best reads of 2010

the books I enjoyed reading this year, though I really didn't start on January

Thanks to ms. blooey of Bookmarked! for giving me "The Monster of Florence" as a Christmas gift. Finally, something to add to my growing collection of books. Wish granted!

Thanks to my Honey for giving me "Lamb" by Christopher Moore. Biff always brightens my day. Hehehe.

My year has been an adventure as I flipped those pages. Happy New Year!

book review #1: lamb: the gospel according to biff, christ's childhood pal

You may find yourself asking why it's the first book review. I've done quite a few already. Well, I'm going to start it this new year and I like to have an inventory of the books that I read. Reading is a passion right now, not just a hobby or whatsoever. And to start the new year with a bang, I also chose a book that will surely make a big bang of laughter out of you. I enjoyed reading this and it made me laugh the bejeezus out of me. Well, it's a "Gospel" to start with. Can there be more strange-sounding than this? I'm laughing.

Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal (phew, such a long title) is written by Christopher Moore. The book talks about the missing link in the life of Jesus, the in-betweens when he was seven and the time he started his ministry, as was told by Biff, his seeminlgy all-knowing, sexually-crazed but loyal friend. You would wish to have such a friend as Biff. Well, there are ten things that I like to point on this book which are quiet interesting.

1. Biff, the titular character, and Joshua (Jesus is the Greek name)

Their friendship is like a Yin-Yang, a balance of naivete and smartassness (correct me please). Where Joshua lacks the knowledge on one area, it is there that Biff tries to fill. Theirs was a complete riot. Biff becomes Joshua's window to sinly human nature as Joshua tries to discover more about sin and his way of becoming the Messiah.

2. The angel Raziel

The stupidest angel (another book by Moore) who loves soap opera and was disappointed by not meeting Spiderman. He loves wrestling and thinks that everything in the TV is true. He resurrected Biff, dead for 2000 years, and commanded him to write this gospel. His is a halo that Biff describes as "stupidity leaking out of his head". Makes me laugh everytime I remember that.

3. Angels do have sex. And Raziel left his sex organ in heaven. Makes me imagine Biff's face, his reaction.

4. Balthasar's 8 concubines.

Tiny Feet of the Divine Dance of Joyous Orgasm, Beautiful Gate of Heavenly Moisture Number Six, Temptress of the Golden Light of the Harvest Moon, Delicate Personage of the Two Fu Dogs Wrestling Under a Blanket, Feminine Keeper of the Three Tunnels of Excessive Friendliness, Silken Pillows of the Heavenly Softness of the Clouds, Pea Pods in Duck Sauce with Crispy Noodle, and Sue.

Their names are amusing but Biff manages to call them by their short names. Sue is for Susannah. Huh?

5. While Joshua learns how to multiply the grain of rice through the Divine Spark (the Holy Ghost or Spirit, as we call it), Biff is so busy learning the ancient knowledge of Kama Sutra (LOL) and manages to have a banter with Joshua (who also learns the Bhagavad Gita).

6. The 3 Magi, Balthasar, Gaspar and Melchior, have been actually searching for their own personal desires which is the reason why they travelled to see the Messiah. Joshua finally found them and sought help on how he can become the Messiah. He gave them lessons instead.

7. Joshua loves drinking coffee. And is a contortionist. He fitted inside Biff's satchel, a backpack. He can also become invisible, which he learned when he was a monk under the tutelage of Gaspar. And he, together with Biff, battles a demon named Catch. What a catch that is. He had a comic language banter with this demon, while Biff infuriated it by peeing on it.

8. Joshua doesn't like sex at all after the incident when he saw Biff lying together with a toothless old woman. To be safe, his view of sex changed after this incident. Remember, Joshua was still learning the anatomy of sin so to say. His instructor was actually Biff who had carnal pleasures with different women so to describe this to him. As I say it again, Biff is the smartass while Joshua maintained his naivete.

