The Bombastarr: On Its Sixth Season! Out now on Blu-ray and DVD!
It just occurred to me that my blog turns six this month. Six years old. A lot can happen in six years. Just look at any TV show and observe the hair, the wardrobe and the apparent change in love team set-ups. Six years. That seems like ages in Internet years, doesn't it? I feel like I should go and do something different to celebrate, like give away iPads to random fans or finally buy a domain or publish a book with all my entries- something- but unfortunately, I don't have the necessary funds nor the ego to do that, so maybe instead of a wild virtual boozefest, I'll go with something more cozy and intimate: a nice and quiet little blog entry. (OH I bet you didn't expect that AT. ALL.)
I don't know if I should be proud or ashamed that this blog is the only consistent form of writing I have- I have no secret notebooks with a collection of short stories and I don't have unfinished novels on the backs of yellow pads. If I become famous and my memorabilia find its way on eBay, (nonexistent) fans would not have the luxury of bidding for my diaries and poems on old napkins. I simply do not have anything of that sort to prove that I did write outside the walls of the academe.
Which is kind of sad, really, because how can I be a writer without any kind of actual writing? I hear the dead poets/fictionists/essayists of yore turning over their graves in dismay over this. Ahh, technology has ruined you, they say. Well, I do have bits and pieces of sentences on the backs of my notebooks. But nothing of the literary sort. Only a refrain or two from the sexiest man with an acoustic guitar, John Mayer. And a lot of doodling of my name and someone else's. (Oops. But no surname changes, I assure you.)
I try. I really try. On the bookshelf above my bed and on my study table, I have a dozen or so notebooks waiting, just waiting to be used. How sturdy and wonderful to the touch the covers are, how vulnerable and alluring the pages seem. And yet I cannot find the words- no, the words are always there- I cannot find the courage to vandalize them. I cannot. I really can't. I try, but it doesn't happen. The magic doesn't occur on the fancy, frilly notebooks with ribbons and lines and wood-scented pages.
It's ironic that I have all this love for pens and notebooks and school supplies but I never really use of them for literary writing, more for academic writing. I get a high from taking down notes, making sure my bullets are aligned and important words are written in script. But when it's time to put into words what my characters need to say, the pen doesn't cut it for me.
The alchemy begins when my fingers graze the keyboard, when I find the dark blue header and the bright orange logo awaiting my return like a loyal pet dog, when instead of empty lines my hands are welcomed with small, distinct squares; the words, the punctuations, the feelings, the frustrations come out. I don't know why. It just does that way. And often that happens when I blog.
So I guess it isn't to say this "typing" is not some form of writing. I've said this before and I'll say it again, if it weren't for this blog I wouldn't seriously consider taking up Creative Writing. Despite my constant thrill during English class and a number of essay-writing contests, I just didn't feel like I was 'practiced enough' to consider myself a writer. I wasn't even a part of the school paper. Blogging was literally the only type of writing I've had going on for me- and maybe that's a sucky excuse for getting into this course, but so far I haven't been regretting my decision yet.
This blog is a culmination of the six years I've been letting my fingers do the talking for me. I'm not saying everything that has been created thus far has all been profound or coherent- heck, I'm certain for the most part they're all just clumsy attempts of putting down whatever it is in my head. (And quite frankly, a lot of them I still cringe on when I look back on to them.) But for what it's worth, it really is all I've got. And I can't say I'm not proud of it.
It's been a wonderful six years. I don't think a lot of people can say they've had a blog for six years. Happy birthday, Bombastarr @ Blogspot! I hope this doesn't end just yet :)
P.S. So yeah, I guess you still won't be seeing me flooding your Tumblrs any time soon.
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Of cheesiness and/or bitterness.
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Moving on, moving out.
I have this unexplained tendency to easily attach to things. I cannot let go of old reviewers, I cannot throw away meal stubs from Geog camp, I cannot say goodbye without looking back and asking for another hug. It could be a good thing, I guess, if I was the type of person who makes scrapbooks for fun. Or if one day, I become super famous and get some sort of cult following (HA. HA. HA.), I'm sure my old blue books and dried out highlighters could be worth a few hundred (or thousand?) bucks on eBay. But more often than not this attachment only leads to an unwarranted sense of nostalgia for things you could have easily discarded. And a whole lot of clutter.
For the past few days I've literally been immersed in clutter as I packed my stuff and prepared to move out of the room I've called my home for the last two and a half years. It's been a place that took me quite a while to get used to but eventually became my sole place of comfort in this land far, far away: Diliman. It was spacious and cozy, quiet and inviting. And the best part: it was always chilly there. Even during the summer when I took advanced classes, I only had to set the ceiling fan at 1 because I'd get too cold to take a bath in the morning. Seriously. It was effortless staying there, and what made it easier was that I had friends (classmates since Grade 1!) living there with me. That room had a lot of good memories, from sudden brownouts to surprise visitors.
But as always, life happens, and sometimes the places we hold dear to us slowly become the places we fear the most. At first I didn't want to admit it, but a part of me was feeling incredibly estranged as days went by. I tried holding on to the room, to the familiar setting it once was. But it was difficult, especially because I couldn't really do anything about it. It was home, it's not like I can escape it. But it certainly didn't feel like home. Eventually the alienation just became too much; I had to get out.
And so despite my deep attachment to the place, I've decided to move out. And as a precedent to my exit, I had to pack up and sort out the things I was to bring with me. It wasn't easy having to discard a lot of things I hold dear to me, especially when they were so utterly useless now. But I had to. And in a lot of ways, that whole packing ritual was a detoxification of sorts. I had to throw out the junk. I needed to get rid of the bad vibes. I had to let go of the memories I can no longer take back.
As Monica from Friends puts it, it was the end of an era.
Moving out may have been difficult, but I forgot how exciting moving in actually was. Saturday was the monumental Moving Day. It took a surprising turn, but it actually already made a happy memory for this room. It was exciting seeing the new shelves being filled with books, the bed being covered with new sheets. There's a different kind of rush in getting a new set of keys duplicated and meeting friendly and welcoming of people. It was fun. And I needed that. I needed the fun, exciting feeling of coming home to a place I actually liked.
Everything's back to square one again, I guess. It's like getting a new haircut- it takes a while to get used to, but I'll get there. I'm feeling incredibly positive about this place. It's bright, pleasant, and really cozy. And yep: Wi-fi! Oh be still, my Internet-dependent heart.
Now, here I am, typing away in my comfortable, lovable new space. It's different from the one I left, but it's equally inviting. I look around the space on my shelves, above my bed, on my closet, and I think to myself, I can't wait for it to feel like home. I can't wait to fill this place with my clutter.
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The Kids Are All RIght.
I just finished watching this movie and right now I am just so moved, touched, and really emotional. It's just such a bittersweet, sincere and unapologetically honest way of looking at a family- a modern family, at that- but regardless, a normal one with typical issues and quirks. Annette Bening and Julianne Moore make such a cute, believable couple that it kind of makes you forget they're actually a lesbian couple because of how natural the family dynamic presented was.
Okay, allow me to digress here for a bit. I don't want to spoil the movie for anyone, but can I just say that Annette Bening covering Joni Mitchell's "All I Want" in one scene was enough to give me the goosebumps and the waterworks. It's just the way I've always imagined the song being sung in an actual context inside my head- so true, so painful, so real. I really had to pause the film and let myself reach to my box of tissues after those tender, blissful two minutes.
I know Natalie Portman and The King's Speech or The Social Network would probably be getting the Oscars (based on the predictions I've read) but this movie deserves to be recognized for the quiet, moving honesty it tells. It's a must watch, I tell you. One of my favorites now, actually.
And really, any movie that proclaims great love for Joni, and particularly the album Blue, gets an A+ from me. That alone just made this movie priceless.
Oh I hate you some, I hate you some
I love you some
Oh I love you when I forget about me
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Playwrong.
Do you know how frustrating it is to write a play? And how much more stressful it is to rewrite one? I do not feel like a playwright at all. I don't. The blinking cursor has been judging me for far too long.
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Misplaced Baggage.
It's the working title of my play for CW130.
A short summary: Charlie wants to move out of her parents' house as soon as possible because at twenty-six, she feels suffocated and stuck in a rut. In the middle of the night, she rushes up to the attic to look for her missing suitcase, only to stumble upon her childhood crush, a rockstar in all his cardboard-cutout glory. They start to talk about things in the past as they become nostalgic over the things she finds in the attic.
I took the unrealistic, a-bit-absurd approach because I was hoping its highly improbable plot would underline the contrast, bringing about something honest and truthful about the human condition: we let a lot of the baggage in our past still weigh us down. By bringing in a character who is not exactly the lead's doppelganger or mirror but as someone she likes enough to trust while being, to some extent, still a stranger willing to easily point out her faults, I wanted her to try making sense of the things going on in her mind and in her life in an external manner. Which in this case took the form of a former rockstar idol.
