Friday, November 23, 2007
Things swimming through my mind while remembering the CASayahan while looking at everybody else's CASayahan pictures
(Dedicated to all CommArts peeps, especially the Yapo Grinderz: Elaine, Olga, Telai, Barok, Pen, Maikka, Ranie, Migy and Andie, and to anybody who has ever performed on stage)
Not only do we go on stage, we know the stage the way we remember a familiar face. As staff, actors and actresses, we've paced back and forth that surface enough times to know how to walk the stage walk. We are, after all, the reputed and reputable performers of the University.
Being performers, our audience expects nothing less than a performance from us, for performing is not only executing every needed move, it is also that inexplicable magic that suddenly attunes each performer to each other performer, so all move not as indivudual beings, but as the individual parts of the one being they are envisioned to be. Fortunately, judging by the volume of applause that reached our ears, we seemed to have met, if not exceeded, their expectations. And we have our coursemates' enthusiasm to thank for that.
Of course, no yang is complete without its yin. Let the two weeks of sweat, tears, bruises, frustrations, aching muscles and walks in the night rain attest to that.
Every drop of sweat we wipe of our tired expressions, every night we go out and have dinners that almost count as midnight snacks, every minute we spend in that old internment camp, and in the end every pose we strike and every move we execute, we do for the sake of art. In the end, we perform not for a prize, not for the possible euphoria of victory, but because we wish to create something beautiful, for beautiful things motivate and uplift the human soul to unfathomable heights, even if for a few fleeting--yet unforgettable--moments, something not even victory can achieve.
And maybe, just maybe, this might just be why WE ARE BORN.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
This is What Happens When You Take Too Many Pictures of Your Cat
This is our cat, Ravage. We named him after one of the original Transformers, a panther whose first version transformed into a cassette tape, which was way cool back in the 1980s because people had never heard of an mp3 file then. Unfortunately, our Ravage does not have that talent, due to a number of reasons, the least of which is because cassette tapes are at the moment nearly extinct. The newer Ravage toy is a panther that ironically transforms into a Jaguar sports car, yet another talent our Ravage does not have.
Ravage is a camwhore. Every time a camera lens is pointed at him, he does one of two things: either he stares at it until the shots stop coming, or he shuts his eyes and put both hands on his head and makes a cute face as if he had a cute migraine and as if the photographer were some paparazzi wanting to post something in the tabloids about the cute migraine he never had because migraines are not cute to begin with anyway. Every now and then, however, his laziness prevails, during which time his interest in any lens pointed at him instantly vanishes, thus he continues sleeping, which is what he does most of the time during the day. Even when sleeping, though, he still manages to appear as if he posed for the shot.
Ravage hates being carried longer than three seconds. He will struggle against and eventually scratch and bite anybody who tries to break this rule.
Unlike other cats, Ravage actually likes fruit. But he is picky with his fruits, thus he only chooses to eat melons. This is why when we buy melons we have to keep the someplace where he can’t get to them; the last time we bought melons and left them on the table for a few hours, they had Ravage’s tooth marks all over them. Thus, we had no choice but to give him almost half a melon, which he proceeded to nibble the entire afternoon and evening. We tried giving him watermelons too, but I guess the similarities between the two fruits only goes as far as their names, at least where Ravage’s tastes are concerned.
Despite his appearance, Ravage is not an entirely black cat. He has tufts of white fur on his chest and crotch that are shaped like a cross and a brief, respectively. Whether this an omen of how the world will end that needs further interpretation or just some genetic dice roll is up to the reader to decide.
For Those Who Just Finished Thea 107 and 108...
Naruto = Coolness. Wala lang.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
The last story I remember writing before the semester ended
(Because I haven't written anything these past weeks, and it kills me...)
For English 101. Felt really experimental and really emo during the time Sir Dennis said you could submit an extra short story for extra points. Felt like playing around with the idea that an utterance was not simply that, it also denoted the action of uttering it.
The result?
Record
Of all the places to meet, why here?
So that neither of us will be tempted to shout.
I see. Now, what do you want to talk about?
I’m breaking up with you.
Good thing we’re in a library.
No need to thank me.
Have you thought about this? You sure you know what you’re saying?
As sure as I think I’ll ever be. You were never there for me.
I was always there. You were always looking the other way.
Where were you, then, when I got caught in the accident?
I was in a meeting then! I was in danger of losing my job last month!
Don’t shout. At least now you don’t have to be insecure either.
I’m sorry.
For shouting, or for not being there?
Both.
Don’t be. You taught me a lot of important things about relationships during the time we spent together.
I don’t remember teaching you anything of the sort.
We were students once, too. And we both know that students can also learn things even if their teachers don’t teach them.
So you’ve been learning from me.
More than you know.
The trouble with being a sociologist like you is that you people think you can explain every bit of behavior a person does with all your theories.
The trouble with being a physicist like you is that you don’t deal with living people often enough, in addition to the fact that you and your fellows think that we’re always that selfish when dealing with theory.
Don’t talk to me about theory.
And why not?
I’m a physicist. My head is stuffed with enough theories already.
Theories on inanimate objects.
Theories all the same.
You’re hopeless.
So, what exactly did you learn about relationships from me?
What not to do.
That’s pretty harsh, considering what we went through.
Was it? Everybody told me this was not going to work out, that our differences would eventually interfere with everything. Sometimes, I feel so stupid for not having listened to everybody.
But because you’re a sociologist, you manage to come up with a perfectly reasonable explanation for your behavior by twisting your theories toward your own desired ends, despite what the world says. Am I right?
It’s not that simple.
Everything’s actually much simpler than it seems.
Now that’s a physicist talking.
My God, now you’re putting my dealings with inanimate objects into this.
Don’t start putting God into this.
I don’t see a reason not to.
You’re making this a three-way conversation.
And third parties are a bad thing?
Listen, this is just between you and me.
Fine, though I won’t be able to tell if God will be eavesdropping.
Will you stop putting God into this conversation!
Now you’re the one shouting.
Sorry.
For shouting, or for thinking that God didn’t hear you?
Both.
Don’t be. Being sorry makes you look pathetic in God’s eyes. Nobody likes looking pathetic in anyone’s eyes.
There’s just one more thing I need before I leave you.
And that would be?
I need to make sure you have nothing to remember me by. Give me our video.
What makes you sure I haven’t reproduced it yet?
You’re not the type. You always liked keeping the sex sacred.
If you know I keep it sacred, you’d know that I wouldn’t just give that tape away.
You’ve got no choice. I did half of that tape too, you know.
***
Our final conversation replays itself in my head for the third time. There are only two passengers in the car: me and the tape. The cool night air is pregnant with both love and sorrow. Hundreds have thrown their lives away on this Lover’s Leap, the first in the country. I hold the tape over to the cliff’s edge, and tell the ground below sorry, I’m not the one whose life you’re gonna take tonight but don’t worry, this once had a life of its own too. I throw the tape into the darkness and immediately walk away, fearing the sound of its shattering and the moaning of its remains might forever echo inside my hollow heart. I feel a sudden urge to shout at the top of my lungs too, but that’s another story.
