"Meh" mood

“The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference.”

― Elie Wiesel

The Tale of the Unknown

I control the information I share on any media. However, I hate those who makes a string of inaccurate stories about me just to fill the gaps they don't understand. They are not supposed to understand.

I'm starting to think everything can backfire on me any minute now. Where's my plan?

We cannot grow if we are not ready to be uncomfortable. Accept the chaos.

At the very least, I should have an idea what I'm doing—but I am running back to what I've started, trying a leap in a fake progress. Wrapping my head around a career building at the expense of crushing other people makes me feel substandard.

I'm human and I have a couple of morals. Please pretend to be surprised.

Why am I even there?

This is the part where one faces reality as a cruel trap--on the brink of our collapse. Amidst all distractions and temporary glory, we have to painfully cling to our ideals.

BOOK REVIEW: Gapo by Lualhati Bautista

Mostly, novels have two possible outcomes: the good, and a tragic. The resolution may disappoint us, making us understand the frailty of human—on the other hand, there are stories that positively sheds a light of hope for the readers. In the end, the “absoluteness” of some conclusions are far more predictable than others.

The book Gapo, by Lualhati Baustista is way beyond that. Talking about the love-hate (and rather exploitative) relationship between Filipinos and Americans, it made me see that having no change is worse than a tragic ending at all.

Gapo by Lualhati Bautista talks about the tale of Magda, a prostitute in Olongapo, and Michael, a half-Filipino whose heart is seething with anger for Yankees. After a series of struggle between those them, and the clashes of their ideals, Magda still tragically becomes pregnant of her “boyfriend”, which later reveals already a married man.

This circular story sinks hopelessness deeper that after reading, you must accept that reality is so much complicated that what it looks like. No force on earth cannot change the way of Olongapo. No wannabe hero must dare to solve the problems of a sick society. The Filipino-American relationship roots deeper than the garbage exports and lustful Yankees being thrown in our land—for it is ingrained in our mindset, that terrible and disgusting colonial mentality.

I also like the commentaries in-between: Bautista talks about unfair quality of export products, how we are so accepting of their substandard products, and how Filipinos can almost die for the elusive American dream. There’s also a lot of subplot that makes the story alive, like Modesto, Jun, and William.

Overall, the only round character capable of shifting viewpoints is Magda. At the end of the novel, upon knowing that she’s been pregnant again by a Yankee, she ended seeing Michael’s viewpoints. She finally understands that illusory fairytale that every prostitute wants are just blinders that makes Americans more exploitative, and Filipinos more abused and beaten. 

The Blame Game (I have read the first chapter of Dale Carnegie's book)

Insane criminals never blamed themselves for anything. They just believed they are just defending their over inflated egos. They use reasoning, fallacious or logical, to justify their anti social acts: like dehumanizing their "enemies" with vindictiveness and insulting remarks.

They will NEVER understand what you feel; in fact, they will justify it even more. It's like talking to a brick wall.

A Short Poem

I like how he stares at me.

I like how he stares.

And his ridiculous ways

And sensible paragraphs.

I like his back glances.

I like his proximity,

So close

That sometimes I can’t see nothing

But him. Alone. You and I.

Lumpiang Hangin

Sa pagkabagot noong isang alas-dos nang hapon

Humiling ang isip ko ng kaunting atensyon

Kaya’t suot and kupas na damit at tsinelas

Kahit hindi ko alam kung saan, naisip kong maglakad.

Minsan hindi sa pagpaplano makahahanap ng solusyon

Hayaan na lang natin ang paa’y mahapo

O makakuha ng ideya sa pagsosolo

Makahanap ng lugar ang modernong bandido

Nakailang kanto pa lamang

Mga mata ko’y naumay agad

Sa halos dalawang dekadang paghakbang

Iisang tanawin pa rin ang madaratnan—

Ang tindahan ni Lola Baneng sa labas ng eskinita;

Sa aming lugar siya ang Panginoong May Lupa

Kahit sa katandaan naaninag pa rin ang ganda

Ngunit sabi ng ilan ay tumanda nang dalaga.

