bad luck

2013, I think, would go down in history as my worst, bar none. The first half of it has been awfully terrible: the inevitable departure of the geographical kind, the second severe ankle sprain in less than four months, the persistent thievery at my home province’s house, the news of mild scoliosis, the same old issues that run in the blood.

The second half opened to something much worse: the constant unreciprocated feelings, the lost iPhone 5 that was only five months old, the car accident that left my father with a map of bruises on his body and a fractured rib, the sty that didn’t go away and would now require an eye operation soon, the doubts that proved to be true in the end, and finally, another departure, but only this time, it was of the emotional kind.

I greeted July not with shining optimism but with a dread that would shame even the most ominous of feelings. Up to this very day, I’ve been wondering, why? Why now? Why me? Could it be a conspiracy of everyone I’ve made ill in the past? Could it be the number 13 that, like a clingy girlfriend, latches on the 20 to make the ultimate year of bad lucks? Could it simply be not my year?

More questions, less answers. One may never even know why, and that’s what hurts the most. The obscurity of reason or the absence of it is just as intense and piercing as the bliss of discovery. All this is fairly personal. Some brought by acts of the divine and brought by my own doing, therefore the art of blaming this on that can easily be regarded as null and void. No one’s to blame but me. The stubborn, illogical, “emo” me.

There was, of course, the tailspin of emotions. It happened, and the descent was rapid and violent and even close to hitting rock bottom if not for the distraction of my family and friends’ familiar noise, the insight of newfound acquaintances, the numbing drudgery of the everyday, and even alcohol. Red Horse, Tanduay Rhum, and Emperador Light were my closest of friends. I remain thankful to them for pulling me out of that dark, dark place instead of plunging further down.

And now it is the first day of August, the second month of the second half of the year. It could have also been the anniversary of a word that had brought so much joy, so much promise when it was flung at me out of the blue before:

hey

Who would’ve known such simple utterance would create a ripple in my life. Like a pebble dropped on still pond, something was stirred, something was changed. I believed it was the start of something handsome and lasting, but now, in retrospect, I think it could have also been a disturbance, just a blip in my fight for sanity.

Many have said do not dwell on the past. But it is hard not to. At the moment, the past is just too close to the present. Bad luck’s still throbbing in the air. But there’s a silver lining: the stone may have been dropped, disturbing the calm, the ripple extending and reaching far, but I know the water will soon become still, the undulations edging away. Things will be at peace again.

I wait for the ripples to go.

a history of neglect

In all the gloss and sheen this third world country is furnishing—by means of trumpeting boxing world champions, broadcasting children singing at the top of their lungs in foreign talk shows, or riding on the laurels of a conferred selfless hero in a cable network—people in some parts of the Philippines have yet to free themselves from savagery.

The massacre in Maguindanao last November 23 left a gaping hole of shame not only on the reputation of the country but also the reputation of its people. As of today, the number of dead bodies has risen from 46 (Tuesday) to 57, of which 20 of those are journalists.

The rivalry between political clans of Ampatuan and Mangudadatu has escalated to this incident, a clear account of lawless violence. It is said that several armed men closely connected to Andal Ampatuan, the massive political authority in the area, seized and attacked the supporters of the usual opponent. On their way to file the candidacy of Buluan Vice Mayor Esmael Mangudadatu, people who were all unarmed men and women, some lawyers and journalists, were slain.

Inhuman, that’s the bottom line.

This information is not only appalling due to its brutal nature but it is shocking in the most concentrated sense of the word, especially in the history of Philippine journalism. Aside from the constant drone of corruption and greed shown in all forms of media, nothing in recent years has tainted the image of Filipinos more than this.

It would certainly be of no surprise that the New York-based monitor Committee to Protect Journalists would soon move the position of our country from fourth place to the top—on the list of deadliest countries for journalists, with Somalia, Iraq and Pakistan trailing behind.

There may be countless reports by now trying to define the horror that happened, but considering our administration’s deaf ears on the calls of stabilization on crime and its other siblings of delinquency, putting in another write-up even in a blog post just to get anyone’s attention on this matter is apt. In fact, it must be raised a notch higher with the means of circulating news we’ve got in this time and age.