9. That the Sermon on the Mount was actually planned. The Beautitudes. Everything was written as was dictated by Jesus and some suggested by Biff. Let me share to you an excerpt:

Biff: "Seven"
Jesus: "Not enought. We need one more. How about the dumbfucks?"
Biff: No, Josh, not the dumbfucks. You've done enough for the dumbfucks...
Jesus: Blessed are the dumbfucks for they, uh - I don't know - the shall never be disappointed.

Biff: No, I'm drawing the line at the dumbfucks. Come on, Josh, why can't we have any powerful guys on our team? Why do we have the to have the meek, and the poor, the oppressed, and the pissed on? Why can't we, for once, have blessed are the big powerful rich guys with swords?"

Makes me laugh all the time.

10. Judas was killed, rather strangled, by Biff who killed himself by jumping off the cliff. The smartass died by suicide but later resurrected by the angel to write this gospel.

The anachronism is quite interesting and so is the sarcasm. I love everything about the book, especially the humor between Jesus and Biff. Christopher Moore played well with the reader's imagination about the characters, the setting, about everything in totality. I can't recommend it enough. Read irony. Hehehe. A caution though, if you're a chuckler, then at least do not read this in public. The languages are funny and some parts are quite disturbing especially for "Pharisee-ish" mind, close-minded that is.

4.9 stars out of 5 (I'm saving the 0.1 for the air, I'm running out of it while reading). Seriously, 5 out of 5 for the good humor. Curiosity is the beginning of wisdom, or sham. Read the book to see it for yourself. I'm reading it again.

"A never one, a never two, a never a nechur sing, a never a nechur sing, a never a never a nechur sing..."

"A never one, a never two, a never a nechur sing, a never a nechur sing, a never a never a nechur sing..." ~ Neighborhood children having their carolling

Christmas is the most highlighted celebration of the year. Children and adult from all walks of life are always eager to celebrate this. Gifts, the noche buena and the family get-togethers. But it is the carolling that I'm excited to listen to. Just this morning, I was awaken by children singing at the top of their voices the jingles they just learned perhaps from hearing others. I can't help but laugh. Mind you, I'm still humming the lyrics in my head until now.

Carolling reminds of the childhood that was. How I ran together with some cousins and sometimes with classmates as we trod the streets bringing our homemade props and instruments. It was a nostalgic fun, not to mention the adrenaline-inducing dog chase and neighborhood feasts. My pocket was never empty during Christmas. Oh, by the way, extortion was acceptable at this time. My uncles and aunts' pockets were always ready in case the need arose. Singing a one-liner jingle equated a consideranle amount. Well...

Carolling reminds me of the start of Christmas. Like the cutting of the ribbon in an inauguration thingy. That sort. When the cold wind is already entwined with the tinkling and twanging of the instruments and the guttural sounds of the singers' voices, then I know that Christmas is just around the corner. It won't be long before you experience a throng of people attacking your vicinity. Nah, fret if you want but it's as if they're granted with some kind of immunity to just invade your peace and impale you with songs after songs after songs and conclude it with a "We Wish You a Merry Chritmas" antic. And you are rendered powerless.

Carolling reminds me of the jolly Christmas. The oppurtunity of giving. This is the only part, I guess, of this celebration that brings you a connection with other people aside from your family circles. It reminds me that this certain neighbor of ours actually exists. The baritone of the oppurtunist. But then again tis the season of giving, so let it be. I'm not the Grinch nor Mr. Scrooge but sometimes people are just plainly making this season a big business. Carolling's a business.

Anyway, Christmas precedes all that is human. This is suppose to be the case. Christ is the true message of this celebration which I hope resides in every heart of the people that walks this planet. Although Christmas is a time of giving but let us not digress from its true meaning. Merry Christmas to all. Someone's singing again. "A never one, a never two, a never a nechur sing, a never a nechur sing, a never a never a nechur sing..."

monster are real. really.