Ang kapilya kung saan ako lumaki

Makita ko agad sa aking pagtawid

Kilala ako nang lahat ng pumupunta dito

Mula bata, hatak-hatak ni nanang tuwing Linggo.

Kumaliwa sa katabing kabahayan

Naglakad kahit pudpod na ang swelas

Dito raw matatagpuan ang tindahan

Nahahanap ang masasarap na lumpia.

Sa pakiramdam ko’y hindi naman ako pagod

Ngunit tila ang dila’y nais na ring magtrabaho

“sige na nga”, utal sa sarili

Hinatak ako ng aking paa sa isang lamesang may tabing

“oh, ikaw na ba yung anak ni Ralf?”

Dalaga ka na ah! Bulalas ng isa.

Anong gusto mong bilhin? Nagugutom ka ba?

Isa pong samalamig, at isang lumpia.

Ilang taon ka na iha? Anong year mo na?

Hindi sila magkamayaw sa kanilang bisita.

Kamukha ko daw si papa, sabi nang lahat.

Lalo na’ng dalawang tindera sa aki’y tuwang-tuwa.

Masarap ang samalamig;

Matamis, maraming sago

Malamig, maraming yelo

Sa ginaw ay parang lumuluha ang lalagyang supot

Pagkagat ko sa lumpia

Ako ba’y iiling o tatawa?

Sabay sa pag nguya ibinaling ang tingin

Ang hindi ko nabasa sa karatula’y “Lumpiang Hangin”.

Para saan pa ang suka kung wala namang toge?

Bakit hindi ko nasulit ang tangan kong bente?

Naisip ko tuloy na lugi ako sa dose

Balat lamang ang aking nabili

Hindi na ako nakinig sa kanilang bali-balita

Sa likot ng isip tinitigan ko ang Lumpia

Bakit nga ba binibenta ang Lumpiang Hangin?

Nakabubusog ba ang balat kong nakain?

Kung nagsasalita lamang ang Lumpiang Hangin

Kakausapin nya ako’t manghihingi

Ngunit wala ako ng kanyang hanap na toge

Na pupunan sa kanyang pagkakakilanlang pagkain

Kung makikipag-usap ito, siya’y tatanungin ko rin:

Anong pakiramdam nang wala kang silbi?

Patuloy kang ibebenta sa ilan

Ngunit alam ng lumpia na sila’y nadadaya

Sa malutong na balat at walang lasang harina

Sa taglay na lutong may mga nabubulag

Pagkatapos ng magandang usapan

Hindi ko nasabing ako’y nadismaya

Salamat na rin sa lumpiang walang laman

Naisip kong ako’y katulad rin pala nya.

Lumakad muli at nagmasid

Bukas ang isip ngunit mga bibig ay pinid

Hindi ko nasabing wala akong napala

Sinalubong ako sa kalsada ng libu-libong ideya.

Pagdating sa bahay naupo sa isang lamesa

Kumuha ng papel, inihayag ang karanasan

Masaya, dahil muli napagbigyan ko

Natalo ang pagkabagot noong isang alas-dos nang hapon.

An Open Letter of a Survivor

Dear Divine Intervention,

        Teach him not to invade other people’s affairs, outburst when things are not going his way, and cage up people’s wishes—through his dominance and influence—due to his selfishness and greediness in fortune and limelight.

        A quarter, or even the tiniest part of his opulence is never my need nor desire; sympathy to his victims is the wood to the fire I’ve been trying to fuel for over a semester. A fire that warns me whenever I had to fight. This time, this same flame I will thrust against him; for I have been challenged by this bitter and frustrated man.

        He’s a man of DESPERATION, and I once pitied him because he always talks about bitterness, not until I was disenchanted by his soft façade, realizing the fact that he’s exploiting his merciful features for the society to sympathize his life.

