writing this narrative is motivated by this fear of mine that I would not be able to finish once again, that I would drop out of the university. I was supposed to have graduated more than a year ago, yet still here I am in this wonderful university, thinking and breathing and walking underneath its iconic canopy of acacia branches and leaves. I make the joke that my department loves me so much they won't let me graduate, but really there are numerous, complex and interesting reasons why I am still unable to graduate. This semester is to be my last semester before I will be considered, in student parlance, 'MRR,' [maximum residency rule] which means that I have gone beyond the maximum allowable years in which to complete my undergraduate degree. So you know, this semester is really important, so good luck to me, and if I somehow don't manage to pull through, well, that's another story which I would willingly write about in some future time.

[The last sentences of the above paragraph were written while listening to this: Franz Liszt: Liebeslied S 566 (Schumann: Widmung)] Tags: university, graduation, anxiety, college, school

Memoirs of a Kitten Oct 26, '11 9:55 AM When I arrived, there was no longer the food for the human ate it all already. It was a wonderful food, i could tell from the smell even several meters away. I was playing with my brother, we were chasing each other's tails. Also, we were jumping up and down on this tree stump outside. From the inside the smell came and I followed, leaving my brother behind to chase after the butterflies that were assaulting the flowers. The human made noises. I could not understand it. What does it want? I proceeded to run back towards my brother outside but the human caught me with its hands, lifted me from the floor and carried me back to its cushioned chair. I watched as other humans passed by. The human kept talking to me, scratching the back of my head, touching my ears. Some other human then approached and conversed with my captor. Though I should have struggled, I was feeling a little sleepy and the warmth coming from the device the humans always have with them, made me feel really comfortable. The two humans watched intently this flat device. A certain amount of time passed, and the two humans are making more noise, I could tell that they are enjoying what they are watching inside their device. I raised my head to watch also. I did not understand. So I jumped from the human's grasp into the floor. I started running outside, towards freedom, towards my brother, towards the tree stump. But then I saw a cockroach and I started chasing after it. After chasing the cockroach, I ran towards outside again, but another human tried to grab me. It was not fast enough and I was able to evade and run, the human not giving pursuit. And it was fortunate that it was unable to catch me, for I would have certainly clawed it. ### Wednesday, October 26 2011

Tags: cat, story, cats, kitten

The story of the tree Oct 16, '11 5:22 PM Thursday, September 08 2011 10:25 PM there was a tree stuck in a forest. and one day he says, 'fuck this, i don't want to be a tree anymore.' so he disentangles his roots from the ground and he starts walking. along the way, he looks at the trees and says to each one while he passes by: "fuck you, fuck you, and you too." several miles of walking after, he stops and thinks: i don't want to be a tree, maybe i will be a bird. so he looks up and he sees the birds, and the birds look down at him. he hopped and he ran to the top of a hill and tried flying, but still he cannot be a bird. so he says, 'fuck you' to the birds as well. it started to rain and now he decides he wants to be water. so he follows a small stream downhill, which converged with other streams into a little river, and in turn the river met with another river, until finally he came upon the large river. as he stood by its side, he watched the brown water rush by. he watched the pieces of wood and leaves and roots that were floating on the surface of the river. so caught up was he with looking at the various things, that he did not notice the ground beside the riverbank upon which he was standing give way. he tried pulling himself up, but his trunk was too big and his branches and the twigs on his branches were too small and weak, so he could not cling to the roots that revealed itself buried underneath the ground by the side of the river. as the river yanked him forward, before he was smashed onto the side of a huge boulder that jutted out of the middle of the river, before his trunk exploded into many many fragments, his sight was fixed on to the dark clouds above. ###

Tags: tree, story, fable, fantasy, fiction

Meditation on Boa's Daylight

Oct 16, '11 5:14 PM

the kind of song you listen to when you are alone atop an old decaying building, staring at the sun so intently, you temporarily go blind. the heat and the brilliance of the light, drowning out any thought, any semblance of ego, and what remains is this consciousness, basic, sight and feeling, the warmth on your skin, and the sound, the sound of the wind passing by, the fluttering of your clothes, and the world which is devoid of any human made sound. the kind of song that goes perfect with that moment in time when you are so desperate you lose all fear, of life, of the future, of the zombies prowling down below. context: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=53IT41Pf8fc Tags: zombie, song, sci-fi, boa

literature and national consciousnessOct 16, '11 5:07 PM victor hugo stated it much better, he says in the intro to les miserables that one of the criticisms made against him and basically of people like him, is that they make their living portraying misery, that they live off the poor. in a sense, i think, this is true. and why is this morally reprehensible? because the poor should not be exploited. that's why. he should at least have had the decency or delicacy to give some of the dirty money he made from his exploitative novel to the poor, critics might say. ever read les miserables? one of the more depressing novels i've ever read. les miserables was one of the classics that i've always wanted to read so i can finally understand what the fuss was all about. it's the description of degradation - human and city that makes the novel. nope, what i stated was wrong. what made, itals., the novel, are the perennial themes in literature of triumph against adversity, of justice and hope and love, and all that stuff. how does one take a position any way regarding all these classics? and why am i writing about it anyway? in a way, i do not have the right to comment or make any statement of great significance about it, since it is a literature that is not my own, itals. europeans own that book, it is their history that is being portrayed there. one way that i can justify my dipping into their literature is by saying that, hey, we have poor people here too in this third world place i call my country, and we have writers who write of the misery of these people, though i am not certain that they profit that much off these poor people. i could then give examples of these writer-people and maybe examine their writings for some themes that have some sort of relevance to whatever point i am trying to make. another important point is to look at history. name important people in the history of my third world nation that

read the work of such important european author, then say that this person took some inspiration from that european author. then i would state what these ideas are, where they can be found and whether these had any important effect on the national consciousness or development of that national consciousness. Tags: nation, nationalism, literature, poverty, victor hugo, books, les miserables, reading, third world

4:30am haiku Oct 16, '11 4:52 PM it's early morning and the lobby is silent kittens are sleeping Tags: cats, haiku, poem

huge yawning piece of nothingness Sep 29, '11 8:01 AM what i remember going into that place was the huge yawning emptiness of everything. the streets are clean and empty, and there are huge vacant lots waiting for some rich person to buy it and build another huge mansion for their families to live in. the houses are clean and they all have servants. they have drivers and maids, and the drivers and the maids have their own quarters at the back of the house. their television is huge and they have several. the sterility of that place manifests as well, no it derives from, the sterility of their souls. i was never comfortable the whole time i was there. i felt guilt, which was weird, since i did nothing wrong. it was just too different from my usual environment, i reasoned, and after this, i would go out into the normal world. what 'this' was i could not remember now. it was probably a group presentation or something. the teachers loved giving us group presentations. it usually ends up with me doing all the work. but it did not matter. nothing did at that time. i still think nothing

matters now as well, but the feeling is different. these past few days of freedom, something shifted in my perspective. all those moments inside, dreaming of being in the outside. and then now i'm in the outside, and i feel great. that moment the doctor told me that i can go home, i almost jumped out of my bed and into the corridors of the infirmary. freedom is something you can really only understand once you are deprived of it, like water or air, or love. the shift in my perspective manifested itself in continous and subdued feelings of guilt. like i am just wasting other people's time, like thinking that coming here was a bad idea, a waste of time and resources, and that i should have done something else. anything else. but instead i am here, and am just moving with the momentum that the earlier gravity of the decisions have made. boredom, frustration, the usual. 'boredom is merely masked frustration,' ursula le guin, the dispossessed. i am hoping for another way of seeing, something to keep me from the total brunt of the boredom and frustration. because boredom is also another kind of pain. now it's alternating between periods of extreme boredom and terror. well, not terror, but unwelcome surprises, which given the character that my mind is in right now, is well about the same. must find a middle way. the middle way. to be normal. i felt like a cancerous growth for too long and i fear that this has somehow stunted me, made me grow wrong, made me develop into something monstrous and weird. not monstrous, that's too strong of a concept. different taken to a whole new yet also familiar dimension might be more like it. it seems i thrive in being obtuse, and this is good since at least i am able to express myself. the huge yawning emptiness which is my soul, or my lack of a soul, calls me back again. and again into another boredom and frustration, of various shades. and my thoughts go in circles now, though i feel that something has changed, a change in perspective, arising from the experience of being in the hospital for almost a week several days ago.

Earlier I saw a dying kitten Aug 15, '11 1:27 PM earlier i saw a dying kitten, lying by the side of this rock. several red ants were starting to crawl on the kitten. the rock was a little larger than the kitten. the kitten had a paw laid on the surface of the rock that it can reach. rock and kitten were by the side of this dusty road where vehicles were trudging noisily. the afternoon was very hot. i passed by that spot later on. the kitten was no longer there. though the rock remains as it was before. the sun was setting, and instead of the old rust-filled delivery vehicles earlier, what passed on the road were shiny, new automobiles. they parked their cars on the parking area opposite the side of the street where the rock was. they then walked the few meters towards the church, as the evening mass was starting.

Tags: kitten, death

Ice Cream, a short short story Ice Cream

May 30, '11 11:02 AM

"Give me your ice cream", the man says "No", the lady says He pulls a gun out of his jacket "Now, give it to me", he says "Fuck you, you sonofabitch", the lady says She throws the ice cream on the ground. Then beats the man to death. http://www.scribd.com/doc/299473/Ice-Cream Tags: story, ice cream

Kittens Capture Dorm Residents' Attention May 22, '11 12:49 AM Two kittens have captured the attention of residents in the International Center Dormitory of the University of the Philippines Diliman. Said kittens first became noticed around two weeks ago. One is orange-colored the other, its sibling, is white. Residents were asked as to the reason why they are interested in these small feline furballs. A Japanese resident replied, they are so cute, they play around a lot. Cats are not that often seen in the streets and

public areas in Japan because of strict animal control enforcement. Other residents, most notably the Koreans, express their fondness for these kittens by playing with them and feeding them a little food. Recent exploits of said kittens include: running around the lobby, chasing small insects, gnawing on the plastic flower decorations atop the low tables and mock-fighting with each other. Tags: cats, kittens, news

Some rabid and unsophisticated thoughts on the matter of the Catholic Church being against the RH bill May 21, '11 12:20 AM The Catholic Church is a hypocritical institution which should have popped out of existence millennia ago. Many of the complaints made by the Propagandistas of La Solidaridad (which includes Rizal, Marcelo del Pilar, Luna, etc.) more than a century ago still holds true. Such as the church thinking that it has the moral right to intrude on matters that they absolutely have no idea about. By what debasement of logic is it right that those who have no sexual experiences (vow of celibacy for priests remember, or am i mistaken? is it not that there have been news that some priests actually managed to have sexual experiences inside the church? i think the word is 'molestation') take it upon themselves to decide what is good for those who have actual experience of what it means to raise six or more children on an income below the minimum wage? The Rapture is supposed to be today (May 21, 2011). This is when the righteous just go up to heaven directly, body and soul. And in a highly ironic sense, I want for this to happen, so that all these religious ignorant people would ascend up to the heavens and leave us thinking people alone to deal with real problems. Not those imaginary problems like the 'salvation of the soul.' Real problems like hunger and poverty and lack of education and clean and healthy surroundings. Instead of looking up what they should be doing is looking down and see the suffering around them.

A Thought on the Issue of the Death of God May 3, '11 11:19 AM many people say that god has died. nietzsche for example wrote, "god is dead." this was around more than a century ago. in germany. yet we still have a lot of muslims and christians and jews in the world. surely nietzsche is mistaken. i contend that god is not actually dead, but that he is just sleeping. the problem i think is that no one really bothered to check on him. just because he's lying there, all

sprawled out by the side of the street, drool hanging out of his gaping mouth, it does not mean that he has died. nietzsche has always been such a drama queen. god is just sleeping see, maybe a bit drunk, as can be surmised from the almost empty bottle of vodka he is clutching with his right hand. whether he is awake or not, all these terrible things that happen will continue to happen. he did not do anything like stop a baby from dying a horrible death before, and what makes us think that it will be different with him all asleep. so that settles the matter. go on with your life guys. Tags: god is dead, nietzsche

Review of Dan Simmon's Song of Kali

Mar 20, '11 10:22 PM

After reading Dan Simmon's 'Song of Kali,' I glanced out the window from my bed and saw that it was already light, the sunshine bursting in. I have just spent the whole hours after midnight reading. There was a sickening feeling in my soul, like I want to vomit. My head is aching somewhat from lack of sleep. I stare at the couple of empty water jugs by the wall opposite me. This is the very first book that has made me regret reading it. But it is a good kind of regret. I would never read this book again. I can still see the putridness, the very ugly picture that Simmons painted of Calcutta. I somehow expected some of the images that would appear, but still after reading it, nothing can prepare you from the things in this book. The book is all about atmosphere. Of a portrait of the city of Calcutta in India. Calcutta is the city of Kali, the fearsome aspect of the goddess-consort of Shiva. We are living in the age of Kali, of death and destruction, of awesome violence. This, it seemed to me, was what the author wanted to portray. For us to see how it really makes sense - all the suffering, all the destruction. Because we live in the age of Kali. The story concerns a writer's search for an Indian poet who was said to have re-appeared after eight years of being gone - whether he died or was simply missing no one knows. We see the main character's descent into the hell-hole that is Calcutta. We see how he is sucked into circumstances totally beyond him. Of a terrible tragedy as real as the scent of decaying human flesh. This book is not for everyone. Read if you dare. It has been several hours now since finishing the book. I have just finished a can of latte I bought outside earlier. I went to the CAL library to clear my head and wallow in the airconditioned air, hoping to fall asleep there. Instead I searched for some science fiction stories, had one photocopied then came back to the dorm. As I am typing this, I am caught in between that feeling of wakefulness and slumber, not knowing which state I would want to be in. It is ten in the morning and the sky is getting darker,

threatening rain. It is warm and humid. I can hear my neighbour on the other side of this wall playing his guitar and singing. My roommate is playing a videogame. I feel like If I fall asleep now all those images would come alive in my dreams. Must stay awake. Tags: calcutta, india, horror, kali

A Collection of Personal Thoughts centered on the theme of Philippine Gothic Pessimism, Magic Realism, Dark Humor and related stuff Mar 6, '11 12:20 PM 1. The whole family was poisoned, after drinking from water taken from their well. The story was that after the rain, juices from the decaying bodies in the nearby cemetery seeped underground and made contact with the water supply. The family probably tasted something weird with the water but did not make such a fuss with it, probably just boiled it or something. This occurred somewhere in Masbate Island several decades ago. 2. Another story says the landlord-owner of this huge hacienda filled with miles and miles of coconut trees is actually an aswang, a shape-shifting human viscera eater. The people rarely saw him walking in the morning. Usually he comes out of his house by sunset, when the bats are just flying out as well. Stories are told in the village about strange noises at night. People are respectful of him and he often helps those in need. This was in Ilo-ilo. 3. There is a creature called a sigbin, which is a mythical sort of animal people speak a lot about but no one has ever took a photo of, or a video. In the small mountainous town where my mother came from, there were talks of the death of some well-known manghihilot or someone who massages those with ailments or uses traditional healing practices. This manghihilot, the people say, has a pet sigbin which he keeps hidden. They say that a sigbin actually is a creature that magically appears after one recites the proper incantations. The manghihilot kept a set of black polished stones inside this handkerchief which he hides within the coconut clusters at the top of this particular coconut tree. He was said to every now and then retrieve the stones. He would lay the stones out, recite the words, and the sigbin would magically transform out of the stones. 4. My aunt was certain that the black thin dog that darted out of the bushes across the path they were walking one night a long time ago, when she was just a girl, was an aswang. She said that the dog had bright-red eyes. It is precisely for times such as what transpired, that people in her village would never go out at night without carrying a bolo or sundang and a source of light. Aswang can transform into any shape they like. Usually these are domestic animals such as dogs or pigs or wild ones such as birds. 5. There are a lot of cults in the Philippines. Probably one of the weirder ones is this cult in Ilocos

which worships the dead dictator, human rights violator, and over-all bad guy of Philippine history, Ferdinand Marcos. Of course there is an element of regionalism here. A regionalism taken to a most deranged level. I don't know if they pray at Marcos, or pray to the lord for Marcos, but in the end, there they exist, wearing white robes and bearing candles. These cults are mostly derivations from several teachings of the Catholic Church. Another is the Apollo Quiboloy 'Appointed Son of God Cult' in Davao. The leader of this group is a vindictive megalomaniac who spouts various invectives against those who he claimed laughed at him while he was down, while he was still poor and on his way to the top. What is interesting in this particular cult is that it has, like other several religious groups in the country, a good propaganda machinery. They have radio and television stations with a lot of extremely badly made programs, all talking about the greatness of Apollo Quiboloy, 'the appointed son of god.' Imagine Kim Jong Il, only a Christian Kim Jong Il with delusions of being the messiah and of being persecuted, then you have an idea about this guy. He only wears white, at least nowadays. I used to watch him when I was younger on television, and he was 'normal' then - he wore barong tagalog, still had a decent sense of humor. Somehow, something changed within that time span until his current success (he owns a large mansion, helicopter, has hundreds of thousands of followers, international scope of his ministry). One thing that is attractive about the Communist ideology in the Philippines is that at least it is materialist and if it succeeds would not tolerate all these non-rational things. However, given the history of the Philippines, with the more than three hundred years of Christianity hammered on to the thought patterns of this society, it would be a long time before the abandonment of the mythological mentality. 6. Urban legends can and must figure prominently in imagining a Filipino magic realism. The problem however is on how to appropriate these into an original and organic whole. Something that is natural, unartificial, or at the very least to successfuly present the appearance of being natural, since 'nothing is more unnatural than the forced desire to be natural.' The writer then must write 'out of' these knowledge and experiences, to re-imagine them and fit them into new, relevant contexts. The writer must don the magic-realist mindset himself. The audience of course must be able to understand the significance of this. And this takes a lot of thinking and effort. To imagine a magic realist story in the Philippines would seem to be an easy thing to do, given the already numerous examples above, besides the perceived cultural similarities with Latin America, the place out of which the the style of magic realism developed (Garcia Marquez, Allende, Borges). But, what explains the lack of these types of stories? Why do they not exist that much? I guess besides the inherent disinterest of the new generation in reading in the first place, the socio-economic structure of the country itself is something to point as probable cause. 7. Humor. What is the current state of literary humor in the Philippines? The only book which is humor of the literary type in the Philippines that I have read is a collection of short pieces by Eros Atalia called 'Taguan-Pung: Manwal ng mga Napapagal.' This is excellent dark humor, something that is very rare in Philippine literature. The various methods by which someone of the depressive mindset or just plain suicidal would go about his business is the main highlight of the book. A book in the Philippines about funny suicides? Need I say more? The various ingenious plans the author devises for those who wish to end their lives in a most interesting and even socially significant maner warrants our attention because underneath the humor, the particularly dark humor, is a searing social commentary. Some prominent literary person commented on this work that underneath the various shenanigans it is actually a serious political work. Reading the book, there is a feeling of disgust over the political and social situation in the country. By making fun of these ills, the reader takes time to think about them, to understand them in a new light. Things are so bad in this country that the only option left to be serious is not to be serious, or something like that.

8. There is this scene in this movie where the crazy rich beautiful lady is hysterical - screaming, crying, screaming while crying. We know she is rich because they live in this large house. There is her husband who is very handsome. And they have a lot of servants. She is wearing a white sleeping dress, and in this particular scene we see her hunched up on the floor near the fireplace, her arms wrapped around this kinda large pot filled with soil out of which is stuck a small palm tree. Then she starts eating the dirt from the pot. It is only the two of them in this room with the fireplace. They are arguing while she is eating, or rather, the man is shouting at her. He wrestles her down so she would let go of the earth bunched in her palms. She then collapses and the man calls the servants to tend to their mistress. I don't know if it's our television screen or the actual video itself, but the grainy quality was much effective in conveying the mental atmosphere of the movie. It is dark and depressing. There are hints of suicide and all other non-wholesome things in the background. It is a sort of grotesque elegance. 9. The setting would be an old, decrepit library with a lot of decaying old books. This is a large twostorey building and it was abandoned several decades ago. Somehow the books are still there. The protagonist finds himself sitting on one of the few chairs still intact. Dust is everywhere. He inspects the collection and finds that these are mostly philosophical, religious and literary books. Some encyclopedias. Another setting would be a cemetery. Large cemetery by the side of a Church. At the center of the cemetery, there is a sort of small jail-like structure in which are interred all these human bones, several decades old. He remembers as a child that he used to look at all the skulls. He has memories of collecting the wax from candles at the top of the graves. He remembers that most of his ancestors by his mother's side were buried here. Somehow he feels a sense of belongingness. There is a huge tree near the centre of the cemetery. At a certain time during the late afternoon, the shadow from the tree would fall onto the jail-like structure housing the bones. 10. The importance of the anting-anting during the Philippine Revolution of the late nineteenth century, as well as other radical mass movements - Pulahanes, tad-tad, etc. Macario Sakay wore this vest made probably of cotton or other cloth, on which is written various latin passages, and are drawn several figures with magical properties. Magical bulletproof vest basically. 11. I am reading this book about magic realism entitled Magic(al) Realism by Maggie Ann Bowers. On page 38, she references the Nobel Prize Lecture of the COlombian novelist Gabriel Garcia Marquez 'The Solitude of Latin America.' I found the the full text of this lecture, which was delivered in 1982, online in the Nobel Prize Committee's website. This is a wonderful read and Marquez talks about the 'solitude' of Latin America, adrift, abandoned like a child by its European parents. This struck me because if we talk about isolation and solitude, the history of the Philippines, this little archipelago on the Pacific Ocean, speaks greatly about this condition. Especially now that knowledge of the Spanish language is almost absolutely gone from the general population (not that it was that popular to begin with), added to this 'isolation' therefore, is a 'forgetting,' further severing the ties with the Spanish colonial past. This is a real problem with regards to historical research since most of the documents, the primary documents for any serious historical researcher in our country is in Espanol. God knows the numerous times I have heard my teachers complain of the deteriorating knowledge of the SPanish language among the history majors in the University. But the issue here is that if we want to write about issues of magic realism, of isolation and solitude, there is more than enough of these stuff in the Philippines. We have only to look at the convoluted history of this country, of the numerous peoples that inhabit it, of the tragicomedy of Philippine political life, among other more unusual occurences and beliefs, to realize that we share with Latin America almost the very same sicknesses and qualities. Part of this, of course, is that we shared the same colonizers with Latin America. An example of this great irony is of the name itself - Philippines, for several peoples to be lumped together and named after some ancient and dead European king. Even now, writing this, I have a great problem identifying

myself with the word 'Filipino.' Since I really do not find much content and/or connection with the word, that's what it remains for me - a word. Thus it would seem that I have no identity beyond my last name, that of my family's. The family then is the basic structure of society in the Philippines. Marquez's most famous novel, Cien Anos de Soledad, is about the history of the BUendia family of Macondo. Magic realism therefore, if it is to emerge in the Philippines, goes beyond the idea of a nation, and onto something far more authentic. This is not to say that it would be anti-nationalist. Far from it, the magic realist genre, as it appeared in Latin America, has a strong social awareness, and it is strongly grounded in its historical realities - those realities that are so unbelievable that they appear magical, fictional. The tragic thing however, is that they are real. 12. Murders. I have recently read Ambeth Ocampo's latest book. I think it was entitled 'Dirty Dancing.' (yes, this is truly the title of that book). And one curious thing that it mentions, among others, is of this murder in 1617 of a friar by two or three other younger friars. The gruesome details of this affair was described by Ocampo. In my own researches, specifically, of the Blair and Robertson Volumes, there were several very interesting events, all tragic. During the late eighteenth century, there was this incident where a young woman of around eighteen years old jumped to her death from out of the window of a beaterio. Not much detail was given, other than that she was mestiza. My imagination run wild with this, and I speculated that she jumped because this lecherous old priest was chasing her and that instead of surrending her honor, she chose death. (Noli me Tangere of Jose Rizal, the death of Juli, I know). Another curious event is the murder of this governor-general of his wife, who was having a secret love affair with this man who they later found out was a friar. It was all very dramatic and exciting, tragic of course. I should have remembered the actual names of the documents, their volume numbers and other bibliographic stuff, but I reserve that for when I am to write really something serious about these things. In the meantime you'll just have to trust me on these information. 13. Another story idea. There was this NPA soldier who was tasked by a village he has been assigned to, to chase after this mysterious creature which has been wreaking havoc over several villages in this remote mountainous town. After several days, weeks and months of pursuing this monster, he finally manages to kill it. Going home to his base after this heroic feat however, he is met by several military soldiers and is killed. The end. The character muses a lot about various doctrines of communist ideology - 'being determines consciousness' etc. NPA soldiers are known to set their camps and bases deep in the mountains to evade the military. It would be easy therefore to imagine that they would come into contact with kapres, duwendes, aswangs, and other creatures. Now, besides evading the soldiers, they have to contend with these creatures at night. How about: an NPA soldier who gets separated from his unit helps this old woman. As a gift, she gives him this magical black stone, an anting-anting, making hiim skilled in combat and just plain lucky and other benefits. Due to his abilities, the decades-long communist insurgency in the Philippines finally succeeds. Jose Maria Sison, in the Netherlands, however dies, and the Politburo appoints the NPA soldier as the General Secretary of the People's Republic of the Philippines. Over time, he grows dictatorial, ordering secret executions of critics within the government. Sort of like a Stalin or Mao or Kim Jong Il. An anarchist resistance grows underground and finally ends up assassinating him, sort of like what happened with that Tsar in Russia assassinated by the nihilists. The country descends into civil war as two factions vie for power - the anarchists, a loose group of like-minded individuals , and the hardline communists who are much better organized (Spanish Civil War, 1930s). The communists win and the government is restored. Meanwhile, hiding deep in the mountains, is a harried unit of anarchists. One of them, a young woman, gets separated from the group. She happens upon this old woman whom she helps. And in return the old woman gives her a magical black stone.

The Incident with the Cat

Feb 1, '11 9:33 AM

The cat just laid there, relaxing like a sultan in his harem, in the middle of the road, unaware of the taxicab's left front tire edging closer and closer to his head. As the friends of the girl waved goodbye from the entrance of their dormitory, I was covering my ears, a reflex I have whenever I see a disaster about to commence. As the skull shattered, it made a crunchy popping sound. From where I was standing, I could only see the tail and the hind legs of the feline twitching. It made a final meow, made a few more twitches, then died. This is the start of the semestral break, a two-week vacation for college students when they would go home to their provinces and impress their parents with their college adventure stories. We decided we would not go home. We would stay in the dormitory and pass the days watching various television series from pirated DVDs. We would visit the malls. Eat together and play table tennis everyday. I planned to wake up early in the morning and read all those books I've been planning to read since the start of the semester. I was not certain about the cat's color because the incident occurred when it was already dark. We have just had our meal from our usual eating place at the back of our dormitory. We were going back, passing by the girls' dorm, when it happened. I was the only one at first to watch the tragedy unfold. I knew I should have shooed the cat away once I saw the taxicab move. But things happened at such a rapid pace, all I could do was walk fast, across the street, my hands covering my ears, muttering fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I was angry at the cat. It was just too complacent and laidback, too unaware of its surroundings, that's why it was dead. He (or she) should have been more vigilant, more cunning, you know, more cat-like. But this stupid cat, chose to rest its furry behind in the middle of the path where vehicles sometimes pass by. This stupid cat, chose to relax on the street where the visibility was bad, so that anyone could easily break its neck, or in this case, crush its head and upper body. Not that I care about the cat. It's just that Fate, or whatever powers there be in the universe, made it so the living thing would die while I was in the vicinity, an unwilling witness to this tragicomedy. It has to be a male cat, I thought. Female cats are smarter. Especially when they have kittens. For what would happen to all those little furballs when their mother would be dead. So I resolved that female cats have to be smart in order for their species to continue, while males, well males can just go lie in the middle of the road and die. Tags: cat, animal, death ============================== END OF PAGE ONE ========================

During the Holiday Break

Feb 1, '11 9:16 AM

During the holiday break, we went to my mother's home town where we met our relatives. I like going there because my grandmother lives in this large, old house, and I love big old houses. When I was young, more than a decade ago, this house used to have a second floor. I used to go up there, through the old, rickety stairs and go through the rooms one by one. There were I think three rooms in all in that second floor. Huge rooms. Unused rooms, riddled with cobwebs and dust and old stuff people would call junk. There no longer is that second floor. My grandmother lives there alone now because my uncle and her wife moved out into a house of their own. After the greetings and hellos, and the eatings and drinkings, it is night-time and I am sitting outside in this rocking chair. The place almost has no electricity, so for miles, you could see nothing but the silhouette of trees against the light of the moon. There is a huge mango tree by the side of the house, and by the side of the mango tree there is a smaller tree. That night, this smaller tree was surrounded by lights, numerous lights, hundreds and hundreds of lights. Fireflies. Because the place is so remote, there is not much pollution, so the air is clean, and because the air is clean, you can see the fireflies, my father says. I added, also because there's no electricity here. Two cousins have children now and so I am an uncle. I was a bit surprised by this. I need to follow family events more. The following night, my cousins and uncles and I went drinking. My grandfather (my grandma's younger brother) was also there. He kept promising us chickens, but it was too dark and I said we won't be able to catch any. We talked a lot. An uncle asked me what life is like in Manila. How there were news they hear about shootings in Manila. How there were a lot of protests going on in Manila. And did I ever see those naked running university students. I said life there is alright. There are lot of trees in my university. An uncle tells me he's been to UPLB, when he was a driver in Manila a long time ago. I said I've been to UPLB, on a trip to Makiling. There are a lot of trees there also. We drank some more. Some more singing, as an uncle brought a Karaoke Machine for this impromptu family reunion. The next morning, we played some darts. Me, my younger brother and an uncle versus two cousins of mine and an uncle. We lost. It was fun. Nearing night-time, we had to go home because my parents have work the following day. I said goodbye to grandma and to the house and to all the fireflies there. I hope to see them again soon. Tags: family

Alienation

Jan 8, '11 11:11 PM

Alienation is a disjunction with the world. That feeling of rootlessness, of being cut off from the rest of your peers. So, you think you are peerless. Both in the positive and negative sense. And you apply this to humanity in general - that each and every one of us is 'peerless.' You explain: remember the line from the poem Desiderata which says: 'Never compare yourself with others, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.' Each one of us is unique, a being-in-itself, no one can get inside ourselves to experience what we experience. This feeling of 'I' separates us from other people. This feeling makes us unique. This truth makes us peerless. End of Sermon. Alienation must not be taken lightly. It is a terrible feeling. Many have killed themselves because of this feeling. Some people can handle alienation. Others cannot. There is a risk of going insane, or extreme depression. There is the tendency to be overly pessimistic. There is a tendency for solipsism "The world is my idea,' accdg. to Schopenhauer ( The World as Will and Representation). In a way, the world is seen for what it truly is - a terrible, terrible place with occasional moments of extreme, unbelievable beauty. Alienation affords a more than necessary distance for philosophical reflection. With nothing but time in one's hands, the brain would start to function or else the organism would die from extreme boredom. The most useful and necessary tool that an alienated individual must have is a television. It shows metaphorically the distance between the alienated individual and the real world. It is a window out of which he can gaze at the world, at the peopled world. And pass his judgments. Occasionally he makes some remarks. Some comments. Inside his head, he has this long diatribe against all the negative things he sees. The alienated individual's venom is more potent when his alienation is self-imposed. For alienation is one of the worst things that a human being can do to himself. This self-alienated individual is a masochist of the highest, purest type. He ain't normal. But the individual asks, what is normal anyway? Just look underneath the veneer of decency and civilization and we see all the neuroses and psychoses, all these terrible things people dream of doing to each other. Ugly stuff. Besides, of course, the terrible things that actually happen, that we experience, or at least listen to in the radio and watch on the television screen. Normality is a bourgeois-capitalist thing. Revolutionary people from the Third World respond by living abnormal lives. We return to alienation. Is this a disease which we have to rid ourselves of? But according to some schools of though, alienation is actually part of human nature. What separates us from animals is our awareness of ourselves. Remember that story about that dog who was walking on this bridge, happily carrying a juicy bone in his mouth. He happens to glance downwards and sees another dog carrying a bone. He wants the bone and so he barks at the dog, in the process opening his mouth and letting the bone down into the water, gone forever. The lesson here is that we must take pride in our alienation. 'Man is born alone, man dies alone, no other has a share in his sorrows,' saith the Buddha.