But in the end, with the regulations set by our purported “democratic” system, it is still in the hands of our administration to push the necessary procedure of protecting its people. Have we ever witnessed or felt such undertaking? I am not sure. Come to think of it, President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo declaring a state of emergency to that kind of crisis? It’s like giving the arsonist a gallon of gasoline and a box of matchsticks.

Her decisions are ill, if not plain inane.

It’s as if the scale of this is incident is not enough to give her the knock on the head that firearms must be confiscated, especially those that are in the hands of undisciplined men. Sending army troops and police reinforcement is basically trouble masquerading as assistance. In the first place, before the mayhem, one man of Mangudadatu asked Chief Supt. Paisal Umpa, Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (ARMM) police regional director, to provide an escort in the travel, but he was turned down. This man then sought the assistance of an Army commander in the province to do the same, but his was a futile effort. He was rebuffed.

Overall, everyone is only left to ask: Are the people we deem to be trusted the best people to reinforce order, fix the order? Strange but what happened to the Kuratong Baleleng Case? To Bubby Dacer’s murder in 2000? And what about the Department of Justice’s approval of transferring Francisco Juan “Paco” Larrañaga to a penal facility in Spain to serve the remainder of his life sentence for the rape and murder of the Chiong sisters in Cebu in 1997? There are more cases in line, gathering dust in corners only God knows where.

I think I was wrong with inhuman being the bottom line of all these. It is not only that. Playing dumb can be considered but, on second thought, it’s another thing. There's this word that does not only embody the brazenness of the executioners but also captures the administration's attitude towards such incidents. This is called neglect.

how clever

In all honesty, I am still updating my Friendster account. Yeah, I know, the site is obsolete in this time and age but doing it's my only way of getting in touch with my high school mates. I don’t really know why they are stuck with it but I forgive them. Anyway, back to Friendster. This morning, I asked this person if he/she has this or that account but then he/she only has Friendster (rolling of the eyeballs) so fine, I asked for his/her profile name (the stupid me should have asked for the email ad therefore more rolling of the eyeballs). Okay, he/she gave a name, told me to find him/her in another friend’s account and tried to find for it hours ago. After every running minute, anxiety hit me. “Where is this person?!”

Then, because of the person’s signature pose and that unmistakable smirk, I found it. And my goodness, how would you ever find the right person if his/her profile name has these weird, unreadable, almost-outlandish characters originating from the depths of the earth? Tell me, how would you read these names?

Okay, fine, these people think it’s cool but I guess they have to go back to kindergarten and learn how to write the alphabets the proper way. As for that person, thanks to his/her exceptional primary photo that I was able to find him/her. Well, this is just one of the many reasons I’m having a cold heart towards Friendster. He ain’t that friendly anymore.

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december six two thousand eight

I know the importance of current events. To know the happenings around you is not only beneficial, it makes you belong to this order of people who think and who care. This may sound a bit elitist but relatively it’s true. But who would have thought of having a test, a periodical examination to be specific, that has an item questioning when is Manny Pacquaio’s next fight? This is true, mind you. It exists in a Grade 5 class managed by clandestine sisters. Minus the biases against this sports star, this setup is just far too appalling. Sometimes, you can say it’s weird. So is this the kind of education the Philippines is bragging off? Well, I don’t really know. As for the answer to the question, look up, it’s the title for this post. Just correct me if I am wrong, or better, inform the nuns.

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students going overboard

Yesterday, I wrote a post that was just the tip of the iceberg matter on how students are losing their interest in education. But when I stumbled upon Sir Ian’s blog post entitled Death Threats for Good Grades, I discovered that it was not only the interest that they were losing but their sanity, too.

To mash up Sir Ian’s concern into one short summary, students are now capable of giving death threats to their teachers in order to pass a certain subject. Also, just recently, a friend of mine from UP Diliman even told me that there’s this specific teacher whose office building is terrorized by bomb threats and the like. Gone now are the traditional backstabbing, the usual labeling that the teacher is but a hellish one, the puncturing of the car tires. This time, they can go further by giving teachers a P3,000 prize money on their heads. And what more, the said “pricing” was formulated by the students’ parents so as to end the cycle of getting their children schooled-dropped-schooled. They are using poverty as an excuse to mask incompetence.

