In celebration of my completion of F.H. Batacan’s Smaller and Smaller Circles, I am suddenly inspired to write another entry in my online diary. The said book, which I just bought last Friday in the World Trade Center, garnered commendable awards as the Palanca Grand Prize in 1999, National Book Award in 2002 and the Madrigal-Gonzalez Award in 2003. Extracting mainly from the book’s brief description of its author, Batacan is an alumnae of the University of the Philippines, specializing in Broadcast Communication, and boasting a master’s degree in Art Studies. “She has worked as a policy researcher, broadcast journalist, web designer and musician and is currently a journalist based in Singapore.”. (That perhaps explains a lot of the meticulous details she had incorporated in the story. Reading her credentials reminds me of my Introduction to Research professor, who also is an alumnae of the University of the Philippines – and I admit that of all my Communication Arts professors, she and my Video Production/ Introduction to Film/ Fotocam professor (an alumnus of De La Salle University and graduated in the course which I am currently taking up), are the only mentors who I truly admire and respect, and seek inspiration from – though I doubt their awareness of that fact.)
The book was recommended to me by my block-mates, who have praised it incessantly because of its scrupulous detective fiction quality, but more importantly, of its Pinoy nature. I dare reckon that they may have encountered the book in their Literature 1 class, wherein one is mandated to make a critique of a Filipino book of the teacher’s choice as a condition for a passing grade. I also would like to believe that their professor perhaps have brainwashed them of the book’s acclaimed quality, that their own personal opinions of it have been “over-write”-d.
The story of the book is concluded within a total of 155 pages, which I have read in the span of four to five hours, “save” the time spent to pause, cook and eat lunch, as well as to change the CDs in the player and to jot down words which I have never heard nor encountered until I indulged myself into reading the said publication.
In summary, the narrative was focused primarily on two Jesuit priests, who were tasked to investigate a series of murders that threatens the children of the dumpsite, Payatas. There were quite a number of defining factors that lie exclusively to the perpetrator’s victims, among which is the frail and small body size of the pre-teen boys. In examination of the boys’ carcasses, it was noted that their hearts were taken out, their penises neatly castrated and their faces peeled (in my opinion, sliced..) off their puny little skulls. By means of patient analyses as well as forensic know-how, the two men become hot on the trail of a baleful criminal with a seemingly benign mask for the public; the nature of the murderer would be further elaborated in the course of the story, rather blatantly, by his parents (a drag, really). Quite expectedly, the whole reason as to why the killer had become such is due to psychological blows of trauma during childhood years, which he later needed to find retribution to. His series of murders thus becomes meaningful as well as effective in his need for vengeance; unfortunately his actions were directed into illusive representations of the “ones who have wronged him” in the persons of the innocent children he exanimate. In the end, as expected perhaps, the killer was found; there was a face to face interaction between him and the older Jesuit priest, later ending with the latter’s near-death experience due to the uncontrollable stabbing of the former until by some divine intervention, somebody regained awareness that this was not happening in television – decided to shoot the killer. Conclusion - killer dead, priests alive, and a reporter pleased in knowing that the “ratings would shoot up the roof”.
I was sorely annoyed as well as disappointed at the manner as to how the twists and turns of events managed to pull themselves together. They failed to spare me from earlier detection of the story’s conclusion. In fact, halfway done, I already had a vague premonition as to who the killer was as well as his nature. In addition to such a poor layout, the story fell short in presenting me the much-anticipated element of surprise, which ironically is the surprise especially when I was focused into what sort of mind-boggling, out-of-the-ordinary stunt the story would hold. It was, in my opinion, a typical story, with many unnecessary characters (who were described either to be gigantic (the stereotype for our beloved protagonists, who are good looking mestizos) or small (the typical Filipino population), as well as certain details, which serve no better purpose than to “magnet useless information.”
One of such characters is Tato, the so-called autopsy assistant, who was mentioned only twice throughout the course of the novel, without any significant “assistance” to any autopsy at all. Another is Joanna’s (the reporter) married lover, who only slapped her bum when she had to get out of bed and run after the freshest murder news on the block. There was no further mention of his contribution in either her work or her personality, other than her liberated outlook to go into an illicit love affair. The thought though of a committed man going after, not to mention “sleeping” with a “big” woman, who has a grip of a “construction worker” and a tendency to be a “genuine pest” would seem rather unusual, on second thought, love is blind and deaf and perhaps numb all at the same time. I worry though, what happened to their relationship after her big break?
I am impressed though with her (the writer’s) generous use of “Shift F7” words, which I took the liberty of copying down on three sheets of a NBS pad. By the time I reached page 37, I was astounded at the prospect of encountering more than twenty interesting words, some of which I daresay were part of my high school spelling lists until they were abandoned to rust in the attic of my brain largely due to disuse. Another admirable aspect of the story, as I’ve mentioned earlier is her inclination for details. Her visual descriptions of people and locations have been an effective tool in recreating the whole scenario in the privacy of my mind. In fact, one of the characters, my favorite, to be honest, is the comical Leo, who by the way, reminds me of our current driver, for no apparent reason whatsoever.