I bought the book The Monstrumologist by Rick Yancey and immediately read it. Obviously, I haven't finished it yet and although I'm not really a fan of grotesqueries, I find it intriguing and somehow informative owing to the fact that there were some information from scientists and authors in the first leaf of the book telling the existence of Anthropophagi. I really don't know if these things or foul creatures exist but to read their description in the book will give the same reaction Will Henry had. It's tickling my gag reflex. Monsters are real. The back cover said so.

I paused to think and ponder about it. Yes, it is true. Monsters are real, while human beings live. I am not contemplating on a self-righteous theory but you will agree with me when I said this. People nowadays are inclining to be monsters and worst, we recognized them already, but we just appear to be oblivious, or I don't know, maybe plainly we just are indifferent. We feign awareness. We see the corruption and the vile deeds of our fellow Homo sapiens but we still choose to be ignorant of these blatant facts. Blind. Yes, we are blind.

There are monsters lurking everywhere, it may be your seatmate now, or your date or that poor grocer at a distant. Picking orange. The point is monsters can even be our very own selves. I know you know what I mean. The clock is ticking.

For the mean time, got to finish my read. Ciao, ciao.

narnia: the voyage of the dawn treader.

This was the second time I had a 3D movie experience. It was not a bad movie. I can vouch for that. :) C.S. Lewis showed again how human frailty could bring the end of everything and how everything can be redeemed through trust, hope and love. Each character has to face their weaknesses and learn how to overcome them. It made me realize that mortals will always be mortals, that human beings will really fall but there's always redemption. 

The Voyage's plot is simple, to look for the seven swords of the seven lords to save the world of Narnia. Each adventures unveils the characters' flaw, such as vanity, greed, cowardice and haughtiness. For a book-loving creature like me, the "Book of Incantations part" amazed me. I want to own one. Hehehe. Just imagine reading something and you can conjure anything that the book contains. When Lucy read the book, the snow just brought the nostalgic memories of the first movie. I liked the Chronicles of Narnia. I don't know if it's the childish feeling in me or I'm just nostalgic to the feeling of being child again. Either way. Hehe. Eustace was quite annoying for a boy unlike his dragon counterpart which was quite useful and adorable at the same time. I like his unusual friendship with Reepicheep. There's a touchy part at the end when Aslan appears dramatically, again. He always comes out in all the installments like that with his famous roar. Narnia movies are never complete without that roar, at least for me. :)

There were some parts though that were reminiscence of some movies. The blue star for Stardust, not to mention the snow of LWW, Lord of the Rings? Lol. I just remembered Gimli. Oops.

"There's a Place for Us" by Carrie Underwood is the perfect ribbon to wrap the whole movie. The movie was entertaining, although not that gratifying. I don't know why I'm sad after watching the movie. Maybe for Reepicheep. :)

bbc's 100 books to read before you die.

Speechless. 

Every time there's a topic or raucous about books, I can't help but be teary-eyed. God knows how I love, oh no, how I adore books, any book for that matter. Any genre. Any form or any format. And all the time I always find myself disarmed by these whenever I am in a bookstore. The books seem to be talking. My version of "The Confessions of a Shopaholic". Taunting me. Inviting. As if faced by an Eve-in-the-Eden situation, I can only do nothing but succumb to this wanting. 

There's one thing I want to say actually. Forget those blubbers. 

I LOVE BOOKS. And when BBC released their list of the books to drool upon, I just can sigh. Pooh!!!