Trust me, this is light years away from my original story concept pitch. The road to shaping this one up was bumpy and slow, but I'm actually quite happy with it now. It's my first time to write with an unrealistic twist; I'm surprised it came out less difficult than what I expected.
Dr. Juan is probably one of the best professors I've had so far in UP and despite the constant anxiety attacks brought upon by our meetings, I want to deserve being in his class. I honestly enjoy CW130 even if it stresses me out. Sure there is always that fear of one's pride being crushed down to pieces as he tears down a play, but nothing compares to a silent little nod of affirmation from him.
Submission of the revised draft tomorrow. I bite my nails with unease.
Lights out. Exit stage left.
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Labels: CW, playwriting
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Why CW majors are bulletproof.
What I think most people do not know about creative writing as a discipline in the academe is that beyond the supposed "glorified suffering" of being alone with your unpredictable emotions, finding solace/anxiety in words, having your mind bled dry from all the thinking, [blah blah blah insert all the stereotypical writing frustrations here], is something more distressing, nerve-wracking and undoubtedly terrifying than the actual writing process:
The Workshop.
Contrary to popular belief, we do not just type to our heart's content, letting our fingers type away random words on the keyboard like an inebriated driver stepping on the gas pedal (although sometimes the alcohol-to-speed ratio may be the same), submit the paper under the category "This is my art and you can fuck off if you don't get it," and hope for the professor to see through our "eccentricity" and give us an A+ for creativity. Although we're not exactly given specific requirements about what to write, we're not easily warranted the permission to go crazy on our work either. The piece (and consequently, the writer) has to undergo the workshop.
In a nutshell, the workshop goes like this: the class sits around in a circle and everyone comments on a piece of work. You say what you like and don't like about the piece, down the nitty-gritty. No detail goes unnoticed: from the title, to the commas, to the grammar. In fiction and playwriting, the plot and the characters. In poetry, the rhythm and the wording. In nonfiction, the voice and the urgency. But most of all, what gets really nitpicked is the style. The aesthetics. The technique. The way you write.
That was a really downplayed, sugarcoated way of describing it. To borrow a quote from one of my toughest (yet greatest) professors, "It's a blood bath."
No writer emerges from a workshop unscathed, especially the first time. Of course it begins with everyone pointing out the strong points of your piece, going through all the parts they really found interesting, which will of course make you feel awesome-- until someone raises a problem with your plot, or character, or ending or all of them. Bam! Suddenly all your faith in the literary world crumbles to pieces along with your dignity. Just when you think you've created the best piece of art in your career, someone will point out the tiniest detail to make you feel ashamed you ever considered taking this course in the first place. Let's not forget: it's face-to-face. You say what's on your mind while the writer is in the room. Some say it's a kind of "constructive bashing." It's brutal. And the tough part is, it always happens. It has to happen. A part of you will always die a little (or a lot), even if you undergo the process again and again.
I've had my share of really bad comments in the last few semesters. The most embarrassing are the nitpicking ones on grammar (Yes, I forget my commas too, sometimes.) But the hardest ones to take are those that (deliberately or otherwise) question my effectiveness as a writer -- how come the character is shallow? Why don't I get what is happening? What is the point of this? It hurts to see a character I poured myself into get deflated by some question I never even thought about. It's painful to have someone else come up with something better to do with my work. I think no matter how constructive I know it is supposed to be, I will always leave that room affected in some way after a workshop.
(And remember, we do this for every CW subject, every semester)
But the great thing about the workshop is that the effect doesn't have to be entirely negative. I've seen the harshest criticisms thrown to people then suddenly being surprised by how drastically their stories improved the next meeting. It really forces you to see through everything and go beyond what is expected of you. It raises the stakes; it makes you more aware. And honestly, it doesn't always go bad: the workshop can also be the affirmation of your talent, or at the very least, your improvement. There is no greater feeling than having someone say they enjoyed reading your work or found it promising, even if that's just one person. And the workshop provides that kind of feedback a writer needs for revising, improving, and maturing.
It is, in short, like most things in life, a necessary kind of pain.
I think that is why I've learned to handle criticism a lot more gracefully now. I can have someone say something to my face and I wouldn't have the urge to cry. I consider negative comments as questions that can help enrich my piece, not remarks to weigh me down as a writer (or as a person, even). It's equipped me with a good amount of toughness and I've learned how to weed out the critique I really need. More importantly, it's taught me that there is always, always room for improvement. But that shouldn't stop you from stepping up and going beyond the expectations.
It's a rough ordeal, and having to go through it every week is no joke. Sometimes, I still get carried away, to be honest. But it's all part of the learning process. I guess the workshop spells the difference between a person who just writes and a CW major: the experience of having your work fleshed out constructively is something you can only get from being in this discipline. I'm not saying we're automatically better writers, but it helps to be toughened up as part of the curriculum.
Workshops for several of my CW classes are coming up in the next few weeks. I'm half-nervous and half-excited. I'd love to quote a very famous Kanye Song/Daft Punk line right now but I think there's a more appropriate (and more awesome) song that could sufficiently end this post:
This time, baby, I'll be bulletproof.
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Labels: CW
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I like you when you take off your face
You put away all your teeth
And take us way underneath
'Cause you could die if you take it alone
I watch you taste it
I see your face
And I know I'm alive
You're shooting stars
From the barrel of your eyes
And it drives me crazy
Just drives me wild
- Beauty School by Deftones
In the movie of my life inside my head, this song would definitely be playing in the background in the epic, passionate scene in slow motion. (Because "Sextape" would be the soundtrack of the antecedent makeout scene.) What a beautiful, honest song this is about getting through all the walls, finding the beauty in the rawness of a person; don't we all wish someone felt this way about us?
Deftones nails the meeting of the sensual/violent, the beautiful/sad, the haunting/hopeful. Their album Diamond Eyes is the proof of that. My heart breaks that I'll be missing their concert on February 12.
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Two weeks notice.
You feel this tidal wave of change approaching and you are all sorts of nervous, anxious, and excited. It's never easy to deal with the aftermath of any kind of change, especially the abrupt kind. Like in most things in your life, you like change to be nice and slow: a gentle transition to slowly usher you into a new place. But then again, that never really happens. Things veer away in various speeds, some barely noticeable while others at a rate faster than your mobile broadband, but regardless they all add up and you just suddenly wake up to a new place you barely even recognize. You close our eyes and wish the deviating just stops but does it ever?
The universe is always up to something, you eventually realize. It will find ways to jolt you and get you going even before you've nestled comfortably with what has been given. You open your eyes to find another surprise staring at you, begging the question: can you handle more? More often than not, another change is a complete nuisance. On any other day you would've said no, mumbling an excuse of how you can manage, while silently wishing things to have turned out the other way.
But for that moment you know that that change was the one thing you needed. You look at it in the eye. You cannot wait. The countdown begins.
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Verfremdungseffekt.*
I wish I were making it up, I wish it were something that came out of my mind, like most of my stories do. On paper, how I long to sustain the tension, to extend the long periods of silence, to say something more with the absence of words. They say it's the mark of a good writer if a reader was evoked more by what was unsaid rather than what was actually written. Tension, they say, moves the story.
And yet, how ironic that it's that tension and silence that I wish to escape right this very moment. It's not as if I don't make an effort, I do. But sometimes there are things that just don't add up. You can't put them together no matter what.
Now this is the kind of moment where I wish I had a car and I would drive somewhere, anywhere, nowhere in particular. And later somehow I'd just find myself back home.
Thank God for torrent downloads to keep me sane and somehow stop my need to run outside the streets of Katipunan shouting expletives at the top of my lungs to release anxieties caused by acads and unnecessary room tension. I am watching Easy A for the third time this week because (1) it's just made of pure awesome (2) Emma Stone is a goddess (3) it makes me a hundred times better (4) I like her corsets (5) one character kindasortof looks like some guy I know. But of course, said guy is much, much, much cuter. And of course, I am very, very, very biased.
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In other news, I think my question box has been effin' up lately. For the past few days I've been getting blank questions only. I thought someone just kept on pressing the send button by mistake, but when I tried typing something, blank entries still got through my email, so I've decided to fix it -- and ended up changing my layout as well. (Something to reflect this blurry/confused/detached phase I'm feeling. Blech, I feel so emo I hate it.)
Anyway, the question box is up and running again so you can resend your questions that (most probably got lost and) were left unanswered.
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* It's a theatrical term we aren't really discussing for any of my playwriting classes but sounds relevant nonetheless. Don't know what it is? In the words of Olive Penderghast, "Look it up, big boy."
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And to this day, when everything breaks..
It's been said that actions speak louder than words. But sometimes, you need to actually hear "Everything's going to be okay," first before everything starts to feel okay. Then the actions just sustain the volume. Like someone's fingers getting tangled up in yours, someone's confidence making you believe, someone's arm on your shoulder letting you feel encouraged, someone's laugh causing everything to seem alright again.
..you are the anchor that holds me.
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More books, endless books.