I am no medalled critic, which praise-worthy publications or flashy credits, but I am reader, an audience and a living testament of the plausibility as well as the acts of humanity, therefore I believe that my criticisms though sharp and candid (considered by most perhaps to be just poppycock and quibble - a poor waste of words) would still manage to hold water as my own personal perception with regards to the writer’s attempt in expressing her perspective of “criminology” as well as life the in the oppressed shanties of Payatas.
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I’ve never realized how educational a children’s movie could be until the magic of technology invented the DVD. With the subtitles present on the bottom of the screen, reflecting the written text of the script that the characters verbalize, despite their sometimes incorrect grammar and spelling (due to the fact that we just have the pirated counterparts of the real thing), they proved to be most helpful in my attainment of quite a number of good English words.
The children’s movie, which I am referring to, specifically, is the Disney version of Aladdin. The interaction of the characters with the aid of the script was most delightful especially when one could read and hear them at the same time. It was unusually witty and playful, but even if the conversations at times may pose to be quite intellectual, I cannot deny that children are intelligent enough in managing to extract the gist of the story (or perhaps it can also be blamed to the simple fact that children have already been prepared for the movie by the “spoilers” their parents have told them – I mean Aladdin is a rather popular story even without the existence of its movie version).
The apex of my reading-subtitles spree occurred when I had to peruse through the lyrics that the blabbermouth genie was singing. The songwriters are indeed worthy to be applauded for their creativity in coming up with original ideas to be incorporated in the song productions. The genie’s songs were fast-paced, enthusiasm boosting, and have quite a number of “big” words, which I haven’t encountered until I was perhaps in late elementary or high school.
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It's all about the word play. - Jason Mraz
While going through the drawers of my once-messy study table, I stumbled upon a yellow hard covered notebook. Taking time to open and scan its contents, I was reminded to my obsession with words. During my high school years, more specifically in my second year, I took special note of my vocabulary and spelling words. I had once taken the liberty of using more than three fourths of the said vocabulary list in a poem I wrote. In fact, I was, together with my good friend, even nominated in a quiz bee contest in our school, and although I never won, and she never lost, we often took time to remind ourselves of new words, experimenting with the good book, the dictionary. Having an insatiable obsession with good quality notebooks, I had used the notebook mentioned in the first sentence to keep track of the words I learn. I would neatly write them down together with their usage as well as meanings.
Going through it once again opens my interest in new words and thus armed with a dictionary, I decided to continue to update the said notebook with the new words I've been acquiring from mediums such as the ones mentioned above. Also, in order for these words to gain worth, I've decided to reread them often, and use at least one in my daily undertakings, whether it is by blogging, writing letters or just by simply conversing with other people.
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Two Sundays ago, while doing our weekly cementary visit, a foreigner together with a tour guide and a lovely Filipina, stopped by our masoleum to ask about its architechture and perhaps our traditions and rituals. According to the English man, their country wasn't accustomed to make routinary visitations to their dead relatives. My parents, who were more fluent with the English language compared to my grandparents, took the initiative to entertain the newcomers, touring them around the structure. I was speaking in Chinese with my grandmother telling them that we could've have charged these people rather than hospitably answering all their questions. My parents, who overheard me obviously made funny remarks of it after the "aliens" left. What caught my attention though was that the Filipina who accompanied the Englsih man was very pretty. I wouldn't call her beautiful, just lovely.
I made repetitive comments of that observation in the car as we drove to a restaurant in Binondo for our family lunch ( a weekly thing, too). My mother being the devout Catholic that she is replied, "She has a good soul, that is why it mirrors in her face.. So pretty with no make-up at all" Good soul, my butt! - was obviously the first thing that came into my head. I was more looking for a reply that said, its her job to be pretty, perhaps she's one of those companion service girls, which the Philippines is so popular with. My parents obviously weren't pleased with my reaction to my mother's statement and began to direct hostile comments to me telling me of my vanity as well as "ugliness". I replied, "It's not my fault you have such lousy genes." They took it as a joke, which is perhaps good considering what a piercing comment that was. Just because I try to wash my face daily before sleeping, applying medications (which, take note, my grandmother bought for me since she is concerned with the awful blemishes on my face) on my (fucking - i mean it, how the heck do they keep multiplying) pimples, doesn't mean I am obsessed with my physical appearance. One way or another, one needs to look presentable to the public; having a bloated face infested with red spotmarks isn't exactly the best way to make a good impression in such a judgemental and materialistic society.
