biscuits

Someone's going to have this view, skyline and all, this coming August.

out or the mind in his mind

The note or blog feature of the account is stagnant. It has not changed. In his mind, you tell the screen, do not follow the light. You are controlled, in his mind, like a marionette. You are in his mind that is why you tell the screen not to follow the light instead of him. You are confused just like the day the kindergarten teacher questioned you, “Why is this apple purple?” But you are always confused; it has always been like this ever since you try rebutting that kindergarten teacher. Before you continue regressing, walking down memory lane, he tells you to do something with his account.

What should I do, you ask in your mind. Or on second thought, you ask in your mind which is dictated by another mind which is his. The way you think is orchestrated by him; you have neither skill nor talent to whip up a single note because you have no control whatsoever. Then I question the puppeteer how he, the mind in your mind, creates anything if you have absolute power over him? Now I am involved in the struggle of the mind and the mind in the mind. I wish I am the kindergarten teacher right now, left in the recesses of the memories of the mind in his mind.

Right now, he argues I am defending the mind in his mind—you. Yes, he thinks you and I are scheming against his plans to prolong the stagnation of his account. He calls you Puppet. He baptizes you that silly name. He leaves the room, away from the two of us, but of course, that cannot be possible because you are in him. I take the cutter, in the drawer of the bed’s corner table and slash his back, the shoulders. He stops and this gives me the chance to strike again, this time from his bare nape down to his butt crack, tearing his loose cotton shirt now smeared with blood. I hear you scream and it sounds weird, like you are in pain too. You become silent all of a sudden. I do not mind as long as you come out of his stupid existence.

After I cut him into pieces, peeled his skin from scalp to soles, with a cleaver I got from the store room, I sit by the doorway of the room, waiting for you to come out. But you are nowhere in sight. I am expecting that you would crawl out from his glutinous stomach lying on the carpeted floor, or from his cranium broken in crooked half after I banged it on the sharp edge of the computer table, but not a single patch of your being is to be found. I call you several times, shouting at a shredded corpse, with the name Puppet because it is the only name I know of you. It is useless. I cry, not out of shame but of pity because I have just killed my favorite kindergarten student twenty-one years ago. I put the cleaver away from me and run out of the house.

yes, children

In my current days living with my sister’s children 24/7, it is not hard for some bits of their discussions to drift into my ears. But their talks are no mere silly talk, they’re something else. If every little child in the world is like the following kid, I am better off in another planet.

Mother: Why are you crying?
Son: My spider died. Josh’s spider killed my spider in the battle.
Mother: It’s like that. We have to accept that some things are better than yours.
Son: No, I don’t like to play anymore.
Mother: Let’s just find a better spider.
Son: No. I don’t like spider battle anymore. And Josh is bullying me.
Mother: That’s not right… But it’s alright to lose. We do not win at all times.
Son: If I will play spider battle, let’s buy a tarantula mum so that all Josh’s spider will lose.
(whoa, now the problem’s settled!)


o o o


Father: Someday we will be rich.
Son: If we will be very rich dad let’s give money to the poor.
Father: That’s a good idea!
Son: But I don’t like to be very rich dad because it makes people’s heads very big.
Father: Yes, you’re right. Very good!
Son: Let’s just be in the middle of rich… and very rich, dad.
(the kid’s got the right economics in his head)

transformers sequel directed by bb. joyce bernal or lyde gerard villanueva is megan fox

Of course, there’s no truth in that statement. We all know Michael Bay directed this cartoons-turned-toy-turned-movie franchise. He’s just the man behind the commercial dud The Island and that little movie series Bad Boys. But hey, don’t deny it, the name Bb. Joyce Bernal sounds superior with Transformers, right? Close your eyes, imagine the end credits rolling, and hear a thunderous voice saying: “Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen… directed by Binibining Joyce Bernal!” Cool, isn’t it?

Okay, I’ll stop kidding around but Bernal is someone reputable. Besides, Bernal has something in common with Bay. Aside from the fact that their surnames starts with “B,” the woman’s directorial efforts have actually spawned blockbuster hits, well, maybe just in the Philippines but a hit is a hit. And Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is not an alien in the “hit” category. The Autobots and the Decepticons make it big the second time around.

As of the moment, I’ve heard in the news that the film is catching up with the grosses of last year’s massive The Dark Knight. But that’s a different matter. I love the two battling races of alien way before they are adapted for the silver screen. I’ve seen the choppy seminal cartoon series, the CGI-versions, and I even have quite a number of toys that’s shared with my older brother (or is it the other way around?). Therefore, with all these stated, I’ve imposed to myself a mandatory review of the Transformers sequel.