One question I just got in my ask box regarding books I've loved or I've read that are not novels prompted me to write an entire entry dedicated to it. Actually, I have quite a lot of non-novel books on my shelves (nonfiction, poetry, anthologies) that I really hold quite dear to me. Most of them I got from Book Sale and other similar bookstores, some I got from UP Press because several are by Filipino authors. I have to admit that it's usually these anthologies that are the result of impulse book buying because more often than not these little gems I find buried amongst a sea of other equally glorious books have so much to offer from a variety of different authors that it's just too much to pass up.
I guess I can say that my most prized find among all these are the Norton Anthology of English Literature and the Norton Anthology of Poetry that I found for only Php120 each at Books For Less. For the uninitiated, the Norton Anthologies are THE authority and source for everything you will ever need in the world of literature. It's the Holy Grail of literature, I'm telling you. The Norton Anthologies are almost always a requirement for all of my classes, and getting your hands on a copy in our library is such a difficult task because (1) it's in the Reserve Section and (2) I think there is only one copy per edition. It probably won't mean as much and be such a delight to read for people who are not Literature majors but it's definitely a great book to feast your eyes on.
But a lot of my favorites are not as intimidating as Norton. The thing with anthologies is that it gives you a taste of different flavors all in one book. Whether an anthology for one author or anthology of a specific type of writing, you can get such a diverse set of writings for just the price of one book. I don't usually read them in one sitting or in one go, unlike my novels. I love taking them in one at a time, alternating from one book to another, never fully reading them page after page. I enjoy them better that way, I guess.
Here are some of my favorites (and where I found them):
- Brief Interviews With Hideous Men by David Foster Wallace. In my opinion, he is one of the best fiction writers of this decade. He is such a loss to the literary world. This is one of the rare books that got me literally laughing while reading his short stories. Signifying Nothing and Forever Overboard are my favorites. I've only seen copies of this so far in Powerbooks in MOA and Trinoma. I don't think Fully Booked has DFW nonfiction (but I'm not so sure about this.)
- The Likhaan Anthology of Philippine Literature in English. It is such a joy to read our local literature in English. These anthologies, updated every few years or so, published by the UP Press, showcases a myriad of different forms of fiction, drama, and poetry by some of our best Filipino writers which I think should be required reading even in high school. They boast of immense talent and cultural relativity. I think this is the local equivalent of the Norton Anthologies. That being said, I got this at (where else?) UP Press.
- The Ladlad Anthology of Philippine Gay Literature. The three books in this collection were required for my CL184 (Gay Literature) class two semesters ago, but I'm going to be honest and say I'd buy them anyway even if it were not for academics. Of course, the apparent topic of discourse here is homosexuality in the local setting and how our gay community thrives amidst all the hullabaloo and controversies, but more than that it really is such an excellent collection of some of the best works of fiction and poetry out there. You don't need to be gay or lesbian to appreciate the literature in these books; anyone with a keen eye for a great work of art would be impressed. All National Bookstore Branches have this.
- Fast Food Fiction. A local anthology of short short stories edited by Noelle Q. De Jesus. I bought this at a book sale in our college; I spent my emergency one-hundred on this! :)) Worth it.
- Laughing Matters (Global City Review). An anthology of stories, poems and plays on laughter and humor. A gem I found at one of the book sales held at our Faculty Center for only Php25.
- The Playboy Book of Humor and Satire. Similar to the previous one, it is a collection of essays, dramas, and stories on humor. A lot of the works are really laugh-out-loud funny. Php90 at Book Sale MOA.
- Reconnaissance. A collection of stories by UP graduate Tara FT Sering. My favorite here is the title story, "Reconnaissance" which I first read for our CL111 class. I got this for a hundred bucks at the Manila International Book Fair last year.
- The Proxy Eros. Poems by Mookie Katigbak. A great Christmas gift from one friend two years ago.
Being the bookworm that I am, I must admit that reading novels can, at times, get exhausting too, especially if most of them are required of me and not really those that suit my tastes. Reading anthologies like these can be a good way of getting your mind stimulated without the commitment that novels usually entail. I think I've read more anthologies in the last few months or so than novels (mostly for acads), which is not really a shame considering the diversity of writings one can gain from them. Both my bedside table in the dorm and at home have at least one fiction/nonfiction/poetry anthology on it, just to satiate my sudden appetite for small doses of literature. Glad to say they always deliver.
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On my (new) bedside table.
My parents surprised me with a new bedside table when I got home yesterday evening from Quezon City. Since buying my new single bed, I've settled for this tiny black side table that can barely hold my books, lampshade, and some other stuff I'm too lazy to put somewhere beyond an arms' length when I'm already in bed. (Most of the time all my chargers, notebooks, my iPod and my phone just find themselves lined up on the floor.) I've never really complained, but my parents found it necessary, I guess, to get me a serious bedside table that could adequately contain all my junk and more. But it's not only a bedside table -- it's a bedside shelf! It has different compartments which can hold not only my books but also my reviewers (in case I fall asleep while studying, which always happens, ugh) and for all the other floor-bound junk. I am surprised at how ecstatic this makes me -- I am actually more excited to finish reading all my books now! Funny how a bedside table can change this room.
So without further ado, the books that have just found a new home:
Juliet, Naked by Nick Hornby. This was the last book I finished reading in 2010, but it's still on the table because -- well, I still like to go through the pages from time to time. It is actually the first Hornby book I've read, because I've always secretly wanted to read High Fidelity first before everything else, but given that the synopsis at the back seemed so interesting, I couldn't resist it. It tells the story of a long-time couple, Duncan, who is an Tucker Crowe obsessed fan, and Annie, his secretly suffering girlfriend. It basically revolves around the premise of how fans read so much into their idols' words and music and create this glorified image of them that it begins to distort not only the artists' real life but also their own. Mostly viewed from the perspective of Annie, who is not really into the whole Tucker Crowe mania, the novel draws its charm from her straightforward and understandable desire to change, to do something, to move. What I particularly liked about the novel was how it used music to really divulge what's inside the human psyche -- it's not unusual for us to get carried away by the music we listen to, and how much we let it affect our lives, unconsciously or not.
Fallen by David Maine. I have always been fascinated at how literature allows itself to be rediscovered by literature. This reverse retelling of the Fall of Man gives us a closer look at how the first people got through the overwhelming waves of human thoughts and emotions, and survived the undiscovered land that is the Earth. I'm only on the third or fourth chapter so far, but it seems promising. I've been wanting this for the longest time, I'm so glad I finally found it at Fully Booked Serendra.
The Complete Novels of Jean Rhys. I must admit that I only heard of Jean Rhys after my CW111 prof told me of her very interesting Jane Eyre retelling, from the point of view of Mr. Rochester's wife. I found a copy of this at Books for Less for only Php 125 and I told myself I just had to buy it. Five books for that amount? Crazy. "Wide Sargasso Sea" is the last novel in the book but it's the first one I'm reading since it got me curious about Bertha's back story -- I am probably one of the rare few who, after reading Jane Eyre for the first time, never really felt for Jane, but rather for the wife. I'm excited to find out how Jean Rhys gives her life and total redemption.
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. I confess I should've finished this book for our Eng22 class over the break but alas, food, the Internet, and petix time got in the way. I'm almost done though. I'm stunned at how much I've enjoyed reading the novel, especially late at night. The whole idea of this monster coming to life gives me chills, but I am amazed at his eloquence and his charm -- which probably is not surprising, considering that I really do find intellect quite alluring more than anything else.
Cum Laude by Cecily Von Ziegesar. I won't even deny my love for this woman. Gossip Girl (the book series) was so special to me especially during my early teen years because I think the whole ridiculousness/glamour of the Upper East Siders' lifestyles helped rein in much of my anxieties and feelings caused by raging hormones, all while trying to make sense of them. The TV show will never equate to the books for me, and that is because I have so much respect for how Von Ziegesar shaped her characters. Cum Laude is set in Dexter College, a small, exclusive university in Maine, with different kinds of edgy and out-of-the-box students finding their way. I'm in the middle of the book right now and I absolutely missed this kind of prose from the writer -- how her details are able to pack in a lot of meat for the characters, but at the same time, reading through them is so easy and effortless.
The Bro Code by Barney Stinsen. My Christmas gift from Mom! Because she knows how much I love How I Met Your Mother. I've had the audio book for quite a while now, but nothing beats holding the actual thing in your hands. It's legen-- wait for it-- dary! These days I read it with the audio book on my ears. Neil Patrick Harris is awesome. Everything else is irrelevant.
I've contemplated on making a book-related New Year's resolution, but I know I cannot force myself to read a number of books a week or a month; that only makes me not want to read. Besides, with the amount of acads-related readings I have to focus on for most of the year, I don't think I can always get my hands on my new books. So as long as I don't ever run out of books on my bedside table, and that I finish all of them by the end of the year, no matter how many they are, I'm good.