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In lieu with physical appearances, I would like to venture into asking why people are bothered whenever they are assumed to be older than they really are? Although I personally had once been quite adamant in my false claim to be of a younger age group, I've realized what a compliment it is to be mistakened to be someone older. Maturity is often associated with age, although the two does not always follow. In time, I've respected the effects of age and find it quite immature to keep blinding others that one is more juvenile than one's true age. It seems that by lying of one's age, one is kind of letting go of responsibilities as well as the deemed maturity that age has to offer. Why keep telling others you're two, three, even a decade younger? In fact, why are many so offended when they are thought to be older than they really are?
One such incident happened between me and my uncle, my father's brother. Having lived with him for over 18 years, I was shocked to find out that he is only 31 years old. I have always thought that he is somewhere between 35 to 38, my father being already 45. My grandmother took his side and defended him, to the point that he blamed my incessant crying as a baby to be the primary reason for his failures in college. I answered, though not in these words, "Why blame me? It's not me who did the fucking." What hit me most was my grandmother's remark, "Ikaw nga, napagkamalan ka na ngang may asawa eh."
Okay, so I do look old for my age or perhaps it is the company I keep that is why my age is often mistakened. During the wedding of one of my cousins, seated with my grandparents and uncle, a family friend decided to be good natured as to congratulate my grandmother for finding such a pretty daughter-in-law. Daughter-in-law? We all turned towards the friend hoping to understand who she's talking about considering my mother didn't attend the said party. It turns out, she was referring to me. She thought I was my uncle's wife! A 13 year age difference doesn't really seem to pose much of a problem, but the thought of me getting it on with my uncle was simply revolting. Thank God I have such a strong stomach to actually not throw up when she began to explain her misconception of the situation.
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My aunt, my mother's sister in Canada, is presently pregnant. After six years of waiting, she finally conceived her first baby. We are very happy for her, despite the fact that I won't be able to meet my new cousin. She will be giving birth to a baby girl this December, which makes us all the more excited, my mother keeps repeating that this child is her Christmas gift, God's gift to her for her like Mary is to Saint Anne, after tedious years of failed trials and disappointments.
My uncle's (my mother's brother, also living in Canada) wife has also given birth recently, a good two or three months earlier, to a baby girl. His first with his second wife, although we are aware that he never had any children with his first wife.
After comparing, I've noticed a pattern. Perhaps its their family's curse, but all their first born children are females. Myself included to be a manifestation of this hex perhaps. Another intersting detail which I am yet to see or observe in my generation is the number of siblings my parents have. I mean, my mother and her siblings are six in total, my father and his siblings are five in total, while myself and my siblings are four in total. Perhaps the one I will marry would be three in total thus we would have two children wherein one would marry an only child and have no children at all. Amusing thought which may or may not happen. Fate is in our hands anyway.
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In matter of fate therefore comes the question of horoscopes and so called "psychological" or observation tests which often intrigues me. Let me expound this using the deduction method, from large scale to smaller to micro scale. Chinese horoscopes revolves around the year one is born, and with each year one would bear a distinct quality of one of the twelve revolving animals that is said to represent the said year. For example, one born in the year of the monkey is said to be cunning and witty. One born in the year of the dog would be a loyal companion and so forth.
After the yearly consideration, one could focus on the monthly horoscopes which is represented by the ones we encounter in our daily papers. These signs are based on the positions of the stars and are very popular with the masses. Among the signs that make up this horoscope are Capricorn for January people, Cancer for July birthday celebrants and Virgo for September celebrators.
Succeeding the monthly horoscopes comes the psychological observations as to the behaviors of people born on a specific date. For those born on the 10th, they would be generalized to bear characteristics similar to those born on the same number date as they are. And in Chinese belief, the exact moment of birth, the time and date are crucial in determining the fate of a perosn. With this is mind, where does freedom come into play? When characteristics and personalities and fate are all so intertwined and defined as the examples mentioned above?
There is more to being than normalcy. Perhaps it is the acknowledgement of free will that one becomes capable of becoming the master of his fate. Or perhaps more simply, it is the complete and utter dismissal of such fate determining bull*shit that allows us to have full control over what we call "free-will"
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Last Sunday, our family went to Pure Gold to do get some much needed energy boosting chocolates and groceries. Darn, the -ber months have finally arrived, and I had to go through a painful three to four hour shopping with Christmas songs playing in the background, interchanging with Tom Jone's Sex Bomb and all sorts of unholy songs.
Among the items I wanted to buy is Close Up's Limited Edition of ChocoLoco. It was a very tasty toothpaste mind you, and reminds me of the days when our family/children's dentist used to clean my teeth and giving me the option of choosing minty chocolate, orange and the usual flouride she uses on her adult patients.