Intergalactic Spaceship Blues [attempted science fiction] Sep 29, '10 11:36 PM Some say he lost his mind somewhere in the middle of writing a research paper. It was moments after giving up, that he just stood up and walked barefoot out of his dorm room, out of his dormitory, walked out of the university, walked out of the city, out of the country, out of the world, and into a space ship where his little green friends were waiting. 'Where have you been all this time,' they asked. He shrugged and entered the space ship. So they went on a ride across the solar system, across the milky way galaxy, across the universe. Along the way they showed him civilisations far greater and much more enlightened than the one on earth. He saw cities contained in a single concrete building the size of a continent, he saw giant space robots working, constructing huge pointless floating structures, art projects of a deranged galactic dictator. It was raining back on earth the night he left, and the girl of his dreams was in her home sleeping in her room, not thinking about him, not thinking about his true undying love for her. Several years passed. One day, in the eternal heaven where sorrow no longer exists, sat the compassionate Avalokitesvara. Gazing down from her cloud-seat, she saw the strife and the discord, the hurtful things people say and do to each other. A single tear-drop from her right eye slid across her perfect cheek, dropped from her chin, and fell down into the world, manifesting itself as a billion-megaton atomic bomb, basically obliterating the planet and most of the solar system of which it is part of. Oops, she thought. He was deep in meditation at that time inside the space ship, and he felt it, that huge pang of painful

painful nostalgia drowning him. Images of the girl that time when they were both walking and talking underneath the falling leaves of trees one sunny afternoon. Memories of when they both accidentally touched, the smoothness of her skin. When they ate spaghetti together that time in the dormitory while watching a beauty pageant on television. How he tried to forget her one maddening night when he realised they could never be together. He raced across the stars just to gaze at a nothingness in space. Tags: story, love, science fiction

Prayers with my grandmother

Aug 17, '10 1:09 AM

I remember as a child, of waking in the early morning to say the prayers with my grandmother. I remember that I did not sleep well the night before because my grandmother snores loudly. But I wake up, the candles are lit and we pray. I remember Mary, how she was full of grace because the lord was within her. She was the most blessed of all women and blessed too was the fruit of her womb. I remember having my own rosary. I remember it to be made of plastic and colored blue. I remember the beads not as spherical but oblate. My grandmother's was black with the beads not merely beads but small black roses. I'm not sure if they were plastic like mine. I remember her voice to be warm and very calming. I remember it to be cold and from the inside, I remember looking through a small window and seeing the world still dark outside. I remember the sound of the insects that I, years later, found out to be that of the cicadas. Tags: religion, memory, prayer, cicada, nostalgia

Sleep Jul 25, '10 2:09 AM I have lost the ability to fall asleep. Not that it bothers me. Sleeping is just a waste of time. If I have my way, I'd never fall asleep. I'd do a lot of things like read and write and surf the internet and increase my knowledge of various useless things. I don't need to sleep. Though I want to sleep, if only for nostalgic reasons, which is completely the wrong reason for wanting to fall asleep. Sleep is necessary for the body to function, they say. I say, no. Sleep is the haven from all the toils and bullshit we face during our waking selves. I say, sleep offers no such thing. Most probably I am wrong, and I am fully aware of that, but when you haven't slept for a few days, you just don't give a fuck anymore. There's all that talk about sleep as falling back, sinking down again into the eternal, primordial ocean from whence came all that exists. I know this all sounds so mystical and amazing, but when you haven't slept in a while, like for a few days, then it just sounds like a lot of bullshit. One effect of sleeplessness, the one I am manifesting now, is irritability. This is otherwise known as shortness of temper. Although in my case, this is not that serious of a thing, since even before, when I still had that wonderful wonderful ability to fall asleep, I haven't taken anything seriously. This is the perfect antidote to shortness of temper. Not giving a fuck, not taking anything seriously are the opposite states of being irritable. So this is just mild, amusing irritability. Of course, there is that concern that what you are saying or writing should at least make some sense. But when you haven't had a shut-eye for a hundred years, your standards tend to get lax, though it never comes to the point where you just start spouting nonsense. It just happens that you simply go on and express yourself, make your point, as best as you can, with the limited ability you have right now. And really, is it really necessary to sound oh so logical and rational in a world going crazy, where a lot of terrible, terrible things happen all the time? The answer is yes. The world being in a crazy state is no excuse to go insane. One interesting aspect to explore, not just in an academic setting, but in a more general, allencompassing sense, is the relationship between insanity and sleep. We can ask what is the relationship between insanity and sleep. Do crazy people have crazier dreams? Is it possible for a crazy person momentarily, inside his or her dream, to experience sanity? How do we go about finding all these questions? What good will it be for the world if we actually find out the answers to any of these questions? Probably nothing in the material sense, but in a deeper spiritual, less mundane sense, probably nothing as well. Which is not to say that we should not pursue this research. It is best to

assume an attitude of doing something for the sake of it in matters such as these. Art pour l'art, as they say. When do we start having dreams? In the womb, does the fetus have thoughts, does it have premonitions, what with the synapses in the brain already formed and all, can we assume that they actually dream? If so, what things do they dream about? Do they dream about the future? Not just their future, but the future of mankind? Maybe they see a post-apocalyptic world of suffering, where civilization totally collapsed and the future of mankind is in serious doubt. Maybe they see this and think being born is totally a bad idea, that it would have been better if they were not conceived at all and brought to that point where they are capable of dreaming and seeing the future? We don't know. At least I don't know. Maybe you do know. There's probably current research about this somewhere. # 20/06/10 Tags: apocalypse, dreams, sleep

Love Poem of Loss

May 23, '10 2:24 AM

After that moment when I realized, that we have to part, that we can never be, that our worlds are just different, I just drank and drank ... a lot of water =) Tags: heartache, love, poem, unrequited love, stomachache

stories. May 12, '10 2:06 PM it is my personal opinion that in order to remain sane, one must be constantly on the guard, lest the mind wanders on its own and commit foul deeds such as random thinking of useless, pointless thoughts that are harmful to the individual. it is also my opinion that for a person to remain free, he or she must have control of his or her own mind. control of one's own mind means that one must not be suaded, must not be under the mass media hive mind which is making zombies out of us, making us all think in

the same manner. for me this is the tragedy of the modern age, that we are constantly bombarded by too much information, while what these information does is not to inform but merely to 'set' our minds to a certain particular way of thinking. this thinking is of course, the highly cellular, digital, disorganized, confused way of thinking that does not allow for the flowering or unfolding of a particular train of thought. this is why there are no longer many people who read long russian and british novels. for me this is serious because i believe more in quality rather than quantity. the information that are fed to us, no matter how up to date and accurate are basically pointless if we do not have the skills to digest all of these and create a coherent story out of it. one of the dangers of modern technology is this losing of the ability to tell stories. whereas in ancient times people relied on their memory in order to impart to other people and to the next generation their own particular set of stories, now this is no longer the case. microfictions is an example of this trend towards small-thinking, the loss of the great narrative. i know that this sounds a bit out of place, that this is merely pointless nostalgia for the past which we all know is not really in the same exact way that we think it is. but for me, stories, the ability to listen or to read long narratives, to remember the crucial scenes, to convey the atmosphere, to be as close to the dialog as possible, and most importantly the ability to improvise and the expression one uses when telling a story is very important. telling stories, at least for me, is a basic human necessity. afterwards the securing of food and shelter and clothing, telling stories is the next step in the ladder towards a real, authentic existence. in ancient times, during the night when the day's toils have finished, people huddled around this huge blazing fire and told stories to each other. these stories are ancient and they have been passed on from generation to generation. my grandparent's grandparents told these stories. these are very important because they are the memory of my people. what we have now is a collective amnesia, a mass forgetting of the stories that once made the great world outside at least make sense a little. children now are more into foreign cultures such as the american, japanese and korean ones more than their own local culture simply because the media rarely presents our own stories as equaling those of these cultures. and i am not even talking about the deep literary cultural things, those that speak to the soul, those that inspire people in order to be better people. what the children are fed nowadays are those that cater to the baser aspect of their beings, that is to satiate somewhat the not so unfounded fear of being bored. imagine if we have shows, primetime shows that tell of the exploits of Lam-ang and all the other heroes of our epics. what i want is a reawakening of all these memories that have been buried in the books and the libraries, gathering dust and basically getting forgotten by the people. Tags: philippine culture, epic, epics, postmodernism, narratives, creative writing, stories, mass media, culture

rain.

Apr 12, '10 1:41 PM

I miss the rain. Right now, it is so hot, it feels like the whole world is burning. I have two electric fans turned on, and still, the heat is just in there, everywhere, permeating everything like an invisible warm chocolate-honey viscous doughnut filling. I miss the rain because I am psychically connected to it. I have spent so many moments looking outside from windows just looking at all those millions of millions of droplets falling on to trees, cascading through leaves, through roofs and down soaking the ground. I love the smell of earth that wafts through your nose immediately after the start of the rain. I wish that it would rain forever. I always feel light-hearted when it starts to rain. I like to believe that I was born on a rainy day. I remember walking home to school when I was in the first grade. The distance from home to school is around thirty kilometers. Everyday I would go home alone, riding on a tricycle, or just walking. And in one of these solitary escapades, rain was falling. Falling hard and solid for more than an hour, and I remember just walking alone, soaked to the bone. The rain runs off to the side of the cement road where it forms temporary streams. I would walk in these streams and jump on puddles. Everything in the world was so new and fresh and filled with deep, eternal mysteries. Behind everything, behind every house I passed by, behind all those trees in the distance, behind all those people walking, minding their own business, there are countless wonders, and everything is covered by the rain. I remember the sound, so peaceful and hypnotic and calming. It's like the sound cicadas make during the night and the early mornings, only much much lower in pitch and all-encompassing. The rain hugs you like a loving mother, keeping you safe from all the sadness in the world. The rain tells you stories, deep meaningful stories about life and everything in general if your mind is calm and peaceful enough to listen. There is an overwhelming since of sincerity in her words, and every sharp things have their edges softened. Every piercing and shrieking noise gets drowned out, and the world is perfect once more, as it has always been, as it shall always be. I arrived home and there was nobody there to meet me. It's getting dark and I'm getting cold and I laid my backpack on the side of the door, sat on the steps and watched for any sign of anyone. Our house then was by the side of this road where jeepneys from the city pass by. Our nearest neighbour is two kilometers away. Beside and behind our house is this forest of tall trees and various plants, and I was all alone in the world. One night I thought I saw something white and human-shaped outside our window. I was the only one awake, as often happens those days because I was a really light sleeper. Maybe it was all a dream.

And so there I was, alone in the universe, waiting for my parents to come home and open the door so I can come in and change clothes. I waited for over an hour, finally encountering the less than amused countenance of my parents who went to the school to fetch me with an umbrella. It so happened that I took a different, longer route than usual and so was unable to meet my parents along the way. They told me they were worried sick about me, and asked all sorts of people they met along the way about me. But I was just there the whole time. They opened the door, I picked up my bag and went inside. Tags: rain, nostalgia, memories

How to Receive a Table Tennis Service

Mar 16, '10 11:34 AM

The best way to receive a table tennis service is to lock your wrist and arm in place; that is, let your upper body and legs do the moving. The benefit of this is (1) you get to approximate how much you have to compensate to return the ball and (2) you minimize the possibility of making an error because there are fewer 'moving parts.' Although this must not be taken as true for all occasions. There are cases when you have to really 'engage' with the ball. This is more applicable to Chinese-type penholders (that is, those that use both side of the racket) since there is a lot of room for error in this style if one is still at the lower and even at the middle levels. Professional players like Wang Hao and Ma Lin tend to play smooth, engaging the ball immediately; more so with Ma Lin who is a 'third-ball specialist.' For an example of this locking your upper body style, look at the videos of Werner Schlager in Youtube. Though awkward, his style is very effective as he is not a very fast player and thus relies more on ball placement, accuracy and consistency. Tags: ping pong, table tennis

Stuck. ( a short story) Feb 19, '10 2:36 PM Stuck I had this nightmare once where I am back in high school. It seems that I was not able to graduate for the third time because of some reason I do not know but nevertheless was not that curious nor surprised about. In this dream I have abandoned myself to something greater, destiny or fate, or God perhaps; and I no longer care what other people think of me. This did not produce a sense of tranquility but instead, a weariness blanketed my heart. This darkness, appearing like a cloud of smoke around me, never goes away. In the classroom, I remember now, we were having an exam, something mathematical, and for over an hour I was just staring at a blank sheet of paper and thinking this is not the worst thing that can happen, this is not the worst thing that can happen, which is my mantra whenever I am faced with extreme situations. You are walking and as you are walking, you do not notice the laces of your shoes getting untied and as you walk, the tips of the laces manage to lodge themselves into this crack in the cement and you are stuck. You pull and pull and there's just no way you can get out of there. You just stop and with all that frustration coursing inside your veins, pumping poison into every internal organ in your body, you simply stand there, stoic, unmoving. A feather landing on your head, a fly on your arm, would have made you explode into millions, trillions of tiny high-energy pieces, but this does not happen. Instead you are an eternal prisoner in this ridiculous hypothetical situation. The teacher says submit your test papers and I submit mine. I stand up and walk towards the desk at the front of the room when suddenly we hear people shouting from the outside. We take a peek, we see nothing because our room is beside the corridor on the ground floor in front of which is another classroom which blocks out most of the sunlight so that our room is darker than most rooms in this labyrinthine high school. We then hear shots being fired and we start to get scared. We hear the words "pusila," "pusila," which is a Cebuano word commanding that you shoot someone. The origin of this word is Spanish, in that the Spanish word for revolver or gun is fusil. Fusil or pusil is still used in

Cebuano-speaking regions in the Philippines today to refer to handguns generally. Larger caliber weapons such as the Armalite or M-16 are called by this term as well, though the actual names of the firearms are used when for example, talking to a male high schooler, who usually is highly interested in guns and various weapons. But I digress. The first thought that came to my head was that these were police working under the current Administration cracking down on student activists, firing on them while they were attending their classes. Backhanded tactics such as this can only be expected from such a treacherous collaborator antinationalistic, neocolonial, neoliberal government. I was mistaken. It turns out the police were chasing several aswang who managed to enter the high school grounds. The class did not really see any of the aswang, but merely heard one of the policemen shout the word and then bursts of gunfire. It was at this point that the whole classroom descended into chaos, with everybody panicking and huddling together against the walls, as if doing so would be effective against these supernatural creatures. And that's when I woke up. I found myself in my dorm room alone. It is late in the afternoon and the sun is already starting to set. It is hot and it has not rained for weeks. I do not get up, but instead, I stare at the ceiling. There are cobwebs, several months in there probably. The ceiling is painted white and in some places it starts to crack because it is so old. Tags: weird

I Can't Even Think of A Decent Title So I'll Just Leave it Like This

Jan 8, '10 12:15 PM

It's getting serious now. One can feel the atmosphere thinning, tightening, like a noose around one's neck. And you are standing on this crickety old chair on your tiptoes because the rope tied on a beam and wound around your neck is so taut that if you relax a bit, the chair could break and off into the extinction.

I am fond of metaphors, of exaggerations, of flowery words and descriptions. What this does is to convey as far as I can, what I am feeling at this present moment. Right now there is a creature, darkcoloured, of an amorphous shape with a million tiny tentacles each with tiny suckers with microscopic teeth attached in the surface of my heart and lungs. Whenever I breathe, whenever my heart dares to beat, there, the pain spreads. And there is nothing I can do about it because this creature has been here for several years now. All those time walking around, talking with people, doing things, and they do not know that I carry this with me. Call this a parasitic relationship if you like, but the truth is that I sort of like this thing in me. It makes me feel unique, that I am all alone in a vast universe and there is no one out there like me. On the other hand, it makes me feel alone. So utterly, desolately alone. The pain that this engenders lies beyond description. In order to understand, you have to have experienced this as well. And then the best that you can do afterwards is not to offer words of wisdom and achievement and triumph, but simply you say, "hang in there." Haha, "hang in there," get it? This was purely accidental by the way. I had no intention of going on with this hanging analogy, but there it is. You know, this makes me think sometimes how wonderful, magical things simply happen out of chance, pure, unadulterated chance. There is no coherent internal logic really, just wonderful wonderful chance. And I wish for all the wonderful chance happenings there is to fall upon the world so that it may become a happy place once more. But this is far from the truth. Reality faces us like a gigantic, angry, snarling bulldog that hasn't been fed for a few days. It drops on us like an anvil the size of Mayon Volcano. It stares at us, like the giant monstrous, merciless eyes of some ancient, primeval deepwater seacreature. And lord and the heavens help us. We need all the ammunition we can get. So I cannot really tell what this is about. I can only explain this in terms of what it is not. This is not an exorcism. This is not an attempt to be well. This is just me, talking, trying to comprehend this huge, faceless thing around me, trying to engulf me. Call this the universe, call this truth, reality, life. Call this whatever you may want, but there it is. This is just a feeling, and like all feelings, I am expecting it to disappear, but maybe I am wrong and this is as real as the fact that I am breathing now. And now that wouldn't be much of a surprise, I've been mistaken so many times before. Tags: anxiety

Do not Panic Dec 31, '09 12:45 PM for everyone Do not panic. If there is an advice that I can give to anyone, that would be it. Do not panic. And also, breathe. When people breathe that is good. Breathe air, of course. Not argon, or helium or carbon monoxide. Just the standard-issue air we encounter everyday. Another advice: do not worry. People worry so much these days, it's terrible. But don't be complacent and uncaring as well, for that is not good too. The thing is to find a good balance between being involved and objectivity in order to function in this world properly. Of course this need not be said. But then again, as that famous writer once said " common sense is not that common." For another year has come and let us welcome it. This year holds a lot of promise. But we must not expect too much from it. Let us not pressure it into something so high and unattainable. Let us be realistic in our goals, such as not to die this year. Not dying this year is a good goal. A worthy goal if I may say so and almost everyone would agree. Unless of course you are in great physical or emotional pain and that this would only be alleviated by you not existing anymore. But this is an extreme case, and we must limit ourselves to real actual things that happen generally. So do not die this year. But not dying is a negative goal. We must strive for something positive. Live then. Live! And have a sense of humor. Try not to be too negative at times, eh, friend. Live, and if you think this is too high of a goal, then that's ok, do whatever you want. But there is no other option other than to live. Now I am just being silly. This is like saying to a cow, be a cow. Or to a dog, be a dog. Or to a living being, live! Be silly. We need more silliness in this world. A writer once wrote something that sounds like this : "God kills us if we get boring. We must never be boring." That author is Chuck Palahniuk. A wonderful author, I might add and someone you would really like if you're into dark humor. So be silly, not boring. But if you think it too high a goal, that's ok, just be a decent person, a good friend who listens and that is more than enough really. So everyone have a great time in this world, for this could be the only world there is. But don't worry too much about that, it could be that there really is a life after this one and this other life is good and beautiful. Make people laugh if you can. Tell funny stories. Recommend an author you think other people would like. Smile. Or try not to frown too much, and again, do not panic. Tags: new year

Philippine Metal (not the natural resources kind)

Dec 19, '09 8:16 AM

My roommates have all gone home and Im the only one here. What Im hearing is the tap-tapping of my keyboard writing this, the electronic mechanical hum of my gender equality electric fan keeping my laptop cool, the muffled noise of the vehicles outside the dormitory, the tweet-tweeting of the birds on the trees on the unmaintained lawn outside. My stomach is slightly upset after eating this ube pastillas candy bar. My laptop and my fan, as well as two Altec Lansing speakers, my pink cellphone, a cottonbud, my Altec earbuds, six pesos worth of coins, an unclean mug with a spoon sticking out of it, a bluebook stamped with Junk the Code Akbayan University Student Council, a roll of toilet paper, an empty plastic bottle, are all sprawled above this sort of Japanese table beside my bed. My bed is where Im sitting now, and on it are several DVDs, neatly stacked one above the other, most are pirated, some not working, some I havent finished watching yet. This is my friends table Im using because I cant use mine since it looks like the scene of some horrible crime committed in an act of blind passion. Tomorrow Ill be going back home. Ill be commuting towards the airport and wait there several hours before the flight. On my bag will be photocopies of several books, three books I borrowed from the library (Arthur Schopenhauers The World as Will and Idea, and two books about Pierre Bayle, a seventeenth century French writer Im writing a paper about), several clothes, and of course, my laptop, among other less important things. I was not supposed to borrow the book on Schopenhauer because I thought I would borrow only those books with relevance to what is currently eating all of my thoughts, that is, my thesis and other papers I need to submit before the end of the school year. But on thinking about it, the book has relevance on what I am thinking now, that is, I am thinking about the usual existential questions, and although Schopenhauer is not considered today an existential philosopher, still, the fact that his philosophy is pessimistic in tone, that he constantly references Buddhist and Hindu concepts, that he influenced Nietzsche to a certain extent, is more than enough reason for me to read his work. I have earlier read other works of his, his essays, and I feel that they still have relevance for today. He writes in a wonderful, lucid manner and most of all, I like his sense of humor. God knows I need all the funny I can get these days. I woke up at around ten forty in the morning after having slept for seven hours. It is one thirteen in the afternoon right now and Im feeling a bit sleepy but I have no desire to sleep, and even if I desire it, I think I would not be able to, because at the hind part of my brain are all these swirling, shapeless mass of foggy anxiety. But that is another story. I spent most of the early part of the morning surfing the internet, researching some of the coolest mind-blowing things I can point my attention at. I rediscovered how mind-boggingly awesome the Philippine rock scene was in the early 90s, with metal bands like Razorback and Wolfgang. Theres this song, Payaso by Razorback and it is just beyond amazing. I cannot remember the tune, but I remember the feeling I had. It felt like the world is just out there, waiting to be conquered, to be explored, to be opened like some sort of oyster and its contents swallowed whole into my mouth. It saddened me to think that the quality of rock today in the Philippines have gone to such a low level that I feel dirtied somewhat merely discussing it. The emo scene today is sickening. I have written about this phenomenon sometime before and my chief objection against it is that it is shallow, that is, it makes a parody of sadness. It is as if many do not know how it is to be sad anymore, to be melancholy, to be lonely, to be angry, to be passionate about anything. The music of Wolfgang and Razorback is in direct contradiction to this. You can feel it in your blood man, you can feel the emotion, and thats why it saddens me that only a few people of my age really listen to these kind of songs.

Ah if only there is someone I can talk to about this, someone who knows more than I do and would be willing to share his knowledge with me, maybe even let me borrow some of his Razorback or Wolfgang albums, I would be really grateful, but I know thats really hard these days. My friends all listen to these poppy kind of things like Oasis or worse, those Europop candies that cause diabetes of the ear. The thing about music is that it should give us a point of view that is useful, practical, not escapist. Theres this song, this simple metal song by Im not certain Razorback or Wolfgang, about this dude who just sits there in this table waiting for all those friends he once went drinking out with, he reminisces about all those times they had, and thinks whether they truly were friends of his or not. And this image struck me because it deals with loneliness, with the anxiety of one day facing the possibility that we would end up all alone. Theres also this song, Anino, and its about this guy imploring the hearers to save me from my shadow. At all levels, this song is beyond awesome. I just noticed how psychological Philippine metal songs are, and by this I mean how they try to probe the mind and express it in a most wonderful creative manner. Compared to the emo scene nowadays, where being artistic means looking like a zombie and screaming at the microphone pointlessly, the rock scene of the 90s is just heavenly. Tags: heavy metal, wolfgang, music, pinoy rock, razorback

Memories of Earth

Dec 12, '09 8:44 PM

The warmth is viscous, like honey, and the breeze stirs it gently, the resulting current carrying us along. We are walking and the world is the color of gold and orange and I look at her, with the billions of leaves falling slowly around us, and I think, this, this is my perfect moment, there can be no other moment like this, this, after this will be over, if I die, I would not have any regrets, because this, this is beyond what I have ever hoped to experience in this world. We walk and talk and she has no idea what I am thinking. Tags: earth, walking for fitness

Parting Ways Nov 26, '09 5:32 AM Daily I teach myself how to deal with the inevitability of never seeing you again. I do not look forward to the day when all I have are those memories of us walking around the campus, talking about everything under the sun. Like for example, places weve always wanted to go to. You told me you want to go backpacking throughout Europe and see all those historic places. I told you that Ive always wanted to go to Tibet and be a monk there, meditating and chanting all those ancient sutras and conversing with other monks regarding the status of Tibet under China. And you smiled when I told you this because you said its weird and I said I am serious and you laughed a little. I wanted to make you laugh and smile because I needed solid proof that life was worth living. I dont know what it is that I feel about you, but I sometimes have dreams with you in them. I know it sounds pathetic and maybe it is, but I think I may be in love with you. Writing these words I feel like a total fool, and maybe I really am. I have always questioned my sanity, but this craziness that I feel regarding you is of a totally different dimension. I have always imagined myself as a statue, a being made of cement, something that is incapable of emotions beyond apathy. But as that Siakol song goes, mukhang pinasukan ng daga ang puso kong bato. And all that I can say is, hardcore. But let us be realistic. For this world, I concede, is actually real and not some hallucination by some primeval Hindu god. The socioeconomic distance between us is farther than the distance separating our sun from its nearest neighbouring star. But more than that is the fact that I can never seem to summon the courage to tell you these things. I had this plan where I would pretend to be drunk and then would send you a message about my true and pure feelings. I later abandoned the idea, realizing that its just juvenile and that maybe you would think me weirder than you thought I am and would never want to see me again. And so I prepare myself for the inevitable. I remember the most unforgettable moments I had with you, and tell myself to be content with them and be thankful for the privilege of being near your shadow. I remember that perfect afternoon when the sun was so bright and millions of tiny dried up leaves were falling and being carried by the wind. I remember that time I walked with you towards that spot beneath the overpass where you say you always wait for the bus. I remember that moment before you bounded up the steps of the bus, looked at me, and waved goodbye. Feb27,2009,3:48am Tags: stupid love story

Heartlessness Nov 25, '09 10:37 AM for everyone Heartlessness There are people so blinded by the demon of ambition and power, they have failed to see, or maybe have made it a point to forget, the amount of suffering they bring into this world. The death of all the innocent people in Maguindanao really shook the country, as it should, for if it should not, then what a sad day that would be. Condemnation shall rain upon the blooded soil of Maguindanao and fall upon those who claim that that land is the sole property of their clan. The age of kings and monarchs who have total control over the lives of those under their dominion have long since faded and what just happened or is happening there is a tragic anachronism. If only there is a God out there who would send down a few archangels to lop off the heads of those guilty of this inhumanity, if only the Greek spirit of divine retribution, Nemesis, would visit Maguindanao and mercilessly hunt those who are guilty, and if only there is a hell where these people would be sent to suffer for all eternity. But wishful thinking will get us nowhere. Look up and the sky is empty of gods. We are here and we confront this evil before us. An evil that was fostered by a skewed view of the world where money and power are measures of what is good. To acquire money and power, to maintain hold of it as long as possible, to increase it, this is the soil upon which heartlessness blooms. Tags: maguindanao

Papers Nov 9, '09 11:51 AM for everyone Papers "And when I shoulda been gone a long time

Laughs and says, I find ways Just when we're sheltered under paper The rockets come at us sideways" --Backwater, Meat Puppets It's not that I couldn't write it. I just don't have the interest anymore. SOmehow there is this feeling that whatever I do here won't be of any consequence to what I will be doing once I get out of here. There is also the delusion I have where I tell myself that this is not the worst thing that can happen, as if there really is such a thing as a 'worst' thing. Everything is relative. Even death is not the worst thing that can happen. Maybe I am already in my worst situation and I am just too much in denial to see what is staring me in the face. I've just finished reading Chapter One of Viktor Frankl's 'Man in Search of Meaning' which details his experiences as a Nazi concentration camp prisoner. A quote from Frankl's book which really speaks to me, and to all I suppose that feel the same things as I do is this: "The last of human freedoms - the ability to choose your attitude in a given set of circumstances." When man finally sees himself, his, according to Frankl, 'naked existence,' this is the only freedom that is left to him. He could be bound eternally in a seeming pointless task just like Sisyphus, but there is still an avenue of freedom left, however small that space may seem. One could, as Camus wrote, imagine Sisyphus happy. And somehow that is where I see myself right now, in that tiny space left for me to wander. There is a mountain of sighs stuck somewhere in my lungs and every now and then I let out one just to ease the feeling, but the mountain is there and continuing to grow and like a tree, it has roots, growing deeper and deeper. I have gone past normal levels of anxiety into something akin to apathy, the second level, according to Frankl that concentration camp inmates feel once they enter prison camp life. I don't know, maybe my attitude will change once I start reading the second chapter. The paper I'm mulling about is beyond hopeless and so I'm trying not to think about it right now. Which is really stupid because it is an impossibility and the more you suppress something, the more it comes back to haunt you. Tags: nazi, frankl, genocide

Alcohol

Oct 14, '09 9:00 AM

Alcohol (not the kind you rub on your skin) I've always had this dream where I am drunk and calling you and confessing to you my true and pure feelings. But then I wake up and realize that I probably will never have the courage to get myself drunk and tell you anything. I hate alcohol. I've had way too much second hand experience of the effects of this accursed liquid to ever see it as a useful tool. I've seen an old man cry amongst relatives in a family gathering, cursing himself, reciting a litany of all his sins. I've heard him tell of how terrible he was as a father, a bad husband to his wife, how unloyal he was to the clan. I've heard stories of uncles bashing each other's heads using a small bench, legendary claims of once running in the streets wearing only an underwear, instances where one threatened to uproot the municipality's bridge and roll it like a banig in an unusual display of masculinity. So you see, alcohol is really not my thing. You once told me how in the mountain of somewhere with your friends on a field trip, because it was so cold, you drank alcohol. I wanted to go because I wanted to be near you, but at the last moment I backed out because I had a class during that day. So all I had are your words telling me of how cold it was up there, how you trekked all the way up to that spot in the mountain where you set up your tents, how the sunlight mixed with the clouds in the morning, how beautiful it was. And I am more than happy that you actually tell me these things. But how i wish i was with you to actually, existentially, experience those things. I am talking about alcohol and i would be lying if i say that I have never tried it myself. You can't live in this country, or anywhere in the world for that matter (except perhaps in strict religious ones) where at least a drop has not passed through your lips. I once downed a can of San Miguel Beer in a single gulp, not even pausing to breath. Now I'm just lying. It actually took me two gulps, but really is it not annoying to hear all these stories by all these macho men of all their exploits regarding alcohol? I can drink more than you. I don't get drunk easily like you. To hear of them tell their tales, it is as if they are one of those Heroes of Norse Mythology gathered around the huge banquet table at Valhalla after a day of slaughtering enemies. I do not like alcohol because it dulls the human experience. What I am talking about is pain and suffering. People drink when they are brokenhearted and I ask why. Because they want to forget. Well, if you really feel bad about something it is logical to make the pain go away, so you drink and the next day you feel terrible physically, but still the feeling, to use a psychological term,'psychache', remains. What I propose is not to drink alcohol. Instead of drowning yourself in the liquid, feel the total brunt of the pain. Am I suggesting masochism? No. What I am advocating is courage and of finding creative ways to deal with pain. Maybe painting? Paint your pain away? Imagine history books telling of your life, saying here was a man, a great man, who faced the total brunt of the pain instead of drinking alcohol like a coward, he is a hero kids, you should be more like him. And the kids would look at the teacher as if he just told them something that he should have kept inside his head.

Tags: drunk, beer, alcohol

Something

Oct 14, '09 8:32 AM

It's thirty minutes to midnight and I am not sure what I want to do. At the back of my brain there is this voice telling me to go to sleep now because I have a class early tomorrow morning. But what I am doing is drinking this energy drink powder dissolved in a liter of water. What I am doing is listening to this lecture by this professor regarding Heidegger's 'Being and Time.' What I am doing is writing these words for what reason I don't really know. This is purgatory. This state where you are left hanging somewhere, not knowing who what where when why and how. This state where you are left with all your memories of the day, of the week, of the month, of some random event from somewhere in your past surfacing to haunt you or to remind you of something which then vanishes as quickly as it appeared. This state, this twilight area where somehow there is that feeling of calmness and mellowness, that feeling that you are shielded somewhat from the outside world by some mysterious force you are not aware of. Or it could just be that you're just so tired, you just type all these things that pop in your head, because you need something to do, something to while the time away because you can't sleep. Right now what I'm hearing is the hypnotic hum of the laptop fan which is just so calming. Right now what I'm seeing (besides the Notepad application where I type these words of course) is the wallpaper of my laptop which has the image of Robin from Witch Hunter Robin in it , this wallpaper with the words 'Hell's Gate Lies Open' written in its lower left portion. I promised myself that I'd lay off writing heavy stuff for a while, that I'd focus more on the mellow, non-radical side of things, on those thoughts that do not disturb anyone when I put them down on writing. Earlier I had this idea of writing an article about the greatest most awesome show I ever saw in my entire life, the show Wonderfalls which starred the beautiful Caroline Dhavernas. What really endeared me to the show was her character, Jaye, the philosophy graduate from Brown University who works as a shopper's assistant in this gift shop, somewhat of a dream come true for her because as she said to an acquaintance, all that she really wanted was to be "overeducated and unemployable." She also lives in a trailer park and she one day wakes up to find that plastic animals, those plastic animals they sell as souvenirs in the store, starts talking to her.

