spontaneous

bagong keyboard. orig daw to ng Dell. ayos kako. di na ko mahihirapang magtype. maayos nga. malambot ang keys. OK :)
nakakapag chat na ko ng maayos. nakakapag blog na rin ng mas ok.
mamimiss ko ang laptop ko, kahit may topak sya. di ko na kasi sya madadala sa skul kasi mas hindi matino ang battery nya ngayon. kagabi, nagulat ako. buglang may pumasok na idea sa utak ko kahit half-asleep na ko. nakagawa ako ng tula. paggising ko sa umaga, binasa ko, aba. hindi sya corny tulad ng dati. dati kasi, lalo pag tagalog, pag binasa ko ulit yung naisulat ko, natatawa ako sabay delete sa notes (sa phone ko muna kasi sinusulat, phone comes handy, eh). pero kaninang umaga, nagandahan pa ko. nao ba talaga, poet na ba talaga ko o nagpapanggap lang? nakakagawa na ba talaga ako ng magandang tula? o baka nasa panahon lang? o [pinaninindigan ko lang ang pagiging Hulagpos Editor ko sa The Mentors' Journal? ano? nagyayabang lang ba ko kay Mar kasi nakakasulat na ko ng nagugustuhan nya? o sinabi lang nya na nagustuhan nya? si jule rin naman nagustuhan ah, pati si ruby. ewan ko lang, baka sinabi lang nila yun kasi friends kami.

bakit ganun? may gana akong magsulat?naalala ko yung speaker nung seminar, drugs daw ang pagsusulat. nakakaadik, adik na ba ko? sana. sana maadik ako para makapagsulat, at hindi lang basta basta sulat, yung maganda, yung gugustuhin nilang basahin. sana mag-improve ako.
salamat dahil may 'notes' ang phone ko para ang mga biglang naiisip ay naisusulat at naaalala. :)
salamat kay Mar na bumasa ng tula ko sabay sabing nagandahan raw siya (kahit di ko alam kung tunay o hindi)
nung friday,may training ng journalism, sa totoo lang, wala akong natutunan. wala naman kasing naiturong maganda. yung mga sinabi ng speakers, alam ko na. tsaka, yung mga trip kong isulat, hindi yun ang trip basahin ni speaker. seryoso, feeling ko talaga ang ganda (kahit papano, may laman) nung sinulat ko nung friday para sa editoryal. eh ang gusto pala nung parang wa wents na speaker na yun eh yung mga sumusunod sa rules strictly. wala. hindi ako nanalo. ang nanalo ay yung nung high school ay tinuturuan ko.
nainis akong konte pero ok lang. di talaga yun ang taste niya. ew. di bale nang hindi ako magaling para sa isang walang kwentang tao. ang mahalaga, alam kong maganda yun para sa mga "tunay" na manunulat (referring to idol deQuiros). :D
anyway,
Salamat sa Mentors kasi nakakapagsulat na ulit ako.
salamat sa muse ko dahil nadadalas ang dalaw nya.
muse, i hope you stay.

at. kakaririn ko ang pagbblog, para hindi ako matengga.
ayokong kalawangin eh. kaya itong page na to ang incubation period ng mga isusulat ko, dito na rin ito mahihinog.

Whoever found my yesterdays

alfred yuson

Please hold ‘em carefully as I had,

And store in a shoebox, nike of possible,

Then place mothballs and cellar blocks

Alongside to ensure safety & fragrance.

Sing Lennon as you place the lid,

Then stack up in a high place,

So that when the earth shudders

They will come tumbling down

And you’d have to repeat

The process as I had, I have,

I am doing & keeping

To do all the time.

Surviving The Hours

If you loathed how Bob Ong drives his readers to reminisce and laugh; if you despised the crazy arguments of Eros Atalia; if you found Chris Martinez’ Last Order sa Penguin too frank and bold; if you’re fed up with Severus Snape and Dumbledore’s magic; maybe you’ll like something too intellectual for the common people. Maybe you’ll like something that will surely make you think, yet opens you to a brighter window of ruminating what life really is about, what happiness is, how to be contented, and what love(in every sense of the word) really has for you. Maybe you’d want something real, something dead serious, yet flowery and literary. Maybe you’d want some Pulitzer and Pen/Faulkner.

Then, the novel The Hours. Written by an award winning novelist, Michael Cunningham, it explores the life of three women from different periods affected by a Virginia Woolf novel. One is Mrs. Laura Brown, an ordinary wife who is not contented with her routine-engrossed life. She hates preparing the house, baking a cake, caring for her son, and conceiving a child. She convinces herself that this is her life and that she must be happy. Second is Clarissa Vaughan, Cunningham’s modern Mrs. Dalloway, who cares for and loves Richard: an old friend who will receive the Carrouther’s and is dying of AIDS. Third is Virginia Woolf herself, who then writes Mrs. Dalloway, and recuperates from the ‘headaches’, her layman’s term for her attacks of insanity.

