Let's talk about other people, shall we?
. Almost, not exactly, maybe, technically, but not really officially. Five months after the last serious conversation we had anywhere, there she was, giving out devilish laughs by the dozen because she's plugged on broadband, with a "tragedy" that basically must be hopeful for most people. Yesterday (and partly today) I finally figured out what it is, but what surprises me is that she still is the random Issa I've seriously grown to love, as if I still have growing up to do. She's proud her memory is apparently growing, as well. And, probably the most important thing is, we've been finding ourselves a little bit more sentimental lately about what we've been doing - getting lost in each other's sentences, waiting for pixelated photos to clear up, the works.
Monica Alcoseba. I haven't seen her for the longest time. Well, actually we met once, when she was walking to some classroom in the third floor, if I presumed correctly. I do know Mara Navarro
has a class there, at M317 if I remember correctly, at the same time my classes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays are. But maybe the former was right - I've seen a lot of psychology students on the fourth floor, as I wait on the third, munching on crumbly chocolate chip cookies. I have seen Zayin Abjelina and Lulu Principe
somewhere else, though. They're suddenly the most visible I've had this term. And, yes, I was lying when I said I haven't seen Sarah Santos yet - I did once when I said that, and I did on another. She's still wearing darker shirts. I sort of miss the pink I used to associate with her.
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That was some spillover from cultural studies class. Humans drew the boundaries between culture and civilization, in simple phrases, because they realized they aren't all that indispensable. We're just the same, like the way we treat coal, oil, or in the past, other races. So we defined ourselves. This is what remains, and that becomes culture. Everything else goes to the dogs.
Sir Bayot's discussion may have been peppered with a lot of stories regarding his Ateneo
experiences and whatnot, but he did come across. I just retreated to the second row after newly-adjusted Eena found herself with batchmates for company, but five of us in the class are juniors, and at the same course at that. I'm not taking anything badly - when she told me the week before that she was adjusting things just went into the fold and scenarios came true - rather, it's just the old case of me being able to find a term for that discreet action, of me moving seats before the class officially started.
On that day, I finally got a handle on what Albert Einstein was thinking. Everything is in perpetual motion, he says on his theory of relativity. Thus, you can't stay stuck on one side. You have to keep moving. Come to think of it - you don't really have a choice, since human nature, and whatever else makes it big, dictates that we move. When we stop - how do we stop anyway? - everybody else has to stop. Everything else has to stop. Nothing happens.
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Monday was tragic for the college. But yes, I don't know the guy. I only knew him as Drew, and only after picking up the name from Norman's entry
. I've seen a lot of tributes, of him as the fun guy at the fifth floor of the SPS building. But it takes someone closer to get me thinking about my future.
I'm scared of death. I guess everybody is. For me, the mere thought of not
being able to perceive is enough to get me shaking. I obviously don't know anything about what happened before I came to this world because I wasn't able to observe anything, and since I'm now a happy human being who is able to see, hear, smell, taste, touch and love, I don't want that to disappear. I'm not going to disregard this - I'm as concerned as anybody else who's heard of the news - but I don't want to think of it. I think I've had enough exaggerated tragedies to deal with, and they're still coming my way.
I'm not living my life the way I'm supposed to, right? Exaggerated tragedies.
Right now it stands for fluff in place of substance, of flimsy storylines when you need some solid acting. Karla
was at the receiving end again - she's got to be, for some reason - and while it was underway I realized how fluffy, for lack of a better term, my problems are. Look - I worry about appearances, about getting noticed, about getting what I really want, or at least what I think I do. He couldn't possibly worry about dying, and only because he already is dead. But only God knows what he was worrying about. I believe it's more substantial than anything I ever have.
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Good afternoon, Sunday. I'm quite happy the lackluster buffet I had for dinner last night got my mind off things. It was pretty effective - my mind got very clear the moment I woke up today at around eight, which meant I was able to call up Raymond Red for a copy of one of his feature screenplays for our class. I'm also slightly pumped for Friday - I'm submitting a concept for a sixty-second television short, and as you may have noticed, the school's television studio has got loads of new equipment and we're going to be the first to use (and abuse) it.