Yeah so I planned to write something like that, but like all plans, when you don't stick to it, when you don't really have the patience or the time or the energy or the sobriety to stick to it, it will just, as the great activist-rapper Immortal Technique said, remain as a wonderful idea. And a most awesome wonderful idea it shall remain for right now I can feel the effect of the energy drink wearing off and my eyelids are getting heavy, and my thoughts are getting soggy, and my fingers are slipping off the keys of the keyboard, and this period is itching to put an end to this sentence. Tags: wonderfalls =================================== END OF PAGE TWO ===================

Thy Will be Done

Oct 2, '09 2:09 PM

If it is his will, then as the famous saying goes, thy will be done. Why are we then doing all these protecting ourselves thing, why are we acting as if God does not have a purpose for this storm. I believe it is because of fear and a lack of faith in the mysterious workings of our Lord who has only our benefit in his mind, for behind what may seem as a negative event there is something that he wants to teach us. Such as recognition of his total absolute control over our lives. Such as asserting his right as the Creator to destroy us as he wishes for whatever reason he may have, leaving our brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers and grandparents and uncles and aunts and all other relatives weeping. Which they shouldn't be doing anyway, unless what they secrete are tears of joy. They feel joy because finally you are with God. Or they could be happy simply because you are dead. That maybe you weren't exactly the righteous lovable Christian that all human beings should be. Which goes the same when one gets sick. God wants us to be with him so he wants us to be sick. You may reason then that it isn't God's will, that it's just nature and that it's not a thing that God would cause. But who are you to presume this? And what proofs can you offer otherwise? So when we attempt to cure ourselves, when we take our medicine, what we are doing then but simply defying God, fighting against his will. I say, if you really believe in God's goodness, of his infinite kindness and mercy and if you are confident that you are going to heaven, then why not go there as fast as possible? And better yet, why not go there as early as possible using your own hands. I mean, why bother God to kill you, who are you that he, the greatest most kindest being, should spend time, precious Godly time just so he could get you into heaven? I recommend pills. I've read somewhere that sleeping pills are the best way to go. Down like a hundred and prepare yourself for the experience of a lifetime. I'm not saying that you should beat God first, for that would be tantamount to arrogantly claiming that somehow you puny worthless human is able to beat God in whatever devious game it is that you are playing. I am merely saying that you should humble yourself before the Great Creator, and take the hint. That maybe that cold you are having is there for some holy mysterious reason, that maybe you should not try to alleviate the pain you are feeling, that maybe all you should do is let that cancer eat all your internal organs, that you should allow that infected part of yourself to grow and grow for that is the mysterious workings of the lord manifesting itself, saying that he wants you in heaven with him. Tags: george carlin

Typhoons

Oct 2, '09 1:48 PM

At the very least what I can say about God is that he doesn't give a fuck about us. At most, I would say that he is the author of all things and thus if anyone is to blame, then it is him. Note that I consider God as male because I honestly do not believe that God is a female simply because only a male, as the great comedian George Carlin said, would fuck things up like this. How does one make sense of all these suffering. Just earlier a friend sent me a text message which said that she's in the university infirmary because she just fainted. I immediately went there, bought her some bottled water, and while waiting for her to feel alright, an old man carrying a screaming child burst through the emergency room door. The upper left part of the child's face was covered in blood and at first glance I thought that it was his eye that was wrong with him. Following next was a man who turns out to be the driver and he keeps explaining to everyone that what happened was an accident. All the while me and my friend was hearing all this and she asks me what's happening. I tell her that it's nothing, that it's just a child that's got into an accident. The driver asks the doctor what he should do next. The doctor tells him to first calm down and that the best thing to do is to fill up these forms and take the victim to the nearest hospital because the infirmary does not have the proper equipment to deal with the child's injuries. And then they, all of them, the old man, the child he's carrying, the driver hurried out to go the nearest hospital. That was four hours ago and right now I am in the dormitory, in the TV room where I am listening to the news. In the news is the usual latest about the relief efforts of various agencies and various kindhearted people towards those gravely affected by the recent typhoon which hit the country four days ago and caused flooding which caused a few hundred people to die and thousands more to lose their homes to the mud and the water. What irks me about the rescue effort is that there is this feeling that there are those who do this helping others thing simply because it is a fashionable thing to do. I am

not saying that they are a bunch of hypocrites who aren't really committed to what they are doing. What I am saying is that there should be an air of solemnity and dignity about it. Several nights ago, they featured in the news all these celebrities helping in repacking all these goods. While the celebrities are engaged in such activity, the reporter keeps narrating how wonderful these celebrities are, how kind and caring, as if it is unusual for them to be occupied in such an activity. Why do I have this feeling that all this relief effort on the part of the celebrities is nothing but a publicity stunt by their respective entertainment corporations in order to show how good and kind they are. I mean, is it really necessary that they print their logo on all these plastic bags and other containers which contain all these relief goods? I don't know, call me unnecessarily cynical, but this is just my observation. I shudder at the thought of religious people who will say of this tragedy that it has a goodness in it in the sense that people held hands together, that people helped each other, that people's faith in God was strengthened more as is usually claimed during that time after an adversity has passed. What this only did to me was strengthen my idea that maybe God does not really care about us, that all this suffering is just so he has something to look at, something for him to pass the time by. Tags: hunger, god, bible, agnostic, hope, flood, typhoon, blasphemy, agnosticism

Nothing INteresting Happened Today

Apr 14, '09 11:02 AM

This is just one of those days where nothing happens except you have your heart broken because you learn that the girl who is to you the most beautiful girl in the world turns out not to be interested in you as a lover, but instead tells you that she merely wants to be friends and now its just too awkward when you see each other and so thats the end of your friendship and you bang your head on the wall when nobodys around because you are such a stupid stupid fool in so many ways, first is that you fell in love which is just about the stupidest thing that can happen and second because you fell in love with your best friend in the whole wide world which is the second most stupidest thing that you can do and now you are left with nothing, you are but a hollow shell of nothingness and now you start to read Buddhism and imagine a life as a Buddhist monk who lives in a secluded cave somewhere away from the hustle and bustle of life and all those cares and worries and heartaches of all those stupid mortals who are still imprisoned in the realm of samsara, the endless cycle of birth and rebirth, the endless

cycle of suffering, well endless only to those who remain in it, but to those who transcended samsara, those who withdrew from the world and into the realm of nirvana, to them, there is no more suffering, no more heartaches, no more sorrows of unrequited love. And you laugh at all those foolish mortals, those puny puny people of worthlessness, going about their lives as if nothing unusual happened, as if your heart has not been broken, as if they couldnt care less what happened to you, as if you are nothing but decaying organic matter which is true anyway, and theres nothing anyone can do about it. But you cry which is weird because Buddhist monks are known for controlling their emotions, for being so freakin stoic that not even being doused in kerosene and being lit with a match can make them flinch. You are not really a monk really, you are just one of those fakes who like to dress up like a Buddhist monk just to see what it feels like, just to know what being holy and religious and wise feels like. In truth you are just in denial, one big fake, so huge you block out the sun, so huge that plants start to die because they havent seen sunlight for weeks, months now because all you did all that time your heart was broken was just stand there and be heartbroken not noticing that the plants are dying and you are such a selfish selfish person because all you think about is your happiness and not the happiness of those other people and creatures around you. Being a plant isnt that much cause for being happy and being a dead plant is just worse. So you cast off your yellow robe and hair started to sprout out of your once shaven head and now you have long hair and you have a beard and you, now what are you supposed to be. Well you look like a Neanderthal, one of those ancient ancient people who hunted with spears, one of those hunter-gatherers who chased after buffaloes and lions and tigers and woolly mammoths and dinosaurs and aliens, well maybe not dinosaurs and aliens, but definitely some big mammals. And you have to do this in order to live; this is your way of life now, too engaged in the present to ever be worried in something as dumb and stupid as unrequited love. Everything is just so intense now and everyday is a struggle for survival. You are so hardcore now, you only take a bath whenever you feel like it and still you look cool because you know, the tribal look is always cool thats why all those rich people want to have their hair dreaded and be tattooed all over, they want to be a Neanderthal. But you do not give a fuck of these people because you are so busy making spearheads and arrowheads and all those other weapons that Neanderthals use and` yeah fuck them all, Im here just to survive. And one day you are chasing this woolly mammoth and then the woolly mammoth turns back and now its chasing you and you, in Neanderthal language, say fuck fuck and you run and you throw your spear and you say shit shit and you climb a tree and the Mammoth gets bored after a while and then leaves you there but now its night and youre alone and up above, because this is before agriculture was invented, before the age of the machine, before the age of automobiles, before the age of smoke from factories and chimneys, up above you see a glimpse of the freakin sky and its freakin filled with stars and so clear and beautiful that you start to think of something profound, something you think have been missing all your life, which is this something they call love. And you know this is being weak to think of this, this is being vulnerable to feel like this, this is being stupid to be like this, but hey what the hell can you do. You are just an evolved monkey up in a tree with no one to kiss. Tags: unrequited, neanderthal, story, nirvana, sad, unrequited love, samsara, siddhartha, buddhism, love

beautiful stranger

Dec 31, '08 9:23 AM

i kept telling her i cannot understand why a person would want to kill himself, but my head is screaming liar because i perfectly know what it feels like to lose all hope and wish for an end to one's existence. she was telling me about this aspiring young star who killed himself two days ago. it was headline news and the afternoon shows and talk shows were filled with sad famous faces giving their condolences and telling how sad, what a waste, such a tragedy, how awful, such a thing was. of course, they did not say that it was a suicide. they just say that it's tragic and that's all. what struck me was how casual she was about this, like what died was just some insignificant little gnat. and what was i expecting anyway, that she would cry like there's no tomorrow, like she actually cared. no. i was just surprised, that's all, because this is a side of her i haven't seen before. and the truth is that even though we've talked a lot, i don't really know her.

THE God of Riddick Dec 31, '08 8:52 AM we are brought into this world without our consent only to live a life of suffering. any sensitive individual cannot help but see that the world is an ugly terrible place. that in every happiness there is a corresponding amount of sorrow and grief. love is beautiful. but is it god's love when an infant dies from AIDS and hunger in Africa? Is it god's love when the world is drowning in a sea of sorrow? Did he create us in order to be aware of this massive amount of suffering? Well what kind of sick god is this? I would rather have it that he does not exist so that i can blame these terrible things that happen to bad circumstances or to plain human stupidity. but since you insist that god exists, then everything is his fault. i blame god for everything because isn't he supposed to be all-powerful and omniscient? well why does he not stop an innocent infant from dying? i am agnostic. i do not really give a fuck whether he exists or not. my position is somewhat similar to riddick (played by vin diesel in the greatest sci-fi

action movie ever: pitch black aka the chronicles of riddick) who when accused by an imam of not believing in god replied: "Think someone could spend half their life in a slam with a horse bit in their mouth and not believe? Think he could start out in some liquor store trash bin with an umbilical cord wrapped around his neck and not believe? Got it all wrong, holy man. I absolutely believe in God... And I absolutely hate the fucker." Tags: religion, atheist, vin diesel, god, agnostic, riddick, pitch black, science fiction

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ISRAEL !!?? (another pointless rant) Dec 31, '08 8:38 AM there is nothing wrong with israel. i commend israel for their bloodthirstiness. it just confirms my belief that human beings truly are heartless creatures who only think of whats good for themselves and the group that they were born to or chose to belong to. what israel should do is bomb the whole gaza strip. i want to see more innocent blood flowing. fuck hamas militants! what israel should be aiming for are those pregnant mothers, those children barely able to walk, young women, the sick and the aged. what they should do is drop this whole charade of appearing civil. the truth is that they hate the palestinians. they hate them with a hatred stemming from the marrow of their bones. without an audience to criticize them, crying foul or saying something regarding the morality of their actions (the UN, various bleeding-heart pro-palestinian groups) i doubt whether they would even hesitate to kill each and every palestinian they can lay their hands on. what i hate is them claiming that they are merely defending themselves. bullshit. if what they were aiming for was defense, then they would have ceased their occupation of palestine a long time ago. there is nothing wrong with israel. they are merely following the general judeo-christian tradition of blood, hatred and revenge. remember these are not wimpy christians. these are old school hardcore people. their god is still the jealous god of vengeance who demands sacrifice and who finds the smell of burning flesh quite pleasing. the old rule is still followed: "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" gandhi said that "an eye for an eye will make the whole world blind"

yeah? well fuck gandhi. all hail to israel! god's chosen people! Tags: palestine, israel, happy new year

Another Day Oct 31, '08 12:36 AM When you live like me, you have to expect the worst things to happen. I ask myself, what's the worst thing that can happen to me today. Someone could enter our classroom and start shooting every breathing thing in sight. Someone could kidnap me, bring me to some undisclosed location, and cut my testicles off, leaving me there bleeding. Thinking this way somehow eases the daily pain, and off I go into the world which is filled with fun and exciting adventures. When you live like me, you have to be creative, otherwise all those demons haunting your head will just crowd there and who knows what terrible things might happen. One might start clawing your brain, others could have a rave party and then it's just horrible because you can't stand techno-music. One of these demons could crawl towards your heart and it's just okay because it won't find anything in there, just a black hole the size of a million galaxies and a deep coldness that speaks of centuries of abandonment. Because when you're suicidal enough, when you're hopeless enough, when you think of yourself, as the ancient Sufis did, as a "dead man walking," when you have thought about life and realized that the worst thing that can happen is to die knowing that you have not lived at all, that it is much much better to "burn out than fade away", to be "shot down in a blaze of glory" than to crumple down like a wet cardboard, because when you think of all of these, you are free to do absolutely anything. (Sept.26,2008) Tags: motivation, hope

Cat Story Number Two

Oct 31, '08 12:24 AM

He is so tired that his thoughts have coagulated and is now cluttering his brain. He's writhing on the floor, his mouth foaming. He's staring at the ceiling and all that he could think about is why. Why. The door opens and enters Mike. Mike is tall and handsome, a little thin and pale, and seeing the boy on the floor, also asks himself why. Why. Mike clears his throat and with a loud booming voice declares that this event has happened before so there is absolutely no need to worry, that everything is going to turn out just fine, that somehow things will take care of themselves. Mike steps a little closer to the boy, stares at the boy. The boy stares back, all the while shaking uncontrollably. Mike stares back. The boy's snot is falling now, crawling so slowly like green honey. Flies enter from the open windows and land on the boy's face. Tasting the green phlegm issuing from the boy's nose, the flies, hopping here and there, ask themselves silently, why. Why.

A cool breeze enters and settles down on the floor. The boy meanwhile is vomiting blood now, spraying it violently like an overpressurized garden hose, all over the walls and the ceiling and floor. A curious black cat who has just been on a mouse-hunting expedition, peers inside the house and is shocked by what he sees. So shocked is he that years later, on his deathbed, he would remember that horrible scene, those two humans all drenched in blood, the standing one even dancing and shouting go go go, and cursed the day that he ever decided to look inside that old, decaying house. Now, the curious cat, eyes wide-open, ambles slowly, his knees shaking and his heart pounding like a crazy monkey, heading home, hoping that this is all some really weird dream. (oct. 9, 2008) Tags: cats, horror, halloween

Cat Story Number One

Oct 31, '08 12:17 AM

there was this kid and he was born with only one eye, one nostril, one ear and one testicle. we call him Juanito and he grew up to be the president of the United States of America. But more than fifty years earlier, Juanito was an illegal immigrant brought into the country by his parents longing for a wonderful future for their son. His parents were Maria and Carlos. Maria was born from a poor peasant family whose entire fortune vanished with the covering of their village with mud due to a landslide which occurred a decade before Juanito was born. Of course the name Juanito is a diminutive name which means 'little Juan,' and his proper name should be Juan, but people around him and those who knew him in his adolescence when he was a leader of a violent street gang engaged in various forms of brutalities such as rape, homicide, murder and of course kicking people in the head for no reason at all, got used to calling him Juanito and so that is how he came to be known as Juanito. But this story is not about Juanito, nor about his father who was a handsome man before he was bitten by a rabid rabbit which caused him to develop rabies and emaciated his figure so much that he literally lost his shadow. This has caused the family so much grief in the beginning for how can a man with ten children get a job looking like that? Yes, how can this be possible? But due to the kindness and grace of God, and also of the man's inherent ingenuity, he fashioned a small show where he would demonstrate his amazing ability. The entrance fee then was about a dollar, and with that you could also bring along your girlfriend. What he did was he had someone shine a light on him from an electric lamp hung above the tent. His lack of shadow caused a great furor among the religious community for they believed it that it cannot be possible that a man can live without his shadow. He was summoned to the Vatican by the Pope himself and upon demonstrating his ability, the Pope denounced him as a heretic, a child of Satan and so on and so forth, etc etc, with such vehemence that the tourists were shocked that such medieval pageantry still exists in this modern world of the internet and laptops and ultrathin Ipods and Iphones. No, this story is not about Juanito's father. Nor of his other nine children. This story is about the family cat. What is particularly interesting about this cat is that it does not care. Yes, this cat does not care. As proof of this uncaring attitude, he once told Juanito that he does not care. Juanito asked him, do you care? And the cat replied, Fuck you, I am the Cat, and I Do not Care. With that the matter was settled and he came to be known as the Cat Who Does Not Care. People from all over the world came to the family's decaying shack besides the now-abandoned show-tent in order to see for themselves the uncaringness of this amazing cat. The cat by the way is colored pink, he is chubby and covered with a really wonderful fur. His tail is short and curls into a spiral going upwards like the tip of forest ferns. A child once touched his tail and he scratched the child's face. He does not like it when someone touches his tail or any part of himself for that matter. He takes pride in the fact that no one has ever successfuly touched him without getting scratched in the face. A German coupled asked him once: 'Ver ist der Continuum Transfunctioner?" The cat did not look at themm, nor was even aware of their existence, to the amazement of the adoring crowd. Yes, other cats can not care too, but no one can not care like the Cat Who Does not Care. Yes, and that is the end of this story. (sept. 14, 2008) Tags: cats, immigration, america election, vote of obama

A Demon Falls in Love

Oct 3, '08 7:32 AM

Let me start by saying that I am a creature of hell. I was born from the fires of the burning lake of suffering where the souls of corrupt politicians and pedophile priests are interred for all eternity. I was begotten out of the last dying screams of Japanese Kamikaze pilots as they plunged themselves into American battleships, born out of the wailings of mothers of murdered Armenians in the Armenian genocide. Yeah, that's how fucked up I am. That's why when she appeared one fine morning in my life, all I could think about was how to best bang my head on the wall in order to banish any thoughts of her. I was not made to feel this way. Satan must have made me as some sort of a joke. That ironic bastard. Now i'm the laughing stock of all hell-dom. To feel this way is the worst thing that a demon like me can feel. To be miserable and in despair, to suffer various bodily aches and pains, these things I can take, but to be in her presence, to smell her sweet perfume, to see her smile, to hear her words when she's speaking to me, to hear her cute chuckle, to see her face, to simply be aware that she exists, these things my little demon heart cannot bear. And she is close to me, and I wonder now how in the world did this happen. She tells me her worries and problems like I'm her best friend or something, and fool that I am I tell her of my problems and interests as well. Whenever I'm with her I always try hard to make her laugh, because her voice must be what heaven is like. SHe tells me of her worries and problems and I find myself commiserating. COMMISERATING. I am all too aware that this is never ever going to work. For she is all that is good and beautiful and worth living for in this suffering world. SHe is sunlight, she is sweet rain, she is pure life-giving air. She is kindness and brightness, compassion and beauty. She is an angel. Tags: love, world peace

Kung Paano Pumatay ng Diyos

Aug 12, '08 7:17 AM

Kung Paano Pumatay ng Diyos: Perspektiba ng Isang Anarkista sa sitwastong Relihiyo-Pulitikal ng Pilipinas ni narodniki Sana may maglakas-loob na i-assassinate si Gloria Macapagal Arroyo. Hindi man ito makakaresolba sa krisis pambansa, at least makaganti man lamang tayo sa kawalanghiyaang pinaggagawa ng kanyang pamumuno sa ating bansa. Ika nga ng prof ng isa kong kaibigan: "how can so much evil be concentrated in such a small person"? Ang kasagutan lamang ay na institutionalized na o permeated na sa political reality ng bansa natin ang kawalang moralidad at integridad ng mga umano'y namumuno sa atin - mga mayayamang burgis na magkakaugnay sa negosyo, o sa kasal o sa pamilya o sa pagkakaibigan. Dahil dito, nadi-diffuse ang responsibilidad - turuan na lamang nang turuan hanggang sa maging tuliro ang sinumang gustong papanagutin ang mga maysala sa ating lipunan. So yun nga, kailangang may pumatay kay gloria (at hindi lamang si gloria, kundi pati na rin nga ang mga kagaya niya i.e. mga trapo o traditional politicians)

So ang problema ngayon ay kung "sino ang ating ipapalit." Ang mentalidad na ito ay isang napakababaw na pag-assess sa kinabukasan ng pagpapabagsak sa isang rehimen. E kung hindi na natin palitan? E kung gawin na lamang na mga autonomous regions ang bawat mga probinsya? E kung iabolish na lamang ang kasalukuyang uri ng pamamahala? Gawin na lamang na pederalismo ang pamumuno, kung saan ang mga likas na yaman ng bawat rehiyon ay unang-unang babagsak sa hapag ng mga nangangailan nito sa mismong rehiyong iyon? Nasanay tayong mga Pilipino sa isang paternalistikong lipunan kung saan inaasa na lamang natin ang ating mga buhay sa ilalim ng isang makapangyarihang tao, dahil dito, nagtatagumpay ang burukrasya at estado sa paghihiwalay at pagsupil sa atin, dahil dito ang itinatanong na lamang natin ay, "sino ang ating ipapalit" Masasabi na ang paternalistikong pananaw na ito ay nag-ugat sa pagpapasailalim sa ating mga Pilipino sa relihiyong Katolisismo. Ang Hudeo-Kristiyanong Tradisyong imported pa mula sa Espanya na pinalaganap ng mga prayle dito sa atin ay nagturo ng isang maalalahaning DIyos na omnipresente, omnisyente at higit sa lahat ay omnipotente. Isang kritisismong pangkasalukuyan sa konsepsyon ng Diyos sa Kristiyanismo ay na mas masahol pa ito sa isang estadong Totalitaryan. Sa isang Estadong Totalitaryan, kapag namatay ka na ay malaya ka na sa galamay ng estado. Wala nang mag-oobserba sa iyong mga gawain, wala nang magsasabi sa iyo na ang iyong ginagawa ay naaayon o hindi naaayon sa mga pag-uutos ng pangulo o ni "Big Brother." Ngunit sa Kristiyanismo, ang bawat kilos mo, ang iyong kalikasan bago ka pa man ipanganak, ang bilang ng mga buhok sa iyong ulo, ang eksaktong bilang ng cells sa iyong katawan, ang iyong kalikasan matapos ka mamatay, itong lahat ay napapasailalim sa pagmamatyag at obserbasyon ng isang Diyos - isang matandang lalaking Diyos na nakasuot ng puti. Kung sa lupa ay nariyan ang mga sundalo at mga pulis para patahimikin ang sinumang kalaban ng estado, sa langit ay mas malala - naririyan ang mga walang-awang anghel (taliwas sa pananaw ng karamihan na ang mga anghel ay mga cute na Europeong sanggol na may maliliit na pakpak na pagalagala sa hangin upang panain ang mga inosenteng tao gamit ang kanilang palaso ng pag-ibig, ang anghel na inilalarawan as Matandang Tipan o Old Testament ay tila mga pambihirang nilalang na walang pinagkaiba sa isang halimaw) upang ipatupad ang Kanyang ninanais. Ngunit kung iisipin, di ba't Siya nga'y Omnipotente, so bakit pa niya kinakailangan ang mga anghel na ito? Bored lang ba siya? Trip lang? So yun nga, ang modelo natin ng isang pinuno ay nahulma mula sa pananaw natin ng Isang Makapangyarihang Diyos na namumuno mula sa kanyang gintong trono sa langit, konseptong imported pa from Spain. (kaya hindi nakapagtataka ang mga balita kung saan nakikipag-usap daw sa Diyos ang ating mga pangulo, at hindi na rin nakakagulat na ayon mismo sa mga pangulong ito, sila ay "ginusto ng Panginoon para maging pinuno ng Pilipinas.") Ngunit maaari rin namang sabihin na hindi lahat ay nadadaan sa dahas, na pwede namang idaan sa maboteng usapan, na tayo ay mga rasyonal na mga nilalang na may mga sentido-komon at bukas ang isipan sa mga ideyang inihahapag sa ating harapan, kumbaga, we should take the "moral high ground." Ang pananaw na ito ay isang paghamak sa kakayahan ng dahas upang magbigay-catharsis o magbigaylinaw o ginhawa sa puot na ating nararamdaman. Ang pananaw na ito ay isang paghamak sa therapeautic na kakayahan ng dahas, ng abilidad nitong palayain tayo mula sa kulungan ng impotence, ng powerlessness o kawalang-kapangyarihan. Kung ang estado nga ay gumagamit ng dahas upang mapanatili ang kaniyang kapangyarihan, tayo pa kaya na mas mabigat ang dahilan? Ito ay sapagkat ang paggamit natin ng dahas ay upang lumaya, hindi ang pagpapanatili sa isang sistemang alam naman nating lahat na bulok na (i.e. gaya ng ginagawa ng mga militar at pulis)

Related ito sa konsepto nating mga Pinoy ng hiya. Let's take a concrete example mula sa tunay na buhay: ginahasa ang nakababata mong kapatid ng anak ng mayor sa inyong probinsya, bilang panganay sa inyong magkakapatid ikaw ay may obligasyon na bawiin ang dangal ng iyong pinagsamantalahang kapatid, sapagkat ang hiya ng iyong kapatid ay hindi lamang sa kanya. At stake ay ang dangal ng buong pamilya, ng buong angkang Juan dela Cruz. Kaya isang araw habang nakikipag-inuman ang anak ng mayor ay lalapit ka mula sa likod at papaulanan ng bala ang walanghiyang spoiled brat na anak ng mayor na iyon. Of course, armado rin siya, ngunit huli na ang lahat sapagkat pataas pa lamang ang bote ng kumag para uminom ng cerveza ay nakapang-ulam na ito ng hot lead. Tapos armado rin ang kanyang mga kainuman, so sabi mo, pare, walang personalan, alam nyo naman kung paano nilapastangan ng hayop na ito ang aking kapatid. Kung kayo sa kalagayan ko pare, anong gagawin nyo, kung kayo ang may ... ngunit hindi pa tapos ang speech mo ay nagpaputok na ang iyong mga kalaban. Dalawampu silang lahat na pinatumba mo gamit lamang isang cuarenta y cinco, ni hindi ka man lang tinuluan ng pawis. Tapos sabi mo, ayaw nyo kasing makinig, tangina nyong lahat. But seriously, kailangan lamang nating ilipat ang konseptong ito sa pangkalahatang kalagayan ng ating bansa. Gaya ng nakababatang kapatid na ginahasa, ang ating Pilipinas ngayon, ang Perlas ng Silanganan (Rizal: "Perla del mar de Oriente, Nuestro perdido Eden"), ay ginagahasa at nilalapastangan ng Gobyernong wala nang ginawa simula't sapul nang ito'y iluklok ng mga dayuhan dito sa ating mga nagdurusang Isla, kundi ang pagsilbihan ang interes ng mga nasa labas, ng mga nasa tuktok ng hirarkiyang panlipunan, pampulitika atbp. Ang mga minerales na nasa ilalim ng ating mga lupain ay kinakamkam at hinuhugot gaya ng paghugot sa isang fetus sa sinapupunan ng kanyang walang malay na ina, at iniluluwas sa ibang bansa upang doon ay mapakinabangan. Ang ating lakas paggawa, ang mga propesyonal nating mga manggagawa ay kinakailangang lumuwas tungo sa ibang bansa upang may maipakain lamang sa kanilang mga pamilya. Ang mga estudyante, mga lider-manggagawa, mga magsasaka, mga mamamahayag, ang lahat na komokontra sa gobyerno ay dinudukot ng militar, tinotorture at pinapatay, etc, etc, etc, etc. Shit, napakadepressing naman nito. Kaya nga tayong mga pinoy ay mahilig magpatawa. Ang pagtawa ay isang coping mechanism para maibsan ang bigat ng ating mga problema. Gaano man kahangal at kababaw ng patawa, tayo ay tumatawa. Paano pa ba maipapalawanag ang popularidad ng mga grotesqueries na ating napapanood sa telebisyon kada tanghali, kada gabi? Nariyan din ang popularidad ng mga pelikula ukol sa pag-ibig. Nariyan din ang mga fantaserye at mga samu't saring Koreanovelas, Chinovelas, Mexicanovelas, Japanovelas. Nariyan ang ating pagkahumaling sa mga bagong blockbuster na mga pelikulang isinusubo sa atin ng makinarya ng panaginip (factory of dreams), ang Hollywood.

Kilala natin lahat ang mga sikat na Amerikanong celebrity, bukod pa sa pantheon ng mga artista dito sa ating bansa. Ang masasabi ko lamang, ang aking obserbasyon, ay na ang pag-ilag nating ito sa naghuhumindik na katotohanang nakakaharap natin sa lansangan kada araw ay nakakasuka, at balang araw, ito ang magiging dahilan ng pag-aakusa sa atin ng ating mga anak at magiging apo na tayo ay wala nang inisip kundi takasan ang ating responsibilidad na mabigyang katarungan ang panghahalay sa ating Inang Bayan. Ang ating pagkagumon sa alak at sugal, sa mga DVD at samu't sari pang mga pansariling interes, ito ang krus kung saan tayo ay ipapako ng ating mga apo. Tayo ay sisisihin nila sapagkat hindi natin inisip ang kanilang kinabukasan, na tayo ay makasarili at wala nang ginawa kundi ang "humayo at magpakarami" at hindi na inisip ang kalidad ng buhay na ating maibibigay.

Sapat na ba sa atin ang mabuhay na lamang? Mamuhay na parang daga? na parang hayop? kahit ano na basta mabuhay lang? Kung ganito kababaw ang ating layunin sa buhay, wala na tayong ipinagkaiba sa mga zombie na ating nakikita sa mga popular na pelikula mula sa Hollywood. Tayo ay mga zombie na anak lamang nang anak, parami nang parami, walang pakialam sa kondisyon, sa kalidad ng buhay, sapagkat kailangang mabuhay. Makikita ito sa pag-iinsist ng simbahang katoliko sa pagiging isang kasalanan ng paggamit ng condom at IUD, basta hindi raw 'natural' ito ay hindi gusto ni Lord at malaki ang posibilidad na ikaw, o butihing tapat at tunay na Katolikong Kristiyanong Pinoy ay ma-impyerno kung saan ikaw ay iba-barbecue ni Satanas panghabampanahon. Pero sa halimbawa na rin ng Kristiyanismo mismo ay hindi tiyak ang pagiging epektibo ng 'natural' na pamamaraan. Kung iisipin, hindi ba't ang pinaka-natural na kontrasepsyon ay ang abstinence, kung saan ang polisiyang sinusunod ay 'no sex at all'? Ngayon, paano nyo ipapaliwanag ang pagkakabuntis ni Maria? Kung ang itinataguyod ng simbahan ay ang pagiging sagrado ng buhay, hindi ba't ang pamumuhay na parang isang hayop, ang pag-iral (existence) na walang dignidad, ang pamamalimos, ay isang uri ng paglapastangan sa mismong konseptong ito? Noong una, gaya ng isang mabuting batang pinalaki sa isang pamilyang Katoliko, ako'y naniwala sa Diyos, matapos akong tumuntong ng haiskul ay unti-unting nawala ang paniniwala kong ito, hanggang ituring ko na ang aking sarili bilang isang ateista. Pagkagradweyt ko sa haiskul at sa paglawak ng aking pananaw, sa aking mga pagbabasa sa mga libro dito sa aklatan ng Unibersidad, napag-alaman ko ang kababawan ng ateismo. Mababaw ito sapagkat ito ay umiiral sa pagkontra lamang sa konsepto ng teismo o ang katotohanan ng pag-iral ng Diyos. Naitanong ko, e ano ngayon kung walang Diyos? Ano ang kabuluhan ng kawalan ng Diyos? Kung ang existence niya lang naman pala ang problem ko, eh tapos na ang problema ko - iisipin ko lamang na walang scientific evidence na magpapatunay nito. Pero hindi ito ang ugat ng aking pagtalikod. At dito papasok ang konsepto ng Budhismo isang sistema ng pag-iisip (hindi ko ito tatawaging 'relihiyon' o 'pananampalataya' sapagkat mismong ang Buddha ay nagsabing "huwag maniwala nang agad-agad sa mga itinuturo sa iyo, kumbaga use your head", bagay na taliwas sa konsepto ng pananampalataya o relihiyon kung saan tatanggapin mo lang na katotohanan ang mga dogma nang walang tanong-tanong kumbaga "shut up and swallow this or else") kung saan walang konsepto ng isang all-powerful, all-knowing Diyos nang gaya sa Kristiyanismo. Maging ang Hindung (Indian, Bombay) konsepto ng 'atman' o 'soul' ay hindi na mahalaga sa sistema ng pag-iisip na ito. So astig di ba, isang sistema ng pag-iisip (hindi relihiyon) na itinatapon lamang na parang basura ang mga konseptong sentral sa Kristiyanismo gaya ng "God" at "soul." At bakit nga ba ako napaibig sa sistemang ito? Sa simpleng kadahilanang nasapul nito ang pinakamahalagang mga katanungan na dapat tanungin ng lahat ng tao habang siya'y nabubuhay, humihinga at umiibig - kung bakit nagdurusa ang tao, kung bakit may mga taong gahaman, kung bakit may mga taong walang-puso, paano maging mabait at maawain (compassionate) na tao. Iilan lamang ito sa mga katanungang binigyang sagot ng Buddha. Mahalagang alalahanin na maging ang Buddha mismo ay nagsabing huwag agad paniwalaan ang kanyang sinasabi, bagkus idaan muna ito sa isang masusing pagsusuri, sapagkat "walang ibang makakasalba sa iyo, kundi ang iyong sarili." May Diyos man o wala, ang katotohanang aking dinaranas ay na ang mga tao ay nagdurusa, tayo ay nagkakasakit, tumatanda, tayo ay naaaksidente, nahuhulog sa tuktok ng mga gusali, nahuhulog sa tuktok ng mga billboard, tayo ay dumaranas ng emosyonal at pisikal na mga kasakitan, may mga inosenteng (ngunit ayon sa Simbahan walang taong inosente: namana natin ang original sin nina Adan at Eba) tao ngayon habang binabasa mo ito na ginugulpi, may mga kababaihan habang binabasa mo ito na ginagahasa o sinasaktan, may mga sanggol ngayon sa Aprika na namamatay sa gutom at sa sakit

(AIDS), may mga tao ngayong binabasag ang bungo dahil siya ay isang komunista, ayon sa mga militar. Ang pag-iral ng, sa aking palagay, di-kinakailangang pagdurusa (sa orihinal na konseptong Budhismo, ito ay tinatawag na 'dukkha', so may linguistic relationship sa Tagalog at Sanskrit diba?) ay siyang pangunahing dahilan kung bakit kailangang ibalikwas ang tradisyunal na paniniwang Kristiyanismo, sapagkat isipin nyo nga, mahirap irreconcile ang ideyang mayroong isang mabait at makapangyarihang Diyos sa langit na kayang gawin lahat ngunit ni ang pagsagip sa buhay ng isang inosenteng bata ay hindi ginagawa, kailangan pa nga siyang dasalan at pagsindihan ng mga kandila, hindi ba't alam na nga niya ang lahat, bakit kailangan pa siyang hilingan? Gusto lang ba niya nang feeling na may sumasamba sa kanya? Na siya ay kinatatakutan at iniiyakan? Kung ganon ay ano ang kanyang ipinagkaiba sa mga walang pusong pulitiko na naghahari-harian sa Pilipinas sa kasalukuyan? http://www.scribd.com/doc/4706229/Kung-Paano-Pumatay-ng-Diyos Tags: anarchism, buddhism, philippines, pinoy, pinas, diliman, up diliman, politics, religion, faith, yfc, catholicism, colonialism, third world, imperialism, terrorism, orwell, huxley, camus, sartre, pinoy, pinas, pilipinas, god, death, bakunin, kropotkin, nihilism, existentialism 0 comments edit delete

THe Divine Boredom of the Unholy Immortal One Jun 27, '08 8:35 AM for everyone Bored to the depths of his being, God, the Father, the Creator looked down from his golden throne in the heavens down to what looks like a microscopic single speck of blue dust. Magnified several million times, this tiny speck of blue dust, turns out to be the planet Earth. Out of the infinite worlds in the infinite universe, God chooses to direct his attention to this piece of floating cosmic debris. An angel approaches and asks what's the matter. God sighs. The angel, which looks like a flourescent light bulb in human form, repeats the question. God looks at the angel. The angel looks at him straight in the eye, a million eyes to be exact, covering every inch of his body. Unlike the image popularized by Christian evangelists of an old grandfatherly figure with long white hair and beard, draped in immaculate flowing robes, God is actually this mass of eyes clumped together. Besides this tiny mistake, the followers of Jesus Christ as they claim themselves to be, has a pretty accurate picture of what God truly is like. For this God here my friend, is not a kind, forgiving, loving God; this God is the god of anger and jealousy and vengeance and retribution so you better not mess with him. And now this God is bored and is being interrogated by a nosy angel arrogant enough to assume that somehow it can alleviate the boredom that only beings as powerful as the God of Moses and Abraham can possibly experience. He glared at the angel and told it to please fuck off. He slumps on his throne and with his right hand, picks up the

remote and turns on the television.