Fallen has all the works of a superb underdog action flick. It has a lanky protagonist, a sexy cohort, a dedicated sidekick and uncontrollable parents for added humor. To complete the setup throw in an object of desire (from the All Spark relics to the, erm, Matrix of Leadership) and two groups that would try to win it over while the aforementioned characters run amok in the center. It’s as simple as that but the problem is the concept has already deserved its place in a silent corner of the house—and that is in the trash bin. If I am just a toddler with an attention span of a thumbtack, I wouldn’t have regretted watching the movie last night. After all, I’ve grown up with the technicolored robots! As stubborn as I am, and since I am trying to disagree to the critics’ spite, I watch.

Sadly, Fallen succeeds only in the last word of its title. It has fallen.

To encapsulate how it has affected me as a viewer, it feels like a “Hey, let’s make a movie that has explosions here and more explosions there while far, far away another set of blasts will follow! And it will be totally cool if we put in a hot chick in all these chaos and record her in all exploitative angles! Huh? Story? What story? People, more explosives and noise please!” kind of movie. I have nothing against movies with big bangs—I love Alfonso Cuaron’s Children of Men and the final episode of Star Wars.

I dare anyone out there to ask any simpleton who has seen the movie what it’s like and I bet you’ll get an Awesome Answer: “Whoa man! It’s awesome. Did you just see that awesome stuff that just went into the air, like, it’s the awesome-est thing in the world? Gad, it’s super awesome!” Then, if you ask what the story is all about and you’ll hear the chirping of birds. One or two lines of explanation will be a feat. Alright, hold your horses fans, Fallen has something anyone would call a plot—and it is as thin as a millimeter stretched to almost two-hours of wasted film. Honestly, I have had my occasional “Ooohs” and “Aaaahs” but they are only up to that, or maybe out of sympathy.

Fallen is like a cold kernel heated to produce the fanciest popcorn in the history of cinema. Yes, it has raked in cash unlike any other movies this year and yes, YES, it is what a movie should be all about—Entertainment with a capital “E”—but I just can’t figure out its monstrosity of inconsistencies. Fine, ‘nuff said and let’s get this straight. Listed here are some few bulleted points of the many problems that plague Fallen. I tell you, these will even make a first grader scratch his head in question until it bleeds. Watch out, spoilers spew after this period.

1. The Guns
This runs in my head from the very start: “What were they thinking?” The US Military Armies have already encountered alien invasion, superior non-human intelligence, yet they have not realized their tiny measly guns and rifles have no match for the adversaries’ thick metal hides. These people continue shooting like mad! Wow, talk about dedication. But for goodness’ sake, didn’t they even see that Jazz’s or Optimus Prime’s canons gave nothing to the Decepticons but mere scratch? As if everything starts to become futile, finally, Pentagon catches up on their noodles and releases their tanks and fighter jet planes with missiles that are as good as your bottomless iced tea.

2. The Scenes
Hello, this is already a sequel. I know these robots are made up of the most durable metal in the world or the universe whatever so there’s no need of pushing that fact into my face. The extreme camera close-ups on the transformations are pretty neat at first but they tend to be wearisome, perhaps boring in the next few shots. They are absolutely unnecessary. I can pass Yoda with his pointy ears and telekinesis or Harry Potter with his magic spells because their theatrics are not the main star of the film. Some fight scenes are prolonged too, don’t build up to the progression of the plot, they should be discarded completely. The incessant and blatant apocalyptic destruction is a Michael Bay signature but, in here, he has gone overboard (again) with the pyrotechnics he should work at Disneyland.

3. The Emotions
I know they are aliens that resemble stylized versions of numerous Voltes V thingamajigs but, at least, just the slightest bit, put in some emotion. It seems to me that the only trait highly prioritized in the movie is lust (sans Fox, imagine humping dogs and a robot. A robot?!), anarchy (goodbye Shanghai), and machismo (too much of it that a High Endurance Old Spice scent emanates from the screen). Heck, Wall-E has made millions cry with mere bleeps and buzzes! After trying to recall something humane in the entirety of the film when I’ve just been rendered deaf, viola, I discover there’s something noteworthy after all. It is in the forest scene where Optimus Prime battled two or three Decepticons while saying to Sam “Hide. Sam.,” and then, after a few metal-bashing moments, saying “Run. Sam.” Wow. That’s the most heartwarming episode I can remember.

4. The Dream Sequence
To redeem the worth of my hundred and fifty bucks, I’d like to call one scene as The Dream Sequence, for formality’s sake, rather than relate to it as The Heaven of the Robots. I’ve seen enough imaginary works than have ensued in the silver screen but I just couldn’t hold on any longer to my overly-extended suspension of disbelief in one “crucial” scene near the end. Sam sort of died but woke up after a moment of hearing inspirational Wachowski-an speeches from dead robots. Yes, you read that right, dead robots in a misty and narcotics-induced setting. Let’s make this clear: I watch to be entertained, not stumped from some cheap deus ex machina tactics.

