Liv in a Life Well-Lived

1 - Trevor Damnably late. Always damnably, god-forsakenly late. What is always taking him so long? Trevor is the kind of guy who never gets anywhere until he's there. He takes his half-distracted brain everywhere with him. Like a disoriented ghost, you never know where he is at the moment regardless of whether he's in front of you or not. "Sorry, sorry!" he swishes in, disgruntled as a pursued pig. Hair disheveled, hands flying everywhere - - his pockets, his bag, behind his ears. "Where is that fucking pen?" I sighed with disgust. "You somehow have it clipped on your hair." I yanked it off hard and he winced as I somehow pulled of a few strands of his hair. I was amazed about how satisfying that felt. "Oh, fuck. Was it there all along? Fucking pen." He scratched his head. "That kinda hurt, Lily." 2 - Carl "She says I'm not human enough." Carl shook his head. "Whatever does that mean? I'm breathing, right?

Today is Saturday. Today is Saturday. I repeat this to myself as if it is a benediction to keep evil away. Sunday will be too close to what I dread. I am like a child with this phobia against Mondays. I do not like it; I believe I'm better off without it whether I foresee it would be difficult or not. Childish and immature, yes, but as real to me as a humongous Math examination. Funny that the two things I hate the most start with the same letter. Anyways, I haven't completely recovered from my illness. Yes, I was truly sick yesterday. And judging from my entry, unwell not just in body. Hiding behind a name does not help much nowadays. People are so much sharper, more clever. Freud's theory on projection didn't help much in keeping this coping mechanism a secret either. Today though, being Saturday, was like a healer's balm to my soul. I can rise at ease and with peace without giving much thought to responsibilities I'd rather be without. The tasks set ahead for

My name is Violet and consider yourself forewarned. Turn away now, cautious reader, who does not wish to dwell on dark epiphanies. I am young. I am spoiled. I am spineless. I am almost nearly insane. I haven't been feeling well for months now. My mind had been alternating dark and bright. My body, sensitive to my varying moods, has been on the verge of a breakdown - - just waiting for the last pin to fall and break its back. Today, I woke up to an overcast sky and knew something was wrong. Today, my mind is dark . In response, my body was at the throes of another sickness. Couldn't get up. Couldn't go to work. Couldn't function normally. I could just muster enough energy for the frequent trips to the bathroom and only because it was necessary. Ha. This is me talking about depression and diarrhea. The only solution I know is to benumb myself, severe myself from that source of black emotions which I know would swallow me if I remain connected to it. Slept all day and esca

Rescuers in Leyte has just reported hearing signs of life from underneath the mud covering what used to be a public elementary school. Wishfully, some of the kids have survived. Even after 3 days of being buried, some hope must remain. Meanwhile, the rest of the country are showing signs of life as well. Why does it have to take a disaster to get people to do something? Volunteers abound in the area. People from nearby communities are digging to recover what they can. The US Marines have momentarily suspended their war games and lent a hand as well. Media grabbers such as politicians and their wives spend hours on the field to join the cause (and the publicity). Donations are pouring in from everywhere. This disaster has become a Filipino thing. But where were these politicians when they should have been implementing stricter laws against burning forests for charcoal? Who listened when their dire future was foretold by the town lunatic? I am not saying we deserve what has happened. I

Book in Hand: The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova alternating with Writing with Style by John Trimble "Writing is very easy. All you do is sit in front of a (typewriter) keyboard until little drops of blood appear on your forehead." - Walter W. Smith "The writer must be in it; he can't be to one side of it, ever. He has to be endangered by it. His own attitudes have to be tested in it. The best work that anybody ever writes is the work that is on the verge of embarassing him, always." - Arthur Miller "Sometimes you get a line, a phrase, sometimes you're crying, or it's the curve of the chair that hurts you and you don't know why, or sometimes you just want to write a poem, and you don't know what it's about. I will fool around on the typewriter. it might take me ten pages of nothing, terrible writing, and then I'll get a line, and I'll think, " That's what I mean !" What you're doing is hunting for what you m