The Television Is a Soul-Sucking Machinery Designed To Kill The Imagination Jun 27, '08 8:24 AM The stars were the same millions of years ago as they are now, and we fail to notice them. For deep inside the confines of our homes, our eyes are glued to the mundane spectacle of television reality TV shows. Well guess what, that's your reality right there - sitting in front of a box that emits sound and light. There's your life right there slowly but surely dripping, rotting away. Staring up at the night sky, one cannot but feel enlightened. These stars, these very same twinkling, shimmering stars are the same ones that my grandfather's grandfather's grandfather's..............have seen and I am looking at it now the same way that they must have looked at it. Time disappears and all those ancestors are here with you right now, looking at those stars. ================================= END OF PAGE THREE =============== Nostalgia and Suicidal THoughts Under the Searing heat of the Afternoon Sun Jun 27, '08 8:11 AM

The overpass that one must pass in order to get to Trinoma, a gargantuan box of a mall, from SM North, a much older gargantuan box of a building, is colored pink. The cement stairs are littered with plastic cups, plastic wrappers of candies, cigarette butts and all the other tiny garbage one finds in the cement steps of a public place heavy with human traffic. An old beggar, dressed in rags that looks like it has been soaked in automobile oil, coated with a layer of dust and then left to dry for several weeks, squats in the step halfway to the top of the stairs. He stares at that empty space a few feet beyond his eyes as if hypnotized by an invisible magical fairy. He thrusts out his right arm, at the end of which is a grime-covered hand holding a transparent plastic cup. Inside the cup are several coins. His other hand lazily scratches the sole of his left foot. A few steps upward are two beggar children attired the same way, one is asleep and the other is seated beside the sleeping one, muttering to himself while stroking the sleeping one's hair. The sea of people climbing the steps just ignore them and they walk on briskly, quickly, as if one must not linger in this space longer than a few milliseconds or the whole tapestry of the universe will unravel, as if the whole order of the world depends on their getting to wherever it is that they are supposed to be going at this present important moment. Several of the people wear shades and

earphones, shutting out the glare of the afternoon sun, the magic of veiling the afternoon world in a pleasant shade by simply putting colored pieces of glass or plastic in front of one's eyes; shutting through popular music blaring through their skulls the noise of the trucks, jeepneys, buses, motorcycles, private vehicles, flowing underneath the overpass like a sea of howling metal mechanical monsters on rubber tires. The smell is something that they cannot totally shut out unfortunately. The carbon monoxide from the exhausts, the dust rising from the surface of the cement steps, saturates the air and together with the smoke from someone's cigarette completes the mixture that enters their lungs and fills their air sacs with life-giving air. Several years ago, back in the province where I came from, our teacher told us about her experience in Manila. One image that really stuck with me was of how she would clean her nose with a white handkerchief and that part of the handkerchief which she cleaned her nose with, she told us, would come out darkened with grime from the smoke she inhaled while walking through the streets of the city. That's how terrible the air there is, she told us. And now, standing here, I realize the truth of her words. I have been in the capital of the country for more than two years now and through all that time, the only beautiful spot that I know of are the tree-lined streets of the Academic Oval of the University of the Philippines Diliman. Maybe it's the nostalgia seeping in, all those memories at my father's farm, lying on a hammock under the shade of trees, the leaves filtering the rays of the sun. Every now and then someone will be kind enough to drop a coin into the old man's cup. When this happens, the old man mumbles something. It could be a prayer, an incantation, a very short song, an apology, or simply words of gratitude. Or it could simply be nonsense spouting out of a brain, dried and hardened throught constant exposure to the rays of the merciless urban sun. It could be the conditioned reflex of a Pavlovian dog trained by the clinking of coins, by the minute addition of weight in the plastic cup, to produce vibrations in his voicebox. But then maybe not and maybe I'm the one hallucinating here because of the heat.

Anger And Unnameable Emotions OVer the Fucked Up Craziness Of My Mother Country '08 8:09 AM

Jun 27,

Manuel L. Quezon is an arrogant paternalistic asshole who wallows in his own excrement of selfimportance and ignorance. He thinks he is so righteous and so right and so secure in his dedication that the Filipinos should have a goddamn national language. He thinks oh so nationalistic when in fact he is nothing but a goddamn puppet by the goddamn american imperialist corporations who shove their dicks up his ass and wiggle him around for a bit, shake his goddamn internal organs for a while and then they shove it deeper and deeper and deeper until the fucker dies. And on the third day the little fucker is ressurected and the people beat him back to death but the fucker just won't die and now he is glowing off the white light of holiness that saints are supposed to emit. And a statue is made in his honor and like all the goddamn statues in this goddamn country, it sheds tears. But not only tears. It also pisses and shits and mucus drips from its mouth every day during the Holy Week and people from around the country would flock to this statue and then they would wipe their immaculate white handkerchief with the liquid emissions of the holy statue. And then they would apply the handkerchief to whoever it is tha is sick and that sick person would lapse into a coma and die within minutes. Goddamn I hate all these fucking politicians and this is the only way that I can get back at them for fucking this country really bad. Why am I so angry you ask. For the simple reason that I love this country so much that's why. Because in my dreams I often see her in her splendor and glory, before she was defiled by all these parasites that came from across the seas in order to 'civilize' her. And the parasites have grown and multiplied in the soil of this country and more than five hundred years later, the rot and the defilement has sunk so deep within her flesh that I cannot bear to look at her anymore. Sometimes I wish for the total annihilation of everything that exists, that all these ugliness be wiped out off the face of the earth and then everything starts anew. Beautiful fresh flowers, green surroundings, air so fresh and clean it feels as if with every breath another year is added to your life. And when you look up there are no airplanes and helicopters and electrical wires, only the trees and their leaves and the birds. The ground your standing on is nothing but soil, not dead cement. But who am I kidding? Such things will never ever happen for the simple reason that the parasite that came from the west has infested us so thoroughly that any attempt at authenticity is an attempt to create something out of nothing, an impossibility, a futility. Everywhere there is this feeling of sickness and death. Everywhere hypocrisy reigns for behind the smiles and the beauty are liposuctions and botox injections and breast augmentations and old people want to look young and young children they want to grow old fast and start having sex at thirteen years of age and the great herd of mindless zombies, simply follow the same stupid road followed by generations upon generations of their ancestors who worshipped the same gods and deities. Nothing ever changes in this place. It just decays and dies, no, it does not even die. It's like an ugly old vain rich woman who because she wants to preserve whatever is left of her youthfulness goes through great lengths like injecting her bloodstream with formaline and mercury and other heavy metals just so the fake suppleness of her mutated white skin is retained. Why can't she just fucking die! There is nothing here but the same feeling of helplessness that people feel everywhere. Where the awakened ones with pure hearts and even purer intentions cannot survive in this toxic environment of apathy and moral callousness. Everyone is busy, so busy minding their own business, so busy getting rich and powerful and successful and complete. Everyone wants to be fucking complete. Stupid fucks. Me, I just want to blow up all the goddamn government buildings that infest the country. All I want is the simple dream of seeing all of these goddamn spawns of satan politicians hanged and quartered and their mansions and imported automobiles blown up with dynamite, then if a stick still remains upright,

that too is to be burned down. And then when not a trace of them is left, the soil that their mansions were once built on will be sprinkled with salt so that nothing will ever grow out of that godforsaken soil. These people, these benevolent assholes, paternalistic self-serving liars and hypocrites, these good-for-nothing lowlives, worse than the most disgusting tapeworm that you can think of, these are the leaders of this Goddamn Filipino Nation and these fuckers they have the ability, they constantly claim in the news, of speaking to GOD. These heartless creatures with no morality whatsoever, grown fat and pale by the suffering of people, these narrow-minded pigs, they think, they breathe nothing but thoughts of staying in power. May they all suffer an eternity in hell. Tags: traditional politics, trapo, pilipino, pinas, pinoy, rant

What Our Beloved Country Needs is a GOddamn Bloody REvolution

Jun 27, '08 8:00 AM

Soon after the Jacobins took power in the French Revolution, heads started to fall; literally. Those accused of conspiring against the Revolution, whom the Jacobins monopolized for themselves, were sentenced to the guillotine. Of course before this happened there was that thing with that French king and Queen Marie Antoinette. But after that, it was not the nobility that was killing people on behalf of an ideology, it was the people themselves. And I think, this element of killing not only those from our own class but also those of higher or lower distinction than ourselves, is what is missing in these calls for People Power in the Philippines. There is this feeling of apathy and general so-sick-of-this-ness that is currently ingrained in the marrows of each Filipino intelligent enough to yearn for change in the current system, but too much of a conservative to even think of actually picking up an AK 47 and battling it out with government forces in the streets of Manila. I sincerely believe that this sickness can only be cured if somehow we break out of that shell and start killing people. But not just any people. Ask yourself, if you are given a gun and the opportunity to kill a person, who would that person be? It is only necessary to keep one's eyes open to the news in the mainstream Filipino mass media to find the answer.

But why should we do this? The answer can best be explained with an introduction of a word. Catharsis. Catharsis is a Greek word which means 'a flushing out' a sort of 'deep cleansing'. This cleansing is of an almost spiritual kind. All the dirt and the muck and grime of cynicism is, in the long run, bad for the soul. Human beings have this longing for something that is pure. And that feeling one gets when one has cleansed oneself of moral and spiritual pollution is called catharsis. The Buddha once used the lotus flower as a metaphor to explain the state of nirvana. Out of the mud, the muck, the disgusting slime of the bottom of the pond, there is anchored firmly the roots of the lotus plant. The stem grows up, up and above several inches of water and at the top of the stem is the beautiful, white, pure lotus flower. The lotus flower symbolizes the catharsis that can be achieved. The slime and mud symbolizes our current state of deep apathy, cynicism and denial. Tags: revolution, war, bloody insurrection, anger, people power, pinoy, traditional politics, trapo

Sleepless in Diliman Jun 14, '08 12:40 AM jun7,2008, saturday started reading daisetz suzuki's translation of the mahayanist text lankavatara sutra last night. am now in the part where he explains the irregularities in the chapters of the text: "Some Remarks Concerning the Text." My observation is that daisetz suzuki's introduction is very technical and yet somehow very

enlightening. somehow understood today the concept of the Mind-Only (cittamarta), also learned a few sanskrit? words, the one i like most is nirodha or 'cessation.'which is a synonym for nirvana, satori, enlightenment. my plan, which I have just conceived a few minutes ago, is to start reading all the pertinent buddhist texts that i am capable of getting my hands on. starting to think that somehow i should start taking this buddhism interest of mine seriously. also planning on starting this regular journal to provide some objectivity and for something to look back to in some future time. today i have also started exercising. a thousand punches here, a few squats there, and some sort of boxing. still no room mate, although there is a possibility of one because of the stuff i found when i transferred to this new room. when I came back to this dormitory from home (wednesday, june 4) I was given the key to a room where it was later realized that I was the only undergraduate in the wing reserved only for graduates. the mistake was soon corrected and so here i am in this new room. the usual insomnia during nights. still can't sleep soundly. had this nagging fear about spirits of aborted babies out to get me. slight paranoia i think. it started because of that conversation i had with the taxi driver who brought me here. while on the road approaching campus grounds, we started talking about cris mendez, that graduating student who died because of hazing. and from there things started to get more bloody. he asked me whether i have ever felt some weird ghost thing in the campus such as tiyanaks or something. i told him no i havent and asked him why, and he said that female students get pregnant in the campus and because they do not want to raise a child, they abort the infant and so the restless spirit of dead babies. the bastard, now i can't sleep

Campuswalk Blues (ruminations of the crazy kind) Mar 1, '08 7:16 AM The nothing walks around the campus grounds of the university where he is currently enrolled as a Bachelor of Arts Major. All that he really wanted was a simple life in a simple house made of nipa leaves and bamboo. All that he really wanted in life was to spend afternoons sleeping under the shade of his plants and during the nighttime to play his guitar by the side of a great roaring fire. During particularly hot days he would go out and swim in a nearby stream where along with the carabaos

downstream he would wallow in the cool refreshing water. But no. He is in here walking the campus grounds, staring at the sidewalk, gazing at that space where he would land his feet next. He is walking briskly, silently, disinterestedly, and GOd knows what he is thinking. After several hours of walking the campus grounds, he walks back toward his dormitory where he currently lives. The dormitory is a two-storey complex shaped like a C with sharp, angular turns ( [ ). He enters the lobby and sees the evil smirk of the security guard behind her control desk which faces directly the sofas where guests are entertained in front of the communal television. there's no one there today. He walks past the lobby and into the long corridor towards his room. 141, it says above the door. He pulls out the key from his pocket, inserts it in the vertical hole on the door knob and hears the tiny tumblers go into their places allowing him to turn the key and then the knob with ease. He opens the door and is horrified by what he sees inside. The giant octopus fills almost half of his room. It's slimy tentacles filling the floor with its shiny mucus like what snails leave behind in their trails only this one is still wet and shiny. The octopus, with its two eyes, stares at him, blinking, conveying the empty darkness from the depths of its being, like the depths of the ocean where it came from - the Pacific. The nothing screams and wakes up moments later to realize that he has been dreaming all of this. Although which parts were the dream and which parts were reality he's not certain. He rises up from his disheveled bed and looks at the floor to check for slime. Nothing. Everything has been a dream. And if everything has been a dream, then who is he? Is he also a dream? Can he be certain of his reality? And so asking himself these questions he pinches himself in his right hip. There seems to be something wrong with his flesh for when he looked at his fingers, the fingers which pinched his hips, there is a bit of flesh that came off. He looks at his leg and sees a steady stream of blood flowing down from his leg into the floor where it is slowly collecting into a puddle. A puddle of blood, he muses, right here in my dormitory room and I'm already late for class. He starts to dress himself and he just lets the wound drip so that he leaves splotches wherever his right shoe lands in the corridor floor. He looks back and feels as if his room is so far away and that he's been walking for miles now and still he does not find the way out of the building. Suddenly cats start to emerge out of the garbage bins and then chases him and so he runs. Dammit, I'm very very late already, he thinks. He looks back to see if the cats are still following him. They are licking his blood off the floor. Damn cats. I knew I should simply have followed my dream of living in a small hut in my parents' farm. Damn all these ambitions and the demands of society for human automatons, skilled only in doing whatever it is that is told to them. Where's the creativity man, where's the quality, where's the, as Erich Fromm would say it "spontaneous activity" that is the only way that human beings can escape from the totalitarianism of modern existence?

Suffering and the existence of God Mar 1, '08 7:07 AM The four qualities of the Christian God: 1. Omniscience God knows everything that is going on currently in the present, those that have happened in the past, and those things that will happen in the future 2. Omnipresence God has total existence, God exists everywhere 3. Omnipotence God can do anything. Anything. Any-thing. 4. Total Benevolence God cares and loves each and everyone of his creatures (all qualities must be present for him to qualify as the Christian Conception of God)

The most terrible thing that I can think of: a one-year old girl raped by an entire squad of soldiers, her pregnant mother raped as well then murdered in front of her, her father hacked to death with a machete, her younger brother likewise

Question: Why was God not able to stop this from happening? Possible answers: 1. God does not know. he is omnipresent, omnipotent, he loves us, but he was not aware of what was 2. God was not there he is omniscient, he is omnipotent, he loves us, but he was someplace else 3. God is powerless he is omniscient, he is omnipresent, he cares and loves us, but he cannot do 4. God does not care and love us. he is omniscient, he is omnipresent, he is omnipotent, but he does not give a fuck Conclusion: The concept of the existence of an all-knowing, all-powerful, ever-present, benevolent God of the type that is propagated by Christians especially the Roman Catholic Church and the concept of suffering as exemplified by the example of the most terrible thing that I can think of are irreconcilable. In order for this dilemma to be solved, either one must disappear. And since suffering exists in reality, God (in the Christian Conception of the term) does not exist. about us anything going on

Class Discussions (the tale of the brave proglottid) Mar 1, '08 7:05 AM Mr. Pacifico, Grade IV mathematics teacher, is telling his students about the huge tapeworm that came out of his ass last weekend. He says that one can get tape worm when one eats improperly cooked meat and that it probably was the fiesta buffet he attended last month that gave him the tapeworm. Tapeworms can live in the human intestine for months, even years and all that time they just grow and grow and grow and he says that when it gets too big, it sometimes crawls out through ones mouth and nose during the night. A clear symptom that one has contracted tapeworm is itchiness in the anus. He says that during nights several days last week he could not sleep because his anus is always itching and that due to constant scratching, his anus has become sore and red and painful. That fateful Saturday evening, while sitting at the toilet, Mr. Pacifico felt something ticklish coming out of his anus and gazing down into the toilet bowl, saw, just hanging above that brown lump of Mr. Pacifico poo, the upper end of the tapeworm, judging by the presence of its head. Quickly, sensing that this is his opportunity, he slowly pulled the tapeworm out of his anus. The tapeworm was, he estimated, about three feet in length. He threw it at the tiled floor of his comfort room and it just wriggled weakly there. He wiped his ass, picked up the tapeworm using a lot of toilet paper then went out and started a bonfire in his backyard. When the fire was big enough, he threw the tapeworm in and he says that he could hear the crackling noise that was the tapeworm being consumed by the fire. After telling this to his students, he sees that there is still twenty minutes left before the end of the class and so to fill the time, he tells them what he did the next morning. The next morning, Sunday, which was yesterday, Mr. Pacifico felt so glad because it was the first time for several days that he was able to get a proper sleep, that he decided to go to the early morning mass instead of the six o clock evening mass which he usually attends. After church, he quickly went home and had a healthy breakfast of longganisa and fried rice. And then he played chess on his computer. Then he watched porn videos on his computer. Mr. Pacifico says that the people in the porn movies that he saw have very big penises. One student asks, how big Sir? Oh, Mr. Pacifico replies, as big and as long as a flashlight and they would fuck the woman in the ass and the woman would make sounds like ooohh ahhh ooohhh ahhhh she would say harder harder harder and that because the woman is still not satisfied, they would then bring the pony in. He asks the girls if they know what a pony is. He says that the pony would fuck the woman in the ass. One student asks, does the woman get pregnant with pony babies? No, Mr. Pacifico replies, pony sperm and human egg do not mix because human beings and ponies are of different species so that it was okay because the woman would not get pregnant. And besides women only get pregnant if you fuck them in their vaginas. The bell rings and Mr. Pacificio gathers up his things into his bag and along with his students, walks out of the classroom while telling the children to be good boys and girls until their next meeting tomorrow. Little does Mr. Pacifico know that tapeworms are also capable of an unusual kind of reproduction. A tapeworm has proglottids, meaning segments which are capable of surviving and then growing on its own. These proglottids have both male and female reproductive organs. When Mr. Pacifico pulled the tapeworm, as a last effort to survive, I separated myself from the tapeworm and so here I am and able to narrate this story, urging you dear reader, to please report this sick and disgusting man to the proper authorities. He currently lives in...

Feb 29, 2008 12:17am

schoolteacher blues (another unfinished story)

Mar 1, '08 7:05 AM

i look at them and ask myself where will these kids be fifteen years from now, all these mass of children spending their time here inside this dilapidated school with its decaying everything. I look outside the window, the termite-infested wooden window, and see the northern part of the wall that encloses this school, the one that has the rusting gate and opens directly to the highway, i see this wall and my heart seethes with anger and hatred for all the things that conspired, the historical and social forces which gave this current situation its existence. Throughout the years several children have died in that street. And now I am looking at it, thinking about what's the best way to blow up the municipal hall. Many of the kids are sleeping, slumped on their desks, tired from sleepless nights spent in packaging the methamphetamine hydrochloride that their parents then sell to addicts and which they also use themselves. The bell used to announce the end of the class is is a hollowed out artillery shell used by the Japanese during the Occupation.

attack of the handshakers (upd elections campaign period) Mar 1, '08 7:03 AM for everyone

Si nene, hindi niya tunay na pangalan, ay dise-siete anyos na dalagita. isang inosenteng pers yer student sa yunibersidad ng pilipinas sa diliman. isang araw, mula sa kanyang klase, ay hinarang siya ng mga hanggang sa ngayo'y hindi pa nakikilalang mga salarin sa may steps ng Palma Hall, heto ang aming interview.... (silhouette lang tapos synthesized ang boses ni nene) Korina: nene, ikuwento mo nga sa amin kung ano ang nangyari noong lunes matapos ang iyong klase. nene: (boses maton) ano po, naglalakad lang po ako, mag-isa, pauwi na po sa dorm ko...(hikbi) tapos lima po sila... Korina: ano ang ginawa nila nene: ano po, lumapit po yung isa sa kin tapos, tapos...(hikbi) Korina: ayos lang iha, sige ilabas mo ang iyong nararamdaman nene: UWAAAAAAAAA, BUHUHUHUHUHUHU, *sniff sniff* K: okey ta........ nene: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, mama, buhuhuhuhu K: ple.... nene: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.. K: puta! ano bang ginawa nila sa'yo nene: hinawakan po niya ang ano ko... K: hinawakan? iha (seryoso nang tono) saan ka hinawakan nene: hinawakan po niya ang ***** ko

K: ang ano? nene: ang ***** ko po K: pakiulit nga nene: ***** ko po K: one last time nene: ***** K: pagkatapos, anong ginawa niya? nene: tapos nanghina na po ako, hindi ko na po matandaan, basta may sinabi po siyang orasyon, mabilis po siyang nagsabi nang may parang salitang 'vote' tapos nawalan na lang po ako nang malay K: natatandaan mo ba ang kanilang mga pagmumukha? kulay ng tshirt? nene: hindi ko na po napansin kasi napakabilis po ng pangyayari, pero may para po silang laminated na kapiraso ng papel sa kanilang damit K: tapos anong nangyari? nene: gumising na lang po ako sa Infirmary na puno ng cartolina strips ang katawan. Korina (sa mga audience): sinu-sino ang mga grupong itong basta na lamang nanghahawak ng kamay at nagdidikit ng cartolina strips sa kanilang mga biktima? isa kaya silang panibagong campus-based na kulto? mga youth gangs? rugby boys? mga adik? tauhan ni jesus (sali na mga bata)? walang nakakaalam. pero mag-ingat, baka kayo na ang susunod na biktima. kung may kaalaman po kayo sa misteryosong mga grupong ito, ipagbigay-alam lamang po sa numerong *********** nene: anong number nga po yun? K: *********** nene: ano nga po ulit? K: *********** nene: one last time K: ***********

consume no matter what

Mar 1, '08 6:59 AM

pop culture is decadent, a mirror of the prevailing norm fostered by the advertisements on television, radio, newspapers, magazines, tabloids and billboards. What one sees and hears and feels, all these are to be controlled by the various advertising comdpanies. Walking on the sidewalk that divides the malls of SM North and Trinoma, the individual is forced to gaze upon gargantuan semi-nude images of celebrities, showing off their wonderful flawless bodies, posing in all their celebrity glory all to tell you to buy this shirt, wear these jeans, these underwear, drink this liquid, beautify yourself, watch this movie, buy this album. In television, between segments of news about murders, crimes and the juicy scandals involved in currently by the celebrities and politicians, are interspersed high-speed, funny, dramatic, wholesome advertisements of people in various settings telling you the same thing- to consume, consume no matter what. Tags: consumerism, mall, malls, trinoma, corruption

The world that we are born into

Mar 1, '08 6:56 AM

The world that we are born into, in case you haven't noticed yet, is a world of suffering. Where the majority of men, women and children are all subject to poverty, hunger, misery, sickness, old age and

death. Where the powerful rule over their subjects with hatred and greed in their hearts, if not, then at least with the firm conviction that they must stay in power no matter what. They will use violence both physical and mental in order to keep their subjects in line and in order to foster a worldview that is beneficial to them. The world that we are born into is a world that can survive and will continue to live without us. The birds will still be singing, the flowers will still bloom, the bees will keep on buzzing, the animals will keep on simply being animals, the world will continue its rotation even without us. We are not necessary for the functioning of this world. And yet we think of ourselves as the center of creation. If mankind is unnecessary for the functioning of this world, then how come we exist? We exist because simply we do, there is no underlying unique special reason. The Church tells us that this is not so, that we are here on a special unique reason and the reason is that the world was created by God and that we are the pinnacle of his creation and that we are here as guardians of that creation. Even if we accept this for the sake of argument, still we must look around and examine the kind of job that we are doing. We have laid waste to the earth. We have dumped toxic materials into oceans and poisoned the waters and the living creatures that live in them. We have destroyed forests, cutting them so that we have something to make newspapers and toilet papers with. We have mowed down mountains in order to get to the minerals that are so necessary for the development of our cities and technologies that we are so proud of. We have poisoned the air, filling it with smoke from factory chimneys, from coal processing plants for our electricity. We have laid waste to the earth all because of the mistaken notion that we must continually seek to grow and grow and grow and we associate this growth with progress. And so by the argument of the Church, we have deeply failed God. But "God does not want us to be poor", says just about every self-help religious financial books in the major bookstores today. Well, God does not want us to be a bunch of selfish, greedy people either. And if given a choice between selfish self-improvement and self-reliant poverty, I would readily choose the latter. Yet we find people who are so hypnotized by their beliefs, by the heartlessness that has been fostered into them by their governments and by the mind-control mass media (buy this, buy that) that they actually believe that the world is an endless source of their wealth. Happiness to these people come in neatly packaged shiny, sterilized, colorful plastic containers which is then consumed instantly. Given this logic, it would seem then that human beings have solved the problems of unhappiness, of the uncertainties of life, of the problem of poverty, hunger, misery, sickness old age and death. Yet this is not so. What this is actually is blinding oneself, of closing one's eyes to the realities of existence. Tags: abortion, advertising, anarchism, ang dating daan, armenian genocide, atheism, atomic bomb, buddhism, capitalism, religion

observations from my prison Feb 23, '08 7:09 AM I've given up the pretension that I am a normal human being. The fact is that i am a social aberration, a mutation of some sort and everywhere I see all these normal people walking around, talking to each other. These people will fall in love, get married, have kids, live in a nice home with all the luxuries of modern life and then they'll die of old age and their children will remember them. But me. How about me. No. My existence ends when I die. People have this idea of "continuing the line", of passing on their attributes to the future. Well, I ask, what's the point? Maybe I just don't understand and the problem is that I really don't care. I don't want to know and so please leave me alone. Leave me in my hole so I can wallow in my misery until the end of my days. I want a place where there's no people, no animals, no highways, no trees, no hills, no mountains, no buildings, no cars, nothing, nothing, just total and complete flatness, there's no trees, no flowers. So what is just in there? Well, as far as the eye can see, there is only green. The world outside is a flat world of short grass and it's an eternal afternoon and there's just me. I live in a planet and there's only me in there. Everything is so bright but you can still make out about a few kilometers until everything just turns yellow. There's no darkness, there's no rain. The planet that I want is a floating tennis ball, an endless stretch of green lawn and I am the only one in it. I don't go hungry, I don't get sick. I am bored to the core of my existence. All that I do is lie on the soft grass and stare at the clouds floating above. I watch silently as the clouds move slowly, being blown by the gentle breeze like sheep. And when I get bored doing this, I get up and run and run and run and run until I am all covered in sweat. And then I'll sing and shout and dance and go crazy and then when I'm totally, completely exhausted, I just sleep and dream. I dream of a place just like the one I'm living in right now, doing the same things I'm doing right now, thinking the same thoughts that I am thinking right now. Everything is a dream and there is no outside. What actually is in there is entirely something else. Outside there's people walking with their friends, boyfriends, relatives, classmates, there are animals digging for food in the garbage cans, there are hungry children walking around following the people, opening their palms so that maybe people will pity them and give them food or money. there are old

beggars sitting still in their places, rooted there like an old and dying plant, where people ignore them like they're some sort of invisible object whose presence simply does not register inside the people's consciousness, like they're not breathing, living human beings like you and I. These people are from the church and they have just accepted the blessing that God regularly dispenses during Saturdays and Sundays during specific hours. And this day they will live happy lives of happiness and contenment while I stand here inside my room looking at the outside, looking at them. Looking at them ride their jeepneys and big shiny cars off to somewhere happy and uplifting like the mall, the shopping places, the movies, the parks. And I slowly put down my cup on top of my desk and I go to my bed and sleep and dream of a green planet and of lying there looking at the clouds. Jan18,2008

nakakainis ang Filipino (language) Feb 23, '08 6:58 AM isa syang frankenstein language. mga retaso, kalamnan, internal organs, parte ng katawan na pinagtagpi-tagpi, minadyik-madyik ng gobyerno at itinanghal, na parang isang kalunos-lunos na exhibit, na 'wikang pambansa' at paano naman ipoprocess ng mga native-language-other-than-Tagalog speakers ito? Obvious na obvious na obvious naman na ang Filipino at Tagalog, Tagalog at Filipino ay iisang wika

lamang at ano ba talaga sya, Filipino, Pilipino o Tagalog? sabi daw ng gobyerno may kaibahan ang Tagalog sa Filipino, pero ang nakikita lamang ng marami ay wala, pareho ang tangnang dalawang wikang to pakshet naman. sana spanish na lang ginawang national language para walang gulo; ang hirap naman kasi sa mga founding forefathers ng national language ay nagfeeling nationalistic pa at naisipang magtakda ng isang katutubong wika bilang BASEHAN ng wikang pambansa dito ako nagfi-flip. medyo may pagka-epokrito kasi. BASEHAN? *@#^ putcha e kung kinuha na lang nilang buo full and uncensored ang TAGALOG at ginawang NATIONAL LANGUAGE o OFFICIAL LANGUAGE e hindi na sana nagkakagulo ngayon tungkol sa Filipino/Pilipino/Tagalog. Ang gulo kasi nilang mag-isip. Shit. Sasabihin sana ng mga estudyante ngayon ang ganito: "Ang pambansang wika ng Pilipinas ay TAGALOG" "Ang tagalog ay ang wika ni Bonifacio" The end. Ganun lang kasimple. May fili-filipino pa sila. Kaya nagkagulo. Artificial kasi ang Filipino. Kumbaga gawa-gawa lang. Wala naman siyang natural na existence. Kumbaga it was legislated into existence. Minadyik lang ng mga nasa pamahalaan para ipakitang 'hey guys, may unity na tayo, dahil look we have made this language called 'Filipino' " sons of bitches. At ngayon tayo ang nagdurusa sa mga kalokohan ng mga ninuno natin. sa dami ng mga pagdedebate, ng mga puna laban sa Filipino, talagang kailangang hindi manahimik ang gobyerno dito. I-abolish na lang kaya ang Filipino. I-abolish, I-ab0lish! tapos itigil na rin ang paglabel-label ng 'wikang pambansa' nakakainis kasi. may pagka-arrogant 'let the chips fall as they may' kung baga pabayaan ang mga mamamayan na magsalita ng wikang nais nila sa halip na sapilitang ituro sa mga estudyante ang isang artipisyal na frankenstein language na walang natural na existence na tinatawag na Filipino Tags: rant, filipino, pilipino, pinoy, tagalog, angry, language policy, philippines, zombie, frankenstein

Are you proud to be Filipino?