So without further ado, the books that have just found a new home:
Juliet, Naked by Nick Hornby. This was the last book I finished reading in 2010, but it's still on the table because -- well, I still like to go through the pages from time to time. It is actually the first Hornby book I've read, because I've always secretly wanted to read High Fidelity first before everything else, but given that the synopsis at the back seemed so interesting, I couldn't resist it. It tells the story of a long-time couple, Duncan, who is an Tucker Crowe obsessed fan, and Annie, his secretly suffering girlfriend. It basically revolves around the premise of how fans read so much into their idols' words and music and create this glorified image of them that it begins to distort not only the artists' real life but also their own. Mostly viewed from the perspective of Annie, who is not really into the whole Tucker Crowe mania, the novel draws its charm from her straightforward and understandable desire to change, to do something, to move. What I particularly liked about the novel was how it used music to really divulge what's inside the human psyche -- it's not unusual for us to get carried away by the music we listen to, and how much we let it affect our lives, unconsciously or not.
Fallen by David Maine. I have always been fascinated at how literature allows itself to be rediscovered by literature. This reverse retelling of the Fall of Man gives us a closer look at how the first people got through the overwhelming waves of human thoughts and emotions, and survived the undiscovered land that is the Earth. I'm only on the third or fourth chapter so far, but it seems promising. I've been wanting this for the longest time, I'm so glad I finally found it at Fully Booked Serendra.
The Complete Novels of Jean Rhys. I must admit that I only heard of Jean Rhys after my CW111 prof told me of her very interesting Jane Eyre retelling, from the point of view of Mr. Rochester's wife. I found a copy of this at Books for Less for only Php 125 and I told myself I just had to buy it. Five books for that amount? Crazy. "Wide Sargasso Sea" is the last novel in the book but it's the first one I'm reading since it got me curious about Bertha's back story -- I am probably one of the rare few who, after reading Jane Eyre for the first time, never really felt for Jane, but rather for the wife. I'm excited to find out how Jean Rhys gives her life and total redemption.
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. I confess I should've finished this book for our Eng22 class over the break but alas, food, the Internet, and petix time got in the way. I'm almost done though. I'm stunned at how much I've enjoyed reading the novel, especially late at night. The whole idea of this monster coming to life gives me chills, but I am amazed at his eloquence and his charm -- which probably is not surprising, considering that I really do find intellect quite alluring more than anything else.
Cum Laude by Cecily Von Ziegesar. I won't even deny my love for this woman. Gossip Girl (the book series) was so special to me especially during my early teen years because I think the whole ridiculousness/glamour of the Upper East Siders' lifestyles helped rein in much of my anxieties and feelings caused by raging hormones, all while trying to make sense of them. The TV show will never equate to the books for me, and that is because I have so much respect for how Von Ziegesar shaped her characters. Cum Laude is set in Dexter College, a small, exclusive university in Maine, with different kinds of edgy and out-of-the-box students finding their way. I'm in the middle of the book right now and I absolutely missed this kind of prose from the writer -- how her details are able to pack in a lot of meat for the characters, but at the same time, reading through them is so easy and effortless.
The Bro Code by Barney Stinsen. My Christmas gift from Mom! Because she knows how much I love How I Met Your Mother. I've had the audio book for quite a while now, but nothing beats holding the actual thing in your hands. It's legen-- wait for it-- dary! These days I read it with the audio book on my ears. Neil Patrick Harris is awesome. Everything else is irrelevant.
I've contemplated on making a book-related New Year's resolution, but I know I cannot force myself to read a number of books a week or a month; that only makes me not want to read. Besides, with the amount of acads-related readings I have to focus on for most of the year, I don't think I can always get my hands on my new books. So as long as I don't ever run out of books on my bedside table, and that I finish all of them by the end of the year, no matter how many they are, I'm good.
Labels: books
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Believe it or not, I just finished writing my first play.
Ever!
It's the first draft for our CW130 (Playwriting) class, which may I just say, is one of my most challenging subjects this semester. Probably my biggest mistake, which I'm getting to realize only now, is to underestimate playwriting. I took this as one of my genres to escape from Poetry, which is a genre I definitely felt uncomfortable with. I enjoy reading poetry, yes, but somehow it just doesn't really go well with me -- any attempts at being poetic sound contrived and/or cheesy. So I took playwriting as my escape route. Wrong move.
It's not enough to have a picture inside your head. There is no such thing as a short short play. Or a flash play. You cannot just have this image on your head and work on just that one frame, that one scene. (Which is what usually happens to me when I write fiction.) In playwriting, you have to see everything in the now, from where the boxes lie to how the curtains move, and not just that but also everything about the past: how the character was born, whether she puts her bra or panties on first, how she likes her eggs, scrambled or sunny side-up. It's that specific. You have to be conscious of every movement, every word. Because unlike fiction, poetry and nonfiction even, where there are space for footnotes, playwriting leaves the audience nothing but just that play. That's the whole story, that's the whole explanation. That's all there is to it.
Which is why for the last few nights I've been pouring myself over this one-act play I'm writing. A twenty-minute play with two actors and mostly dialogue is no joke -- I tried to come up with the simplest concepts possible, but really, there is no easy way out of it. On some days, the story made complete sense to me, on most days, I'm just like, "What the hell am I doing?" But thankfully, I got the whole thing down to twelve pages (which is not a bad thing at all!) and hopefully it's tight, concise but surprising enough to be considered "okay."
Just a nod from our professor would already make me want to treat all my friends at Drew's until they hurl their livers out (but that is not a promise, just an analogy!) I really want to do well in this class. But right now, I'm not even thinking about my grades. I just want to get this thing going and hopefully, it turns out to be something worth watching.
The first reading of my play will be on Wednesday. I'm nervous! The topic proposals, meanwhile, for my other playwriting class (MP174) will be next week, I think. That's another play for me to worry about. But until then, I'm crossing my fingers on this one.
I still don't feel like a playwright, though. More like a playwrong.
(I apologize for the rambling. Sorry, my brain's all mush right now.)
Labels: CW, playwriting
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Back to regular programming.
School started today. Just a few days after welcoming the new year, the reality of going back to UP again kicks in quicker than the fireworks vanishing into the darkness. As much as I would like to keep my eyes glued shut and my thoughts fixed on fancy, I had to peel myself off the bed this morning and pick up the pieces from where we left off: midterms to submit, stories to write, plays to construct -- oh, hello second semester.
And oh yeah, hello 2011.
I noticed I've been seeming so indifferent to the new year these last few days, maybe due to the fact that I'm (already) a (half)jaded 19-year-old girl who never really made a big deal out of resolutions and obligatory beginnings just because of a date, but most probably due to acads.
But albeit my less-than-spectacular welcome, there are actually quite a lot of things to look forward to this year that I am particularly excited about. 2010 has been, without a doubt, such a great year for me physically, academically, mentally, emotionally - the whole deal, really. I know I've probably milked this simile too many times, but it really just came to me like a quiet, little surprise: unexpected and yet every bit as delightful. It was so easygoing; so effortless in its small, hushed charm. More than anything, it was the year I finally felt adjusted, affirmed, and appreciated -- something I've long been wanting to feel since this big, dramatic changed happened, aka college. And for that, I am truly grateful.
But then begs the question, what awaits me after this comfortable snuggling with familiarity and normalcy? Already the possibilities of 2011 are glaring me in the eye: it's the end of my junior year. The first anniversary. The last summer of college. The beginning of senior year. Graduation picture taking. And probably the most nerve-wracking of them all: The Law Aptitude Examinations (for UP and Ateneo).
So I brush off my worries and anxieties by immediately throwing myself back into schoolwork and course requirements, I push these thoughts to the back of my head in hopes of calming down the nerves. There really is nothing I could do about it right now, after all, other than to cross my fingers.. and wait. (Which is not always my strongest point, but given that I have no choice, maybe it's time for me to hone my patience-lengthening skills.) And when the moments finally do come, I hope for nothing more but the graciousness to take them all on in the most awesome way possible.
I know I am rambling and not particularly coherent but I'm truly excited about this year. I hope you turn out to be a wonderful surprise, 2011. Until then, let me go bury my head in my books and bite my nails in anticipation.
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A 2010 self-portrait in telegrams.
Dear January stop never get enough stop she's the sweetest drug stop you know this much is true
Dearest February stop roses are red comma she was wearing a dress stop in backseat of the car comma a girl said yes
Dear Summer stop porkchop with Heinz and Viva Venezia pizza are best shared with someone who can explain dynamics of refrigerator
Dear June stop run Forrest run
Dear July August September stop stress factory has gone back to work stop insomnia creeps in stop you stare at ceiling or blinking cursor until words arrive stop I'm alive
Dearest October stop nineteen years old stop last teen year stop you still look sixteen stop that's always a good thing
Dear November stop start of new semester stop you seem fazed stop carry on
Dear December stop things to smile about do not seem to end
Dear Rolfe stop don't stop your Liesl
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I think I found the perfect way to explain it.
