Saturday, July 21, 2007
can't a person feel diary-ish every now and then?
The back of my neck's been aching the entire week. Being the paranoid person that I am, I blamed it on all the sisig, kwek-kwek and softdrinks I've had the week before. The only person who was able to convince me otherwise was my healer mother, who proceeded to work the wonders of deep nerve massage therapy on my suffering lymphatic system.It was worth taking a four hour-long trip back home and going back to elbi with only four hours sleep for her detox. I think I'm finally ready for that goddamn exam, something I haven't been able to feel all week. All of this may change, though, as the people who know me well enough know that my smug nature does not last, that my nerves will only begin to give way when it is only a minute or two away from the actual event, which really really sucks.
To think that I should be reviewing on how to write news articles, editorial articles, checking Philippine Daily Inquirer front pages as layout samples, doing the assignment I honestly don't think I'll be able to do tomorrow even though I'll have the whole afternoon and evening free, or something. Maybe the nature of Communication Arts as a course (think about it: deadlines > exams, skill > effort) does really bring out the procrastinator in a person.
Oh well, maybe I can consider writing this as an exercise in putting thoughts into paper (or HTML code, in this case), which is admittedly not always an easy thing to do. To quote Maddox: "If minds had anuses, blogging would be what your mind would do when it had to take a dump."
Yes, this blog is my toilet. Thanks for looking into the bowl.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
The Surveying Survivor's Meditations
Look around. Listen around. It is calm and quiet, but it is neither the calm nor the quiet of nature, where even the calm and the quiet themselves enjoy a semi-sentience, brought about by the lifeforce you can feel softly emanating from everything around you, even in the inanimation of wood and stone. No, this calm and this quiet are not alive at all, for you do not feel the binding forces you are supposed to feel with a natural calm and a natural quiet. Rather, the wood and stone are truly still, and you, instinctively empathic with your relationship with life, secretly wish you could share your lifeforce with them if only to feel the bonds with them even for a moment, for nothing is alive in the blasted landscape except for a black-clothed Death, striding calmly through the charred wood and scorched stone, praising himself for another job well done.Sunday, July 08, 2007
deliriants in a glass
Start with Mister Pink, who takes the first gulps, praising Mister Zombie for calling him just when it was getting too dark to see the pink of his shirt. Pass to Mister Zombie, who, admitting weakness to rough wines, appears quieter than usual. Pass to Miss Alexander, who sings about a time when we were so alive do you remember that along with Mister Zombie in between drinks. Pass to Mister Peach, who is trying so hard to whistle because he was told it would keep him awake longer. Pass to Mister Season, who finally stops playing with Miss Alexander's cellphone to join in the bottle. Pass to Miss Nag who, passing, is trying to sleep because she has a math class at seven AM, all the while complaining of the heat and the noise, her nags making the noisiest racket. Pass to Miss Redbull, who passes due to caffeine intoxication. Pass to Mister Campingbag in the corner, who passes, insisting on resting his eyes because of a class at the same time as Miss Nag.Now sit back and watch the magic happen: Miss Alexander and Miss Nag, normally the noisiest, are sound asleep on a poor panda. Mister Zombie, an insomniac, is fighting to stay awake. Mister Pink, Mister Peach and Mister Season, two guys and one gay, are fighting over a girl they only see in the classroom. Quote Mister Peach, who suddenly thinks he is the man who can satisfy all her needs. Quote Mister Season, who thinks he is a better man than Mister Peach by standing straight longer and proclaiming the fact every ten seconds. Quote Mister Pink, who suddenly thinks he is a man.
Now you, who talk of transformative power, drink.