Jan 7, '08 5:22 AM

Anyone who says that he is proud to be a Filipino either does not mean it, is totally delusional, is in a complete state of denial, was brainwashed successfuly by the educational institution (although this would be highly unlikely, i personally once had teachers who could not fucking care less about nationalism. i love them all by the way), is being forced to say so at gun point, has political motives and or totally insane. Personally I would rather be an American. Americans are the greatest most benevolent people that has ever graced this beautiful planet earth. Watch their splendor in television everyday. The wonderful spectacle that they make of themselves. Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, Brad Pitt, Lindsay Lohan, George Bush. With their democracy, their businesses and economy, their, god bless them, american culture which is now daily permeating all across the globe and which they claim is the greatest thing that ever happened since jesus christ came out of his mother's pussy. Or I would rather be a German. Like HItler. I would kill lots and lots and lots of Jews. I would be an Ubermensch, Nietzsche's Superman, the greatest human ideal of social darwinism. Heil Hitler. Seig Heil! Down with all those black, brown, red, orange, yellow mongrels. Survival of the fittest. Let the chips fall as they may. Or I would rather be Japanese. I would rape lots and lots and lots of Chinese women, just like what happened in Nanjing, CHina and in the PHilippines and Korea. I would invade other nations and butcher their men, snatch their babies from their mothers, throw the little dog in the air and as it falls down, let it land on the knife-edge of my bayonet. For I am Japanese, descendant of Gods, descendants of Izanami and Izanagi and all those people are fucking barbarian dogs. I would be famous for making technologies like cellphones, computers, cars, radios, walkmans and also animes and mangas like Naruto, DragonBall Z, YU=Yu Hakusho aka Ghost Fighter and Urotsuki Doji (Legend of the Overfiend OVA) which features among others, TENTACLE RAPE. Hah, man am I proud. But, you ask me, do you truly mean this? Are you saying that being a Filipino is such a terrible thing? I would answer: well, with the way that all these politicians, movie stars, TV and radio evangelists act, the way they so piously look and sound, the way they smile and jump and bend over and let Uncle SAm fuck them in the ass (aka imperialism), well, hell yeah, Iam fucking ashamed to be Filipino. Oh my God, you exclaim, what are you saying, you poor misguided little boy with your false beliefs

and hideous unrighteous thoughts. Papa Jesus is not happy with your blasphemies. I will pray for your soul that you may, when the last judgement finally comes at least get to see the Lord's holy middle finger before you are swallowed by the ground and barbecued in hell. Well, I reply, please do that. Tags: nationalism

Justice is Served

Jan 6, '08 12:04 AM

Up in the sky, look there's something round and yellowish and orange-ish burning, o my god, it's the sun.no, don't look, it's a terrible sight to see. no living creature should see this. the sun, the sun is burning. please don't cry darling, it's going to be alright. i can't, i can't stand this anymore, let's go home. okay, let's go oh my god, how could they do this, why can't they just leave the poor sun alone? they could have just kicked it a bit, bruised it a little, you know, they could just have smacked it a bit, but no, oh no, they just had to burn it. Burn it! what a bunch of evil people. I hope the authorities find them. How could they? Tell me, honey, how could they?

i don't know honey, it's all these immoralities happening these days. these kids they don't have respect for anything anymore. all they do is have sex and listen to their music and play computer all day. they smoke cigarettes and they listen to loud music. (sigh) I don't know what this world is coming to. what we need is to discipline all these brats. in my time, ah yes, in my time, we did not smoke, we did not drink, we did not do anything. we just studied a lot and then sometimes we would go out and buy some candy. and that's all the fun we had, and i would not exchange that for what this modern kids have with their technologies and all there's the police hi sir, have the suspects been apprehended? I'm sorry ma'am, sir, but we're still investigating. you should just calm down and go home, everything is being taken care of. it's glad to hear that officer honey, come on ahh it's nice to be back home, i think i'll turn on the tv for a while news: a terrible tragedy happened today. the sun, yes the sun was burned by unknown perpetrators this morning at around 830am. the sun was immediately brought to the nearest hospital. the doctors said that he received third-degree burns in the surface. police are still on the lookout for the suspects. if you have any information that may help in solving this tragedy, please call 999-4535 (changes channel) buy our shampoo, it smells nice and gets rid of dandruff (changes channel) eat out hotdog. it's a foot long and it has vitamins and minerals from a to z (changes channel) worried about menstrual blood from your vagina overflowing and staining your panties and skirt? buy our new and improved .... (changes channel) burgers. they taste great. overflowing with tasty goodness, they'll satisfy your hunger... (turns tv off) honey are you hungry? where are you? I'm in the kitchen.

Wanna order some food? OK. Let's see. (Phone, phonebook, orders). hello, yes, i'd like to order a pizza, large, coke, large, chicken, large cow . is that all sir? OK. so that would be one pizza, large, coke, large, chicken large, and then cow. Yep, that's it. OK, please have the money ready for our deliver man. thank you (puts phone down, puts phone down) delivery man: gun. check. bullets on gun. check. address. check. pizza.check (knocks on door. door opens. shoots the man. woman screams. shoots the woman. woman dies. kills himself) ================================== END OF PAGE FOUR ============== Dorm Room Enlightenment Blues Jan 6, '08 12:00 AM

The boy can't sleep because of his worries. His head is filled with thoughts and worries, filled with what am I going to do with my life, how will I survive in this crazy, mixed-up, crazy world, how will my parents react when they find out that I flunked that one course, is there a God, is there a heaven, will there ever be world peace, should I kill myself, is life worth living, do I have any friends left or have they all forgotten me, why am I so afraid, whats the deal with emos, how did I get into this mess, man I wish I was home, will I be expelled, what would the neighbors say, what would my aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents sayi. His mind is so filled with these thoughts that he found while attempting to get up, that he can't move his head. It became so heavy that it just sank deeper in his pillow into his bedii. This worried him for hours and he tried to think of what to do, but every time thoughts started to appear, his head sank deeper and deeper into his bed until he realized that the solution is not to think. No, he said to himself, no, calm down man, breathe deeply, clear your mind, okay, okay, calm down, calm down. It took him three hours to lay off about half of the total weight in his mind. But it was still not enough. His head is still stuck in the pillow, in the bed, and the sad thing is, the tragic thing is, that he has an exam exactly an hour from now. And so with the word 'exam' conjured, thoughts started to crowd back. All those useless stuff he memorized came back like evil bats invading the caverns of his brain, because the professor said, okay guys, the coverage of the exam will be from this to this, and make sure you know how to do this, and never forget about this and that, and most of all this, okay, class dismissed. And all those this and that swirled up in his head and settled inside his skull and now he's afraid that the bed won't hold up and he would come crashing down into the hard, cold, freshly-waxed cement floor. Fuck, he says, fuck. His roommate, more giddy than usual, wakes up and sings: Oh what a pretty, lovely, day, Pretty and happy all the way.

Now I will get up and brush my teeth, Wake up and take a bath, Because today is a pretty, lovely day, Pretty and happy all the way. Good morning, his roommate says to him. The roommate smiles and was about to burst into another song when the boy says, shut up, shut up man, my head hurts like hell, please. Oh sorry man, his roommate replies and rising up and arming himself with his towel and soap, he proceeds to go battle the forces of stinky breath and body odor in the bathroom. Going there, he sings, his voice filling the corridors: My roommates head hurts, His head hurts a lot, His head hurts because, His head hurts because, He masturbates a lot The voice seeps into the rooms and into the ears of those sleeping who unconsciously scratch their crotch. He quiets himself down. He thinks about the only thing that holds his interest these days: Buddhism, yeah, Buddhisms got this cool, mellow, everything is fine, calm-down-motherfucker philosophy. Particularly, he thinks about the northern school of Buddhism known as Mahayana which is practiced in Japan, Korea and Chinaiii. And more specifically, he thinks about chan or zen meditationiv. Okay, forget everything else man, just be zen, thoughtless, calm and peaceful. Inhale, exhale, be zen. Zen. Zen. He thinks zen. No, he does not even think. He is zen. Thought has become nonexistent to him now. All, he realizes, is Being; and thinking separates us from Being. For, as Alan Watts stated, the concept of dualism is a myth, an illusion; for there is no such thing as object and someone who objectifies, there is only Onev. Up, up into the realm of higher consciousness he rises up, his thoughts disappearing, dissolving and evolving and his intuition opening up like the lotus flower, opening up white and pure from the mud and muck of existence. He opens his eyes and sees his disheveled bed below, the scatter of books on his desk; he sees his roommates pornography stacked like small buildings on the floor. He sees all the garbage they piled on top of the cabinet. He sees all these and his heart glows with mercy over the attachments that human beings have over things. This attachment causes suffering and being caught up in the cycle of birth, death and rebirth (samsara). The boundless joy in his heart finally blurts out in the form of a rap song: I take refuge in the Buddha. (Om.) I take refuge in the Dharma. (Om.) I take refuge in the Sangha (break it down yow!) Moksha baby Even if a man conquers a thousand men a thousand times, he is nothing compared to the man who has vanquished himself, he recalls. Then, it suddenly dawns on him, it crept slowly and finally the unbelievable fact burst into realization. Holy fuck, he says, Im floating. Holy shit, whoa, holy shit. His roommate, feeling victorious, fresh and minty-smelling, opens the door and seeing his roommate

floating, exclaims: Holy Jesus Christ, My roommate is floating, His head so close to the ceiling, Holy Muhammad what miracles Down here I can see his testicles. Hey man, fresh boy asks, what are you doing up there? He replies, Ive achieved satori man, check it out, nice huh. Yeah real nice, do you do anything besides float? Like, can you magically induce girls to do whatever you say, like, take off your clothes, take of your bra, give me your panties? No, silly roommate of mine, I am beyond that. Attachment to worldly desires causes suffering, admonishes the blessed one. It does? asks the confused one. Yes it does, nods the bodhisattva approvingly. No it doesnt, says the toweled one. Attachment to worldly desires causes orgasm, sweet, sweet orgasm. He picks up a copy of Playboy and shakes it in front of the one whose rebirth has come to an end. This, man, this, this is our life and youre throwing all this away? Emotionally, he wipes the tears from his eyes with Ms. January and proceeds to dress himself. Enough of this bullshit man, and dont you have an exam or something? Says here on your post-it, Important: Last Chance, Finals Exam 9AM. Well shit, its ten already; you missed it man. Somewhere deep inside the enlightened ones brain, something happened which caused his face to assume a countenance somewhat like thisvi. Oh fuck, he mutters so imperceptibly that only the bacteria living peacefully on the surface of his tongue could hear, oh fuck, and quick as lightning, he dives headfirst into the cold cement floor. Om. i For wonderful descriptions of existential angst, read all of Kierkeegards, Nietzsches, Sartres and Camus works ii This is a feeble and pathetic attempt by the author at magical realism as popularized by Latin American author Gabriel Garcia Gabo Marquez, whose work, One Hundred Years of Solitude, the author admires and thinks is a real kickass book. The author highly recommends it. The author once went browsing for books as usual and discovered these circular thingies printed on the cover of new copies of Garcias novel saying that Oprah endorses the book. I mean what the fuck? You judge a book not by its fucking cover, but by its content and what insights it provides. In this matter, the book does not need Oprahs fucking approval. I mean really. So if a book does not bear the accursed logo, it does not deserve to be read? The anger that I feel over the treatment of books that I treasure as such can only be quenched by having Oprah eat all of those goddamn circles after having been cut out of every defiled copy of the books. Until then, my hostility to this kind of labeling can only be expressed by endnote number six. iii Humphreys, Christmas. The Principles of Zen Buddhism, pages 90787 - 234554767 iv Daisetz Suzukis The Training of the Zen Buddhist Monk is a must-read. v Watts, Alan. The Book on the Taboo Against Knowing Wh o You Are, pages 10000 - 10009

the only christian nation in asia

Jan 5, '08 11:50 PM

are we just going to repeat the same mistakes again and again and again? can't we create new stupid decisions? let's innovate for the love of god. we're stagnating here. is this all that we are capable of? what we need is for the Roman Catholic Church to reassert it's authority over all these Protestant pigs with their heresies. What we need is to have all these noisy, crazy evangelists and various religious groups crucified upside down. All these mongrels defiling the only Christian nation in Asia. Let us relive the Inquisition, we need the burning smell of Protestant and non-Catholic flesh to wake us out of this smug complaceny and deep apathy that we have sunk ourselves into. If we are truly and purely proud as the only Christian nation in Asia, then what better way to show this greatness than by flexing some Catholic muscles. We must ensure the religious purity of our nation. As the Germans once said, Seig Heil! (a reminder: this is just a joke)

the most fucked-up thing i've written so far Jan 5, '08 11:47 PM So here we are nearing five hundred years of existence and so far what have we achieved? It is high time that we take a much needed seat and ponder things a while, cool down and look at what happened through all that time. What are we good at? we are good at quarreling with each other for the most mundane, shallow reasons. We are focused on materialism, about success, about the latest technologies from abroad. About the latest cellphones with cameras, DVDs and DVD players, laptop computers. We are good at being superficial, about looking, seeming and showing off. About being so obsessed about what our neighbors have to say and with good reason for we can't seem to mind our own business as well. We look at the shortcomings and failures of others to showcase to ourselves our perceived virtues. We are a bunch of cynical strangers lumped together in one burning, sinking ship. And while the deck is slowly being filled with water, we shut ourselves off from each other and from the reality. We enclose ourselves in our various obsessions - religions, family, movies, celebrities - feeding ourselves the illusion that everything is just fine. The ship is sinking and we are listening to songs sung by the American pop star Britney Spears especially the one entitled "Lucky", singing along in our karaoke machines, shouting, screaming AAAAAAAAAAAAAA hoping that somehow through our terrible singing that the problems of our country would simply go away. But like a malignant, gigantic sore, the ailments that have existed for such a long time in our country still remains throbbing and ready to explode its sticky somewhat greenish contents into our faces. There are those who have woken up and this is what they do. they go up to the mountains with their AK 47s, grenades and M16s and they fight the military. For from far away, ideas seeped into their minds which showed them that what is happening in their country is called imperialism and that their country is not that special. Their country is not special contrary to what the majority of the population have been made to believe. There is no "special relations" between benevolent and civilized Uncle Sam and adoring little Juan. As Chuck Palahniuk wrote, we are not a unique special snowflake especially unique in our own specialness. The ruling class is supported by Washington with arms and training. The reactionary military, like dogs, is trained to hunt down the evil demon nonhuman sons of satan scourge of the earth pathetic scums dogs rats called communists, those guys who went up the mountain. and this is happening, more or less, all around the world We have been conquered by the Spanish, the Americans and the Japanese. And all these conquerors aimed at civilizing the poor pathetic indios, which is us. So it follows then that we are the most 'civilized' little fuckers that is currently walking this beautiful earth. We should be proud right? right? We are Christians, we are proud Christians, we are all going to heaven, we are the greatest people that has ever walked this earth. No, just joking. There is no heaven.

Man, am I crazy. Are you proud to be you-know-what? Yes, I am proud to be the F word. I am proud to be the shit and scum of the earth. I am proud that my sister is currently working as a domestic helper in the Middle East where she is repeatedly raped by her Arab masters. I am proud that my younger brother is hungry in the streets, that he sleeps on the sidewalk and that he smells like shit and is bone-thin. I am proud that my father is dead because he was called a communist by the military because he was a labor leader and organized the workers of the plantation. I am proud of all these. And why am I proud of all these? Because I am the scum of the earth and I have nothing to be proud of. Because I am crazy, my mind is all mixed-up, stir-fried, sliced diced and blendered and battered into a smooth creamy somewhat salty concoction. So there we have sat and pondered things for a while and sad to say, nothing really fruitful happened. I apologize.

Down, Looking up

Jan 5, '08 11:28 PM

Depression is a shitty thing that can happen to you. Depression even becomes more shitty when you've

had it for what feels like a century and throughout that time nobody knows about your condition. Friends, family and relations really don't want to hear about your sad, miserable plight about nothing in particular. Depression can have very vague reasons. These reasons, however mundane and superficial, will, through time, as it gets hammered on and on into your psyche through repition of the same thoughts, will blow up into something huge and solid like an invisible anvil encased inside your rib cage. Sighing is a very common symptom. Not occassional ones, but constant daily ones lasting for several hours at a time. Depression also manifests itself through one's choice of music. Often these songs are calm, mellow and sweet. Although listening to grunge music is an exception. In grunge, as in any other mellow songs, the lyrics are as important as the sound. There is also a fixation with dead rock stars and constant thoughts about following their footsteps; unfortunately, not musically. "Into this world we're thrown", sings Jim Morrison in Riders of the Storm. Existentialism also becomes a source of fascination. The element, the feeling of "thrownness", as one existentialist philosopher describes the human predicament, becomes a very pronounced feeling. This is not to say that existentialism is a philosophy of despair, for as Sartre countered in a lecture given decades ago, Existentialism is actually a Humanism. It is a HUmanism in the sense that it gives primacy on the individual and his search for meaning rather than on the acceptance of readily-made answers to the big questions offered by the Church and the State. Nostalgia is an element of depression as well. Recurring bouts of reminiscences about the past, often about one's wonderful childhood, if one had the fortune of having one. Here, memories are considered by one as very valuable. Tags: depression

desolation

Jan 5, '08 11:27 PM

FROM UP ABOVE I SAW THE BUILDING STANDING ALL ALONE AMIDST THE RUINS OF THE PLAIN STANDING ALONE BRAVE AND DEFIANT AGAINST THE ONSLAUGHT OF THE DUST SANDS BLOWN BY THE WIND

AND ATOP THE THREE HUNDRED STORY BUILDING SITTING ON THE EDGE, HIS FEET DANGLING ON THE AIR IS A CHILD IDLY PASSING THE TIME BY GAZING UPON THE WASTELAND OF HIS HOME

THE WIND BLOWS AND HIS RAGGED CLOTHES CLING TO HIS SMALL BODY LIKE FISHES FIGHTING THE STREAM THE BOY COVERS HIS FACE FROM THE SAND AND THE DUST AND THE HOWLING NOTHINGNESS THAT BOMBARDS ITS PRESENCE

THE WINDS DIED AND ONLY A BREEZE REMAINED PROPELLED BY THE HEAT THAT MELTS THE HOPE OF ANYONE WHO EVER SETS HIS EYES UPON THE EVERLASTING GOLDEN WASTES OF DUNES

THE SUN IS TOXIC AND THE AFTERNOON IS ETERNAL

THE WORLD HAS STOPPED TURNING AND WE ARE ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD WITNESSING THE END

THE BUILDING IS CRAGGY AND OLD AND ABANDONED THE VARIOUS METAL PARTS RUSTED AND SCORCHED THE CEMENT THIN AND BRITTLE THE CRACKS LIKE VINES EVER GROWING

FROM UP ABOVE I DRIFTED DOWN AND LANDED UPON THE SOFT SAND THE WINDS HAVE STARTED TO HOWL FIERCELY AND THE SWIRLS AND CLOUDS OF GOLDEN DUST BLANKETED THE WHOLE WORLD Tags: sand

Musings while sitting atop a boulder Jan 5, '08 11:24 PM I call upon God, the great creator to bless my mind today that it be made clear and able to express itself completely without any glitches like my computer which takes about a kalpa to load fully. Let thy glory penetrate the inner caverns of my being and from within enlighten me with your holy wisdom and everlasting kindness. Om Lately I have found it hard to express myself fully, completely and accurately. Lately I started to lose hope that I would one day be fully able to present to other people all the demons that are confronting my brain, fried from too much useless information, from too much worries and anxieties, from obsessions of various shapes and sizes. "The mind is like a drunk monkey being stung by a hornet", as the buddhist saying goes, accurately describing the turmoiled nature of the human mind. And sitting atop this imaginary boulder, talking to an imaginary audience, talking to myself, looking at imaginary trees and flowers, I squeeze my mind like a sponge, rattle and shake it a bit, all for something to express, all for coming up with something interesting to say. But there's nothing. Nothing at all. Tags: god

WHY I HATE CHRISTMAS Dec 20, '07 12:15 AM BECAUSE DURING CHRISTMAS PEOPLE BUY LOTS OF MEAT THEY EAT CHICKEN AND BEEF AND HAM THEY EAT AND EAT AND EAT

blissfully drunk with the "holiday spirit" to notice what is it actually that they are putting into their stomachs. unaware of the suffering that comes into play into all of these celebrations FUCK SANTA CLAUS Tags: christmas, i hate it

Repetition Dec 11, '07 10:27 PM Save us your scraps that our children may eat And pour us your pity that at least we may be washed Think of us during Christmas and give us money And we will smile and pose in your pictures Showing to the world how kind and giving you are Feed us, clothe us don't ever leave us alone Because if you do we will haunt you in your dreams Yes we can do that and we will also knock on your doors During cold nights when you are snugly asleep We will smile and look grateful and you smile too You tell the people how you're going to save them And the people look at you with eyes that are tired From seeing the same thing over and over again Tags: christmas Sell-outs in Philippine History Dec 6, '07 2:31 AM

Sell-out is a form of hypocrisy wherein one who claimed moral superiority renounced one's old beliefs in order to gain benefits (usually financial) which otherwise one could not have achieved otherwise. Sell-out is a derogatory term used to identify those people who claimed moral superiority and then later on changed their stance and altogether abandoned those views which the ones now accusing them are holding. This is usually conferred to musicians or revolutionaries and other people who is known publicly to have such views. The principal issue here is money. It is claimed that having a morality and being rich is fundamentally irreconcilable. There is virtue only in poverty. And in a way, people who have this view are right, however, idealism is very costly and often considered as a luxury. It is often claimed (unconsciuosly) that being a sell-out is a form of maturity. One simply cannot go on with one's life without accepting the 'hard truth', one must "face the facts" as it is often said. And this facing the facts involves abandoning one's cause in order to join the "rat race" as they say. The rat race being everyday mundane life where one only wants to gain enough money to live a quiet and comfortable life or to achieve a high level of wealth. In politics, the term "sell-out" are often conferred to revolutionaries who turned their backs on their cause. THe people who call them "sell-out" are ofcourse those people whom they once shared the same view with. Now, these remaining people often feel superior to the "sell-out". Sell-outs, to them, are less than dirt. They are traitors, a bunch of Judases. This is exactly what happened to Luis Taruc, a Filipino revolutionary fighter and leader of the AntiJapanese guerrilla group HUKBALAHAP, according to Jose Maria Sison nom de guerre Amado Guerrero in his famous book Philippine SOciety and Revolution, a bible and a primer to budding revolutionary Filipinos, usually of the Maoist bent. Sison basically said that Taruc along with the "bourgeoise" Lava brothers betrayed the people by catering to the demands of the imperialistic force that came back to manila to "liberate" the Philippines. During the Roxas administration, Luis taruc, with the backing of the government, held a tour across the barrios of Central Luzon, urging the people to cooperate with the government. This act by an avowed opponent of the government was precipitated because of the government's promises of agrarian reform, which until the present period, is still a long way from being effectively achieved. Another famous sell-out which should have been mentioned first, was Emilio Aguinaldo, said to be the First President of the Filipino Republic. Aguinaldo was a famous general during the late nineteenth century filipino revolt against Spain. Since the occupation of the Islands by Spaniards in 1565, the Islanders have been waging various revolts which were easily crushed by the Spaniards because of their sporadic and scattered nature. The movement against Spain only gained the necessary momentum in the late nineteenth century. This was initiated first by the efforts of the Ilustrados, rich middle to upper class educated Filipinos in Spain during the 1880s. But the Ilustrados did not want complete freedom from Spanish rule. Being politically conservative, they only wanted that the Philippines be made a province of Spain, so that the people could have the same benefits as a Spanish citizen. The ilustrados advocated this partly because it would benefit their class, but primarily because of the oppressions that they suffered and the suffering that they see among their fellow countrymen. But their efforts remained futile because the government simply did not want to hear them. Their main representative, Dr. jose Rizal was arrested and then shot on December 30, 1896. The movement against Spain really went into high gear only when Andres Bonifacio came into the scene. Andres Bonifacio is the Father of the Revolution, although he is not the National Hero of the Philippines (Jose Rizal is). Andres Bonifacio's parents died when he was a teenager and so he was forced to provide for his younger siblings. Every Filipino worthy of the name, knows about how he augmented his income by making and selling canes and paper fans. Later, Bonifacio founded the Katipunan also known as the KKK or in its entirety, Kataas-taasang Kagalanggalangang Katipunan nang manga anak nang Bayan, or

"The Highest Most Honorable Organization of the SOns of the Country". This organization started out as underground and was discovered only when one member squealed to the authorities because he had a quarrel with another Katipunan member.

note by author: these musings are not to be taken seriously Tags: sell-out

Nationalism Dec 6, '07 2:27 AM Constantino sees Philippine History as the struggle of the Filipino People against the Forces of Colonialism. In the drama of Philippine History, there are three principal characters: the colonialist foreigner, the collaborator, and the one who resisted domination and fought. The Catholic Religion is seen as a tool employed by the foreigner to conquer the Filipinos. It was only seen in a much more positive light when it contributed to the goal of freedom from colonialism. Thus, the histories of the various religious revolts and uprisings following the arrival of the Spaniards in 1565 are given prominence in COnstantino's narrative. Zaide, on the other hand, is sympathetic to the goals of the Church. He sees the Philippines as a special nation because of the arrival of the Christian faith upon its shores. As stduents, we often are made to be proud of the fact that we are 'the only Christian nation' in Asia. This idea is propagated not only in the private religious schools but in the supposedly secular public schools as well. Zaide states that because of this special attribute of our nation, we carry a special task: that of spreading the light of Christianity into our nonChristian neighbors. The differences in these points of view is made much clearer with their treatment of the event in Philippine History known as the 'First Mass". Given Zaide's view, the question of the exact place where the mass was held holds much importance. When we consider Constantino however, the question of the first mass does not bear any significance at all, for even if the mass was held in Limasawa or in

Mazaua, the fact still remains that Christianity was a tool used by the colonialists to convert and conquer the Filipinos. Thus, we see here the importance of considering points of view when discussing the History of the Filipino People. Following after Constantino's theme, the importance of an individual and or a group varies with their relation to the question of whether they contributed to Filipino nationalism or not. Thus, within the scale of this theme, Andres Bonifacio sits on a higher pedestal than Jose Rizal, in the same way that the revolutionists take a much higher stage than those who compromised or collaborated. It is in this scale then that we could judge the actions of those under Agunaldo's command and Aguinaldo himself. We subject them to the scrutiny of whether they contributed to the freedom of the Filipino People against Colonial domination or not. Tags: nationalism, aguinaldo, bonifacio, zaide

This Story is Going Nowhere no.1

Dec 6, '07 2:24 AM

Have you ever been so happy that you decided to spread that happiness by going on a random killing spree? Well, that's exactly what Mike, our protagonist is feeling right now. It's a weird feeling, he thought, it does not come and go like a wave, but it's continuous, like it's been this way ever since I was born and I grew up with this feeling that there's something lodged inside my ribcage just around the vicinity of my heart. Mike writes this thought in his journal which he then closes. He rises up from his chair and floats into the washroom, where he gazes upon his face, all twenty years old of him, staring back from inside the magic opposite mirror land and the face attempts a smile. Almost, almost. No, the attempt was a failure. He washes his face and floats back into his room, changes clothes, goes out.

It's windy and he breathes the cold air, holds it inside his lungs for several seconds then exhales. It's almost noon and the street is bustling with activity. The usual: beggars, office workers, cars, small mounds of garbage, stray dogs and cats. He digs inside his pocket. He forgot something. Now all packed and ready to go, he goes where exactly we do not know. For this story is not about Mike but about the man he's about to kill that afternoon and that man is currently sitting inside a fastfood restaurant called the joyousbee or happywasp or something like that, munching like a pig on his supermegadoubledeluxe burger. He's a simple man with simple needs: such as a mansion, women and expensive cars. He has just been from a rather strenous meeting and all day he's been looking forward to this meal. Wrapped around his right wrist is a rolex which reflects the light coming from the outside and fills the whole restaurant with its radiant wonderful health-giving golden glow. He awaits the jeepney and Mike whistles a happy tune and every single time, the happiness of the tune convinces him that he's not afraid. Ah what's the point of all this, what's the point of life, what's the point of suffering, what's the point of breathing at all, all these thoughts raced across his mind while looking at the blur of sceneries outside: the usual working people on the streets walking going to their offices and work and jobs and him, where am I going, nowhere, I'm going nowhere. Nowhere. He's a man of purpose and importance and the last thing that he wants right now is to be late for his next important appointment, so he wipes his mouth and rises up. You could hear the trumpets and drums rolling on the background, proof of how important this fat, ugly sonofabitch really is. Thank you, come again sir, the guard who opens the door, says to him. Mike thinks about something, what we do not know, and why the hell would we want to know. We don't even know the guy, we only know that he's going to kill that fat bastard, and that's the only reason we've come this far in this narrative anyway. Anyway, Mike actually thinks that someone is watching him and he does not like the feeling. He digs inside his pocket just to feel the security offered by his new and shiny butterfly knife aka balisong. Fellow passengers look at him with that funny look people give you when they think you're about to shoot them in the head. Someone shouts HOLDAP, Mike looks at him. The guy is maybe sixty years old, frail-looking and wearing old man clothes, the rusty knife he's holding is wriggling and jiggling as if having an epileptic seizure. The people smile at the old man, and they all say at the same time: AW Grampa, you're so funny. And that's when the old man stabs Mike on the knee. The end No not really, Mike beats the crap out of the old man. The other passengers joining him. Now, if you think this story is going nowhere, you are probably right for the author only made this all up to pass the time and he apologizes if you do not like it. Meanwhile, he has to close this journal now so he can go out, breathe the cold air and go kill some fat, rich politician in some fastfood restaurant called the happywasp or joyousbee, you know, just to spread the joy. Tags: stupid

Mindstorm no. 1

Dec 6, '07 2:22 AM

Instead of getting rid of viruses, my computer coexists with them, achieving a harmonious host-parasite relationship. This 'green' system of dealing with viruses maybe highly unorthodox, but the advantages of this system is quite unique. First, you get to get out of the rat race. With viruses constantly evolving, becoming much more stronger than their predecessors, and with antiviruses and security companies trying to catch up, the race just gets crazier and crazier, and we ask ourselves, where can this lead us? To a super-totalitarian-computer who is absolutely invincible and impenetrable of virus attacks? But what kind of computer would that be? A heartless computer without a soul? And what of the viruses? Will there be a super-mega-virus of death capable of laying waste to every data that innocently hops along its way? It's time to lay low and cool down. We can't live our lives worrying and constantly on the edge of our seats wondering when the next onslaught will happen. This is exposing our computers to the viruses bit by bit so that they can develop their own immune systems and they are able to cope. This is saying no to constant downloads which eats up our precious lives second by second, just staring at that download bar not yet even half-way through. This is freedom, as Leonidas, the great general-king of Sparta would say. Speaking of Sparta, I totally agree with that guy that it is way cooler than Athens. Athens is a bastion of

art, philosophy, literature, it has plays and dramas and tragedies and all that stuff but they also defecate on the streets and they are pretty high-strung. Sparta, on the other hand, is pretty kickass. I read about this anecdote where all the people of Greece are gathered for the usual Olympics and they were all seated in this stadium, and then this old guy walks up to the place where these young men are sitting. There was no vacant seat and no one would yield their seats. Suddenly, all the Spartan youth stood up and gave their seat to the old man. I see this image of effete Athenians and kickass Spartans, so that's that. Can you feel their haunting presence? Back to the river Aras Liar. Killer. Demon - - Holy Mountains by System of a Down Quick while my juices are flowing. Armenia is the very first country to adopt Christianity as a religion and this says a lot. I just don't know what. The Armenian genocide is something that I think is really terrible and last week in the library, I saw this new biography of Ataturk, the father of Turkey displayed on the shelves. I searched on the internet for more information and found out that he's pretty much a guy with a lot of achievements. He's been to wars and he's involved in parliament and all that stuff. And so he's important and all. It also says that he is the orchestrator of the last phase of the Genocide which started right after the dissolution of the Ottoman empire. The point is that Turkish people really love him and that while browsing on youtube, reading the comments on this video on the Armenian Genocide, I found comments denouncing the Armenians and calling them stuff which I dare not mention here. They also say that there were Armenian gangs which roamed Turkey and harassed people or something of that sort. SO I guess these people really don't like each other and that's saying it mildly. Marilyn Manson Is cool. The guy's cool and he appears to be a nice dude. Let the bodies hit the floor 3x. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA - -- - Let the bodies hit the floor - SOAD Burma. Monks in robes being beaten up by the army. Really terrible. There was this article in Time or Newsweek or something and there's this young man which was interviewd by the article writer who said that some of the soldiers cried when they beat up the monks because they know that they're going to hell because of what they're doing. This country is very religious and respects their monks very much. They would not even tread on a monk's shadow, I read. Speaking of monks, there are a lot of fake ones in Thailand. These monks wear shades and they have tattoos. How cool is that? Well anyway, we must not fall in the illusion that religious people are bastions of morality. History is replete with examples of really fucked up people calling themselves servants of God. I'm talking about those Popes in Rome. Alexander VI. The Borgias. In Buddhism, Buddha denounces those who take up the yellow robe but are not worthy of it, he says something like: those who are not worthy of the yellow robe should get out of here now before I kick their asses. Violence. Violence is therapeautic. Now that sounds psychotic. I have just finished reading Irvine

Welsh's Trainspotting which wsa published around ten years ago. I really like the character Spud. He's so nice and naive and simple and he likes animals. His feelings get hurt when he sees his friends (Begbie, Renton, Sick Boy) hurting small, furry creatures. Sick boy is one sick character. There's this part where he hides in the bushes and using a BB gun, shoots this really huge pet dog of this punk-type character, and then the dog instinctively bites its owner (talk about man's best friend, huh) and then the owner yells for help. And here's the really sick part. Sick Boy then proceeds to 'help' the kid by coming to his aid carrying a bat. He doesn't smash the canine to a bloody pulp, but inserts the bat inside the collar and slowly, sweetly twists the collar, strangling the dog to death. Woah. Quick, Quick Science has failed our world, science has failed our mother earth -------Science by System of a Down No, Im out.