Amid the cold lines of the city
lay down your head
to quiet all the sadness
to quiet all the sadness
to feel what's possible instead
your grace
your grace
I think I found the perfect way
to explain it
close your eyes and
move within the alchemy between us.
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So many things to do..
I'm in denial that school starts again in a week. Before I get my festive spirit back on again for New Year, I better do something productive otherwise I'm dead meat.
Yes, Philo150 and CW130, I'm looking at you.
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A candycane gram!
(1) Mean Girls is the Best. Movie. Ever.
(2) I've always wanted to do this number with my blockmates because
(3) we've practically memorized the whole dance
(4) even all the lines actually
(5) So yeah.
(6) Ohmygod is this social suicide?
(7) I hope not. I love The Plastics. Haha.
(8) Off to re-watch this movie again.
(9) I hope your Christmas turns out to be sooo fetch!
(10) Happy holidays!
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Tap on my window, knock on my door.
On the car stereo. Outside my bedroom window. Alone at night downstairs. At two o'clock in the morning on MTV. On shuffle mode. In the backseat. On my ride to school. In the shower. In between the sheets. Inside my head. While tangled up in you.
It doesn't really go away, this song. How it lingers in my head long after the last note has been played, how it adores me despite no mention of my name. How it drives for miles and miles and winds up at my door. How you've made it ring true after endless playbacks. How you know where I hide, how you want to make me feel beautiful. How it's so much like you.
I've had you so many times but somehow I want more.
--
Labels: creative nonfiction, finger exercises
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Oh hi blog, I almost forgot about you.
My apologies for not feeling like writing anything coherent for the last week (and even today). Writers always get these big, huge blocks that stand in the way and sometimes we don't even feel like wanting to take them on.
Right now, I am in trying to answer my Philo150 midterm exam. Operative word: trying. On the first day of Christmas vacation. Because I have so many other things to finish for the other subjects I can't afford to not do this one today. Professors never fully grasp the meaning of a vacation. Or maybe they do but they just choose not to. To torment us. Ah, UP.
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Bygones.
It's surprising how one can be capable of letting it all go with just a hello.
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The places you have come to fear the most.*
I can't even begin to explain how alienated I feel as I sit on this bed I've been calling my refuge for the last two years or so. For a great part of every semester, this place is home more than our actual house in Paranaque is. I go home every Friday to my parents, yes, and that is something I look forward to every week. But something about this small, little room along Katipunan keeps me warm, that makes me feel safe, that sustains my creativity, that calms my senses at the height of my apprehensions. True, it took me a while to adjust to it. But once I did, it was like finally discovering the palatability of vegetables: it was acquired taste, but soon I cannot imagine life without it. It's essential, it's home.
And now I look at this place, and I have to ask myself, how could it transform in such a short span of time? Of course the apparent change is Inna's departure, and that probably accounts for more than half of this estrangement I'm feeling. But more than that, the subtle, tiny little changes that have happened: the death of the dorm's owner (and our "lolo" in Katipunan), the replacement of bulletin board pictures, the rearrangement of study areas, the sudden leaving of the friendly guards -- looking at them individually seems so inconsequential. But putting them all together just makes this place feel entirely, completely different.
I'm supposed to feel at home here. And quite frankly, I really used to. But now, being stuck inside four walls with someone I do not know, having to stay in a place that is slowly isolating me, it's really difficult. It's hard to be grown-up about this when it's something so inescapable -- how can I deal with a place I cannot leave? It's not like I can go anywhere else. I don't know, I just really feel like a stranger to this place again.
I just really want to curl up in bed because it's cozy and warm and it makes me feel better, not because I have nothing else to do but to wait for Fridays to come.
---
* Listening to the Dashboard Confessional song with the same title. Thank God for songs that come to you when you need them most.
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Things to smile about.
When one professor constantly berates your work, referring to them as "trash" and calling everyone in class "lazy," it's difficult to find something right away to push you and do better. I know, it's something I should be used to right now. CW requires a gut made of steel: you have to be able to take criticism graciously at all times, no matter how subtle or harsh they may be. I've had my fair share of negative critiques from classmates and teachers, even friends and strangers, and I can say that I've pretty much taken them all in stride. But there are times when the severity of the words just really get to me no matter how tough I want to be, and at the end of the day I end up feeling really frustrated about myself, wondering what the hell I am doing in this course. This week just happens to fall under that category.
But surprisingly, fate found a way of turning this week up on its head. Another work of mine got published in a different online zine, New-Slang! It was a piece of nonfiction I wrote way back in August which I actually posted here in my blog called "An Ode To The Pillow Book," my own take on Sei Shonagon's work. I was inspired by our CL115 class last semester that I decided to do it for myself, and because it turned out to be so personal, I chose not to submit it for one of our class projects, fearing that having it "graded" would somehow lessen its value. Having other people acknowledge it as a decent piece of art just makes me so happy and excited.
Two pieces published in one week -- I am at a complete loss of words. I know it's not much, but it's definitely something. It's enough to make me feel like I don't completely suck at what I do, which is what I really need right now. My head is still reeling from all this; I still can't believe it! :) I hope you guys do check it out. :)
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I am a sort-of published writer now?
Dear Karla,
Your recent submission to Teen Ink has been posted on Teen Ink, our website of teen-generated poetry, fiction, articles, reviews, opinions, artwork, and more. Teen Ink allows you and others to rate work, provide feedback, and share stories with friends and family.
On our website, the highest-rated stories in each section are prominently displayed on the home page and elsewhere. Your work could be among them, so vote often and send the link to your friends and family and ask them to vote too. (Up to one vote per article per day.)Here's a link to your article: http://teenink.com/fiction/realistic_fiction/article/269636/Introductions/
That was an email I got from TeenInk just this morning.
I am beyond ecstatic about this, really. The story I wrote just a few days ago was something I did in like ten minutes, it was really one of those surprising, random bouts of "creativity" (aka sleeplessness). I just thought of submitting it somewhere because it might seem like fun. It was something on the fly, I didn't really think anything would happen about it. It's funny how this surprises me at a time when I'm really, seriously doubting my writing (insert insecurities -- acads are suddenly pressuring me right now) to give me something to smile about :)
Actually, I noticed the website got the time wrong (5 minutes lang yung nakalagay hindi 10!) but nonetheless, IT'S OUT THERE! :) Please help me and vote for it if you like it; as the email they sent me said, the more votes it gets the higher chances of it being on their homepage and on the actual magazine are.
Click here to vote for it.
I am hyperventilating as I type. Kthxbye. :">
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X
It's funny how hugely different we are: I see the world through imageries and climaxes, not tension and mechanics. You stare directly at the road ahead of you, my gaze drifts about from the cars to the sky. I see the poetry in detail, you see the formula. It doesn't add up. It couldn't work out. It shouldn't mesh well. It won't go together. I am metaphor and you are science.
But, literature has the oxymoron and physics has magnetism.
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Introductions.
Her fingers grazed his leg as his chest gently and slowly heaved up and down. With his eyes closed he looks different, more calm, like a little boy who resisted siesta time with all his might but eventually ended up falling prey. The curly, wispy strands on his calf enfold her index finger in a longing way that soothes her -- how soft and velvety they are to the feel of her hand. To her it feels better than fingers holding her back but eventually letting go.
She isn't like the others. That, she knows for certain. Sure, she enjoys the unclasping of the buttons, she anticipates the falling away of clothes, she looks forward to hearing the repeated grunting of some higher being, or sometimes even her name. But it's the quiet, little moments she looks forward to the most. That moment when he finally closes his eyes, either by extreme delight or relief, heaves a huge sigh, and trails off to slumber. That moment when she finally hears his heart slow down as she presses her cheek against his damp chest, when she can play with his velvety legs without disturbing him. All the others questioned her; they couldn't understand.
She glances at his bedside table beside him. His wallet is slumped out, almost impossible to close with the amount of cash in it. Or were they just pictures? From where she was lying down she couldn't tell. What was his story? She sighs. She softly rests her head on his chest again, closing her eyes and trying to force away the morning as it slowly creeps back in through the windows.
I could get used to this, she thinks. She could do this for the rest of her life. She could do without the promises of forever, the certainty of an "us." Maybe when he wakes up, she'll ask him. Maybe he'll wince for a while, but give in. Maybe he'll be honest. His leg feels comfortable and warm against the light stroking of her fingers. The silence envelops her, as if she is knowing more and more about him even without the words. Perhaps a little more touching would reveal to her his name.
Labels: fiction
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Traipsing through genres.
This semester is unarguably the defining point of my undergraduate career. Right now, I am taking up CW subjects on my chosen genres: Nonfiction, Fiction, and Playwriting. I also have one Filipino elective which happens to fall under the last category (MP174: Pagsulat ng Drama). So basically, it's all about the personal essays, short stories, novels, and plays for me this sem. It isn't supposed to be something new, given that I've been taking up other majors for the last three semesters or so, but it's just surreal that I'm actually at this point right now, where they're all happening at the same time, where I don't only analyze and read through them but actually create them. It's mind-boggling, really.