The news slapped me so hard in the face. Could students really stoop this low? This shallow that studying is the most tasking thing to do in the world? This desperate that one’s life merely equals a cheap DVD player at the tiangge? If so, then the nation is indeed in a state of turmoil. Imagine, compromise is out of people’s vocabulary and hardwork is considered exaggeratedly true to its word!

As a Sillimanian who is talking about fellow Sillimanians gone overboard, this pains me so much knowing that our institution still has teachers who are excellent in their careers, who still succumb to the demands of having a thankless job. The department Sir Ian mentioned in his post is also my department that’s why this whole no non-sense word spill alarmed me.

As what I have commented in the said post, if these students want to pass college that easy, they should find an institution that equals a day-cay center! And the nerve—these students still have the guts to complain why they are repeatedly getting F’s (Fail) when they, to quote a line from Ian’s post, “submit a paper clearly copy-pasted from the Internet (including hyperlinks printed in blue)….” My jumping bullfrogs!

I know this is not only a case that’s brooding in Dumaguete City but a national one, or maybe, even worldwide. What I am only hoping for is that everyone’s hearing this silent noise, this usually disregarded fact that from desperation springs mentality going out of proportion. Times have changed and all that has been circulating could possibly happen. Something must be done.

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someone out there

Since time immemorial, I know you as someone who have always braved the dark corners of a room and stood straight even in the shadows of the gruesome. I once sniffed the whiff of light powder-scent from you but I didn’t mind. We always didn’t mind. But, suddenly, like a pen that is plunged in a paper, answers and surprises filled this obscure blankness in me.

I realized why you braved these dark corners and shadows because for some reason, I knew, you love these places. There was no need to be brave. You enjoyed them. Well, if the fragrance of naphthalene balls and old night gowns is your thing, I can’t blame you. Just live the life you ought to have and I am sure you’ll enjoy it even more.

Alright, this isn’t the right time to deconstruct the closet. Have a great day!

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prickly heat

The intense high temperatures must have affected some people’s mind. Dumaguete is like one roasted city with its asphalt roads and little business establishments ablaze which is why I fully understand my first statement. Brains get fried up, too (it’s just weird though that we’ve experienced a heavy downpour last week).

And to testify that these cerebral organs also have their chances of being cooked, I have been leisurely lazing around the office this morning when messages from an individual appear in my phone. The publication warmth gives me a sauna bath I do not ask for which, consequently, makes me more irritated to read those messages. Since I usually reject these notices only filled with pure pretense, I pity the poor fellow.

Bullfrogs! That particular moment just makes me wonder why people (such as that message sender) comment on some things in a guiltless way when in fact their main concern is the exact opposite of what they’ve done in the first place. Isn’t this inconsistency in the highest prickly order? Oh well, just correct me if I am wrong.
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duh!

'

[ ego ]

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premature outcome

Upon lazily lounging on the sofa with an Alice Walker novel at hand, a thought clouded my mind I didn’t understand the first three sentences. “I can’t stay like this forever,” I mumbled to myself. Bracing the uncertainty ahead, I searched for my pencil, eraser, ruler, pens, brushes, and a bottle of ink at various places I never imagined they were actually there (I planned of making a pen and ink A3 piece). The urge to revive my embarrassing talent in visual arts, or whatever is left from it, was so stimulating that afternoon (embarrassing because I didn’t get anything to be proud of from this talent other than filling our house with framed works only the family ghosts appreciate). As I was starting my sketch, my mind went suddenly blank that I gained nothing more but a piece of paper being scrawled with already-mysterious lines only my fickle and elusive inspiration can comprehend. I stowed my materials back into their places and picked up the Walker book. What a waste!

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a day of pure annoyance

1:00 am – Like a parasite, it never leaves that easy.

1:30 am – It’s all coming back. Argh!

8:00 am – What’s the definition of offend?