AT WORK Pics from PBSP's 35th Anniversary Event at the Dusit Hotel, Makati (Jan. 24, 2006) The Luzon Regional Operations Team Me with the Bosses (have no idea what I'm doing here) AT PLAY Finally, a complete Book Club Picture Book Swap Meet / Gimmick last Jan. '06 From left: Peloyski, Edward, Me, Yel and Norms Confederacy of Four-Eyed People Christmas with the 7 Gorgeous Diwatas (minus 2) From left: Petit, Dre (standing), Me, Yel and Leah

Back in College, the one class I utterly fell in love with was Hum I. We studied Literature (oh bliss!) and took our time reading a lot of short stories. It was a time when I felt I was unfurling to the world, and the words I have began to understand came into full blossom under the careful tutelage of my young woman professor. We were exposed to the different genres of literature, and I learned to like most of it. One of the stories though that simply stuck to me was that of Tina Cuyugan's The Diver . It's a story about a girl who took a bath in a creek where a carabao was wading. It was kind of weird, that story. It had this very sensual ring to it, this girl coming into an awareness. I interpreted it as sexual, and it bothered me a bit that there was a carabao in it. Haha... sobrang di ko ma-gets! Of course, when we discussed it in class, there were some who interpreted the story as a form of implied bestiality. But I knew there must be something else in it. It doesn't s

Ils disent le Français est la langue de l'amour, et je suppose que c'est le meilleur jour pour l'employer. Mais je dois complètement compter sur Babelfish parce que je ne sais absolument rien au sujet de parler en français. (They say French is the language of love and I suppose today is the best day to use it. But I have to completely rely on Babelfish because I know absolutely nothing about speaking in French.) ¿Soy engaño, si? Estoy realmente más en el país con español. ¿Pero entonces otra vez, USTED cuidaría para guardar el preguntarse de cuál es yo el INFIERNO que habla? (I am cheating, right? I'm really more at home with Spanish. But then again, would YOU care to keep wondering what the HELL am I talking about?) Even I cannot check if the translations are correct. Saw a few wrong connotations with the Spanish version already. Oh, well, Babelfish can only do so much. St. Valentine's Day is over. It barely registered in my mind. Ha, sure, there was an unusual num

"Love is not dependence but a gift that makes us live. The freedom of a human being is the freedom of a limited being, and therefore is itself limited. We can possess it only as a shared freedom, in the communion of freedom: only if we live in the right way, with one another and for one another, can freedom develop." - homily of Pope Benedict XVI Advanced Happy St. Valentine's Day. :)

Book in Hand: The Night Dance Song in Mind: The Sundays There is this little baby hope, this flowering bud, this hesitant firecracker that is surging inside my heart. I do not name it, I hide from it, I place it far away where my mind cannot reach because I cannot hope, I cannot want, I cannot dream of it. All I know is that I cannot know it. To presume would be to murder myself. It would kill me to hope and not have it. It would be like falling in love in a romance fated to remain unrequited (haven't I had enough of that?). It would be like blossoming into a garden and have a storm ravage me. It would be like opening your arms to an embrace and meeting cold air as you close it. It would be like a kiss that vanishes before it reaches my lips. It's so small and fragile. Let it remain tiny. Let it remain inconsequential. Let it remain anonymous. Just pity, what a pity, my heart feels it would burst with the enormity of it. The vastness of my longing. The cavernous desire. Somethi

Book in Hand: Strange Stories, Amazing Facts published by Reader's Digest in 1977 Song in Mind: Sadly, it's that Sam Milby Song that goes, "Shine my only star... shine my only star..." (Kasalanan ni Terteen ito for putting it there last Friday pa) Our phone had been down since last Saturday thus effectively barring me from updating my blog from the most convenient place, which is, at home. I had been itching to write down a lot of things, a lot of them hysterical stuff which wouldn't feel quite that interesting when not told at the heat of the moment (uhrm, you get what I mean). Anyway, I'll just try to scribble down a few stuff, those that I can still remember but don't expect them to be funny anymore. TERTEEN SONG AND DANCE Terteen is a colleague of mine and we all call her Tertz for short. She does not read this blog (I'm fairly sure of this) because I don't think she likes reading at all (hehehe, just kidding). :) I don't know why I