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I was around during the first two days of school. In fact, I cried today after viewing Central Station
, probably the first time I did so over a film in quite a while. And maybe I'd do more crying seven weeks later, when both video production and feature film classes take its toll. Or maybe I'd be dead by then.
But before I die I would get my needless scrub with celebrity. Since almost half of the class are still to take up video production, and almost everyone still haven't written feature-length screen plays, I was asked to call up screenwriter Raymond Red to actually ask for copies of the scripts for one of his films. I just can't call him today, though, for it is his birthday. I can't disturb the nightlife. People have to enjoy, although obviously we aren't.
The website for conceptualization class
isn't working yet, though. Although our class did have enough of Sir-Groyon-as-a-student stories from Miss Trini - we did watch Huni
, after all, and I guess you also did earlier - and we were laughing to bits. But I'm sure you know we aren't really supposed to do anything right now. There was a fascination for how things changed at M208, and me operating the projector half-heartedly, and only because I also couldn't figure it out on the first try, because there aren't any indicator lights to say that it is turned on.
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I spent some time with Tracy
before I went to my first class. I can't remember what we said, but we were asking something. Where has the old Miguel gone?
And, indeed, that question's probably a much-asked one. Since the Andrew building has been opened for everyone, unlike before when it was exclusive for the freshmen, I started seeing more alien faces. Sure, that's one thing to expect when another school year starts, but all of a sudden we're dumped with two years' worth of freshmen. As you may recall, last year's was the isolated one - as if they were given their own planet, like the CCS people - and I only met a percentage of them last term. Now we're given the backlog and
the new dispatches, and they're populating every available bench, bleacher and canteen table.
But that's not my complaint. I'm not complaining, even - superficially I just had a hard time easing in, because I only saw really few familiar faces because half past eleven. As if it needs sinking it, we're already juniors! We're the old people. We're the "upperclassmen" who never seem to be there, but actually are there, running affairs that they only see published. It's just funny to see that the barrage of unfamilar faces could trigger such a reaction - and we didn't anticipate it, even. We've just ease in too early.
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School starts tomorrow in a rather different way.
It feels terrible. You come back and see that there's one thing that's gone terribly, terribly wrong. One detail. Yet we're supposed to live with it, right? Stuff happens. They move on and we stay. We go on as if nothing happened. We ditch those who sentimentally cling on to what doesn't exist.
And yet you don't exactly look forward to waking up anymore. You don't look for it, yes. It's been some overlooked detail; that's why people somehow quickly move on. You are an overlooked detail. I don't know whether people will still cry over your luck once we step back and feel that the wind blows differently. I know I probably only grappled with a calculator that's been with you for a longer time. And we didn't realize it both.
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You have stared at me far too many times.
Now I'm stumped as to what to write. I got that thought out, and yes, I refuse to elaborate, because there's nothing to elaborate on, but I'm actually pressured to write an entry that's longer than that. To be more precise, I'm pressuring myself to write an entry that's longer than that.
Then again, who am I kidding? The girl's pretty. There must be nothing wrong with, err, telling the world about her prettiness. Everyone has done it, more so if they are doing it for a living. I think the people who work for, say, FHM
have to write the fact that the person they're interviewing is the hottest thing in the world. And, consequently - even if I don't really read FHM
, much more buy it - waves of lads alone in their bedrooms agree.
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I'm actually tasked to find someone a date, and in the most stringent of conditions. Must be twenty-three-ish. Must be five-foot-nine-ish. Problem is, I'm eighteen and presuming that I'm five-foot-nine-ish, I won't find anyone. My world is that small, after all.
Without dismissing anybody's preferences for a date, I then arrive at my question. Why does it all matter?