5. The Pants
And just look at that, Megan Fox has a pair of white pants that eternally stays virgin white until the last five minutes of the film. After all that running, jumping, and more running in the midst of a total jumble of dust and debris, not a spot of dirt is to be found on her skinny jeans. Galing ng labandera mo, Ate! Oh wait, Shia LaBeouf is already bleeding to death but Fox remains pristine and immaculate—not a single scar on her oh-so seductively tanned face. Yeah, she is Megan Fox, adored by a hoard of perverts and worshipped by every gentleman’s magazine published in all points of the compass but, come on producers, no special treatments to your actors! If not for Lyde Gerard Villanueva, someone who has a name that would hit the A-list of Hollywood stars soon, I forgive this movie. As what he has said before we entered the theater, “Kung ikaw si Megatron, ako si Mega… Megan Fox!” I can’t debate to that any further.

long day for dad

Today is the country’s summer solstice! If in any case you do not know what I am talking about, I will tell you. It is the time of the year that the tilt of the Earth’s axis is most inclined toward or away from the Sun, causing its position in the sky to reach its northernmost or southernmost extremities. In the Philippines, obviously, we are all tilted towards the great star. Sounds like a know-it-all, eh? Thanks to Uncle Wiki. Anyway, I know a thing or two about that astronomical event after having read Nick Joaquin’s short story, but I have a question: Why oh why does it land on Father’s day? I think I have an explanation; a most practical one at that.

It gives chance for every mother to use up what father has on this day, money and all. Hoppy Father’s Day to all—straight or not.

literature in silliman unsustainable

It has just been three young years that Dark Blue Southern Seas (DBSS) is now an appreciative student effort more likely to thrive longer than it is first planned. A project of the Weekly Silliman that’s considered slightly impossible to pursue, it is at present a literary folio that holds esteemed Philippine writers such as Gémino Abad, César Ruíz Aquino, Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo, Susan Lara, Francis Macansantos, Timothy Montes, Christine Godinez-Ortega, Danton Remoto, Myrna Peña-Reyes, the late Ernesto Superal Yee, and many more, in its three editions.

Such is its favorable feedback in the writer’s world that in Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas’s words, it is “…a brave reincarnation of that literary journal, also launched and sustained as an idealistic venture at Silliman half a century ago, Sands & Corals.” It doesn’t take too long that the aforementioned journal is said to be replaced by DBSS; especially that the famous anthology in the 70s to the 90s stopped existing in 2005.

But yesterday, silent news spread that certain university heads have to decrease the publication fee of the students. In order to fully realize this plan, DBSS is under negotiations (I don’t know with whom) that it is to be scrapped off from the Weekly Sillimanian’s yearly budget. These heads have a “brilliant” idea though: create an online folio! Yes, it’s that brilliant. But I like to stress a point. I am aware of the advantages of having an online version of DBSS but this, like anything else out there, should only be an add-on, an option, not a resolute and complete replacement of the book form. Why, do tell, is having the online version flawlessly accessible compared to a digest anyone could leaf from time to time, hand from one person to another, or read under the shade of a mango tree in the comforts of one’s province? No, unless, of course, Barrio Talinis, Purok Seven will go Wi-Fi!

To add more insult, a question has been pointed out by, nonetheless, a high-ranking faculty: “Significant pa kaha ng mga iyana?” (“Are those things still significant?”). There you go. This query is one notable account of how the interest for the art of letters in the university has gone downhill.

The issue of Silliman University’s literary culture does not only touch this little literary journal (I’ve just flared up a bit, considering that I am once an editor of DBSS). For instance, there is the abrupt change of the Dumaguete National Writers Workshop’s three-week sessions into two, making the panelists condense their critiques and the fellows receive lessons perhaps, maybe, sparsely. The excuse is that the organizing committee lacks funds but better instincts, aside from reliable sources, tell me it is the lack of enthusiasm to extend the job. That’s pretty ironic for an annual undertaking that’s nearly inching its way to its Golden anniversary (50 years) and is founded by two English professors of the university. Well, they’re just National Artist for Literature Edith L. Tiempo and her husband Edilberto K. Tiempo lang diba?