Corazon? si (points at head) aqui? no Tags: system of a down, buddhism, monks, burma, armenian genocide, marilyn manson, crazy

Pinoy versus God Dec 6, '07 2:18 AM

nabubulok na ang mga utak natin Kinakain na ng mga uod mga uod na kulay green mga uod na kulay pink umaalingasaw na ang baho napupuno na ang hangin halika kaibigan at ating langhapin ang bango ng ating mga pangarap mabuhay ang mga presidente at ang mahal naming gobyerno bilang mga mabubuting residente, halina't tayo'y sumayaw Sayaw unggoy sayaw sige Sumayaw ka pa Sayaw unggoy sayaw unggoy Sayaw ka Ha, Sayaw ka rin Para sa berdeng dolyar Para sa Diyos at Paniniwala Para sa Kaunlaran at Kinabukasan Para sa Investments Hala sige unggoy sayaw ka sayaw pa at kami'y papalakpak Bibigyan ka namin ng kendi Bibiyan ka namin ng pera nabubulok na ang ating mga puso inaamag na at nangingitim para ano pa ba ang pusong iyan? ba't di mo pa itapon? Doon nga't nakahimlay na sa basurahan Kailangan i-segregate ang mga nabubulok sa mga hindi nabubulok Biodegradable tayong lahat At amen o diyos na dakila At amen o mahal na tagapaglikha Kung nilikha mo ang lahat, Nilikha mo rin si Hitler Si Mussolini, Si Stalin, Si George BUsh, Si Presidente Marcos Si mahal na pangulong Gloria Si pareng Erap at si Pope Alexander VI

At oo anak sila'y aking ginawa Para turuan kayo ng mahalagang leksyon na dapat kayong magdusa magdusa kayong lahat Tangina mo! Halika dito magsuntukan tayo Baba ka dyan sa iyong gintong trono O mahal na mahabaging Diyos O mahal na maawaing Diyos Round One at aking nabigyan ang poong Maykapal Ng isang black eye, ha pakyu sabi ko Pakshit, sabi naman nya Sinipa ko siya sa tiyan At ang Diyos ay sumuka Ng mga anghel at mga santo at mga pari Ng mga simbahan at biblia at mga rosaryo Ng mga santo papa at madre at katedral At mga sermon at mga Heswita at Pransiskano Ha shit matapang ka boy, sabi Niya Ha, matigas ka manong sabi ko Prends na lang tayo, sabi niya OK, sabi ko Tags: blasphemy, poem, god, capitalism, globalism, globalization, monkey, meow ======================== END OF PAGE FIVE ===================== A Rainy NIght Nov 25, '07 2:18 AM Rain pours slowly down on the rusty corrugated iron sheet which serves as the roof of the school. The place is empty ecxept for one child. He is wearing the school's white polo shirt and blue shorts uniform. He sits still and he appears to be talking to himself. Outside the rain is pouring and no one hears the child scream. It is dark outside and the falling rain makes huge puddles of mud and water. The world smells wet and cold and lonely. The child shakes and rattles and falls from his small wooden chair. The school is a one-room building and is slowly rotting. Time has ravaged and has eaten away the once vibrant soul of this structure. It lies on a large abandoned field where you can gaze for miles and there's nothing to see but total flatness. There once was a time when children used to come here, when during bright sunny afternoons, the children would go out and play outside. Now, it's raining and the raindrops explode silently as they crash on the wet ground. The walls of the tiny school is lined with holes and the paint is cracking. The ceiling has a large hole in it where you feel that you'll be sucked up into another dimension if you happen to stand below it. It also

feels as if someone or something will fall down on top of you if happen to pass by underneath it. That something could have two heads and it could be very pale and cadaver-looking. And maybe it could ask you, maybe it could whisper slowly into your ear: what are you doing here? And then it could place a cold hand on your cheek. The cement floor of the room is like a very shallow swimming pool where all the water that passed throught the holes on the roof fell and gathered. The child is wriggling, wallowing in it now and smiling, his eyes opened wide and his tongue flailing. The boy is staring at the one reading this, he is staring at you and he wants to know why are you still reading this, what do you want to know? why did you kill me? why did you kill me? Tags: horror

Hintay Nov 25, '07 2:17 AM Ang bata nakatingin sa yo, tinatanong ka niya, sabi niya, tay, asan po si nanay? Anak, sabi mo, matulog ka na, bibilhan kita nang robot bukas ha, matulog ka na. Tay, sabi niya, tay asan si Nanay, iiyak na siya, tutulo na ang luha. Sabi mo, o sige pagka umiyak ka maririnig ka ng engkanto sa labas, alam mo bang dinudukot nila ang mga batang nag-iingay tuwing gabi? Umiiyak na ang bata, humahagulgol, sabi mo sa sarili, puta asan ba ang puta? Pagkagising mo, wala na sa tabi mo ang bata. Junior, asan ka, sabi mo. Tay, andito ako, nasa kusina. Halika ka nga, bilhan mo kong sigarilyo. Darating ang batang may hawak na kutsilyo. Uy, ano ba wag mong paglaruan yan, bibilhan na lang kita mamaya ng robot ha. Akin na yan. Sinunggaban ka ng bata, sinaksak ka sa tiyan. GUmising kang puno ng takot. Bangungot, puta. Mahimbing na natutulog si Junior sa tabi. Puta, humihingal na sabi mo.

Tatlong araw nang hindi umuuwi ang puta, isip mo habang nakikipag-inuman sa mga kumpare. Wala na hindi na babalik yun, pabirong sabi ng kaharap mo. Nakahanap na ng milyonaryo, nag-asawa na nang artista. Haha. Binasag mo ang bote ng beer sa ulo ng walanghiya. Uwi ka na naman. Tulog. Kain. Hintay.

on the death of marianette amper

Nov 25, '07 2:15 AM

She died not because of poverty but because she was raped by her own father, alleges today's news. The girl who committed suicide last November 2 and was buried November 10, whose diary told of her misery in not being able to go to school, and whose suicide instantly made her a saint of antigovernment groups by presenting her suicide as the government's fault, has her credibility as a martyr for the cause of social justice violently shaken. In an age where surival of the fittest is not a suggestion but the cardinal rule, a commandment which should have been inscribed in stone, the most that the public gave for her performance, was a shrug. Somehow people are either too afraid and unnerved to face the truth or that they really do not care anymore. Apathy had seeped deep into the bones of the people. So that not even a death this miserable can move them to tears.

The living feel superior to the dead. The living who control the most resources, who have the biggest mansions and the fattest bank accounts even feel more superior to the living who can only muster enough for a day's meal. Marianette Amper is poor and dead. She is poor and dead and that makes her a double loser. No one cares about the poor people, so why should they care about a poor and a dead one? The cancer has spread deep. And slowly the hope of ever finding a cure erodes and finally vanishes. We are everywhere. We pride ourselves with being hardy and able to survive in whatever situation we find ourselves. And this deep and strong conviction to live and to prosper has made us callous to the ones who simply said quits and surrendered. Tags: suicide, marianette

a pale blue dotNov 25, '07 2:11 AM for everyone A wonderful article by Carl Sagan

BULOK

Nov 1, '07 12:40 PM

Bulok na palabas sa TV.

Bulok na produkto sa merkado.

Bulok na mayayamang pulitiko.

Bulok na sistema ng edukasyon.

Bulok na pulisya.

Bulok na burukrasya.

Bulok na paniniwalang Kristiyanismo.

Bulok na mga artistang sinasambang tila mga diyos, binubuhusan ng pera, iniidolo ng mga bulok na masang winawaldas ang buhay sa panonood ng mga walang kuwentang palabas, mga tsismis tungkol sa kanilang mga paboritong mga artista, mga Koreanovela, mga Tsinovela, mga panandaliang-aliw samantalang ang kanilang mga anak ay walang suot, walang makain, walang edukasyon

Bulok na mediang nagsusubo ng samut-saring kabulukan sa mga isip ng mga bulok na kabataang ginagaya naman kung ano ang uso, na nawalan na ng kakayahang mag-isip dahil sa paglilibang sa mga videogames sa CounterStrike, sa Ragnarok, sa FreeStyle, sa mga walang kabuluhang bagay, sa pagsusugal, sa bilyar, sa sigarilyo, sa droga, sa mga maiingay na scooter, sa mga fraternities, sororities, mga gangs na walang saysay.

Bulok na mga paaralang walang mga libro, walang maupuan, walang guro, butas ang kisame, sira ang pinto, basag ang bintana, may daga, may ipis, may estudyanteng walang alam, walang natututunan.

Bulok na kapaligirang pinagtatapunan ng mga gamit nang injection, mga sanitary napkin, mga diaper ng mga sanggol, ng mga sanggol, mga plastic na balat ng kendi, tsitsirya, ng Moby, ng Richee, ng Tortillas, ng Piattos, ng Nova, ng Crispy Patata, mga bulok na panlamang-tiyang pumapatay sa isip

Bulok na mga librong napag-iwanan na ng panahon, mga librong naninilaw, naaagnas,

mga nobelang Pilipinong walang bumabasa, mga magasing walang lamang makabuluhan.

Bulok at walang disiplinang mamamayang hinahangaan ang mga dapat pandirihan, sinasamba ang mga dapat sunugin, nagdarasal sa kanilang Diyos na sila ay yumaman, gumaling, magkaroon ng makakain, buhay ay ginugugol sa isang paniniwalang tulad din ng drogang nagbibigay pag-asa gayong ang kataway unti-unting nabubulok na, isipang kinakain ng antigong bulok na pananampalataya.

Bulok na mga religious leaders na singyaman ng mga druglord at jueteng lords na ginagamit ang katangahan ng karamihan upang magkaroon ng impluwensiyang pulitikal, mga religious leaders na ginagamit ang pangalan ni HesuKristo para makalikom ng maraming salapi, gayong si Kristo, sa kanyang buhay ay itinaguyod ang karukhaan, ang simpleng pamumuhay, mga matatabang paring dekotse, naka-Volvo, naka-Highlander, mga arsobispong nakatira sa mga malalaking kumbento, di kailanman ginugutom, di kailanman naiinitan sa kanilang mga de-aircong silid, mga paring sinasamba na tila kung anong tagapagligtas na bumagsak sa lupa, mga katumbas ng prayle sa nakaraan, mga nakasutanang palamunin.

Bulok at maruruming kalyeng napupuno ng dumi ng mga Rottweiler, ng mga Doberman, ng mga Pitbull, ng mga Dalmatian, ng mga askal, ng mga pusa, mga daanang ginagawang parking space, mga kalyeng tinitirhan ng mga taong-grasa, mga baliw, na kung sa gabiy nagiging pugad ng mga mamamatay-tao, mga rapist, mga halang ang bitukat kaluluwa, mga taong mas masahol pa sa asong kinakain ang sariling dumi.

Bulok na mga pulitikong wala nang ginawa kundi ang magpakayaman at sa kung minsay sinusundot ng konsensyay nagdodonate ng ilang kwarta sa isang bahay-ampunan o foundation o anuman, mga pulitikong nagmamay-ari sa halos lahat ng lupain ng bansa, mga pulitikong nagmula sa mga bulok na mga mayayamang pamilyang kunway mahabagin, mapagbigay, mapagkumbaba, gayong sila-sila rin naman ang pinagsisilbihan, yinuyukuran, pinupuri.

At sa mga kabulukang ito ay nagagawa pa ring magpista, magkaroon ng sagala, ng mga pagdiriwang.

Nagagawa pa ring magbiruan ng mga politiko sa Senado at Kongreso.

Nagagawa pa ring magdasal at umasa sa isang di-nakikitang nilalang.

Nagagawa pa ring ngumiti at tumawa ng mga masang nakatutok ang mga mata sa Eat Bulaga.

Nagagawa pa ring sikmurain ang mga kalapastanganang ginagawa sa mga kababaihang OFW, mga babaeng ginagahasa ng mga sundalong Kano, mga inaalila ng mga Arabo, mga Pilipinang binibitay, sinasampal, hinahampas, na napipilitang tumalon mula sa kung anong palapag ng building, nilulunod, pinipira-piraso, pinapatay.

At ang solusyong aking naiisip ay:

Pasabugin ang mga building sa Ayala.

Wasakin ang Malacaang.

Ang Senado at Kongreso.

Paguhuin ang mga antigong simbahan.

Patayin ang mga pari, jueteng lords, druglords, religious leaders, mga pulitiko

Imasaker ang mga maimpluwensiyang pamilya, pasabugin ang kanilang mga mansyon sa kung saang subdibisyon.

SUPPORT THE SUMILAO FARMERS! for everyone Support the Sumilao Farmers! Lupa at Kalayaan! Remember Hacienda Luisita!

Oct 15, '07 6:01 AM

Foreword

This story is dedicated to the brave farmers of Sumilao who on October 9, 2007, marched from their homes in Sumilao, Bukidnon to the National Capital Region, Manila, Philippines to protest the injustice committed by Mr. Quisumbing who, instead of giving back the land to the farmers like he was supposed to, sold it to a corporation owned by the Cojuangco Family.

This is the family where President Corazon Cory Aquino was spawned from. This is the family who was behind the Hacienda Luisita Massacre. This scenario have been played over and over in this countrys history that it could, by a marvellous stretch of the imagination, almost be cited as an example of what Nietzsche called Eternal Recurrence. And my personal answer to Nietzsche's question is that eternal repetition is a nightmare. We're talking Camus' interpretation of Sisyphus here, Sartre's No Exit. Pardon my cosmic digression. It is a shame that many people still subscribe to the idea that progress in this country can be achieved without regarding this crucial issue. This story describes the situation here in semi-feudal, neo-colonial Philippines where the most basic rights of the Filipino people have been trampled on for generations all because of that something that people walk over and disregard everyday land. The author gives his support to them and may their cause succeed.

Geophagy This land is ours, the old man shouted, this land is ours and they stole it from us. My grandfather's grandfather worked this land, and my ancestors, our ancestors before them. The old man, shaking from the sound of his own voice, from the repressed anger that built up slowly through the years and now finally exploded, he shouts, give us back our land, give us back our land. The people are chanting with him now, unfurling their banner which says that the program was not implemented, that the program did nothing to alleviate their sorrows, that the government should side with the farmers. The soldiers, scattered all around the family's compound, outside the huge cement walls lined on top with shards of broken San Miguel Beer bottle glass, the soldiers, they gripped their rifles tighter. Standing with their trucks between the farmers and the mansion, the soldiers, they watched as the farmers laid down on the ground as if going to sleep. Stand up, the young man said, stand up, the young man repeated, this time kicking their legs. They were ordered to make the farmers stand up. They were ordered to make the farmers go home. Stand up, but they just wouldn't listen. The old man on the ground, barefoot, the cracks on his calloused soles showing, he just closed his eyes and prayed, his shaking hands gripping the rosary tight. Annoyed for

not getting any response, the young man, he raised his rifle and slammed the rifle's butt on the farmer's face. Before the old man could utter a cry, cracks started to fill the air. The old man slowly closed his body like a makahiya. His bloody mouth gaping, tears flowing from his eyes, he curled up, covering his face with his hands, drenching the rosary with blood. All this while the troops are chasing those who ca still run away. It's in the news that night how troops dispersed several protesting farmers. It's in the news that night how several farmers were gunned down. It's in the news that night how several soldiers harassed the camera man not to record what's going on. It's in the news that night how Mrs. Super Star successfully gave birth to a baby girl. It's in the news that night how Mrs. Super Star's friends congratulated her for her beautiful bundle of blessing from God and we pray for you and we love you. It's in the news that night what the celebrity friends' gifts were. Giant Teddy Bears. Imported cradles. Educational toys. Designer baby clothes. It's also in the news how Ms. Teenage Newcomer is dating Mr. Teenage Heartthrob. How Ms. Sexy Actress' new film provoked the censors and intrigued the critics. How Mr. Old Movie Star is dating Ms. Sexy Actress. Three days later, the old man returned. Someone was kind enough to drag him off and carry him back to his hut during the commotion. He looked at the abandoned field in front of the mansion littered with torn and worn-out slippers. Only a few soldiers were left. He looked at the tattered banner. The soldiers, they're smoking cigarettes. He still could see patches of dark earth where instead of water, blood was spilled. Slowly, he kneels down, clutches a handful of earth and shoves it into his mouth. He looks straight at the mansion, all white and clean and beautiful. He chewed, swallowed, then brought another handful into his mouth.

written this warm October 14 night Ipil Dorm, Diliman, Q.C. narodnikkki@yahoo.com Tags: short story, politics, feudalism, neocolonialism, radicalism, radical, religion, traditional politics, revolution, news, nightmare, protest

Suicidal Thoughts

Oct 5, '07 7:41 AM

This article is about me and my suicidal thoughts that I think about everyday. Let me explain to my predicament. Imagine you live inside your head most of the time and your head is a huge clutter of random and amusing and crazy ideas that are just hanging there inside your head. There they are floating, wriggling along, swimming, and there you are, sitting, watching all these thoughts floating. And then one day, while sitting on the only rock in your world, you find yourself asking questions like: is life worth living? Where will i be ten years from now? Is there a God? If yes, then what's with all the suffering? What would my parents feel if they find out that their son whom they count on so much died one lonely cold dawn from hanging himself with the electric cord of his study lamp? What would the neighbors think? What would my aunts, my uncles, my cousins, my grandparents think? And that's when you start having a hard time trying to sleep. You roll on the bed and think about anything. Anything. Nice thoughts. You force yourself to come up with something new, something novel, something that no one in the history of the entire fucking stupid, mixed-up crazy world have not thought of before. And sooner or later you give up and you are so tired and exhausted and then you think about all the friends you've lost; all those relationships you blundered; just because you're afraid. Afraid of what exactly? What's there to be afraid of? You don't know the reasons but you do know that you are afraid. That whenever you wake up in the morning you think it a great sacrilege that the sun rises up. That the birds are singing. That all the people outside are happy and merry and off to somewhere where they're supposed to be. And you, you look in the mirror, you ask the stupid moron crazy idiot staring back: what will you do today? You read. That's what you do. You scour the library in search of meaning, of purpose, of direction. You've stopped going to church when you were fifteen years old and now to make up for the loss of your faith, you're trying to find a new one to latch on to. You read about existentialism. About how each one of us is faced with enormous responsibilities about our lives about our choices about being 'authentic' about acting without 'bad faith'. You read about Buddhism. About the nature of suffering. The cause of suffering. The cessation of

suffering. Anarchism. Bakunin. Kropotkin. Goldman. You read. And read and read. And one day you just gave up. And that's where you are now. You gave up. But before giving up you realized something. Somewhere during all that time you spent holed up reading in a corner of the library somewhere, something happened. Something great. You raised your arm and flicked a middle finger at everything: life, the world, your hopes, ambitions. You remain hopeless, lonely, sad, but you also are aware that you are not the only one suffering. You turn your eyes towards something other than yourself. You look at images of death, destruction and suffering. Of the torrent of tears falling down like rain and realize that all these glistening jewels came from some mother's eyes crying for the death of her son. Of the daughter who lost a father. Of the father who lost a son. Of all those broken hearts. And of your parents when they find out that their son whom they love so much died one lonely, cold, sad, rainy dawn in a dormitory miles from home, from hanging himself with the electric cord of his study lamp. Tags: suicide

Looking for Peace Sep 15, '07 9:51 PM He took a gun and balanced it on his head Flapping around, peace, peace, he said

I said, old man, what are you doing? I'm looking for peace sir, looking for peace I said, well, you can't find it here, go somewhere else And so he flapped his arms and flew away Goodbye, I said, may you find peace Fuck you, I heard him say Later that afternoon my head fell off And rolled around and around the ground Help me, help me, I said I've lost my ATM card But then I checked my wallet and it was there The old man came back. I've found peace, he says Well, where is it, I said, show me He took the gun off his head and pointed the barrel at me Here it is, he said squeezing the trigger a dozen times It is beautiful, oh so beautiful, I said, finding peace at last Tags: poem, gun, peace

Sleep Sep 15, '07 7:30 AM There is this monster and it's red. It's so big that your grandfather saw it from 500 kilometers away, he used to tell us. It has horns and a tail like a carabao's , and when it snorts, the dust on the ground would scatter and the dirt road would be so dusty no one could see what's going on. And then because it's so dusty, naughty children who do not sleep their afternoon nap and would only want to play all afternoon on the road, they just vanish and no one would hear of them again. So don't be a bad boy and go to sleep now or you won't grow up and be strong like your grandfather who saw the monster one day and he was so angry that he shot at the monster with his hunting rifle. And the monster was so scared that it scampered away and never came back again. But, Noy says, if the monster is gone, then no one would get me if I play outside because grandpa already scared it. And I am not afraid of any monster because I have my gun and I would shoot the monster like grandfather and please nay, please I want to play with them outside, they're waiting for me. No, the mother says, stay here and don't be such a hard-headed boy, I'll tell those friends of yours to go home now.

Outside, the sun is burning the rocks and pebbles in the road. The mother sees three boys going at each other with bamboo swords. They are barefoot and thin like all the other children in the barrio. Kids, she says, your parents may be looking for you, go home now and come back here later, Noy is asleep. One of the boys says to her, we'll just return later auntie, please tell Noy to bring his gun, we're going to fight all the bad guys later. With this, they ran screaming towards the barrio's makeshift basketball court a few kilometers away. She went back inside their hut and started to prepare the rice. Noy could not sleep. It's too hot and what he really wants to do is play with his friends. He fingers his wooden gun and eyes the lizard on the wall. He follows its movement with the barrel and then, bang, he says, you're dead. Sooner, he starts to get drowsy and falls asleep. It was already dark when he woke up so he was not able to see his friends who came back and asked for him. Angry, he said, nay why didn't you wake me up? But son, you were so peaceful sleeping there and besides there's always tomorrow. You can't just spend your time playing all day, you have to take your rest. Still feeling bitter, it took her mother a lot of convincing before he finally sat down at the table to eat. The next afternoon, Noy pretends to sleep, seeing his mother head to the kitchen, he sneaks outside and reunites with his friends who are hiding behind their mango tree. Snickering, they ran and wandered far from the barrio. Viva, Noy shouts, waving the pistol in the air. Viva, the boys shout back. We will never sleep again, Noy shouts. Never, the boys shout back. They started running again, oblivious to the burning stones in the road and the merciless glare of the afternoon sun. Far ahead they see something. It is red and it has horns and a tail just like a carabao's. Noy recognizes what it is and tells his men not to be afraid for he shall kill it. But when it started to run towards them, all semblance of courage vanished and they found themselves scampering away. The dust started to rise and blurred their path. Screams filled the air. Noy trips on a rock, falls headlong into the ground and loses consciousness. Tags: story, short story, sleep, monster

Che Guevarra Aug 29, '07 7:24 AM Che Guevarra is a very famous person. His face appears on young people's t-shirts, bags, everywhere.

Clearly, we see here a group of budding young revolutionaries intent on overthrowing the current decadent and exploitative capitalist system. The Philippines, if all goes well, will soon become a communist state. VIVA CPP-NPA-NDF!, as the wall on the side of the shopping center says. I'm kidding of course. Che Guevarra, poor guy, spent his life fighting the forces of capitalism and imperialism and now his face is plastered on the t-shirts and various fashion accessories of mostly middle-class young people who associate his image with their own feelings of rebelliousness. Well, if everybody's wearing the same thing, what's so rebellious about that? With the current McCarthyist-level hysteria raging on, what with the government blaming the communists from kidnappings to bad weather, we should have seen these young people in jails already because of their very visible sympathetic position regarding communism. But no, we see them walking around, ears glued to their Ipods, carrying laptops, Iphones in their pockets, perfectly ignored by police and guards. These kids, with their tattered, faded jeans and menacing attitude, clearly look rebellious. And that's what it's all about looking rebellious! In conclusion, I say that Che Guevarra's face have been turned into a fashion accessory. Tags: che guevarra, che

Artists Aug 8, '07 12:28 AM Artists are said to be special because they are able to express themselves in ways that are creative, new and unique, which 'ordinary' people are not so graced with. When we speak of someone like Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, or Mozart and Beethoven, conjured in our minds is the vision of that of a spectacular genius blessed from up above with his talent. We see them laboring intensely and passionately, absorbed so much in their own worlds that sometimes we wonder how does it feel like to be a genius like them. How does it feel to be a Hemingway, a Picasso, a Dali? However there is also in that image a darker, more negative association. And that is of the artist as selfish, decadent and difficult to deal with. This is the 'tortured soul' stereotype that is probably best exemplified by Van Gogh who, among other things, cut off a piece of his ear, and then finally, in a moment of despair, shot himself, dying days later.

Other examples are: Hemingway, Woolf, Plath, Mishima and in more recent cases, the artists associated with rock and roll, with their 'holy trinity' of Sex, Drugs and Rock n' Roll: Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, the 'lizard king' Jim Morrison of The Doors, Kurt Cobain of Nirvana, Layne Staley of Alice in Chains, etc. All of them a suicide, a drug dependent, or both. In conclusion, one can say that these people are indeed both blessed and doomed. Although it is erroneous to assume that all artists act this way. There are those who lead pretty normal lives. Presented here are among the most famous and extreme cases, hence, more interesting. Tags: artists ============================== END OF PAGE SIX =================

THOUGHT CRIMESJul 24, '07 11:24 PM Squidward is annoyed because Patrick and Spongebob is having fun inside this really huge box. He hears noises of pirates and robots fighting. Every time Squidward knocks on the lid and sees that there really is nothing inside that causes all those unbelievable noises, he gets angrier. He finally asks Spongebob how they are able to do all those sounds. Spongebob replies that they use their imagination. Imagination, says Albert Einstein, is more important than knowledge. I don't know about that, but coming from the greatest scientist that ever lived, that sure must carry some weight. Squidward then gets jealous and wants the box back. He waits until the two retire to Spongebob's house then he slides inside the box and imagines that he is driving a racing car. Squidward is attempting to use his imagination. Suddenly the box rattles and the engine is roaring. Then he starts to move really fast. In the end, we discover that the box was picked up by the garbage truck while Squidward was still in it and that all those race-car noises are really coming from the truck. Imagination gives flavor to life and in totalitarian dystopias that we read about, this capacity of human beings is repressed. In George Orwell's novel 1984, Winston Smith, the main character, lives a drab, boring existence and he writes all his negative thoughts about the Party on his journal. This constitutes a thought-crime. If the Thought-police finds out about his journal, he would be in deep trouble. "Thoughtcrime does not entail death Winston tells us, Thoughtcrime IS death. And we see this happening around us today. The passing of the Human Security Act, which purportedly seeks to protect people from terrorists, allows the government to bypass fundamental rights that people should have as said by the Constitution. I am not saying that we are living in a totalitarian society. In order for the government to do that, they would need to have a very efficient system of policing. And the government is not really known for being efficient. But the threat is there and what a sad day it will be when Spongebob, Patrick and Squidward are imprisoned for committing thought-crimes. Tags: thought crime, spongebob

Lockjaw

Jul 22, '07 12:04 AM

It's that nightmare again. There's really no clear reason, but I know that I am lying down on my bed really afraid of something and that I clenched my jaw so unbelievably tight that my teeth were dislodged off their sockets. I am swallowing a lot of blood and I can feel the little pebbles of teeth in my tongue almost falling inside my throat. This is when I get worried that I would swallow the dislodged teeth as well, so I rise up and I try to open my mouth, but I can't. The more I try to open my jaw, the more it shuts itself tight. Tighter and tighter and tighter. This, I start to think, must how those people with lockjaw feel like. And I start to wonder do I have tetanus? How did I get it? Isn't my mouth supposed to be bubbling? And somehow I sense something funny in my situation. I get up, turn on the light and look at myself in the mirror. I imagined a cadaver face, one of those bloated up ones I saw on the paper yesterday, with their broken skulls and blood all over what used to be their face. Instead what I saw was my face. Normal, unbruised, complete-toothed face. I touched my face and I smiled. Tags: nightmare, lockjaw

GREED

Jul 18, '07 7:22 AM

Greed is a one-eyed monster with a titanic mouth and an unquenchable appetite like a black hole. It

devours everything in its sight. Religions are crumbling down and are now being replaced with the global cult of consumption. Prattled on day after day after day into the brains of hundreds of millions of people. The latest everything. The healthiest. The most environment-friendly. The most nutritious. For strong bones and normal growth. For a white flawless skin. For shiny luscious hair. For minty fresh breath and sparkly white teeth. For intelligent babies with high IQs and EQs. For a healthy liver. Buy this buy this buy this. Perfection is just a convenient trip to the nearest store or mall. Beauty, we are taught in commercials, is something that magically happens to us whenever we smoke their cigarettes or drink their gin, wine, or beer or brandy. The same thing goes for success, friendship, health and happiness, all neatly packaged and waiting for you in airconditioned hypermarkets. Games shows constantly stress to us the importance of money. People, crowds of them gathered, herded like cattle to be sifted through and played like toys. Theres dancing, clapping, singing, bright lights, loud music; theres shouting, laughing, crying, and finally the big finale one hundred trillion billion pesos! Tags: greed, society, mass consumption, capitalism

Carbon Monoxide Brain

Jul 17, '07 4:45 AM

Out of the bowels of a constipated Satan, struggling upon the toilet bowl of creation, burst forth in all its decomposition-stink-sticky-brown-glory, the city, hereby baptized as Manila. Corrupted to the core of its rotten heart, the infant slithers down into the stagnant, toxic waters of history. The angels sing in unison as a single yellow ray of light descends slowly down from the parted smog, then smacks hard into the cement casing of the urban creature. Oh bless us, bless us dear white-robed one

Revealing thus: A vast expanse of cement parking lot, littered with sanitary napkins, red with the menstrual blood of maidens; used condoms; used diapers, yellow with the shit of cute, chubby infants; shiny junk food packagings torn then discarded like victims of extrajudicial killings. Piles, mounds and mountains of multi-colored organic and inorganic trash, cooking under the hot sun, its hot juices steaming as it pours gurgling down the throats of the city's inhabitants Street-children, those grime-covered, rag-clothed cherubs running wild and barefoot in the urban jungle. Ponder the evil frown on their face as they mercilessly hound an old Anglo-Saxon couple who shoos them away like flies. But they persevere, god bless them, until the couple gives up, the woman digging on her pocket. Marvel upon the sight of an old drunk sleeping on his stomach, sprawled like a bag of cement on the sidewalk, his hand clutching an empty bottle of Ginebra, all under the glare of an angry imperial sun. Ah beauty, beauty gushes forth falling down upon us, a million drops of diarrhea Tags: carbon monoxide, pollution, manila

Communists are People Too Jun 22, '07 8:58 PM I should really stop being political these days. Might get me killed. I still have some sort of dreams or hopes or something. I don't want to end up floating in a river somewhere with bullets in my head. Problem is I can't. I've read a lot. All of them political. And some novels. Even then all I see is politics. I think that you can't separate life and politics. It's everywhere. It's in the air we breathe. Factories owned by corporations backed by the government spew all sort of toxic stuff on the water. It's on the water. Because things are so polluted, people have to buy their drinking water in processing plants, again, owned by corporations. It's on our food. In order to eat and

be respected in society, you have to have a job. The most profitable and respected jobs are those in the business sector. It's every young man's dream to have a nice place someday, a beautiful wife and all those stuff we're supposed to have in order to please society and those in power. It's everywhere we look. In the television, the news, there are two things that are constantly brought up: politics and showbiz. And the news is supposed to be our window to reality, the truth about what's happening. It's supposed to help us make sense of what's happening. Everything else after the news is entertainment, in other words, diversion. They're saying, these large media corporations, that all you people have to do is relax, do your little job, and let us take care of all the rest. There's something fishy going on and I can't quite put my finger on it. I think it's the discrepancy that happens when people are assailed by the facts. There's this two stories: one is propagated by the government, the other is the reality that people see everyday. The government sees a bright shining future for all of us, there's peace, there's prosperity. I've never seen a president here in our country admitting that we are in a crisis, that people are suffering, that we are a conquered nation, economically and politically. And socially. Naturally, what happens next is that we want to be like our conquerors too. We want their prosperity, we want their clothes, we want their TV shows, their manners of speaking and thinking. There's no escaping their influence. The second story is one that people should make themselves. Through observation of the things that are happening around him. Through sources that are not filtered and watered down and deemed as acceptable by some unknown power. Through personal effort, one sees and opens his eyes. This is not encouraged. Nationalism is never encouraged. The age of nations determining their own future is over, or has it always been this way that powerful nations say and non-powerful nations follow? I don't know. Of course, these are not admitted, no one wants to be called a slave, a lower-class of people. But it's there. Somewhere deep and somewhere hidden, where people won't notice. We never hear of the terrible murders perpetrated by governments to silence critics. We never hear of the students kidnapped, gagged, then shot in the back of the head. Of the peasant leader. Of the teacher. Of the journalist. But when they do come up in the mainstream media these are played out as the current trends and they are forced upon us as a sad reality. The government reasons that what these people are, are communists. These are evil people with evil intentions, intent on endangering and polluting the minds of our young. So with deep regrets and sadness, the government just has to kill them. It's for our own good. Although we do not deny the possibility that some of these people maybe communists, that communists are evil people, still, we have to admit that the military, the government and the police are not bastions of goodness and morality themselves. Who are they to tell us what is right or wrong? Tags: communist, communists, people

A Love Story May 31, '07 11:27 PM Mark assures Mary that toothpaste, specifically Colgate, is a contraceptive. Comforted that she wont get knocked up, Mary smudges a generous amount of the stuff on her you-know-what. Several months later, Mark starts to worry. And a few weeks more, his fears are finally confirmed. At 20 years old, Mark thinks that he is still too young to be a father. One day, Mary catches Mark frantically packing his clothes. You sonofabitch, Mary said emotionally, you said you love me, you said you are gonna take care of me, you said youre gonna take responsibility. Mark is all silent, and packing the last of his underwear, he quickly zipped his duffel bag and walked quickly out of the shack. Mary is furious now and grabbed the first thing that caught her eye their kerosene lamp. Improvised from a San Miguel Beer bottle, and half-filled with kerosene, Mary, using her Cricket lighter, lit up the lamps wick and threw the bottle at Mark. In western countries, this is known as a Molotov cocktail. Marks scream filled the air as the bottle smashed at the back of his head. The flaming liquid trickled down his neck and back and burned his clothes into his skin. Bitch, Mark screamed, bitch, bitch, bitch. The pain was so great, that he did not feel the shards of broken glass embed into his face and arms as he rolled in the dusty ground. Mark was rushed by the neighbors to the hospital where he died five hours later from infections. Mary stayed in a friends house for a while, prostituting herself to earn some money.