9:00 am – Mr. Cleonico Fontelo was not in his office at the Business and Finance (BF) building so I wandered to the Multi-Purpose Room (MPR) and found him there. I rushed back to the BF and retrieved on his table the papers I needed.

10:00 am – Went to the OIP and talked with a secretary (‘mad). Sprinted again to the MPR and met someone along the way (‘pissed). The big boss talked and talked and everything changed (‘ultraelectromagnetically hyper-angry).

10:00 am – Dragged myself back to the BF and procrastinated in a bench when I discovered the secretary I was looking for was not around.

10:30 am – The world was against me. Very egocentric but true. Head Superhot.

11:30 am – Sent some messages to some people; erased some messages from other people, unread.

12:00 nn – Lunch at Chowking with Donna and Claudine. Well, some promises are meant to be broken.

1:00 pm – Cooled down at National Bookstore. Just got a relaxing feeling whenever I get myself surrounded with fresh, unopened books sitting daintly on their respective shelves.

1:30 pm – Hurried towards my place, dashed to the pier.

2:00 pm – Wait. Silence. Sea wind.

3:15 pm – Ocean Jet was at it again; late.

4:45 pm – Bohol welcomed me with open arms and was glad that I left that city. It’s just a hurting city.

5:00 pm – Typed this.

ilusyonado

“Love can be magic, but magic can sometimes be an illusion.”

Sensations keep us alive. They serve as reminders to keep us on our toes, to perk up our logic when needed. At the most, they can be reliable sources in knowing one’s pulses are still on the go. And sensations do not only come in physical forms like the itch on our skin or the hunger that becomes violent whenever we skip our meals but, also, they can be the inside joke that forms in our heads or the simple thought of meeting someone in the afternoon. But what if everything, the sensation believed to be so meaningful and authentic starting from those countless nightly conversations to that spontaneous kiss of the recent past, is not real? In a direct clean-slate opinion, that sensation surely cannot be real, it is just a transmission of pure fakeness one may unfortunately experience. It is undeniably tragic to fall into this situation. Going astray in one’s thoughts like thinking of being uselessly disregarded in the dark or pondering on the ideas of the macabre is inevitable.

Then one may ask: In the first place, how would one determine what is real from not in order to avoid from falling into such mess? Honestly, that’s one question that is so hard to answer; especially that from the very beginning the growing sense of belief basically flourished since there was constant nurturing of hope, trust, and love. No harm done? Well, there is. Other people’s insensitivity and excess playfulness just made me stress the point that nothing in this world is indeed authentically real and beautiful. Beauty, I say, does not lie in the eye of the beholder, but rather on the eyes trained to see what is not actually there. Therefore, a sensation is just an illusionary trick of our complex, twisted being.

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stagnation

I’ve been staying in my hometown for almost three weeks and the whole sense of “vacation” hasn’t sink in to me yet. That slippery word, especially for a student like me, supposedly gives me the sense of trips, sands and beaches but what I am having right now are only the internet, books, and bed. I am expecting my fellow high school rascals to get me out of the rut but I have just learned they are busy pursuing the “serious” nature of Nursing until the end of this month. Oh my, anyone, please help me break out from this agonizing extreme-boredom sickness.

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when trying hard

When trying hard...

...to enjoy the intramural games this school year is much more like sitting on a huge ice block.

...to follow a professor's request of having classes during the intramural season is more like turning on the radio and tuning the volume to its lowest.

...to stretch my patience when it comes to deadlines is like climbing out of a dry well without any rope or ladders.

...to shut all the noise in the world is simply an incredible feat only a giant muffler can provide.

...to understand the mind of a “friend” is like untangling a lengthy yarn tied all over the acacia's branches.

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j ibuf zpv!

I hate this day! I hate "you".

I don't know but I just hate this day. No, it's not that I particularly hate the whole day—I just hate the night. But what comes into my mind is, “I hate this day!” That means I have no choice but to say, I hate this day. There's no point in specifying why I hate this day, even though I just hate the night; for if I will spill the beans in this post, the turn of events will ultimately be devastating.