A few people know that I have this bag full of foreign newspapers. Some date back as far as seven years ago (and they are both yellow and smelly), but my favorites have got to be my five copies of The Guardian
when they were still taking on the broadsheet format. I think around two copies of it has the personals page
, and when I was fresh into college and am bored to death, I look through what people are looking for, just for fun. Already I can't remember what they are - besides, that bag is bulky and dusty, and I'm lazier than a sloth as I type - but they're definitely of some kind. Or maybe it's the British preference. I couldn't care back then.
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Aspiration happens to be some insignificant thing. In a world where you're forced to be as original as possible - it isn't exciting, it wrecks your head, but you haven't got another choice - you try to peek at something just to get something to start on, and yet you're somehow restricted to do so.
And that's the problem. As I type I'm searching what's left of my slumbering cerebrum, if only to question how things work out in the world. I don't have anything to complain about, sure, but it's only because I'm almost risking sounding repetitive. I've been typing a lot of my thoughts lately, if anything's left of it, and within this week it feels like I've said it before - either the week before, the month before, or even in some far-flung era. Yes, it hurts to have a fairly resilient memory. And it hurts more thinking I've already said that before.
I haven't (significantly) talked to anyone recently - it's only been the usual naff tabloids are quick to pick up and needlessly elaborate. I'm tired of mere hellos, and I'm tired of typing in my thoughts to someone who won't possibly listen. That's why the holidays irritate me for some reason - everyone goes to sleep, and thus they refuse to become active. Sure, you go out and spend time doing what you really love. You know, maybe you go to the beach and build sandcastles until you end up digging endlessly. Or maybe paddle your arms. Or maybe drink to your liver's chagrin. It doesn't spark anything - unless death, or something else drastic, interferes, of course.
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All colors come from white. Oh, and you also need a prism, just to prove that white light brings a spectrum of colors, or a rainbow for the uninitiated (which I doubt are many). To make things more complicated, amino acids apparently make light, and even I don't understand how exactly this conclusion was arrived at. Thank me constantly watching Jeopardy!
And they all say that at the end of each rainbow is a pot of gold. But quite imaginably - still thanking cable television - there'd be some gremlin lurking around. I also don't know where they got the idea of someone small, bearded, and constantly wearing green to be going, with similar constancy, for that pot of gold. All I know is, it isn't supposed to be fun.
You can get that thing away, though. In cartoons this means a chase sequence - throw in ridiculously funny outcomes and even wackier ideas to plunge one party into personal hell, and you have a seven-minute short! Ask me, the eternally complicated person, and I'd rather suggest that you find a shard of glass - that's easy, especially if you're one of the guys behind Doodlez
, because you can just draw one in - and put that against the rainbow. In an instant, the rainbow disappears, turns back to white light, and the gold, well, disappears.
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As my "older sister" Ella
insisted continuously lately, I'm way up there.
Fact is, however, I'm terribly unsure as to whether I could even get consent from both of my parents to go to this party. I didn't expect the invitation, nor did I expect that I'd get two "exclusive access cards" for the xFM
launch party. It happens Monday night at the NBC Tent, and Drip
- probably my only favorite electronica group - is going to perform. Suddenly I remember that this is what I was exactly ranting about a few entries before
. It seems it's really bound to happen.
dropped me a line a few days after I wrote that entry. She being the party-goer, she was quick to refute everything I said, even to the extent of describing me - gently, of course, since we both actually understand - as the one living in a vacuum. My simple response: that entry was meant to be debunked. I guess I was already built to survive these things, for even I know that I'm writing about things that are uselessly irrelevant to me, or to other people, more so.
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I marveled at myself earlier when I flashed an image of a police car chase at just the exact moment. A few moments before Tom Chaplin
asked where do we go?
I envisioned someone in a car, being chased by police, singing along, before eventually picking up a fully-loaded pistol in the passenger seat and, well, does the predictable.
I know something's wrong with me. Call it deprivation, but I feel terribly about myself. You've probably seen this somewhere
- a feeling that you're all alone in this world, with nobody destined to help you - but I've actually dismissed this, time and again. I think this is the fifth time this surfaced for the week. And this is the fifth time I'm dismissing it.