Marketing in the Philippines is undeniably getting better. Beginning with Mcdonald's "Limited Edition" Twister Fries, which caught the country going ga-ga over it. It was followed by Sunsilk's Limited Edition Watermelon Shampoo which made me go crazy buying almost as many shampoo sachets as I could. I loved the way the way the mixture seems to cool my scalp, penetrating it, and leaving my hair fresh and fragrant after I wash it off. Unfortunately, the shampoo lasted only during the summer and early June or July. Now, Close Up released three limited edition products, ChocoLoco, Tangerine and Luscious Lychee. The two latter are not at all going to be part of my favorite toothpastes, but the former definitely gets an A+. Not to mention the rekindling of my obsession with toothbrushing. Before, my mom found my brushing habits to be quite irritating for I keep brushing my teeth as often as I can. Now, she finds me obsessed with it, brushing for over five to ten minutes, more than thrice a day. One day I may actually suffer from gum irritation, but until then, I'll enjoy the ChocoLoco toothpaste before it "runs out".
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My girlfriend and I were shocked in finding out that the songs we used to dance and sing to are as old as 10 years. What am I talking about? When we were in grade 5, there was a Spice Girls, BackStreet Boys outbreak, wherein we all began addicted to. As teenyboppers, we were easily captivated by the poppy lyrics and dance rhythms these songs present us. Quit Playing Games with My Heart. Wannabe. Imagine all the songs you've been listening to, seemingly timeless, now are old and obsolete as to the ears and knowledge of the teenyboppers of the present where all they perhaps listen to are Maroon 5, Hale and Kitchie Nadal.
Time Warp - Songs of our time:
Eminem and Dr. Dre - Forget About Dre
Limp Bizkit - Nookie
Shaggy - It Wasn't Me
Diana King- Say A Little Prayer for You
Offspring - Pretty Fly for a White Guy
Solid Harmonie - I'll Be There for You
Boyzone - Love You For A Reason
Code Red - What Good is a Heart
Moffatts - I Miss You Like Crazy
Hanson - Mmmbop
98 degrees - Invisble Man
Nsync - God Must Have Spent A Little More Time On You
Damn, I feel so old!
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While fixing my table last Monday, I managed to find all sorts of cool items which I have purchased, received and hidden and have thought to have lost forever. After dispossing six wastebasketfuls of papers (mostly test papers with flunking marks) and obsolete or defunct junks, my table has finally looked neat and orderly. Although most of my siblings and relatives are betting that this state would not last longer than a week or two, I hope that it their scoffing remarks would find no materialization until perhaps the third week of normal classes wherein I would surely be hooked up with all sorts of assignments once again and would no longer find the need for order and cleanliness.
Among the things I found are the letters which my friends and I have exchanged during our high school years (reading them makes me blush at how shallow and immature we were - man! I can't believe it --- "Kat, ilabas mo kung nasasaktan ka." --- Oh-kay, fine watever!), birthday and christmas cards which I now have every intention of recycling and the anime sketch my fourth year crush gave me (the sweetest gift I've ever received perhaps - some of my classmates were willing to pay him for it, but he kept saying no. Later, when I asked for one of his drawings, he sent me three emails with all his works and he asked me to pick one which I like best). Among the many letters, I found a box full of used stationaries with my elementary friend's handwritings on it. You see, every year on each other's birthdays, we would make an envelope-ful of "watever" things such as poems, songs lyrics, letters, quotes, and anything we could possibly think of, and give it to each other. This was among the poems which she copied down for me.. and reading it again, realized how beautiful a poem it is. Enjoy!
Gift 2
J. Neil C. Garcia ( who happens to be gay by the way, "yata" according to my friend)
Lost in the sea's
unforgiving blue,
I seek you.
Before me
the day unscrolls
its naked scripture:
sun, vision's burning field,
islands, faint presences
crumbling in the distance,
water, the fickle immensities
life is made
constant by,
And it strikes me
I love the sea
because it borders
this suffering world
and the next:
the soul, it is said,
travels in a boat
from a winding inland river,
homing clear eyed
toward the ocean-
Which is bottomless
beyond.
And I know:
here, upon this beach,
wash the crushed remains
of what was once mortal:
bone and kelp,
driftwood and tentacle,
porous redcoral-
keepsakes
life leaves behind
before
dissolving
back to brine.
I am home here, then,
whom the world
never loved,
and from its torn edges
I can almost see
it all end:
an unrushing tide,
a radiant sea-swell
sweeping away all appearance,
gentle eddies
whittling the self
til it is no longer
even sand.
I think of you
landlocked and lost
in another element-
your body.
The sea teaches me
love is a wish
not for safety
but for destruction.
I am not ashamed
to admit it:
I love youthe way water loves.Which is to say
I wish the world
were through with you,
so you could return to me,
ravaged, upon this shore:
a shell
held tight
inside my palm.