Argh! Due to the unexplainable feeling of hating this day, I also hate myself! I hate my situation because I don't exactly know why I hate some people lingering around me, why there are some people who I usually enjoy being with turn out to be annoying bunch of filthy rags, why my favorite character in a setting (or place or whatever it is) I dearly set a special corner in my mind and soul seems to be fleeing away from me, and why there is no end to the killings of water ants in our backyard! There's more, I tell you.

Pardon me for these vague rants but I just hate this day! I hate “you!”

J ibuf zpv!

talk is cheap

Please Read!
If You Are a Non-staffer
Please Step Outside this Room.
You Have No Businees Here!
- tWS Office Manager (2006-2007)

PLEASE KEEP YOUR VOICES DOWN!
The Staffers
Are Trying to Work!
- tWS Office Manager (2007-2008)

A major part of my student life is devoted to the Weekly Sillimanian (tWS). I stepped into the office two years ago, wide-eyed and slightly ignorant, filled with raw ideas for a good article. But now, instead of writing in white heat, I give the deadlines. My name is on the masthead of a 104 year-old student publication with the title “Features Editor.”

Because I am in control of the feature writers this year, power is in my hands. But just when I think everything is under control—with the click-click-click of the keyboards, the swish-swish-swish of newspapers, and the constant talk-talk-talk between a writer and an editor the only sounds filling every corner of the office—I find out I am dreadfully wrong. Debaters have infiltrated our territory. These are the kind of people who either enjoy daily bouts on Plato’s or Aristotle’s philosophy or the silly smile of Ronald McDonald. At this point, I have doubts concerning my so-called power.

Actually, it is no secret that our editor-in-chief, the circulation manager, one senior writer, one feature writer, and two news writers are debaters. And they are enough.

Though I don’t debate through the Oxford format and the likes—I must admit I blow up and argue whenever lost projects and viruses keep sprouting in our computers due to the absence of an anti-virus program. The description that would best describe my idealism is that I consider plain talk as the simplest solution to a problem. No need for theories, no need for Marxist conceptualizations. No matter how I inoculate myself with such thoughts of disregard, the debaters just keep breaking in.

Yes, I believe that we human beings are considered the most intelligent species present on Earth due to our capability of thinking, feeling, and communicating. We take pride in the gift of speech, for this sets us apart from other creatures. But going beyond the basic chit-chat is just too much—especially if the “talk” disrupts the serenity of tWS office where we use most of our spare time to do what we are supposed to do (I am stressing “we” here because I am not the only one who is irritated). Total observance of silence in our work area is the least we could ask for.

Obviously, incessant highly-intellectual far-out discussions make my meter of impatience reach to the extremes. The line, “I have opinions, too, that are worth some listening, but can you please go somewhere else?” will escape from my mouth someday. The problem is, will they ever consider my kind of talk reputable and fulfilling? It’s as if they’ve fully exclude themselves from showbiz, problems on zits, and dormitory curfew—topics that may enlighten the most uneducated layman. That is why it is unquestionable that, aside from blabbermouths and disruptors, these debaters are often called geeks.

It is peculiar that whenever these debaters come, there’s this atmosphere of uneasiness. We, the staffers, know we have the authority but then their presence makes us uncomfortable in our own office. One concrete example was the day a person paid us a visit who wore a black shirt with these white words printed on the front:

Talk is Cheap

And on his back is the single word:

Debate.

Insulting? Yes. And at that point, we all fell silent as more of his comrades entered our domain and did their thing.

On the first place, why do these debaters suddenly come into our territory? No one really knows the truth. Up to now, it remains to be a mystery how most of their kind is drawn into our dusty and musky office, shouting philosophies and ideals. But here are some hypotheses formulated by our group, who sometimes, in one way or another, oppose to their company:

1) These people are drawn by a debater-magnet about the size of our famous Portals, buried under the office years ago by a maniac who was a die-hard fan of Nietzsche.
2) These people continually search for The Book that could answer all their questions and finally put to an end their disputes. They must find it before it falls into the wrong hands. They received a tip that it was hidden by tWS Editor-in-Chief of school year 1990-1991.
3) These people just love to strut their stuff.
4) These people are proud of their fluent English and will never miss a chance to power-up their vocal volumes for the news and feature writers’ “benefit.”
5) These people’s peers are part this school year’s staff.