Let me get back to what Caresse
said. All along,
she told me at the steps to the Sports Complex two years ago, I'm looking for someone to be with. The reason why I've been acting crazy over someone
- and this has happened for far too many times for me to recall - is because, after all, I want someone to be with.
I'm still fairly convinced, two years later, that I'm a lonely person. A very lonely person. Sure, when people make their presence felt it makes me happy - at least, somebody remembered you're just there, waiting. I've dismissed this - I don't really know why this comes back, despite the repetitive patterns that have been appearing. I declare my ultimate happiness, only for that to be trumped somehow.
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Tick tock goes the clock. There was another power interruption. The second for the week. And both happened during the night, just as I was trying to fall asleep. At least this time power went back faster than anyone could decide to dial 16211 on the telephone, but damn, this summer's killing me. It's boring, and it's hot.
By this time everybody else that I know probably have the same sentiments: school is coming near.
And, if you're taking up the same course as me, it all means stress for you. (Although, hey, I won't forget our brothers and sisters taking up one of the hundreds of other programs in DLSU
, because they too have their own problems to think of.) It's no secret - why should it be? - that I'm going to handle video cameras after getting a 2.5 handling an SLR. Along with that, the entire CAM populace, at least those in my batch, are going to handle television cameras and deal with endless concepts with every image possible, which means there's no way we're getting rid of our SLRs yet. If you're taking up the regular LIA program like me, this year could be the very last, although there isn't any guarantee that we'll all breeze through the thesis process. We might need a few pimple treatments for that.
By this time, also, everybody else that I know definitely
have the same sentiments: damn, school is coming near? Unbelievable!
And only because we're all lounging at this point - although I don't know how we'd be doing it under a sun that seems to be bent on taking revenge for portraying it as prematurely dying
- and we don't want this to end. Then again, we're all bored, which is perfectly evident in the number of people that have been cross-exchanging me-mes on my Multiply
bulletin board. This is when we don't get to assess our priorities straight, or maybe we've just had too much stress and the feeling that we haven't recouped anything yet.
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I was toiling through all the old conversations I had with Ranice
. It's no secret that our conversations have been one of the more thought-provoking I ever got tangled in - and even more surprising is why I'm even in the other end - but nevertheless it's provided, somehow, enough material to ponder upon. Oh, all the stupid things people do for love.
Sure, the lives of those around me aren't strangers to the love bug. I guess it doesn't need explanation - everything from impulsive conversations to well-written plans to, surprisingly, a grab in the neck eventually smothered with regret. And I, as always, don't understand why we simply get blinded and then do as our heart wishes. Scientists probably still have never got this figured out. And so do I, mere mortal.
I'm no stranger to all of this. I know I've fluttered around for at least two stages in my life - one eternally speculated, the other questionably factual - and yet surprisingly you don't notice what you've done until it's all over. I'm reading old conversations and even older blog entries, and I only chuckle at either what others have done (and has been confided in me) or what I have asked. Sometimes I'm lucky enough to observe these occurrences first-hand, and I don't mind all of a sudden, however ridiculous it may seem. Maybe we've been scrubbed clean.
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"Bet I can convince [you] to step inside that so-called fantasy."
"I'm eighteen. I guess it matters. But convince me, please."
"On my birthday I expect [you] to walk me towards the entrance to Embassy."
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It's thirty-six past two, and my head's still functioning.
has showed up again. Somehow I'm privately calling her Chexie. Well, that isn't private anymore. After doing everything, we end up doing nothing, and back with each other's words in the computer screen. Small talk, as she puts it.
Not that I didn't enjoy my vacation, although as usual I didn't take a plunge at the swimming pool. I might have forgotten all that I have learned in PE class. All that money for nothing? But I appreciate the food, and the cold room. Golly, I miss that comforter.