What excites me and stresses me out is the whole creative process. Unbeknown to some probably, writing takes gargantuan effort. It is really more than just getting your fingers to move across the keyboard and polishing your grammar -- it requires putting yourself inside someone else's head and building (and sustaining) tension for more than a few pages. Now imagine doing that for four subjects. It's insane, really. I know I all have these stories going on in my mind, but the challenge is in making them interesting enough for other people to actually enjoy.
Which probably explains why I'm slowly getting more caught up in the imaginary world and slowly losing touch of this semi-actual world aka The Internet. Sometimes, the world as it happens inside my head is really just more interesting than (virtual) reality.
(Oh God, I sound like such a freak.)
What excites me and stresses me out is the whole creative process. Unbeknown to some probably, writing takes gargantuan effort. It is really more than just getting your fingers to move across the keyboard and polishing your grammar -- it requires putting yourself inside someone else's head and building (and sustaining) tension for more than a few pages. Now imagine doing that for four subjects. It's insane, really. I know I all have these stories going on in my mind, but the challenge is in making them interesting enough for other people to actually enjoy.
Which probably explains why I'm slowly getting more caught up in the imaginary world and slowly losing touch of this semi-actual world aka The Internet. Sometimes, the world as it happens inside my head is really just more interesting than (virtual) reality.
(Oh God, I sound like such a freak.)
Labels: CW
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Run, Karla, Run!
Guess what I did today? Something so completely out of character that I didn't even tell my friends about it because they probably would shake their heads in disbelief until I actually pushed through with it :))
I ran for 3K at the Unilab Run United 2 held at Global City this morning!
It was such a challenge because (1) I am the least athletic person I know, (2) I am a lazy-ass bum who hates sweating, and (3) I haven't jogged since December of last year for our barkada's unofficial new past-time of running around the UP Acad Oval. But for some reason my tita convinced me and well, I just had to do it! With nothing but a running playlist and a determined mindset, I aimed for the finish line!(Random story: Even after a year later, it's interesting that it's still Flo-rida's "Sugar" that never fails to perk me up when I'm getting tired! That song just really has so many good memories of last year.. of our previous jogs around the Oval.. of riding someone's car for the first time.. of the final week before Christmas break of 09.. Oops, I digress.)
Achievement of the day for me: I didn't walk at all for the whole three kilometers (which may be such a piece of cake for anybody else) and I didn't stop either. I just ran, and ran, and ran. Totally defying my limits! Hell yeah! \:D/ I really didn't care about my time or how many people were ahead of me; I just wanted to finish the race for myself, really! And I did! What a great feeling :)
Although now my legs are killing me T_T :))
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Blanket of cloud, the sky hovering.
You melt your doubt
and fall into me
I find your mouth
and try to hold it
You blame your love
I know it's harmless
But we're both wise
for falling
- Window Bird by Stars
Sometimes, it really doesn't need too much words. Just plunging head first into it speaks volumes on how special it means, but still wading through despite it all is so much more telling of how this time it's different, how this one you really want to last. It's a scary ride, it's not devoid of conflict and recklessness. But it's also a comforting flight: a departure from the chaos, an arrival to a welcome pattern. The yielding to the vulnerability is what makes this, us, a bravery. At the end of the day, it's not the fear of pain or hurt that remains, it's this longing, wanting, yearning that never goes away.
//
Window Bird is such a pretty song. Amy Millan's haunting voice plus the surprising dip down the refrain (which still gets to me) add to its honesty and charm. It always reminds me of hugs and snuggles and warm, cozy feelings. And a sudden longing for Peppermint Mocha.
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On My Bedside Table: The Sembreak Edition.
Given that the semester has already started and at least two of my subjects already required us to read novels from our reading list/syllabus, I figured it was about time to wrap up my sembreak to-read list. For the last few months (right before the first sem ended), I've been secretly complaining about how I'm having such a hard time reading anything already because of the insane amount of work I had to do for all my subjects. It got to the point where it was actually quite hard just enjoying words in whatever genre after (unwillingly) feasting my eyes on serious critical theories and/or literary techniques. So I made a pact with myself that come sembreak, I will really reward myself with books I enjoy and actually want to read, especially since I have quite a lot on my bedside table(s).
I'm glad to say I was quite successful. I think I actually spent more time with my glasses on and reading on my bed rather than on Facebook. Achievement!
Summer Crossing by Truman Capote. This was the novel I selected for our English 42 (American Literature) final project, but I will include this because this has been on my bookshelf for quite some time already, and I was actually meaning to read it for sembreak. I got it at the Manila International Book Fair at SMX for a really good price, plus it was the recently discovered novel of Truman Capote -- how could I not buy that? It just so happened that it fell in the category I needed for my project, which was a deconstruction of American society as reflected in different aspects of their culture. It's definitely a charming take on the struggle for independence and freedom amidst social class set in a picturesque sweltering Manhattan summer in the 1940s.
Looking For Alaska by John Green. The novel that has got everybody in the online world talking, gushing, and crying. I have to say in honesty though that because of the hype, I didn't find myself expecting too much from it. I didn't want to be disappointed, but at the same time I wanted to find out what made this book so riveting, so I had to put my literary guard down and just enjoy it. Suffice to say, I read this in one afternoon. To say that the plot was beautiful would be an understatement. It was definitely a story that went beyond your typical high-school first-love-affair. But more than the narrative, I actually appreciated the prose too. John Green has a fluid, easy way with words that makes them sound almost lyrical and yet does not seem forced at all. I had to sit down and stare into blank space for a while after reading the last page -- and of course, in a very good way. Yep, it had that effect.
Scott Pilgrim vs. The World by Bryan Lee O'Malley. Now of course, this isn't a novel per se, but it was also on my to-read list this sembreak. After having been swept like crazy by the first book, I just had to get my hands on this one. It was such a guilty pleasure! Except for Archie comics and the well-loved local comics Kiko Machine, I don't really read comics in print. But Scott Pilgrim definitely changed my mind. It's surrealism grounded in something still so honest and human is what makes it so much fun to read. I have to have the next one already! (Also: I haven't seen the movie yet. I'm vowing to get through at least half of the series before watching the Michael Cera [!] flick.)
Sadopaideia by Anonymous. An interesting read on an interesting topic: sadomasochism. Being a creative writing major, I am not entirely alien to sexuality and all that it encompasses most especially as represented in literature. It's funny that people see erotic literature as something to be scared of, something taboo, when in fact it merely paints us a clearer picture of what life was in that era, particularly 20th century England. It's unfortunate that I only got to finish it this sembreak when I actually did a paper on sadomasochism for my English 21 critical paper just last sem. It would've been handy in providing more evidence on the literary characterization of the Wife of Bath as the Seductress.
Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen. I'm still on my way to finishing all the books of one of my favorite 18th-century author, and I'm glad I'm finally halfway there! Northanger Abbey is not one of her more popular novels, but its use of satire and wit on naivete is something worthy of note. By using innocent country girl Catherine Morland as the central point of this novel, Austen gives us a humorous look at the blurring of the lines between fiction and reality. It struck a chord with me because the feeling of having my head so buried into a book is so familiar to me that I feel like I'm juxtaposing everything in my life to what's in the pages. But who can blame me if fiction is just so much more interesting than real life?
The Rachel Papers by Martin Amis. This is has got to be my favorite among all these books. Charles Highway's tongue-in-cheek description of the last few moments of his teenage life is something I enjoyed not only for its honesty but also for the fact that I too am almost in that part of my life. Having turned 19 a few weeks ago, I also can't help but feel that there must be something big, something life-changing that I had to work on in order to cement my transition from being a teenager to an adult. Although there were times when I just wanted to smack Charles right in the head, I can't help but laugh with him as he goes through seemingly ridiculous but actually realistic lengths to get it on with mysterious, charming Rachel. Sure, Charles may not be the ideal hero, what with his bad habits and above average cockiness, but you have to admit that Charles isn't exactly a dumb guy -- he's about to get into Oxford and he definitely knows his way with words. He's not exactly dreamy: one minute he's this lanky, uncool dude drowning in his poetry and the next he sounds like the arrogant, I'm-better-than-you kind of guy that every pore in your body absolutely despises and yet gets under your skin and keeps you up at night. And if that won't, well maybe his thoughts and desires will. After all, isn't it the best to make the craziest decisions and throw the last hurrah (as either a "Fuck You!" to teenage-dom or a "Ciao, bella!" to the future) when you're young and 19?
It may seem like a lot, but wait until you see my "Still-to-Read" list. I have more books on my bedside table waiting on cue, plus the required ones I have to read by next week, and also some other readings. My bookshelves both at home and in the dorm are probably on the verge of giving up (but hopefully not any time soon!) It's a mountain of stacked up books waiting to be devoured, hanging around to be leafed through and enjoyed.
It really is an inescapable life of words, prose, and reading for me. Well, so far, I'm not complaining.
Labels: books
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Break sem.