And the list of guesses continues. I can’t put them all here. I am not stating that our office is unsuitable for discussions (for that’s the purpose of an office, a place for discussions!) but what I just want to point out is there are matters worth discussing in a more conducive place. Well, those two office managers who posted notices to hush up cannot be blamed—because it was not only the writers that were seriously affected with boisterous ‘symposiums.’ As student writers, of which clarity, brevity, and factuality must be second nature to us, we need a time of silence. Even despite the fact that the Weekly Sillimanian has glorious historical evolvement through the years, it is embarrassing that its weekly outputs are tarnished by some hangers-on’s superfluous disturbance. One might easily say the publication’s foundation is getting weak.

For we have this one main goal as of now: we hope the weekly publication would never circulate a lampoon-like issue to all students and faculty who love to critique, or worse, criticize.

And remembering the guy who wore that silly black t-shirt and broke the serenity of the office, what I can think of is just to oppose the “talk is cheap” assumption. I know a debater would defend his/her point in this matter but I remain on my stand—I do not believe it. Planning with friends on what should be done on a weekend, chatting about the latest flick, or conversing with family members on a lazy Sunday afternoon—these are the most beautiful yet simple talks that will surely complete a person’s day. And that kind of talk is never cheap. It is priceless.

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momentarily leaving

Consider that the things you love most are beside you, and now, feel the wrath present above your temples and beneath your toes.

-Sept 8 / 07 (10:21am)

You were made to answer the calling from within but what you sought were the distant echoes that filled your hallowed aches.

-Sept 8 / 07 (12:45am)

The old man longs for sea-scented air and salt-encrusted rocks but the child continues to run, run till the old man's breathing only reminds him of the wooden boat's coming.

-Sept 7 / 07 (1:53pm)

Inside the basket are your three lavish pickings: greed, pride, and disregard.

-Sept 7 / 07 (9:21am)

With your sallow hands you threw his solace in the depths of your secret pain. And you swayed and smiled, unmindful, as he swam in eternal sorrow.

-Sept 7 / 07 (12:13am)

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bitter gourd tales

Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice

The Weekly Sillimanian

July 4, 2007

Many have an aversion to this vegetable. And no matter how effective media advertising is-vehemently chanting "makulay ang buhay, sa sinabawang gulay"-its reputation might be tarnished by one innocent wrinkled thing: the bitter gourd or ampalaya in our native tongue.

Bitter is one of the four basic sensations in our mouth that is often characterized by an acrid taste. And ampalaya (Momordica charantia) is one juicy vegetable filled with lots of quinine, the natural substance that makes it bitter. With that information, I wonder, "Does quinine run in human veins too?"

If that is the case, wherein this pungent gist could be found in one's body, I must say these Bitter Gourd People are in great numbers walking around the campus today. Ampalaya's striking appearance is what usually teases and detests the eyes. As for the Gourd People, instead of witnessing crumpled looks on the outside, what is really dishevelled are their soul and mind. Though it is hard to explain the truth behind this claim, most of their kind looks exceedingly good; no excess frills! Hiding their true nature while projecting an air of pride is a bitter man's professional lifestyle. The advent of unique personalities of the world had indeed created, if not changed, a new definition for the word "bitter."

I have landed into diverse roles ever since I stepped into Dumaguete City. I've evaluated the people around that were once (and are currently) part of my on-the-rush routine and there's no denying they exist in packs, waiting lasciviously for their next victim. They assess mistakes of other people as a stylized form of mockery, they bloat around by the slightest catch of ignorance, they stare into strangers' faces like they are useless bunch of illiterates.

One may ask: "Why, of all the available pursuit of leisure to get into, be gruesomely bad?" Psychologists may explain accounts of extreme obsessive compulsiveness, slight schizophrenia, and other mental relations of the body's problematic neurons, but actually there's this term even the most futile layman could instantly comprehend: they are just - knowingly or unknowingly - plain jealous.