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There's quite a long discussion on one of Maita's calendar entries
. Okay, so it is about her birthday, and how unbelievable it can seem for someone to turn twenty without looking like it. Coco had to come in and twirl the entire conversation, when the topic silently shifted to body weight (and it isn't my fault, to boot). And, somehow, it happened.
I'm turning twenty in two years. I know a lot of people dread this figure - you're no longer a teen, and along with it comes a shedding of all the stereotypes those television shows forced down your throat. Saturday afternoons meant irresponsible love stories, constant hanging out in some sports bar that has a pool table and a condescending server, and sappy scenes in the classroom played out with whatever's making the rounds of top 40 radio. Well, they're stereotypes - supposedly wrong - but once you turn twenty you're supposedly more responsible now. You've learned enough in the last decade, you've supposedly outlived all the spontaneity, and you're going to grow up.
turned twenty-one. No biggie on anybody's part, actually - just me sending a greeting with another stab at his age. Last year there was a much bigger fuss
, if anybody remembers. And today, it's Ariane
's birthday - at nineteen she already seems ready enough, or maybe it could be because of all the things I've spent my time thinking of. I don't know whether they're worrying, at least slightly, about what they are going to bear now they add another year to their age - although we all grow up in every passing moment, which could render birthdays useless - but maybe the pressure's coming from somewhere. Or I'm blowing this thing up again, as usual.
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Provided everything goes well, we graduate in three terms. Three terms!
Like, all I'm thinking of is getting that thesis right. It doesn't matter whether I get delayed - or, maybe, all I'm thinking is I'll eventually get delayed
- but maybe it's finally been blasted into my psyche, the get this right or fail spectacularly
attitude. (And if you've noticed the italics - yes, it's getting addictive again.)
But before all that, I'm more than honored to declare that I'm bored. Whenever I go online - and that usually happens in the afternoon - it's as if nobody's there. Or they're invisible, as New York-stuck Jason
has been. But, come to think of it, if you survive on conversations in school - or maybe because you have to make them or you don't write decent articles - you lose all that vitality you thought would get you through summer. (And if you are in my position, summer vacation doesn't exist, much more if you're taking up summer classes like some of us.)
If you've been following stuff since last year, I've been involved in a million conversations. I've met some people there, and for some reason they're not here right now. Katia
is probably either in Seattle or Seoul as we speak. Issa
's been gone lately. Lizette
's working as a marketing intern, which still related to her as a political science major. Alyssa
's, well, somewhere else. And Ella
's online when I'm not, and offline when I'm not either. Even the others are out - as far as I know Mimi
are both taking up summer classes, and everybody else are, well, on vacation somewhere. Technically it gets boring, and of course I don't expect myself to get saner every time I write something here - you need the human connection, and it doesn't matter whether it's through underground cables or through passed breath. (Whatever that means. Still, this is the third statement in parenthesis I've had in three paragraphs. Isn't this addictive... as well?)
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I hate overachievers. I don't know - I just hate them. I hate the way their names always get published in some publication merely because they got another one again. Let's cheer for this and that because this and that won this and that in this and that, bringing honor to the this and that community.
Sucks, right? It's as if the world circulated on their shoulders.
In my three months in SBCA, there was this pair of siblings that was just that. They were always up there - in politics, in academics, in popularity, in everything else imaginable. I was sort of relieved when I got the boot quickly after - at last,
I thought, no more of the Shroffs. I've had enough of that name already.
Sure, it sounds bitter and all - maybe it was the circumstances - but I'd have to give them credit for helping us, poor section 19, push our wishes of using our lockers during recess. (Actually, the administration wanted us to use our lockers only before and after all of our classes start. This makes me think I'm lucky to get the boot after all, rather than I get influenced by a school that supports bullies.)
And yet, I see one of them run for a school position - and win it - in DLSU
. I thought I had enough? I shrugged it off, but I remembered all the contempt I had at their status
. Up there, again. At least the names don't get published for any reason except for a successful campaign.
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