It seems to me that this particular person, who has questioned the relevance of DBSS, thinks of the age-old partnership between “literature” and “Silliman” an oxymoron. If ever I’d get the chance (may the Highest Beings forbid) to possess the mind of this amoeba who’d better cut cogon grass or plant kangkong in their watery backyard, I am certain literature in Silliman University, as well as the entirety of Dumaguete City, is undeniably insignificant.

uh-oh

an excuse

The biggest stirring irony in our lives, no matter how we deny it, is that we are very sure of how unsure we are. We wake up in the morning and think, “What are we supposed to do?” Instead of brushing our teeth and taking our breakfast, we automatically visit the king’s throne and pee. Yes, automatic, like our refrigerator’s defrosting system. Yes, yes, it is caused by the bladder and some other organs but do we really want to see that bowl first thing in the morning? Why don’t we notice first the scent of a new day, the soft light leaking through our windows, or the early morning chirps of our feathered friends outside? I don’t know. I really, really don’t know the answers. Even the sole reason behind this write up is purely enigmatic. Maybe, I was thinking of other things, my fingers moving by their own will, and went on typing all these. Or maybe this is another unconscious attempt to create an excuse of these three realities (or doubts) dawning upon me: 1) Do I have to mention here that the possibility of not meeting some “missed” people for a long, long time is to be expected? 2) Or that the frequent text messaging is becoming less and less frequent? 3) Or that the time logged in cyberspace to poke, update and blog will forever be a college student’s luxury? There are more and more things orbiting in my head actually. I want to get rid of them but they’re there, spinning around, droning, whirring half-truths and half-lies into my ears. Oh well, I should stop being whiny and grow up.

Bye bye.

bye better summer

Summer, for me, officially kicked off on the 24th of March. Just fresh from an overly-jubilant commencement exercise, we thought of plans on what to do before we plunge into the banal world of work even if we didn’t plan that often. As I relive those times, I just wish that my next sets of summer would be as bold as the major undertakings I had in the past few weeks. Here's what I want to do more next time.

Going to Casaroro Falls, Valencia two days after the commencement day.

Enjoying the company of your beloved silly Weekly Sillimanian staff.

Dipping your toes in Lake Balinsasayao, Sibulan, the lake where you almost got drowned last summer.

Celebrating your summer birthday with the closest “acquaintances,” for the very first time, in Dumaguete City.

Hitting white sand beaches of Panglao Island with your family.

Wallowing in the slow turn of the afternoon in your province’s rich heritage, Café Lawis at Dauis.

Meeting some people you rarely see.

Taking the task that's suggested by Ian Casocot to serve as yaya of the Dumaguete workshop writing fellows.

Having lunch at Bethel's Cafe Filomena with people you only read in books before; Cesar Ruiz "Sawi" Aquino and Gemino "Jimmy" Abad.

Capturing in photos what’s left of nature at Lake Balanan, Siaton.

Basking under the stars and moonlight at Rizal Boulevard.

Having dinner at home—your home in the city of gentle people. Or killing your wallet at different spots such as…

Mamia’s Restaurant…

Or its younger sibling, Café Mamias…

Qyosko…

Chowking when Qyosko becomes a habit…

Gabby’s Bistro…

Sans Rival Cakes and Pastries…

Dunkin Donuts for the late night brewed coffee fix…

Sta. Theresa…

Chicos with their fine wine and cheese…

Lé Chalét (with their Sunday eat-all-you can breakfast buffet)…

Enting’s…

Royal Suites Inn and their unknown treasure, Sizzling Bulalo…

Drinking until everything spins with your literary demigods, Sarge Lacuesta and Mookie Katigbak, at Blue Monkey.

Cooling with much effort at Café Antonio even though it seems futile.

Extending the night until morning time at Hayahay.

Conversing until the wee hours of the morning at Steds Silliman.

Getting the right high on top of a speeding jeepney at Siquijor as you rush to the pier…

Taking a photo of yourselves before jumping off a cliff at Salagdoong Beach, Siquijor.

Or wandering in its mystical grounds when the boat left you.

Or simply settling down in the resort and seeing the Siquijor sunset at dusk.

Meeting Mom Edith Tiempo again and handing a literary folio that’s dedicated to her.

Beating the summer heat at Lalimar Resort, La Libertad…

And if the pool is not enough, you frolic in the seas of La Libertad.

Playing tambays in one of the most enigmatic structures of Dumaguete, the Silliman footbridge.

Riding on the infamous war bus of Silliman University.

Reading bits of poetry at Mariyah Art Gallery.

Receiving the highest honor of the Dumaguete workshop, the Yaya of the Year award, at Labas Restaurant.

Drinking more at Coco Amigos with every fellow intact—complete.

Feeling like a graduate all over again.

Camwhoring in the shores of Zamboanguita because the waters have almost taken your breath away—literally.

Jogging in the late afternoon at the oval, as the sun bids goodbye and goes behind Mount Talinis.

Playing senti as you visit one last time the Rainbow Hub a.k.a. The Weekly Sillimanian Office (though it does not show in this silly picture).

Watching a horror flick at three in the morning at someone’s pad.

o o o

And right now I am wondering when all these will happen again. Nothing’s sure though—all I have to do is look for something fresh in every coming May. And I guess that’s what a new day of summer is for: It breaks you out of the routine and makes you appreciate that there’s something more than the usual stroll in the park—as long as you know where to go and who to be with. Looking forward to a greater summer next year! I hope.