Green-eyed, covetous, desirous, insecure, all of these names just boil down to a piece of information that these are fuelled by anger. Everyone should take into consideration this quote from Albert Einstein: "Anger dwells only in the bosom of fools."

And what great fools it is to be! To go bursting forth onto your fellowmen, surging loud profanities or simply inflicting insults at someone's back. These acts of the utmost wantonness only show incivility. From anger to bitterness, then bitterness to whatnot-the cycle is endless. Just like the plant, it is heedless of anything that it clings to for the sake of its own selfish objectives, bearing bitter fruits.

No, this is not in lieu of this year's nutrition month, nor a campaign against People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) advocating on vegetarianism. This is an open forum for one's self to weigh up the bitterness inside And if fates do not stop weaving your destiny into letting you bump against these gourds, just treat them as what they truly are: wrinkly, bad-tasting, and rough-in short, ugly. For ugly things are not worth your precious time, the surest solution to such encounters is to yield to it.

Yield then pull out the gourd's roots.

enrolment deluxe

Just to get ahead of the rest you boost yourself up with a quick shower at 5 o’clock in the morning and dash off to the nearest 24-hour fastfood chain, and as you are nearing your destination, surprise! surprise!, the line of early birds on steel chairs at the Business and Finance building is truly an amazing display of determination.

Why, I woke up with colds at five and yet someone got the first cold seat of the area before lending his tuition fee to the university’s cold accountants! Looking at the bright side, which I think was the left side, I got a number tab purposely reminding me when to approach the Window: number 13—very lucky indeed.

The enrolment system of Silliman University is refreshingly new to most of the students in campus, including me, thus the sense of ignorance drifting on the balmy air this morning with the acacia shades helpless in shading the weary is truly unmistakable. Everyone seems to have furrowed eyebrows, questioning eyes, and annoying complaints.

As what Jan Alistair Villegas puts it, the university’s latest offering is like a failed imitation of a systematic, organized, and computer-based enrolment process of the International Christian University (ICU) at Japan. If our enrolment lasts for a week, there a one-day dilemma of transactions is possible!

And the Computer Center’s (CC) electronic program on viewing and checking your account on a personal computer is a faulty. The relay of updates from the Business and Finance to CC is very slow, if not totally ineffective.

It was like the holy ground of Information Technology and Computer Sciences, the Uytengsu Building or CC, was transformed into a whole marketplace of confusion and stuttering statements from “supposedly” expert student volunteers.

Dissemination of information was not properly done. Even some teachers didn’t know what was the right thing to be done which made the students walk away and did what they think was right though what was in their heads were wrong. They were usually directed from one place to another until their soles cried defeat. Tip: wear comfortable footwear when enrolling at Silliman University.

With all these rants spilling from my mouth, to the keyboard, and to the World Wide Web, and to all who cared to read, guilt chill my insides. Well, not all things start out fine. Beginner’s luck is indeed inevitable.

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interactively dull

Online writing will be back soon, hopefully. There are just some moments wherein you are deprived of something and there’s nothing you can do. And look at this journal, gaps from one post to another are getting lengthier each day!

I am just up to this point, bye.

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threaded

Have you ever experienced a day when you intently wait for something to happen—which is supposed to happen—only to realize the happening go nowhere out of sight, gone into oblivion? I just did.

This may be one of the most mundane thing to “wait for something” in this era of extensive logical thinking but what I had just waited a while ago was for my stitch (in my recently operated wisdom tooth, as if it matters, euch) to be removed, only to discover that the thread was not already there. Gone. I am sure it’s there in the bowels of my being.

Argh. I’ve waited for about an hour in the clinic just for my dentist to recommend this in a two-minute talk: “Oh, the thread is gone. And gargle it up with Bactidol at home, okay?”

And so that was it. Now I have doubts on what Lyde had quoted from my very own short story I let him read last week through text messaging:

“Waiting is never a stressful task nor is unproductive, as long as you are
willing to accept the end as it is, good or bad. Waiting is rewarding.”

-Waiting Days and Story Nights

Argh. That silly thread!

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