       

        Always remind yourself that just like everybody else, you are also human. Like you that is trying to copy the rest of who we are, you will, someday, CRUMBLE.

Sincerely, 

The girl you played fire with

High and Low

I don’t expect anything high from low people.

The low, will stay low.

They are born low, and always there

to remind of the highs.

The cheap… are the cheap.

They buy rich things—

Perfumes, champagnes and dresses,

Between those garbages,

I still believe,

That cheap… are the cheap.

They mock the elitists,

And brand the polite society,

But tell me, haters and wannabees—

who mocks the manners, grace,

and humility?

Who?

Who in the right mind,

Will actually devalue integrity,

Hardwork, dignity, and grace,

With fickle friendships,

Worthless facebook scanning,

Endless tweeting,

Porn video watching,

While dressing yourselves

As branded “rich kids”?

YOU KNOW NOTHING

But try to be rich,

Try to be intelligent,

Or try to be ill,

None of which has been true,

Because nobody has ever been tried,

To be happy,

And thoughtful,

Passionate,

Inspiring,

And celebrated

Human.

Robots are what you are—

Remembering the trends and hashtags

Callousness of your fingers to androids

And Apples

Which, by the way,

The sweat of your parent’s sorrows.

How come you never see,

That there’s more to life than

A high school clique?

Garnering likes and shares

(which, by the way,

Achievable and bare)

Whilst in real life

Nobody is fair,

You think this is a free fare,

And the ones that we care

Is just an inch of hair.

Oops I rant too much,

One must remember,

That nobody really wants

To tell someone what to do,

When to do,

Where to do, or

How to do it.

So bid me goodbye,

Cause I have NO RESPECT

For not respecting

What you “thought”

Was RESPECTABLE

To do.

Reading and Modern day Sorrow

Reading and Modern day Sorrow

We read to weep but why do we need it when we have our own lives to deal with? Ah, it is the exasperation in blindness, the burst of thoughts, the orgasm of possibilities, the trapdoor of the magical act. This is the escapist key to pleasure Eden. Gossips are what we aim for, for we aren’t satisfied yet in our OWN lives—we like another one.  Sometimes more happy, more enriching, more adventurous and sometimes more deprived, sadder and uglier but yes, we all like to live a million lives. People are never satisfied with a single existence; that is why we escape to the concepts of afterlife (which I believe in, which makes me another escapist) and reincarnations to make themselves believe that after bodies got rotten, our existence doesn’t just stop there.

We need a continuation of our own drama, even though it hurts because we are so used to suffering that we associate it always to living—heedless of its naiveté. So unconsciously or subconsciously, people connects “living” with “suffering”. It is the hurt, sacrifice, bleeding and choking that makes us feel human. To suffer is human.

I find people saying “they hate drama” every once in a while—but then, aren’t we living to suffer? As Buddhism claims, life is full of suffering. People who complains too much are so spoiled and laid back that they forgot they will die eventually. I call these people dehumanized, for they are no better than a computer that abides at your command. They are not human anymore, for their feelings have degraded into a worthless machine incapable of thinking and appreciating a treasure that’s already in front of them.

Acting like a machine, however, doesn’t make them one. People will eventually receive their own taste of free fall, hitting rock bottom and being beaten several times. When it finally comes, the dehumanized would think that they would survive just by their heads. NO! The safest way to get along with this foolishness is not logic, pen and paper, or back and white; but of hearts, acceptance and forgiveness. It is not dictatorship that wins the people, but free will. Solve equations and draw blueprints every day, huddle in your small room for security, but remember: life is much more enriching when you let your guards down, walls collapse to taste the sweet air tender against your cheeks of the Grand Canyon of unsolved mysteries.

Through reading, we can be a royalty, a victim, a criminal, a conman, a clown, or maybe a fool. I find it fulfilling that these simple pages and thin strips will make you strong, thick and rich. Again, we read to discover a thousand lives—like a ghost floating, a guardian angel, a spectator of a show you’ll never get a part at. Swim and puddle at the thoughts of your mind.