She died of a hemorrhage from a botched abortion. Tags: abortion, death, molotov cocktail, love

Please God, Smite The one Reading this Right Now

May 31, '07 6:37 AM

There's always this talk about achieving world peace. It's probably the most abused phrase in the whole of creation. I often wonder why God, in all his wonder and awesomeness did not include this itsy tiny bit in the whole package. Now what we have are people killing people. And as time progressed, so did our creativity in inflicting pain and suffering towards others. They (the Catholic Church, evangelicals, charismatics, etc) always say that all of this is just a test for God to see if we truly are deserving of our place in heaven. So he's up there right now, watching all these killings and sufferings and what does he do about it? Nothing. Because the cocksucker wants to find out if we truly are deserving to be with him for all eternity. This is just plain fucking stupid. If that is true, if God truly exists, then the least that I can say about him is that he is an insolent obnoxious asshole who has a twisted morality. Yep, that's what he is. And I give him the opportunity right now, right at this moment to smite me for all this blasphemy, and for

future ones to come. Personally, I would not even think of getting near a person like him. Talk about omniscience, eh? Knowledge about all the things that have and will happen. Why can't he use that? And then there's the Bible. Just what the fuck is it all about? I think that the Bible is the filthiest piece of garbage there is. I've read much more enlightening stuff. Crazy religious folks (CRFs) hold on to its words like its giving them an orgasm or something. Maybe people subscribe to this bullshit because of fear. They think that they do not want to go to hell. They think that being all burned up in eternity forever with Satan in the lake of fire, is something that's really terrible. They don't want God's wrath to descend upon them, they think that damnation really sucks. Personally, I don't think that's the most terrible thing that can happen. I am a TVaddict and I'm telling you, the stuff that I see on the news everyday is far more horrible than all that damnation stuff. Children on Africa dying of AIDS and hunger in extreme misery. Young girls, 3, 4, 5, years old being raped by an entire squad of soldiers. And these kids, if they're lucky, are left to live. I once heard of something called a fistula. Children in their early teens get pregnant, and because their vaginas are still too small, it would tear in childbirth and complications would occur, involuntary urination and defecation would result, that is if they survive. And more often, the infant, being squeezed up and all that trauma, would not survive the birth. And all these stupidities are repeated again and again in the history of mankind. Dumb monkeys, stupid fucks, retarded assholes that people are, I honestly cannot see any ray of hope. We're already in hell. We just don't realize it yet. Tags: curmudgeon, misanthrope, rant, religion, bible, crazy people, catholic, hell

Totally Kyle May 31, '07 6:32 AM (guitar solo) (ends solo, faces camera while smiling stupidly, combs hair with right hand) (audience applause / cheer) (end applause)

Kyle: Yeah, like, this one time, I was in my room, shooting cocaine, like, in my left arm. And then I was like, so high, and then I realized I was hungry, so I chewed on my arm. It tasted like chicken (smiles). And then my mom, like, entered my room, and she was all like whoa my God and I was like whoa mom, Im like, really hungry and then she like, fainted. And then the Teletubbies came in, and they were all like, really happy dancing around. And then, Pooh, like, stepped on Tinky Winkys foot. And Tinky Winky was like, totally pissed, so he went out then came back with this tommy gun, then started shooting everyone. LaLa was crying and pleading, shes on her knees and she was all like please dont kill me, oh God please, Im pregnant; then Dipsy was like Oh shit, Im too young for this sort of responsibility man, this is so not cool; and Pooh was like dead, like totally dead because like, blood is coming out of these bullet holes in his skull. And I was like, Oh shit. And Tinky Winky was like yall gon die now motherfuckers then he shot Dipsy then Lala, and I was like, Shit and he was like laughing all crazy and weird and I was like, totally scared. Then Barney the Dinosaur came in and shot Tinky Winky in the back of the head.

(mom wakes up, sees all the blood and entrails and brain matter scattered all around, then faints again)

(enter Barney all covered with blood and entrails and brain matter holding up an AK 47)

Barney: Hi Kids! (dances happily to Spongebob Squarepants end theme)

(end)

Tags: barney, spongebob, totally kyle, murder, homicide

Filipino Politicians

May 31, '07 6:29 AM

Fat, pale, sickly and greedy as hell, and they think they can lead this nation into prosperity. That's what they've been saying for decades. It's always about going onwards, about the bright and shining future, always about the highways and the roads and the schools. Always about their achievements and accomplishments. The way they so piously look during mass, all huddled up with all those religious people all in there praising the lord, makes me sick. That's why it would not even tinge my conscience to pass a bullet through one of these monsters' head. People are dying in the streets everyday and they still have the heart to ride their purebreed horse in their hacienda somewhere. Tags: trapo, politiko, politicians, filipino politicians, traditional politics

Today May 31, '07 6:02 AM Today, being a beautiful morning and all, I think I'll stay at home and sulk all day and think about how this world is going to end pretty soon. I think I'll waste every precious minute of my time here in this beautiful blue little planet watching the news. But first, I have to wake up. And drink some instant coffee. There's nothing like manufactured, processed caffeine to wake you up. May this drink give me the strength and courage not to snuff myself today, lord. Scalding hot, the water pours down ever so slowly and carefully into my mug. Add the powder and the sugar and stir. May this day be beautiful and fruitless and short, oh lord. Then there's breakfast. I think I better not today, waste of precious resources that I am, because I'm feeling guilty and tired. Tired and I've been up for several minutes only. Guilty because I have not, not even once, contributed to the good of this pretty world. In the news today, some people killed a bunch of people for killing their people and now they're being hunted down and if they get caught, they will be killed. Someone put his infant in the microwave and is now in prison. Burned babies are everywhere these days. Rich people riding fancy cars and eating in fancy restaurants and God loves them because they contribute to the growth and advancement of modern capitalist society, thank you lord for making these kind of people. This poor old lady all covered in black is shouting and wailing ang pointing at her house where her son was killed following a mortar attack from somewhere. Now, she's asking God for retribution, asking him for justice and saying where are you, where are you. And it just goes on and on and on. Drill a hole in my brain and drown me in blood. Hang me, chop me, quarter me and feed me to the dogs. Roast me and give me to the poor for food, oh lord.

Tags: brain

I Like My Democracy Bloody and Violent May 22, '07 8:43 PM According to the National Philippine Dictionary of Words, which does not exist, the word 'election' can be used interchangeably with the word 'cheating'. For example,"During the last elections, the President won by several million votes over FPJ", is just as acceptable as "During the last cheatings, the President won by several million votes over FPJ". The cause of this travesty of grammar is the anxiety that thinking Filipinos feel whenever they hear of another useless idiot from some powerful clan win in the elections, and the existential absurdity and alienation that they feel whenever they hear of such terms as: vote-buying, ghost employees, corruption, private army, red tape, mansions, jueteng, druglord, political killings and many more, for they are certain that people with words such as Honest, Trustworthy, Loving, Kind, Generous, Pro-Life and Christian emblazoned in their posters, do not do such things. The ambiguity caused by this, creates a powerful black hole inside the thinking Filipino's brain which instantly sucks out those naive concepts like Clean Elections, Honest Politicians and Good Government, to name a few, and which also causes that person to write useless stuff like this, then post it in the internet, hoping that someone will read it. "The muck of cynicism over the elections in this country is so thick and viscous that simply thinking about it aggravates my lower back pain", remarked one foreign observer from an unidentified country, not realizing, ignorant that he is of the intricate processes associated with the elections in our country, that no one here understands what the word 'cynicism' means nor bothers to care of what he thinks.

Personally, I do not hold the same view as the foreign observer. If he asks me if I still believe in the elections, I would quietly take him to a silent spot, talk to him about the importance of democracy, then shoot him lovingly in the head with my Magnum revolver. That's how much I love my democracy. I would feel deprived if I do not hear of ballot-snatching, number padding, cheating accusations and sour-graping. My life would not be complete without news of the glorious victories of my beloved political dynasties, and the wonderful things they do to stay in power. I would giggle in sheer delight hearing of the dramatic increase in shootings and murders that happens only during this special time of the year. As you probably can see by now, I am oozing with sarcasm. Sweet, sweet sarcasm. Dripping with it, wallowing in it, drinking it, breathing it, whenever the subject of elections ever come up. However, there is still hope for this sarcastic bastard, for we Filipinos are good at squeezing hope out of thin air. There are still people who have the amazing capability of deluding themselves to the point that they actually start to believe that their single vote can change the future of this nation; maybe I can be like them. There are still many showbiz people and celebrities out there that are so confident with their God-given ability to rule people, that they do not think twice over running in the Municipal, Provincial and National Elections; maybe I can vote for them next time. There are still the kind, benevolent, self-righteous, narcissistic, traditional politicians that are so kind and benevolent and so giving during their campaigns, so loving of the poor and downtrodden, and so cute when they dance and sing in desperation for those sweet, sweet votes. Maybe I can start believing in them. Or maybe I can just kill myself. Tags: elections, philippines, 2007

Otitis Externa Rant

May 4, '07 8:10 AM

Hi there internet people! I just want you all to know (not that this really matters) that I am currently in great physical pain. I somehow managed to magically conjure out of nowhere a wonderful ear infection and its driving me nuts. Nuts, I tell you! Maybe this is Gods (the Judeo-Christian one) way of saying go to church once in a while, you sonofabitch, but then maybe not. Maybe this is just one of those unfortunate things that happen and does not necessarily involve a divine primordial being who, his adherents claim, loves us all, but once in a while goes apeshit over something as inane as buttsex. Goes psycho over something like that, then destroys two cities, leaving few survivors. Yep, that's a loving God alright. As my right ear quietly and lovingly throbs the whole night through, I feel that I have to tell you all a wonderful story. Its about this guy who gets initiated into a tribe of hunter-gatherers somewhere in Africa. The Babongo. As part of an initiation ritual, he is given this powerful psychoactive drug obtained from the root of the boga tree. He is in this hut and one tribesman prepares the root, cutting bite-sized chips for the guy to eat. And so the guy chews and swallows and pukes and chews and swallows again. This goes on until the drug takes effect. After the trip, the guy says that he felt renewed and the experience was life-changing. He realized that all life is connected and that the world is one living organism, that he is just one tiny part of this great and wonderful organism, then he puked some more. Whats the connection? Nothing. Now, it feels like an itchy, burning, rusty nail is being driven repeatedly at irregular intervals straight into the wall of my ear canal. You have no idea how this fucking hurts. Im gnashing my teeth, man; gnashing for Gods sake. Im talking biblical-level pain here, man.

Ive had this for three days now, and I havent slept nights during that time because the pain goes overdrive during nighttime til dawn and somehow it becomes tolerable during the day when I take my medication. I cant eat properly because moving my jaw hurts. I cant go to the beach (not that I really want to..I hate crowds). I cant go outside. I spent that whole sleepless time in front of the TV, exactly what Im doing right now. I love the news. I love CNN, Fox News, BBC. I love hearing about death and the war and protests and the killings. I love hearing that conservative nut Bill O Reilly rant against those left-wing bastards ruining his beloved American Culture. I love watching the Great and All-Powerful Leader of the World George Bush Jr. as he makes monkey faces delivering another one of his speeches. The news of the latest bombings and snipings in Iraq, captured terrorists, AIDS and the Darfur Crisis in Africa, all of these confirm my humble belief that the world is one sad, crazy place.

During the day, when fatigue, hunger, pain, misery, and the realization that the world is one crappy place overwhelms me, I have a light breakfast consisting of one loaf of sliced bread, bolinao (tiny, mummified fishes, fried), some rice, and a banana. Then I take some antibiotics, analgesic, antipyretic, antibacterial, anti-inflammatory pills. Next, I ask my younger brother (who, by the way, is being treated for tuberculosis) to put exactly three drops of this ear medication into my ear. Then I watch TV some more and this is when I get drowsy, and sleep away the morning. I usually wake up around 4 in the afternoon groggy with a slight headache and a wonderful feeling in my stomach like Im going to vomit. Ill drink coffee and wait for the feeling to subside, eat lunch/dinner, reread Chuck Palahniuks Fight Club, and then contemplate suicide. My writing this is some sort of therapy. You know, all that bullshit about expressing yourself so you feel like youre doing something to alleviate some real or perceived illness. And so, now that I have given you a piece of my mind, please feel free to go on with your happy lives, have a wonderful summer and please vote Bayan Muna. =========================== END OF PAGE SEVEN =================== Cosmic Peace May 4, '07 7:51 AM

The Day Tripper speaks with a language forgotten, buried in the dust of ages. She walks and talks and breathes like any other creature that ever existed, yet there is something noticeably different about her. For one thing her color is red. Red hair, red nose, skin, nails, eyes, lips. Luscious lips. Another thing: she can walk on air and breathe underwater. She has a lot of underwater sea friends. She sips the clouds in a siphon of straw and expels smoke from her ears nose and mouth. At night when all is dark and no electricity, no sounds from radios, she sleeps on a tree branch, hanging with her hair coiled like a python on the branch. Her name is from a Beatles song. She is very beautiful that anyone who looks, even just glances at her, suddenly dies a peaceful and contented death. Strewn all around the tree are corpses of men who heard about her and wanted to see her for themselves. Some are so decomposed that flowers started growing on their stomachs and out of one eye socket pokes out a single red flower. The Day Tripper is an Immortal. Legend has it that she has existed long before the world was created and that the body that she has right now is only temporary. Before even the primordial chaos, she lies in the womb of an impossibility located between the realm of reality and non-reality One day, while on the tree, she happened to see this very large fiery bird. It was a phoenix. She saw its wonderful wings and beak and claws and eyes. The eyes of the phoenix are like hers. She called upon the creature and it alighted on her tree. The tree burned down, but she was not angry becuase there are many such trees in the forest where she lives. She told the phoenix that from now on, she will ride on his back and they will travel the world together. The phoenix told her that it was a good idea, so they departed eagerly and soon found themselves above the mighty ocean. The ocean was wearing this Hawaiian T-shirt and he was reclining on this

rattan chair. He is wearing shades, reading a book , when a shadow fell upon his island. "Man, what the hell is that", the Ocean remarked. He called and shouted and ran on the shore following the shadow. He looked up and saw the Day Tripper on a very large bird that has fiery eyes. "Hi there Ocean, glad to see you today, look what I've got", the day tripper said pointing to the Phoenix's head. She told it to alight on the Island. On another universe, a baby was born with the powers of a million supermen. His parents named him Sam. In about three hours after his birth, Sam was already fully matured, so he told his parents that he wants to go on an adventure to seek for his fortune. He wore this really shiny green coveralls and he flew towards outer space. He was so fast that his speed opened up a transdimensional portal that opens into hell. He was sucked into this hole, which then closed suddenly. Satan is sitting in his wicker chair, doubting his existence and writing a novel entitled "Hell: Is it Real?", when suddenly Sam fell directly on his head. All around hell, the demons were laughing their asses off. The crash was so violent that a very large crater was created in the King of Hell's mansion. Sam apologized. Satan said that it was okey, just be careful next time, boy, you could kill someone with that recklessness of yours. Satan brushed the dust on his pink coat and boots and proceeded to guide Sam in hell. First, he showed Sam where the vending machine was in case he wanted to buy something to eat. Then they have Charon row them all around the river of sorrow which was the blood of politicians combined with oil. It was the most toxic substance in all of creation. Sam was surprised to see this wooden chest floating and he asked Charon what the contents of the box was. "Ah, that", Charon said," is Pandora's box, Zeus threw it here after all the evils of the world were released". Sam raised his head and saw that hell, in fact, was a very large cave. He asked Satan what was above hell. "The ocean of course, everybody knows that".Sam replied "I'm sorry I did not know, I was born only about four hours ago"."That's completely understandable, don't fret yourself, boy", Satan replied. "Well, I've gotta go", Sam said. With that, he leaped into the ceiling of the cave and pierced a hole where he came out. Water gushed inside hell. "Fuck", Charon and Satan said, while staring at the inflow of seawater. Sam saw the world and came to the conclusion that it was good, so he decided that he should stay there for a while. He was suspended in the air and he was checking the place out, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw this really beautiful red lady, swimming on the sea, and on the shore is this fat guy reading a book beside this gigantic red bird. Sam thought that this is some weird shit he is seeing right here, and flew towards them. Ocean saw him and was alarmed because it is common knowledge that flying supermen from another dimension are very dangerous especially when they wear shiny green coveralls. So Ocean turned himself into a Gundam Robot and proceeded to arm himself with his super laser cannon. Sam saw what happened and changed himself as well into a gigantic anime' character. He morphed himself into a vile, yellow, chubby creature with a tail shaped like lightning."Pika,Pika", Sam said and rushed headlong towards Ocean. Very far from where the two were fighting, the ground shook and out of a large crack burst forth Satan with his trusted sidekick Charon. The demon assistants created this very dramatic lightshow for their

master's entrance. First, the earthquake machine shook, then fireworks burst forth from the crack, then Satan and Charon were lifted out on this platform. The skies turned red, orange, violet, courtesy of Neon Systems lightings. Thunder roared from high fidelity Samsung speakers. But all sensed that something was wrong. They were off by several kilometers from where the fighting is going on. The idea was to show Satan's anger over what happened in hell. Death, destruction, wrath, all that stuff. Satan was furious over the incompetence of his minions, but being a cool guy and all, he gave them another chance. Heads are gonna roll and flesh will burn, there will be gnashing of teeth, and an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, a woman will be turned into a pillar of salt, and somebody's gonna be crucified. Just what is this story all about? Well, my friend, this is all about love. Yes, love. Love is the rechargeable battery that powers the west-east rotation of this round blue marble we call Earth. (Sigh) And so with his heart filled with love, understanding and compassion, Sam decided on a diplomatic route instead. He introduced himself to Ocean and deep-seated prejudices were quickly dispelled. Ocean realized that it is wrong to judge people by what they look like. He realized that what really matters is what's on the inside. Yes, internal organs, he thought, while picking his nose. Sam and Ocean both changed back into their original forms, shook hands and invited everyone to a wonderful Bollywood dance number. Tags: marijuana, story

The Crazy Student who Got hit by a Truck, a short story

Apr 16, '07 10:23 AM

What it feels like is theres some wax placed just above your heart. And it slowly melts and its warm and it drips and runs towards your guts. And then it dries and hardens and whats left is this lump of permanent something in your diaphragm and you walk around carrying this something. Theres your friend you say something and you talk and then you say goodbye. Theres your mother and she understands but not all. Theres your father and hes so proud of you and all you ever wanted was to please your parents so that when they die all they have are good memories of their good son whom they are so proud of and whom they talked so much to other people about.

Then theres your girlfriend. Imaginary girlfriend. And shes really sweet and nice and beautiful and not so smart as you because shes gonna be a housewife and not work and be pregnant and have kids and you will live in a nice house, a car, a garden, green lawn and flowers everywhere. And she comes out and hands you a glass of lemonade and tells you youve been working so hard and you better sit on that couch and watch tv or Im gonna force you and then theres dinner and the kids oh little betties gonna be a fine lady and little joeys gonna be a doctor and then while youre all eating, some crazy delusional guy barges in and starts shooting everybody. And oh my god. And then youre all alone. And theres still that empty hole where your heart should be and you walk all day this way. And the lump just grows bigger and bigger but you still look the same, you feel the same. Until one day you realize that you just cant take this anymore. So you find yourself a nice secluded place and then you take out the revolver or bottle of cyanide or car battery or knife or just a plastic bag. Then you pull the trigger or gulp it all down or attach the alligator clips to your nipples or wear a really silly halloween mask. You are the ghost of Christmas something. Lately youve been miserable at school. You dont get all this numbers on the blackboard and then you think whats the use of all this. Then the teacher notices you and looks at you and stares at you and youre the center of attention. You stutter, stammer, you talk about something. Your lips are moving on their own. You find yourself adrift in the sea of strangeness. With all these new faces you encounter everyday. And you are one of them. And you walk and you run and you eat in the cafeteria and sometimes you eat ice cream. And you are always alone. And now this, youre singled out by the teacher and you have no idea whats going on. Then its over and you have dinner early then you go home then read til 10 then sleep. Its not really sleeping because all you ever do is roll around on the bed trying to accomplish something somewhat similar to sleep and then its 6 or 5 or 4 and it doesnt really matter you tell yourself because you feel sick and you dont want to go to class today and you dont want to move. But then you realize that hunger is not a good thing especially when youre sick and you have no money and you have stomachaches recently and then you take a bath. The waters cold as hell and you hate getting wet but you have to because you have to go to school and you have to finish in four years or less and then you tell yourself youre crazy and then you slip on the soap and the shampoo hurts your eyes then you become so depressed that you cry and howl and tear a little bit of hair just to feel the pain, the misery. Just to feel something. You walk out of the bathroom fresh and relaxed and the owner of the house youre boarding in stares at you like youre some sort of crazy person who does weird things while taking a bath. Breakfast. Everyday its the same food. The same shiny metal tray. The same fork, spoon. The same cafeteria ladies whom you respect and treat with reverence because they have control over what you put inside that stomach of yours. Some day youll have the courage to put a bullet in your head, but right now youre in a long line waiting to be served with a cup of hot rice and an assortment of nice delicious somethings to choose from. Theres a fish who once swam the oceans, fried then served with sauce with monosodium glutamate, seasoning and spices. Theres a pig, raised in some farm then slaughtered then chopped into bits then mixed with soy sauce, vinegar, cloves of garlic, then cooked. Your favorite. You point at it. Youre so hungry and tired and sick and lonely and youre sobbing while eating, thinking of days when as a child you used to run around naked in the rain and you think that that was

the happiest day of your life. Tears roll down your cheeks. Green snot drips and falls in your food and you watch the rain outside. People are staring. They think youre some sort of crazy person who cries while hes eating. And with that disgusted look in their face, they stand up, they leave. Every single one of them. The cafeteria people are furious. They think youre crazy or something. A big, burly guy taps your shoulder, gives you moral support and he understands how sad it must be in your miserable situation, then he grabs you by the belt, yanks you off the chair, then throws you out into the rain. There you lay rolling around in the puddles, the mud, the brown, murky water dripping all over you, rainwater cleaning you, you wallow back in the mud. You dont know if youre happy or sad or anything. Tearing your shirt, you run towards the middle of the street then a big garbage truck hits you. Then youre in hell. Youre in hell because the garbage truck didnt kill you and now youre in a hospital all wet and dirty and naked and bloody and broken ribs, fractured skull, broken humeruses, knocked three teeth, bruised all over. The doctor puts you in plaster and youre a medical wonder in suspended animation. Your parents come to visit and they cry, especially your mother. The whole neighborhood visits and what theyre looking at is the elementary and high school honor student who is now in some prestigious university. Theyre all thinking hes the luckiest breathing object alive. And he should have looked where he was going. Then they all go and youre all alone. Tags: insanity, insane

Bulok, man

Apr 4, '07 10:46 AM

Bulok na palabas sa TV. Bulok na produkto sa merkado. Bulok na mayayamang pulitiko. Bulok na sistema ng edukasyon.

Bulok na pulisya. Bulok na burukrasya. Bulok na paniniwalang Kristiyanismo. Bulok na mga artistang sinasambang tila mga diyos, binubuhusan ng pera, iniidolo ng mga bulok na masang winawaldas ang buhay sa panonood ng mga walang kuwentang palabas, mga tsismis tungkol sa kanilang mga paboritong mga artista, mga Koreanovela, mga Tsinovela, mga panandaliang-aliw samantalang ang kanilang mga anak ay walang suot, walang makain, walang edukasyon Bulok na mediang nagsusubo ng samut-saring kabulukan sa mga isip ng mga bulok na kabataang ginagaya naman kung ano ang uso, na nawalan na ng kakayahang mag-isip dahil sa paglilibang sa mga videogames sa CounterStrike, sa Ragnarok, sa FreeStyle, sa mga walang kabuluhang bagay, sa pagsusugal, sa bilyar, sa sigarilyo, sa droga, sa mga maiingay na scooter, sa mga fraternities, sororities, mga gangs na walang saysay. Bulok na mga paaralang walang mga libro, walang maupuan, walang guro, butas ang kisame, sira ang pinto, basag ang bintana, may daga, may ipis, may estudyanteng walang alam, walang natututunan. Bulok na kapaligirang pinagtatapunan ng mga gamit nang injection, mga sanitary napkin, mga diaper ng mga sanggol, ng mga sanggol, mga plastic na balat ng kendi, tsitsirya, ng Moby, ng Richee, ng Tortillas, ng Piattos, ng Nova, ng Crispy Patata, mga bulok na panlamang-tiyang pumapatay sa isip Bulok na mga librong napag-iwanan na ng panahon, mga librong naninilaw, naaagnas, mga nobelang Pilipinong walang bumabasa, mga magasing walang lamang makabuluhan. Bulok at walang disiplinang mamamayang hinahangaan ang mga dapat pandirihan, sinasamba ang mga dapat sunugin, nagdarasal sa kanilang Diyos na sila ay yumaman, gumaling, magkaroon ng makakain, buhay ay ginugugol sa isang paniniwalang tulad din ng drogang nagbibigay pag-asa gayong ang kataway unti-unting nabubulok na, isipang kinakain ng antigong bulok na pananampalataya. Bulok na mga religious leaders na singyaman ng mga druglord at jueteng lords na ginagamit ang katangahan ng karamihan upang magkaroon ng impluwensiyang pulitikal, mga religious leaders na ginagamit ang pangalan ni HesuKristo para makalikom ng maraming salapi, gayong si Kristo, sa kanyang buhay ay itinaguyod ang karukhaan, ang simpleng pamumuhay, mga matatabang paring dekotse, naka-Volvo, naka-Highlander, mga arsobispong nakatira sa mga malalaking kumbento, di kailanman ginugutom, di kailanman naiinitan sa kanilang mga de-aircong silid, mga paring sinasamba na tila kung anong tagapagligtas na bumagsak sa lupa, mga katumbas ng prayle sa nakaraan, mga nakasutanang palamunin. Bulok at maruruming kalyeng napupuno ng dumi ng mga Rottweiler, ng mga Doberman, ng mga Pitbull, ng mga Dalmatian, ng mga askal, ng mga pusa, mga daanang ginagawang parking space, mga kalyeng tinitirhan ng mga taong-grasa, mga baliw, na kung sa gabiy nagiging pugad ng mga mamamatay-tao, mga rapist, mga halang ang bitukat kaluluwa, mga taong mas masahol pa sa asong kinakain ang sariling dumi. Bulok na mga pulitikong wala nang ginawa kundi ang magpakayaman at sa kung minsay sinusundot

ng konsensyay nagdodonate ng ilang kwarta sa isang bahay-ampunan o foundation o anuman, mga pulitikong nagmamay-ari sa halos lahat ng lupain ng bansa, mga pulitikong nagmula sa mga bulok na mga mayayamang pamilyang kunway mahabagin, mapagbigay, mapagkumbaba, gayong sila-sila rin naman ang pinagsisilbihan, yinuyukuran, pinupuri. At sa mga kabulukang ito ay nagagawa pa ring magpista, magkaroon ng sagala, ng mga pagdiriwang. Nagagawa pa ring magbiruan ng mga politiko sa Senado at Kongreso. Nagagawa pa ring magdasal at umasa sa isang di-nakikitang nilalang. Nagagawa pa ring ngumiti at tumawa ng mga masang nakatutok ang mga mata sa Eat Bulaga. Nagagawa pa ring sikmurain ang mga kalapastanganang ginagawa sa mga kababaihang OFW, mga babaeng ginagahasa ng mga sundalong Kano, mga inaalila ng mga Arabo, mga Pilipinang binibitay, sinasampal, hinahampas, na napipilitang tumalon mula sa kung anong palapag ng building, nilulunod, pinipira-piraso, pinapatay. At ang solusyong aking naiisip ay: Pasabugin ang mga building sa Ayala. Wasakin ang Malacaang. Ang Senado at Kongreso. Paguhuin ang mga antigong simbahan. Patayin ang mga pari, jueteng lords, druglords, religious leaders, mga pulitiko Imasaker ang mga maimpluwensiyang mapilya, pasabugin ang kanilang mga mansyon sa kung saang subdibisyon. Gusto kong makakita ng ilog ng luha at dugo. Patagin ang Maynila.