The second half of my third year began yesterday.
But so far, the second semester hasn't really started for me yet. Only one of my professors in the last two days showed up (which is actually not surprising) and most of the people are still in an understandable state of languor and sluggishness. Add the fact that the weather is unbelievably snuggle-worthy, and you get an equation for laziness. I really don't feel like starting the sem yet.
I've noticed that for most of my friends (who are all in majors) our schedules are filled with breaks: either long, stretching ones or short but distributed ones. It's ironic that for a semester that's supposed to make us feel all stressed, here we are given more idle time. Interesting that after "sem break" we're given "break sem."
Which can go either way for me (and us), really. It's not like idleness equates to creativity or productivity. To me, idleness only makes me want to sleep/laze around even more. I'm hoping I get through this sem, especially my epic four-and-a-half-hour break on Tuesdays! God. I could always go back home to the dorm, of course, but the problem with that is I wouldn't want to go back to school anymore. I tried going home once, when a prof cancelled a class, and I slept through until late in the afternoon, making me miss my next class. I have a very strong feeling that that wouldn't be far from happening again if I decide to do the same this sem.
I'm still kind of figuring out how to work my way through those breaks this week, but hopefully as the sem goes along I'll find my rhythm and stick to it. It's just the first two days, after all. It's too early to say. I'm hoping for the best, as always. And really, I'm just thankful I got all the subjects I need, and the much-needed lunch dates I (or rather, "we") want.
Let's get this thing going, second sem! I'm ready for you!
P.S. It's snuggle weather again and I'm literally under the sheets, snuggling up to my pillow and a cozy, navy blue varsity jacket, with my 90's playlist on my iPod. Ahhh, those were the days: when rain meant a suspension of classes and classmates meant friends you've had since first grade. God, I feel old.
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For Inna.
I don't even know how to begin this post. My eyes are still swollen from crying myself to sleep and my pillow reeks of dried up tears. To say that I am sad is probably the biggest understatement -- in fact the feeling goes beyond sad; it's suddenly this burning sensation of having something pulled out from underneath you that brings about confusion, loneliness, and a sense of wistfulness as well.
My roommate, Inna, is leaving for Canada later today. Their family is migrating there for good. They just got the approval of the embassy a few months ago before the first semester ended but the plan has been known to us for probably a year already. We knew she was gonna leave, but we didn't really know when. We were hoping it would never happen, but we were crossing our fingers for at least after graduation.
I would be the first to admit that Inna and I were never really the closest of friends in high school. We were in the same barkada, but probably the only thing we ever really bonded over was our undying love for Chris Tiu, our secret obsession with Gossip Girl (the book series) and our unexplainable desire to get into UP. Who would've thought those were the exact things that would bring us together in Katipunan? We felt like we were Blair and Serena after graduation: invincible! Independent! And hot! :)) Our dorm was near enough UP to allow us to sleep late and wake up later, and was situated perfectly across Ateneo (where a Chris Tiu sighting might occur.) It was the ideal, exciting first step to independence.
Our first night was funny. It was awkward but I think it was the day that really sealed our friendship from something held together by an unrealistic longing for a basketball superstar to an actual closeness. We had no microwave, no internet, and no television but we were laughing and talking nonstop about our fears and apprehensions of college over our unsuccessful attempt at a delicious dinner aka leftover lumpia.
And that's what differentiates this friendship over all the others. I have my other best friends and close friends (as I'm sure she does), but at the end of the day, it always comes down to just Inna and I. We have had our differences over the years, I won't deny that. All friendships go through something difficult, and we did. But it was not as if it was something I could just quit. The reality is living together with someone is just a different kind of friendship altogether -- it takes so much more trust and love. It's not easy to cross the lines if the other person's bed is just a few meters away from yours. The thing about being thrust together under the same roof is that you cannot escape each other: our friendship was something we had to work on literally every day and every night.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, I have other best friends, sure. I have other people to share my secrets with and other people to call up and rant to. But I only have one roommate: and it's a relationship that's completely different from what I have with anyone else. She became a constant go-to person for anything: school-related stress, love-related woes, and even landi-related skills-sharing ;) She's not just a friend anymore, she's family. We've known each other since first grade but in the last two and a half years we've gotten closer than ever. We really stuck together, determined not to let the (very) stressful UP life tear us down.
What I'm really going to miss are the random, small talks we have. The "Alam mo yung prof ko kanina, ang benta kasi sabi niya..." kind. Or the "Sheeet nakita ko si..." ones. The little stuff that aren't really important but are funny or interesting enough to share with someone you are with that day. We've had some of the deepest talks about life and love with our other friends with tears in our eyes or with alcohol in our system (or both), but it's our conversations with each other just over reheated kanin and adobo that I'm going to miss the most.
There's this voice inside my head trying to comfort me that says, "You have other friends naman. You won't be completely alone." And of course, that's true. I have my Paulinian friends and I have my UP friends (CrEngg). We're all being left behind, and we're all together in this. The thing is, her leaving is twice as painful for me. She is both my friend in high school and in college. She knows everyone I know. In fact, my friend Jan made me realize last night, that if it wasn't for the Karla-and-Inna separation anxiety over the first weeks of college, we never would have insisted to always have lunch together still. And if we didn't, we never would have introduced our blockmates to each other. CrEngg LITERALLY wouldn't even be here if it weren't for her block joining mine. (For the uninitiated: CrEngg is Creative Writing + Engineering. Don't laugh, it's hard to come up with a better one trust me.) I'm not saying all our friends owe it to us, because I'm sure things would've turned out okay even if all of us never really came together. But where would I even be today if it weren't for that one fateful introduction at Melchor Hall?
I understand that this is part of life, that this is part of growing up. Their family needs to do what they have to do, and I know they will make it through because they have each other. Inna is probably the most responsible older sister I know, and I'm sure she can manage. Underneath that shy, simple facade is a strong girl. I don't even doubt that Inna will be the source of strength for both her parents and for her siblings. Pinatibay na ng UP yan eh! :)
I guess by the time you read this Inna, you'd be in Canada. Maybe you'd be too busy fixing your things or adjusting to the harsh, cold weather. But know that wherever you are on the other side of the planet, we will all be missing you here. Things will never be the same, but that doesn't mean everything should change. There's always Facebook, YM, Plurk, Skype and even CrEngg Interactive (LOL, thanks Enzo) to keep us all in touch. Like what you said, it's just "so long" and not goodbye. I'm still gonna wait for our Starbucks date together ;)
Until then, enjoy Canada, Inna Scherbatsky ;) I love you, Roomie >:D<
My roommate, Inna, is leaving for Canada later today. Their family is migrating there for good. They just got the approval of the embassy a few months ago before the first semester ended but the plan has been known to us for probably a year already. We knew she was gonna leave, but we didn't really know when. We were hoping it would never happen, but we were crossing our fingers for at least after graduation.
I would be the first to admit that Inna and I were never really the closest of friends in high school. We were in the same barkada, but probably the only thing we ever really bonded over was our undying love for Chris Tiu, our secret obsession with Gossip Girl (the book series) and our unexplainable desire to get into UP. Who would've thought those were the exact things that would bring us together in Katipunan? We felt like we were Blair and Serena after graduation: invincible! Independent! And hot! :)) Our dorm was near enough UP to allow us to sleep late and wake up later, and was situated perfectly across Ateneo (where a Chris Tiu sighting might occur.) It was the ideal, exciting first step to independence.
Our first night was funny. It was awkward but I think it was the day that really sealed our friendship from something held together by an unrealistic longing for a basketball superstar to an actual closeness. We had no microwave, no internet, and no television but we were laughing and talking nonstop about our fears and apprehensions of college over our unsuccessful attempt at a delicious dinner aka leftover lumpia.
And that's what differentiates this friendship over all the others. I have my other best friends and close friends (as I'm sure she does), but at the end of the day, it always comes down to just Inna and I. We have had our differences over the years, I won't deny that. All friendships go through something difficult, and we did. But it was not as if it was something I could just quit. The reality is living together with someone is just a different kind of friendship altogether -- it takes so much more trust and love. It's not easy to cross the lines if the other person's bed is just a few meters away from yours. The thing about being thrust together under the same roof is that you cannot escape each other: our friendship was something we had to work on literally every day and every night.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, I have other best friends, sure. I have other people to share my secrets with and other people to call up and rant to. But I only have one roommate: and it's a relationship that's completely different from what I have with anyone else. She became a constant go-to person for anything: school-related stress, love-related woes, and even landi-related skills-sharing ;) She's not just a friend anymore, she's family. We've known each other since first grade but in the last two and a half years we've gotten closer than ever. We really stuck together, determined not to let the (very) stressful UP life tear us down.
What I'm really going to miss are the random, small talks we have. The "Alam mo yung prof ko kanina, ang benta kasi sabi niya..." kind. Or the "Sheeet nakita ko si..." ones. The little stuff that aren't really important but are funny or interesting enough to share with someone you are with that day. We've had some of the deepest talks about life and love with our other friends with tears in our eyes or with alcohol in our system (or both), but it's our conversations with each other just over reheated kanin and adobo that I'm going to miss the most.