The novel begins and ends with a surprise. Virginia Woolf’s suicide shocks the readers in the prologue as she carefully puts stones in her coat to drown herself in the river. The feminist astonished herself with the different things she sees as the river pulls her down. Cunningham amazed the readers as he gives the deeply passionate ending, while making the readers catch their breaths, as the revelation happens. The author astounds the readers as the lives of the two women, Laura and Clarissa, merged with Woolf’s as it comes to the end.

“Why else do we struggle to go on living, no matter how compromised, no matter how harmed. (…) even if we’re fleshless, blazing with lesions, shitting in the sheets; still, we want desperately to live.”

The novel presented the idea of death in a manner that dazes readers. As Richard, Clarissa’s friend, decides end his life (I will not tell you how he did it, I promise it’s shocking), Cunningham’s words made dying so acceptable. It’s as if people recognize that one time, no matter what circumstance, regardless of who you are, will and surely will die. We may die in different ways, some take pills, some hang themselves, some get hit by a car, some rot with sickness, some die a natural death. What matters are the things we did when we are alive. What matters is how we lived life.

“Here is the world and you live in it and are grateful. You try to be grateful.”

There is discontentment, of course. There are writer-wanna-be’s that end up with cradles and feeding bottles; famous people who become infamous; stars who soon fade. People tend to regret things they could have done. It is implicitly shown on the novel when Woolf yearns for London for she believes that her life is there; Laura wants to enjoy her life by not being a mother and wife.

Obviously, fanatics will say that the book’s title, The Hours is just a copycat of Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway, for it was its first title. But Cunningham made it more life-like: presenting more lives and how each one tries to exercise prudence, and go on living. He made more importance of the few hours that we have. He emphasized the worth of the hours that we have lived. The hours do really matter.

This is not an easy-reading novel, not that summery-afternoon-sitting-on the porch-with-a-glass-of-orange-juice-with-a-petty-little-book feel. Since it adopts the stream-of-consciousness technique initiated by Woolf and James Joyce, it requires the readers to think, as the author combines meaningful yet poetic words in forming his sentences. It is carefully though of. The manner Cunningham presents ideas will surprise a bookworm for it is highly moving, yet intellectual.

So not like Bob Ong’s, or Eros’, or Martinez’, The Hours will give you a serious butt as you reckon things and pieces of the joints of your life.

tough, eh

Lipas na ang mga gabing iisipin kita.

Tama ako.
Tama ang desisyon kong
magpatianod sa agos ng hangin pakanluran
kung saan lumulubog
ang buwan.

magduda man sa patutunguhang isla,
maghari man ang poot sa bawat patak
ng dugo na umaanod sa pagal kong katawan,

alam ko na ito ang tama.
ito ang dapat kong ginagawa.

paninindigan ko ito:
ang pagsayaw kapiling ang samyo ng
hanging may pait.

Masasanay rin ako
sa pagkanta nang walang humpay
upang ihele ang mulat na katotohanang
nasa puso kita.

Matatag ako
ang boses mong sintamis ng tubig
ay hindi na ako matitinag
kailanman.

hindi mo na ako makukuha muli.
hindi na.

i wonder why i cant write

i hope it's just because of the malfunction of letters in my keyboard, i have to press some keys a million of times before characters appear. i hope it's just the moon that's sooo bright tonight. 

ewan ko ba. di ako makapagsulat. puro lang ako simula. puro idea.puro point. ala namang support. tulad nito, maganda lang sa simula, pero after nung two sentences na yan, wala na. ala nang maidagdag.

tinnong ko na nga yung sarili ko kung ano problema. sabi, di talaga alam.

after ng iilang salitang yan, ala na talaga. naalala ko ang sabi n sir lon, incubate ideas muna. hilaw  pa lang kasi yung thought sa utak ko, sulat agad. baka kasi makalimutan ko eh.

kelan kaya ako mag he-hello muse. :(

i rly miss my muse.

The Block

Scribbling circles and unproportional flowers;

Tossing pens and crumpled papers,

He sits

and drinks his coffee darker than the day.

He stares at the blank page of black lines.

Tonight, he waits for the poetry.

For the night, his muse

Will whisper the details of this art.

But tonight is different:

Far different than the nights he writes five pages

and more.

For the muse is empty of songs to sing.

It ran out

of rhythm.

There, he remains.

Ruminating over circles that the coffee cup made;

ponders on ideas he procrastinated,

       he remains there waiting,

waiting 

        for the poem to come,
waiting 

        for the poem that might never come,

waiting 

        for the poem that will not come.

He grows tired of just waiting.

He stands, opens his blanket, and dreams.

He dream dreams that tomorrow,

tomorrow he finds the spark,

that certain

inspiration                                                                                                                 

           that maddens a poet

        enraging of passionate words to

make tangible

      an abstract feeling.