----Parihaba---Nob3'06

Apr 3, '07 7:19 PM

May mga araw na ayaw na niyang gumalaw. Ang gusto na lamang niyang gawin ay magmukmok sa gilid, at kung suswertehin, magagawa nga niya ito kung hindi lamang sa kanyang mga magulang na pinipilit siyang lumabas at maglakad. Gusto nilang makita siyang naiinitan ng araw at naiihipan ng hangin. Hindi gaya nito. Hindi nakatago at umiiwas sa kung anong nasa labas. Sa labas ay payapa ang lahat. Sa labas ay naroroon ang kanyang mga kaibigan na nabubuhay at hinaharap ang kani-kanilang kapalaran nang buong sigla at saya at tiwala sa mga bagay-bagay na matagal na niyang kinalimutan at binura sa isipa't ala-ala. Ngayon ay wala na naman siyang ginagawa, maging ang paghinga at pagkain ay nagiging abala. Para ano pa? Kung ang kahahantungan ng lahat ay kamatayan, kung tayong lahat ay sa abo rin ang uwi. Pabayaan nyo nalang ako dito, nasabi niya isang matagal nang araw. Nagkulong siya sa kwarto pagkagaling sa eskwela. Nakaupo sa sahig, sa isang gilid ng parihaba ng kanyang kwarto. Kinakatok ng kanyang tatay ang pintuan na kanyang kinandado mula sa loob nang walang maka-abala, nang walang maka-istorbo. Nais niya ng katahimikan upang makapag-isip siya nang mabuti. Ang kanyang gagawin ay nangangailangan ng matinding konsentrasyon. Iwanan mo na yan, sabi ng kanyang nanay, bitbit ang malaking platong may lamang kanin. Tumigil din ang mga katok at pumanhik na sa mesa ang tatay. Dear nay at tay, pasensya na kayo, sana ay magawa ninyo akong patawarin. Alam ko na ang gagawin ko ngayon ay isang malaking kasalanan sa mata ng Diyos at sa mata ng mga tao. Naiisip ko ngayon ang ating mga pinagsamahan. Naaalala ko pa noong namasyal tayo sa may simbahan tapos may nakita tayong pulubing mga bata, tapos sabi ko tay, bakit may mga pulubing bata dito sa simbahan, sabi nyo anak dahil nauubos na yung mga matatanda, tapos nakakabingi ang inyong halakhak at tawa na naisip ko kung bakit naisipan ko pang itanong yun sa inyo. Naisip ko na medyo may pagkawalanghiya ang inyong sense of humor, ngunit bilang aking tatay ay tumawa rin ako. Nasa labas tayo, sa harapan ng malaking pinto ng simbahan, inaantay si nanay dahil nagdarasal siya sa loob. Naalala ko na palaging nagdarasal si nanay. Minsan habang nakaluhod sa

harap ng estatwa, itinanong ko, nay bakit ipinako sa krus si Hesus, tapos sabi ni nanay anak ipinako si Kristo sa krus upang hindi siya bumagsak sa lupa nung iniaangat na siya. Naisip ko na may pagkawalanghiya rin ang mga patawa ng nanay, kaya tumawa na naman ako. Nagalit yung sakristan. Binato tayo ng kandelabra. Ang dami nating masasayang ala-ala, kaya medyo napapaiyak ako habang isinusulat ko ito sa aking yellowpaper. Ngayon, habang pinagmamasdan ang mga butiking naglalaban sa dingding, sa tabi ng bombilyang nagpapatay-sindi, naaalala niya na ang tanging nakapigil sa kanya noon ay ang amoy. Ang matamis na amoy ng adobong manok na niluto ng nanay para sa kanyang kaarawan. Binalak niyang ipatama sa kanyang kaarawan ang kanyang gagawin noon dahil naisip niya na maganda at maayos tingnan ang Marso 18, 1980 - Marso 18, 1996 sa kanyang lapida. Binalak din nyang isulat na gawing glow in the dark yun, para kahit gabi, may makakapansin. Magtatanong at magdududa ang sinumang makakakita nun, naisip niya. Intriga. Mapapatigil ang isang lalaki, titingnan iyon at mapapakamot ng ulo. Iisipin ng lalaki tangina ang astig ng batang to ah, ba't di ko naisipan to, teka anong oras na ba, punyeta ba't di kasi umiilaw tong relo kong Sokei eh, sana binili ko na lang yung Relox, me plaslayt nga pala ako, uy alasdyes na pala..wahhh sino ka? ano? ikaw yung nakalibing dyan? talaga ha, napaka-creative mo naman, san ka ba nag-aral, siguro maraming umiyak nung pumanaw ka, ano? yun yung ginawa mo, alam mo ba na iyon ay malaking kasalanan sa mata ng Diyos at sa mata ng tao, ngunit bakit mo ba naisipang magpaka-you know. At hanggang dun lang umabot yung kanyang mga iniisip, sapagkat gaya nung lalaki hindi rin nya alam kung bakit ginawa nung nakalibing ang ganon at sapagkat naglalaro sa kanyang pang-amoy ang matamis at masarap na adobo ng nanay. Tumayo sya at binuksan ang pinto. Sa susunod na taon na lang. Ang kanilang bahay ay nasa gilid ng kalye kung saan araw-araw ay dumaraan ang mga dyip, motorsiklo at kotse, maingay, magulo at maalikabok. Minsan ay may motorsiklong dumaraan tuwing kalaliman nang gabi noon, habang ang lahat sa kanilang lugar ay mahimbing na natutulog, kakaripas nang takbo at mapupuno ang paligid ng hagulgol ng tambutso't makina. Noon yun. Gabi-gabi. Hanggang minsan ay hindi na dumating ang motorsiklo. Katahimikan. Kinabukasan, isang lalaki ang nakabitin sa isang sanga ng kanilang mangga sa bakuran . Direkta sa ibaba, naliligo sa kanyang dugo ang isang motorsiklo. Vroom, vroom, nakasulat sa isang plakard na ikinabit sa kanyang leeg. Sa burol ng lalaki, isang daga ang malungkot na nakamukmok sa isang gilid ng parihaba ng kanyang kabaong. Iniisip ng daga na napakamalas naman ng kanyang buhay, pinalayas na nga siya sa kaniyang lungga, malilibing pa siya nang buhay. Naisipan niya na magpakamatay ngunit wala siyang lakas ng loob. Bakat din sa kanyang utak ang mga pangaral ng kanyang mga ninuno na ang pagpapakamatay ay isang malaking kasalanan sa mata ng Diyos at ng tao. Mawawalan na sana siya nang pag-asa nang mapansin ng isang lasenggong nagsusugal na gumagalaw ang buhok ng nasa kabaong. Nagimbal ang lasenggo at biglang tumakbo palabas, diretso sa kalsada kung saan isang trak na kargado ng semento ang bumangga sa kanya. Sa wakas ay may nakapansin sa kung anong nasa kabaong at siya'y pinawalan. Masayang nakauwi ang daga sa kanyang pamilya. Ibinurol ang lalaki isang linggo pagkatapos. Maaaring wakas.. Dito sa tuktok ay payapa ang lahat. Sa semento ay may mga ibong palakad-lakad. Sa malayo ay natatanaw ko ang berdeng damuhan. At dalawandaang metro pababa ay ang aspaltong paradahan ng kotse. Araw-araw pagkatapos ng klase ay pumupunta ako dito upang magmasid. Mag-isip. Tumunganga. Matulog. Tinitingala ang mga ulap at iniisip kung saan sila patungo. Kung maaari ba akong sumama. At minsan, habang nakatayo sa gilid ay naisip ko na nang maka-ilang libong beses ang tumalon. Bakit hindi, anong pumpigil sa akin? Tumalon ka putangina mo. Ngunit hindi ngayon. Siguro

bukas o sa susunod na araw o sa Sabado o sa Linggo. Pero hindi ngayon. Sapagkat ngayon ay payapa ang lahat. Masarap ang simoy ng hangin. Kulay-dalandan ang kalangitan sa paglubog ng araw sa kanluran. Masayang nagtatalun-talon ang mga ibong kulay-lupa. Kaya naisipan kong hindi muna ngayon. Isali.. Kung mamamatay ako ay iiyak ang mga kerubin sa langit. Hindi sisikat ang araw sa umaga at mawawalan ng saysay ang liwanag ng buwan. Isa-isang babagsak ang mga tala kasabay ng pagpatak ng mga luha ni Bathala. Titigil sa pagtubo ang mga berdeng palay at damo. Babaluktot ang mga puno at mawawalan ng kulay ang mga bulaklak. Ang lahat ay magluluksa. Nanay ko, tatay ko, lolo't lola, tiyo't tiya, mga kamag-aral, kapitbahay, ang aso ko, ang aming pusa at ang mga daga. Babangon akong bigla sa kabaong. Magugulat ang lahat. Naloko ko kayo hahaha. Papasok ako sa bahay at sasarhan ang pintuan. Tags: suicide

Breaking News_Sex_Scandal_VCD_Eliseo_Soriano

Apr 3, '07 12:06 AM

Nalagay na naman sa panibagong gusot ang lider ng samahang Ang Dating Daan nang lumabas sa mga bangketa ng Quiapo ang umanoy mga VCD na naglalaman ng umanoy kuha ng isang hidden camera na umanoy nagpapakita sa lider ng samahan sa umanoy malaswang sitwasyon kasama ang isang sikat na artista na itatago natin sa pangalang Jericho Rosales. Mariing itinanggi ni G. Soriano ang nasabing paratang. Paninira na naman yan nung mga taga-Iglesia

ni Manalo, sabi niya matapos dumura sa isang arinola na nasa tabi ng kanyang upuan. Ani naman ng lalaking aktor na itatago natin sa pangalang Jericho Rosales, I dont know whatcha talkin about, the person on that video is clearly not me. Get away from me. Paano ka nakapasok sa bahay ko? Manang! Manang! Theres a person in the house, di ba sabi ko walang papapasukin! Ipinasuri naming ang naturang video sa isang video expert para ma-confirm ang authenticity nito. Well, as we can see here, makikita natin na may dalawang lalaki. This video is authentic, pero wala nga lang audio. Mas maganda sana kung may audio. Atsaka, furthermore, magkano bang bili nyo dito? Ah trenta, mura lang pala. Brod, pakiabot nung beer tsaka yosi. Gusto mo ng VCD Sex Scandal ni Kris at Joey? Meron ako dito 45p. Tatlo 100? Pare ang cheap mo talaga. Ah sige na nga, pero bili ka ulit ha? Pinanayam namin ang dalawang representative ng Iglesia ni Cristo, isang samahan na may matinding galit kay Soriano dahil umano sa mga kamaliang itinuturo nito. Nagdasal muna kami. O panginoong Diyos, naway dinggin nyo kami. Opo Sanay magdusa sa dagat-dagatang apoy si Soriano dahil sa kanyang kabaklaan at maling turo Opo At pati na rin po yung imoral na artistang nakunan sa video na kasama niya O Ama Yun lang po Amen. Umupo kami at ganito ang kanilang sinabi: Hindi naman sa nangungutya pero tanga lang ang naniniwala kay Soriano. Opo sabat ng isa. Kitang-kita na siya nga ang nasa video na gumagawa ng kahayupan kasama yung artista. Kitangkita, sabat ng isa. Hindi pa ba sapat yung komiks na pinalabas namin? Hindi pa ba sapat, sabat ng isa. Ano ba sabat ka nang sabat ah, nagdarasal ako kanina, kung anu-anong sinasabi mo, sapakin kita dyan eh Kamakailan lamang ay sinuri ng MTRCB ang video at idineklara ito na R-18 o Retail Price 18 pesos na agad na ipinagbunyi ng gay community dahil umano ngayon ay abot-kaya na ang video ng aming pinakamamahal na papang si artistang itinago sa pangalang Jericho Rosales, wais na, sulit-tipid pa sabay lakad na may lundag habang hawak ang palda. Tags: ang dating daan, iglesia ni kristo, news, balita, nagugutom, na, naman, ako, punta, akong, shopping, centre, buddhism, edsa, doberman, insane, insanity, karaangtawo, pinas, pinoy, poem, political killings, radical, rant, revolution, story, siakol, suicide, taoism, tula, vagina, zen buddhism, short story

Fuck. Mga Vignettes. Etc. Wala akong Maisip. Mga Hang-ups sa Buhay.etc.etc.mga short storing hindi tapos Apr 2, '07 11:40 PM for everyone

What does a society where circus clowns earn more money than trained professionals say about the importance of education, where everyday the masses are entertained on television by grotesque and disgusting parades called "shows" that preys on the emotions of a desperate, poverty- stricken individual? What does that say about the actors/singer/dancers that host these shows? Where they are portrayed as benevolent beings who are willing to give away millions of pesos in order to help those "brothers that are in great need"? We are a nation of idiots and dirt-poor animals that are herded during the day on schools and offices, and on television shows during the night. We are a nation where the "rich" have a serious case of the Messiah Complex, hoping to save everyone from the clutches of sin and poverty. Religion here is everything. From the streets, to the schools, to the posters of evangelical gatherings on concrete walls to the banner of a religious meeting on the top of a lamp post. It is everywhere and even if you look away you can never avoid it. We are living in a society where students are too intelligent too realize that they are morons. The beautiful people on television tell us to be thin, to be sleek, to be original, to be handsome like them, to be great and famous like them, and most of all to buy their products. But all that we can manage is to be sick and hungry and poor, and those who can afford to eat can only manage to make themselves fat. This is a nation where heroes of our past are forgotten and the villains are sanctified, the very vampires who suck the nation's blood are pictured in their lavish dresses, fantastic houses, magnificent regalias as if the country belongs to them. Well, in a way they do own this godforsaken country. They feed the poor, they control the mines, the farms, the lands, everything. The upper crust, the established status quo, the rich and the powerful, the very minority who owns everything cannot be budged, cannot be touched. Point a finger at a mayor and a gun is pointed back at you. We live in a country where there is an abundant and unlimited supply of priests and nuns, where churches outnumber the schools. In schools, children are told to think, then they are deprived of books, of chairs ,of blackboards, of their teachers. In the church , these very children are told to believe. Believe on what exactly? On the power of the Parish Priest to organize parades during the Lenten Season? On their ability to provoke laughter by providing humorous anecdotes during the sermon? Yes, surely children will believe that. Priests are great aren't they? And this is the fate of the children, the hope of the fatherland. To wander the streets not knowing what to do, to sleep on the sidewalk . To scavenge the garbage cans for food, to listen to priests and be the lamb of the world.

Now we see, as we have seen for the last decades, another duly-elected, constitutionally - legal president standing before us behind a wooden podium bearing the seal of our beloved country. The weather is fine, as far as weathers go in this country, which is another way of saying that it is not raining. And so we hear another talk about the essence of our democracy, the buying power of the peso, the great deeds done by this beloved president and the reasons why this administration is different from the last one, which is another way of saying that the last one was deposed and this new one will solve all the problems we are facing. We expect that something will change, that God in his awesome and mighty power will maybe pinch our congressmens' or mayors' conscience and stop them from stealing the people's money, that justice will finally be achieved by those who were deprived of it. We pray, that's what we do. That's what we're good at. What is freedom, and are we really free? Or am I asking a question so vague and so worn - out that the very word has lost its zest? We need comfort and that's just what the popular tide of things are giving us. I don't know when all these things started, but I came into existence knowing that something is rotten, is decaying and is eating the core of what was already left of our dissent. If Bonifacio and Rizal were alive today, man what would they say. We have managed to create a country ruled not by statesmen but by priests. You see, what we have here is a theocracy. When we are born and baptized and displayed before all the family members to see, our souls belong to the church. When we die, autopsied, embalmed and displayed in a pretty casket for all the family members to see, we are still under the shadow of the Great Catholic Church of the Philippines. There really is no escaping, the church wins no matter what. . We have statesmen alright. But all of them comes from a political dynasty that has been handed down father to son, husband to wife, hell these people pass these government seats back and forth it's become a wonderful sport for everyone to enjoy.It certainly is fun for the whole family. Name a region in this country and you will find it ruled by officials bearing the same last names that they might as well name that certain region after themselves. What we have here is a minority leading the majority. Picture a pyramid. At the top we have the descendants of the hacienderos, those people owning a lot of the soil in the land, those with the Spanish - sounding last names. There are the powerful, rich, not to mention holy,pious and well - fed priests, bishops and cardinals clearly the occupational descendants of the good and morally - upright Spanish friars that came here to spread the message of Christianity to those natives who willingly gave up the anitos for the Holy Trinity. Philippines 2056. Old Man's Memoir About 50 years ago, I saw a man in the television wearing this marine military uniform. He was a mayor and he was suspended by the government because of allegations of corruption. His principal accuser, who is also his mayoral rival, said that he embezzled money by payroll padding, ghost employees, where names are added to the list of people who has to receive wages. He was wearing this uniform and I was furious. This man has no idea what he is doing. He holed himself up in the municipal hall and brought along loyalists and supporters and refused to step down from his position. I was angry because of the circus he is playing. I think this is a guy who is so full of himself that he sees himself as some sort of immaculate and pure public servant and then he goes all acting about how he was unjustly suspended by wearing this uniform and running. Yeah there were runnings and speeches and people carrying banners. These are the supporters and there are a lot of them. Among them is this old lady who was the widow of a legendary action movie star who ran for the presidential seat. They said he was cheated by political enemies. He died not knowing, as the people did, of what truly happened during the elections. And so the widow is there supporting his good friend. I flipped the channel to get more about the issue and there was this interview with this military guy who said that the mayor was in violation of a certain code against wearing the uniform of military

personnel and officers. Of all the ranks that he could choose, he took for himself the costume of a colonel, I think. And the military guy in the interview said that the mayor could be in another trouble and they are yet to file charges against him. Stupid. The mayor is . I wonder what he was thinking when he donned that uniform. Maybe he was showing how fierce and brave he was? Or maybe it's just an extreme case of vanity? And why didn't anybody stop him from wearing the uniform? From what I've gathered so far, he was a lawyer. Of all people, a lawyer, I thought, would do something as stupid as this. He was a mayor and a lawyer and he was stupid. Like all those goddamn politicians. A million years ago in a university library I see them, heads down facing open books thinking they're doing this for their dreams, for their ambition, for their families. I see them in a struggle, trying to live up to the expectations set upon them by society, by their families, by the people whom they think have more authority than they have. Pleasing them with achievements and success. But what if they fail? Where could they turn to? They'll end up blaming themselves for what happened. They'll blame themselves because there's no one else to blame. It is your dreams, it is your ambitions, hopes, struggles. It is your loss. Hindi Ngayon Minsan ay nakapulot ako ng isang audio recorder sa isang bench sa may waiting shed. Bandang hapon nun, naghihintay ng dyip. Pinindot ko ang ON. "Dito sa tuktok ay payapa ang lahat. Sa semento ay may mga ibong palakad-lakad. Sa malayo ay natatanaw ko ang berdeng damuhan. At dalawandaang metro pababa ay ang aspaltong parking lot. Araw- araw pagkatapos ng klase ay pumupunta ako dito upang magmasid. Mag-isip. Tumunganga. Matulog.Tinitingala ang mga ulap at iniisip kung saan sila patungo. Kung maaari akong sumama. At minsan, habang nakatayo sa gilid ay inisip ko nang makailang beses ang tumalon. Tags: adventures, agnosticism, amazing, anger, aquino, atheism, existentialism, zen buddhism, buddhism, taoism, short story, penis, people power, philippines, pinas, pinoy, political killings, radical, rant, revolution, miracles, human rights, hell

The Adventures of Suicide Cockroach Boy ( La Cucaracha, La cucaracha, lalalalala) 6:22 AM

Feb 27, '07

You have a gun. Its heavy and it feels cold. Grip on the handle for several minutes until your body transfers some of its heat into the metal. Now, slowly, point the gun in that center part of your forehead. Let the nozzle touch you and baptize you and kiss you and give you hope. Amen. Now what do you do? The choice is yours. If up til now you still dont know what to do, you are in a very pitiable condition. Decide goddammit! If what you want to do is to end it, it, it your life, man, if thats what you want to do, whats stopping you? Live now or not at all. Live now or stop fooling yourself. Where does the problem lie? You live in your head. Not in this world, not where your house is, not where you go to school. You live in your head and the world is a product of your mind. So you point the gun at your head and you say this is where I live, not my house, not my school, not my daily, boring existence. How long have you had these thoughts my son? Ive had them for a long time father. And what are you planning to do? I dont know father, please guide me, save me, build me a strong, fortified, thick walled castle where I can spend the rest of my life in peace and quiet and solitude and loneliness. What? I want you to provide me with a sense of security, that I may be saved from the demons that thrive in my head. Save me father, save me, save me. If what you want is to be saved, if what you want is to be in a state of safety, then what? Do you really want that? Theres a cockroach under your bed. Its shiny, browny, icky and it crawls around like its ashamed of having existed. If you sympathize with that cockroach, then what are you? Dont mind me sir, Im just you know, crawling here on the cold, white, marble floor, with my thin cockroach legs, and my cockroach antennae. You are a cockroach. Happy, happy cockroach. Now, good, nice, happy, happy cockroach, kill yourself heres a gun. Oops, I dropped it, sorry are you, oh my god, oh my god, Im sorry, Im sorry, Im sorry. Your funeral was a grand affair. Your parents were there. Your friends were there. People who knew you were there. Theyre all wearing black and smiling. Its like some sort of party. And your embalmed little body rests on a beautiful, exquisite, gold-inlaid matchbox.

Heres what your father has to say: He was a stupid boy. We paid for his stay in college in hope of giving him a nice future. And what did he do? He just wasted time there. I feel sorry for him nonetheless, he was a good boy, but he did not have much courage. Sir, why is your son a cockroach, asked a passerby. Well, I really dont know. Something weird must have happened in college. He came back like that. You know, six legs, antennas, wings. Unknown to all, our hero is actually alive and is only waiting for the opportunity to surprise everybody. So he slowly slid out of the box and crawled on the floor. He was accidentally killed when his elementary school teacher stepped on him later that evening.

Tags: suicide, cockroach, boy, adventures, amazing, penis, vagina, short story, story

Tumakbo ka, takbo, MOTHERFUCKER

Feb 27, '07 5:50 AM

Why do people run? People run in order to escape from a dangerous situation. People run because it is a reflex action in order to save oneself. People run for exercise, to keep the blood flowing, strong heart,

burn fat, add years to life. Pheidippides ran in order to inform the Greeks of their victory. A dog chased me so I ran. Politicians run because they want to win so they can serve the people, their country, and the poor. On a plate. To large corporations and foreign interests. (Oh Philippines, my Philippines playing in the background) In this country, dissent is not encouraged. Parents tell their children to shut up. I want peace. Shut up. Those politicians are corrupt. Shhh. Is there really a God up there? Silence is golden. Because they love them. They dont want to find their bodies floating in some remote river somewhere. They love you. They care about you. You want change? Why? We have food, we have water, we eat three times a day. Be content. But what about all those poor, hungry, people out there, you say. Those children running the streets with an inch thick cover of grime over their skin. You tell them, what about them? Do you really care? Freedom of speech. What does it mean? This must be some new, foreign, alien, incomprehensible, foreign concept, right? We only hear of the term when someone who wrote or was critical about something turned up with slugs in their head someplace in a grassy area not frequented by God-fearing citizens. A crowd gathers around the body. They glance at each other. Robbery? Kidnapping? No, its freedom of speech. Freedom of speech, right? The crowd disperses away. The body is left to rot peacefully. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Forces we do not know, forces we do not understand encroach upon our lives. There is something out there. Bigger than we could ever imagine and it wants us. The air we breathe, the water we drink, the ground we are walking on. Suddenly nothing is secure anymore. The object of the day is survival. Run. Run. Tags: radical, revolution, anger, rant, rant, hacienda luisita, hell, human rights, philippines, pinas, pinoy, political killings, short story, story

Ako ay may lobo, lumipad sa langit, di ko na nakita, i'm so depressed

Feb 27, '07 5:24 AM

Years from now, where do you see yourself? The image of a nice house, new car, beautiful wife comes to mind. Now you are an honest working man, capable of handling yourself, you walk securely, knowing its because of your hard-work, persistence and the Grace of God. That image is what we want. That image is impossible to attain. For how can you smile, while people around you wander around aimlessly, wondering where their next meal will come from? How can you hug your kids, kiss your wife, while all around you, people are killing each other? For what? A band of protesters were gunned down. They wanted humane treatment. They wanted to be treated with respect, with dignity. And while you while away your time, sitting, smoking cigarette, drinking beer, chatting with friends, somewhere, someplace, a countryman is having his body made into target practice by hired goons with a family to feed. Just like you. Just like everybody else. Democracy. They call it democracy. They hold it up for everyone to see. They are so proud of it. They smile. They have their photos taken. With democracy. Power to the people. This sounds more like a beggars plea than an empowering phrase. The view from the top must be so good that anyone who has the privilege of standing from there does not want to come down anymore. Who runs the corporations? Who runs the land? Who has his photos on newspapers most of the time? These are people who control you. These are the ones who guide you into prosperity and progress and wealth and security. What are these but worthless mutterings not even fit to wipe your ass with. I suggest burning it. I suggest throwing it into the garbage. Remember to segregate. This goes into recyclables. You managed to finish this all this way, and for that I thank you. This is just me. And these are my thoughts. Tags: aquino, political killings, philippines, pinas, pinoy, murder, people power

The Miracle, a short story

Feb 24, '07 5:32 AM

One hot dusty afternoon, beside a road brimming with urban traffic, a large boulder suddenly started to shake. The shaking was so violent that a cat, napping on a cement bench beside it, leapt suddenly and ran towards the traffic, whereby it was hit by an old rickety truck and died immediately. The boulder continued to move and all around, dogs were going crazy. A Dalmatian, with beautiful black spots, bit its owner, and the owner, in anger, clubbed the dog into a bloody pulp with an aluminum bat. A Pit Bull suddenly leapt at an old nice lady, sank its teeth into her jugular, severing it, killing her instantly. A Great Dane humped a Chihuahua. Somewhere in a big, beautiful house, where the floor is tiled immaculate white and they have a winding staircase, a cute little white poodle, bit off a cute little rich kids ear, splattering the immaculate white tiles with rich kid blood. Meanwhile, on the side of the road, the boulder had somehow managed to float. A hollow crater appeared where it once was. Then people started to notice. The traffic stopped and vehicles horns started to blare. It was a one-hundred percent bonafide miracle, the priest said after blessing and sprinkling the floating rock with holy water. Devotees started to crowd around it and traffic around the area has been stopped. People wiped their handkerchiefs and towels on the rock, hoping that the dust and dirt from it would heal them or give them prosperity. All around the side of the road, people are coming from all over the country and tourists have started to flock from distant lands. It has been a week since the rock started to move and the place is already so filled with people that the government deployed a thousand troops just to maintain peace and order in the area. Meanwhile, the mayor dedicated the rock, with the local Youths for Christ and Catholic Womens League, to Mary, Mother of God. People from various parts gathered in a flock and knelt towards the rock and started chanting Hail Maries and Our Fathers. Buses started to crowd all over the spot and out gushed tourists from every country imaginable, except the Muslim ones, of course. There seem to be an agreement that this one is the work of the Catholic God. They would stand beside the rock and somebody would take their picture. 50 dollars. Or could buy a postcard for the low, low price of 50 pesos. Smoke from the vehicles, cigarettes and barbecue stand filled the air. Stalls selling various products ranging from holy handkerchiefs to Coca Cola to pirated DVD and VCDs sprouted everywhere. The noise, the heat, the people, the cars and the stores, the town has never been this alive. Amidst all this, a small thin boy, wearing rags for clothes, sleeps sweetly on a bed made of a carton box. He is an orphan, the son of a prostitute who left the boy a year ago to the grandmother so she can go with her boyfriend to a nice place far away and live happily ever after. A few months later, the grandmother died, leaving the boy to fend for himself. A kick in his leg startled him and woke him up, gazing up, the soldier told him to sleep somewhere else for he is in the way of the foreigners who came from far away. The boy had no idea what the soldier was talking about so he slowly closed his eyes and as he was laying down to sleep again, the soldier took him by the ear and pulled him towards a mango tree away from the crowd. There, the boy stood, no longer having the urge to sleep. He spent the day, hounding the tourists for alms. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, here we are, live on the spot, where, several weeks ago, a large rock mysteriously rose upwards and is now currently floating several feet from the ground. Wait, whats happening, it seems to be moving again! A miracle, look at this, this is real folks, no special effects her,

oh my god The huge boulder, now shining, reflecting the rays of the sun from its oil-covered surface, anointed by the faithful, now zoomed and circled and flew up and down all over the crowd. Panic ensued. Screams filled the air. An old American lady fell down and was trampled dead by the terrified crowd. Stumblings and running overs and rosaries and handkerchiefs and VCDs and priests and nuns and tourists and the soldiers and police panicked and started shooting anyone in sight. A flock of nice Japanese people, who happened to be the nearest ones, were all riddled with bullets. The rock finally stopped moving and now, rose up some more and hovered several hundred feet over the confused, broken, terrified mass. The little boy, miraculously unscathed, rose up and brushed the dust off himself. He looked around him and saw the crying faces of men and women and children, saw the dead and the dying, saw the dusty ground spattered with blood and he gazed upwards. It was tiny, then it started to grow, expand, going faster, going down, down. Getting bigger and bigger and bigger. He ran. Fell down. Meat splashed all over. Tags: miracle, miracles, god, hell, short story, story, cat, cute cat, doberman, chihuahua, murder, god, atheism, agnosticism, insane, insanity, fanaticism, fanatics, pinoy, philippines, pinas

EDSA People Power Rangers with Kris Aquino ( "Magkaisa" playing in the bbackground )

Feb 24, '07 4:26 AM

Yellow is the color of cowardice. And it is Cory Aquino's favorite color. The people are united she says, peaceful protest she says, the power of faith as evidenced by the nuns, by the rosaries, by the flowers, by the priests, smiling women, men, children, all gathered in the name of God and Peace and Unity and Progress and Equality. So we can never ever forget the important moment of unity, the government had the whole thing on our 500 peso bill: So that whenever you buy something like a pirated DVD or VCD or paying a prostitute or a hitman or a host of other things, you will never ever forget the day when military tanks stopped, soldiers and people hugged, doves flew and Cory became our beloved President.

( "Magkaisa" still playing in the bbackground ) L.L.L.L.L.L.L means Laban, right? Just who exactly are they fighting against? Marcos. The evil, corrupt, evil Marcos administration with its Martial Law and corrupt politicians and wanton disregard for human lives. With its killings of journalists and students and farmers and lawyers. Anybody associated with the Left. With Madame, beloved First Lady Imelda with her beautiful dresses and portraits by artists and of course - her fucking shoes. Lots and lots and lots of shoes. And jewels. Ooh let's not forget those pearls, diamonds, emeralds, rubies. Running out of breathe eh? Relax and breathe for a moment. If you're reading this in some cold, pleasant internet cafe, then good for you. You'll be breathing wonderful air. If you're reading this in your room, with your iMac laptop, with the air conditioner and television on, then you must be some rich son/daughter of a bitch whose father is either a high-ranking government official, a politician or a businessman. Then good for you. You'll be breathing wonderful air as well. If anyone of you rich faggots is reading this right now, may you burn eternally in Paradise with your white-robed, harp-playing Caucasian angels and your Saint Peter with his Pearly Gates and of course, let's not forget, your Catholic, male, all-powerful, all-knowing, wrathful, vengeful, and kind and wonderful God. ( " Magkaisa " still playing in the background ) Contrary to what you may have been taught at school, or told by your relative, the Philippines is not a democracy. What? I repeat, the Philippines, the Father/Motherland, the Pearl of the Orient Seas, the "pugad ng luha ko't dalita" is not a democracy. What's the difference between a Cojuangco or an Aquino or a Marcos? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. A Cojuangco is an Aquino is a Marcos is a Legarda is and a host of other cherished and holy last names. These are the families that own our country. Literally. These clans of hogs and pigs and hypocrites own the vast haciendas and farms of the country. And they only step on the country's soil during the Campaign and the Elections. Most of the time, they're on some trip around the world or something. And they own horses. Beautiful, wonderful horses whose only use is as a seat for some holy, benevolent, rich ass. Horses worth more than the annual income of rural barrio. And these are the ones who have the audacity every election time to talk about equality and the virtues of democracy. ( Jesus Christ, this song is fucking annoying ) Again, Jesus Christ, why am I so angry? I'm 18 years old and most of the things I'm raving about here, happened before I was born. At the rate i'm going, I'll probably end up dead in just a few years. Ah, fuck that, I don't intend to live long. I just want some time to finish all this speaking of my mind then I can go to hell or anywhere. I think the problem is because I care. I care very much. My heart bleeds for this country. Every time I eat I think of how the army and police massacred those farmers and old people of Lapiang Malaya, Mendiola, Plaza Miranda, Hacienda Luisita. Hacienda Luisita. Hacienda Lui.. I am a kind, caring, loving, passionate, honest, helpful, decent individual who sincerely believes in God and his goodness and the government and its programs to help the poor. At least I used to be. Until I learned of how truly fucked up this country really is. ( " Magkaisa " singer shot by unknown gunman ) " Mankind shall never be Free until the last King is strangled by the entrails of the Last Priest"

I forgot where I picked that one up, but it's something that best describes how I feel right now. What I want is to see these rich bourgeoisie, fat with the blood they sucked from the poor, from their blatant deception of the masses, secured in their status by associations with the church and other religious organizations, owners of vast, powerful corporations, masters, leaders, gods, in this neocolonial country - what I want is to see them and their families, and their supporters and their associates and friends and priests - hanged, butchered, murdered, their entrails gushing out of their fat, white, pale, rich bodies. What I want is the complete and total annihilation of the ruling class, of their pets and those who claim their authority from some invisible creature who lives up there in the bright, beautiful, eternally peaceful sky/heaven/paradise, etc. etc. ( " Gunman identified as Karaangtawo Waypaglaom, to be executed tomorrow at exactly 9am to be attended by the ex - president herself, Madame Cory Aquino ") The laws of the land are made by those who have interests to secure. The Laws and the Constitution are nothing but agreements between the rulers of how to milk the masses and this country. And the masses, the exploited, the abused, the long-suffering ones have become blind and deaf and dumb and the few who can hear and see and understand, the activists and lawyers and journalists, those with hearts big enough to hear the pitiful cries of his countrymen, those who lose sleep thinking about how the Social Cancer can be cured, are shot, murdered, killed, their bodies found in some river somewhere, floating, bloated, disfigured and the people stand their on the bank and after the body is removed, they go home and watch Kris Aquino and admire her for her strength and courage and resilience because she's such a forgiving creature, because her basketball player of an nth husband bounced his balls some other place than the home court. Tags: human rights, political killings, hacienda luisita, cojuangco, aquino, james yap, kris, karaangtawo, pinoy, philippines, edsa, people power ============================= END OF PAGE EIGHT ============== =============================END OF DOCUMENT =======================

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