There's this voice inside my head trying to comfort me that says, "You have other friends naman. You won't be completely alone." And of course, that's true. I have my Paulinian friends and I have my UP friends (CrEngg). We're all being left behind, and we're all together in this. The thing is, her leaving is twice as painful for me. She is both my friend in high school and in college. She knows everyone I know. In fact, my friend Jan made me realize last night, that if it wasn't for the Karla-and-Inna separation anxiety over the first weeks of college, we never would have insisted to always have lunch together still. And if we didn't, we never would have introduced our blockmates to each other. CrEngg LITERALLY wouldn't even be here if it weren't for her block joining mine. (For the uninitiated: CrEngg is Creative Writing + Engineering. Don't laugh, it's hard to come up with a better one trust me.) I'm not saying all our friends owe it to us, because I'm sure things would've turned out okay even if all of us never really came together. But where would I even be today if it weren't for that one fateful introduction at Melchor Hall?
I understand that this is part of life, that this is part of growing up. Their family needs to do what they have to do, and I know they will make it through because they have each other. Inna is probably the most responsible older sister I know, and I'm sure she can manage. Underneath that shy, simple facade is a strong girl. I don't even doubt that Inna will be the source of strength for both her parents and for her siblings. Pinatibay na ng UP yan eh! :)
I guess by the time you read this Inna, you'd be in Canada. Maybe you'd be too busy fixing your things or adjusting to the harsh, cold weather. But know that wherever you are on the other side of the planet, we will all be missing you here. Things will never be the same, but that doesn't mean everything should change. There's always Facebook, YM, Plurk, Skype and even CrEngg Interactive (LOL, thanks Enzo) to keep us all in touch. Like what you said, it's just "so long" and not goodbye. I'm still gonna wait for our Starbucks date together ;)
Until then, enjoy Canada, Inna Scherbatsky ;) I love you, Roomie >:D<
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Nove-mber.
- November is technically the eleventh month of the year.
- The first day of November marks the Christian celebration of All Saints' Day while the day after is All Souls' Day which commemorates the souls of the departed.
- The birth stone associated with November is topaz.
- The zodiac signs that fall under this month are Scorpio and Sagittarius.
- Its etymology traces the roots from the word "novem" which means "nine."
- In the early Roman Calendar under the rule of the Romulus, the year only had ten months: Martius, Aprilis, Maius, Iunius, Quintilis, Sextilis, September, October, November, December.
- So November was the ninth month.
- ...November is the ninth month.
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Burning clues.
She never expected to see him last night, in fact she never expected to see him ever again. She was relieved she was all dressed up and pretty, something that probably surprised him, but at least it fell under the category of a "pleasant surprise." It was the ideal meeting of exes: boy looks surreptitiously miserable, girl is having fun in her red heels. The only problem was it was him who had a five-foot-seven glamazon of a woman whose mile-long legs wrapped themselves possessively around his at they sat in the bar.
It was a bit awkward. But at least they were both mature enough to greet each other and say hi. Oh, you know, with all the pleasantries they can go without but had to say to prove who was more over it. The usual. His date left to get themselves drinks, giving her time to approach him somehow. And then the longest five seconds of silence in her life.
"So, I finally got to see Jeff Buckley live," she says to break the tension.
She remembered how she used to gush about Jeff Buckley back in college, almost always quoting his songs and writing down the lyrics on the margins of her Finance textbooks when she was bored in class. She didn't know exactly why she had to mention it; maybe it was her chance to tell him she's having a grand time without him, or maybe it was her subconscious final attempt at making him remember how much of herself she shared with him during their one-year-and-a-half whirlwind romance. Somehow, she was still justifying what happened -- perhaps it could've gone another way.
Maybe an inside joke would do it. It would cement what it was they had. If there were still numerous little things no one else knew that they could laugh about, then maybe there was still hope at continuing where they left off. Somehow inside her head, it was still him and her, just waiting for something to happen and set the fire burning again. Unfortunately she was under the impression that it was some 90s singer that would do the trick.
"Jeff who?"
She smiled. His date came back and he introduced them to each other. She excused herself and found her way to the other side of the dance floor, looking for her friends. Maybe he didn't hear her. The music was too loud at the bar anyway. But a huge part of her wanted to stop justifying him -- he didn't recognize Jeff Buckley. Even after all the times she loaded her CDs and mixtapes on the stereo, even after she insisted they dance to his songs on her sister's wedding. He never remembered.
She drove home later that night with her CD blaring on her speakers. Sometimes it's the best feeling in the world when a song just perfectly reflects what you're feeling; how its words encapsulate what you cannot say. But sometimes it can be the worst, knowing that the sad soul he's singing of is no one else but you.
Well, maybe it's just because I didn't know you at all.
Labels: fiction
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Finger exercises.
There's no greater feeling than shopping (with your mom (at Forever 21 (on sale (!!!))))
x > Shopping + mom @ F21(sale)
Non c'è la sensazione più maggiore di shopping con tua madre a PerSempre 21 in saldo.
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My birthday gift to myself..
took me 5 stressful months to get. But it was definitely worth it! The rewards of my endless ranting, intense cramming, and sleeplessness (sometimes by choice) is sweeeeeeeet.
Of course, that also makes my euphoric Forever21 trip today ten times more satisfying!
Hello, 19. Let's make fetch happen :))
Of course, that also makes my euphoric Forever21 trip today ten times more satisfying!
Hello, 19. Let's make fetch happen :))
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The Pancake Story.
I will always remember what my former CL111 prof and one of the Philippines' most accomplished writers, Dr. Butch Dalisay, said in our class. Storytelling is an integral part of our lives, no matter how seemingly unimportant these stories may be, "because it is in sharing these stories that we make sense of them." It need not be in the form of writing, even just the simple gossip session with a friend is a way of conveying a tale -- something deemed worthy enough to be shared with someone else.
My mom and I share this little secret storytelling game on the days leading up to my birthday. She would look at the date and tell me what she was doing on the same day in 1991. As a kid who grew up sleeping only after bedtime stories have been read, these anecdotes were not only the countdown to my birthday, but an entire narrative much bigger than all the fairy-tales combined: it was about me. I always looked forward to hearing about what my mom was feeling, what my dad kept telling her, what the food tasted like -- just everything about the week before I was born. But of course, the big climax would come on the 26th. I've heard the story 18 times before (and tomorrow would be the 19th) but it never gets old. Somehow, it will always feel like the first time.
It was the afternoon of the 25th and my mom just came home from her appointment. The baby was expected around the 1st or 2nd of November but because of the All Saints'/Souls' Day holiday, her doctor joked that she should hold it in until about the 3rd because he would be on leave. She was relieved that the baby was well and she never forgot to pass by the Church every afternoon before going home to say thanks, but a part of her was also anxious because the weight was getting too much. Nonetheless, she and my dad were very excited. So for dinner that night, he decided to treat her out at Pancake House. Feeling an immeasurable amount of anticipation and a gratuitous amount of hunger, my mom ordered almost everything on the menu: milkshakes, tacos, potatoes, ice cream, and of course, pancakes topped with a generous serving of whipped cream and maple syrup. A few hours later, my mom would feel her tummy rumbling and regretted eating too much earlier that night. But the stomachache she thought was answerable by a trip to the toilet ended up bringing her to the hospital on the morning of October 26, 1991.
In short, I was mistaken for poop.
I write this with an unwarranted sense of nostalgia -- I don't even remember this happening of course. That my mother chooses to remember these literally painful times in her life and gives them a comedic turn of events is beyond me, but perhaps it is because in sharing these with me we cement the bond we share long after the umbilical cord has been cut. Perhaps it in this story that she subconsciously tells me how much she is loved by my dad, bringing her to the restaurant and allowing her to eat all the pancakes she can eat, and consequently, how he will also do the same thing for me at any time (that is, to let me stuff my face with pancakes when I want to.)
Our entire lives are a culmination of small, little stories; sometimes independent of one another, sometimes irrefutably intertwined; sometimes long and extends for a period of time, sometimes brief and instantaneous; but almost usually it is not just the scenario that matters but also the way we tell them. There will always be stories told more often than others because they hold more meaning to us, and it's amazing how no matter how many times they've been repeated, they never stop being special.
That night will go down history as My Birthday but for me, it will always be the night of my dad's epic Pancake House treat and my mom's epic pooping. It's a story I was never quite actually a part of but I liked identifying myself with it. Somehow, I was there at Pancake House that night, I took part in that meal too. In fact, I was the beneficiary of that gobble-fest. I was so blissed out by all the food I ate that I just could not wait to get out already. I was an explosive thing waiting to happen.
If that's not an awesome story to define me and make sense of who I am, then I don't know what is. (Let's just forget the part that my mom thought I was poop.)
Here's to more stories for the years to come :)
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