Here's the list:

1. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2. The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
3. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4. Harry Potter series - JK Rowling
5. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6. The Bible
7. Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8. Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9. His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11. Little Women - Louisa M Alcott 
12. Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14. Complete Works of Shakespeare
15. Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16. The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien 
17. Birdsong - Sebastian Faulk
18. Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19. The Time Traveler’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20. Middlemarch - George Eliot
21. Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell 
22. The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald 
23. War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
24. The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
25. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky 
26. Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
27. Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
28. The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
29. Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
30. David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
31. Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis  
32. Emma - Jane Austen
33. Persuasion - Jane Austen
34. The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe - CS Lewis
35. The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
36. Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
37. Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
38. Winnie the Pooh - A.A. Milne
39. Animal Farm - George Orwell
40. The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
41. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
42. A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
43. The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
44. Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
45. Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy 
46. The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
47. Lord of the Flies - William Golding
48. Atonement - Ian McEwan
49. Life of Pi - Yann Martel
50. Dune - Frank Herbert 
51. Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
52. Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
53. Jurassic Park - Michael Crichton
54. A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
55. The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
56. A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
57. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
58. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
59. Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
60. Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
61. Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
62. The Secret History - Donna Tartt
63. The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
64. Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
65. Fear of Flying - Erica Jong
66. On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67. Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68. Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding
69. Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70. Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71. Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72. Dracula - Bram Stoker
73. The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74. Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75. Ulysses - James Joyce
76. The Inferno - Dante
77. Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78. Germinal - Emile Zola
79. Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray 
80. Possession - AS Byatt
81. A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82. Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83. The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84. The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86. A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87. Charlotte’s Web - E.B. White 
88. The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90. The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91. Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92. The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94. Watership Down - Richard Adams
95. A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96. A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97. The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98. Hamlet - William Shakespeare
99. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100. Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

I read some of them. And I will definitely read all of them, that if I still can manage to. But I think I will. And also collect some of them. Weee..Something to look forward to next year.

2. sketch. i called him "jake".

sepia, edited via phone

raw sketch, work in progress

I don't know if I can sketch that good, so I pick a random pic and challenge myself to do it. Surprisingly...

Is this a good t-shirt print? What ja think?

scanned "jake"

of clothes and comfort.

Arrange your life like this.

Life is like clothes, at least for me. As I open my clothes cabinet ( I do not exactly know how to name it, it's the zipper-type thingy), I realized that my life is like the clothes I am wearing, or the pile of clothes I'm having. I'm not into clothes, although it pains me to look at the malls and sometimes in the Lookbook for some dandy suits and posh clothing. Who in this world would not want them? But then again, truth will hurt because I will still get the same old shirt I have, the comfortable hugger, and go outside and shrug the trains of thoughts I just have. And life will be the same life again, always, minus the sophisticated picture I just framed in my mind. I am a dreamer. That's it.

My clothes are like veils of confidence. I always wear my mood together with them. I can even remember when one student told me, "Sir, you wore that shirt like last week." I can just flash a bashful smile and retort, "But what you have now is what you wore a day ago". And we will just laugh. I wore what I considered to be my confidence cloak. I was not mindful, even if I wore the exact thing again and again and again. It's like staying in my comfort zone. And then I realized that my life was a patch of comfort zones. My life comes in and goes out in the same door and I just care less about it. Sometimes I ask myself if this is just sheer indifference or just plainly going-with-the-flow habit. And I would just ignore these thoughts because I don't know the answer either.

I prefer comfort, that would be my defense. But it won't hurt to digress sometimes. I always have that thought. *grinning* Always.

-------------------------

One child asked me,"What's the most comfortable thing in life Sir?"
Me: "To defecate."

i.design.my.shirt.who.designs.yours?

I had such a busy weekend and here I am again meeting another one. The Saturday that passed was a blast since I finally did something for myself. Something that I really like. Something that was productive and not boring. Hehehe. 

Remember the post-it sketch I made? Yes, that one. One blogger suggested or commented that it can be a good t-shirt print (I added the "good"  here). And know what? I took it seriously. And I was goddamn serious about it. Really, so serious about it.

I have no tools for this kind of job. Job, the t-shirt printing thingy. Isa lang ata alam ko and that was I have my hands and they are more than willing to try this thing. Hehehe. And the result actually was not disappointing. Hmm...

Tadaaaa....

Comment? Hehehe...pasensya na sa mala-emo na print. wahehehe..can't help it.

il bel far niente (the beauty of doing nothing)

I wrote this last Tuesday. Just want to post it. Hehehe...Wala naman atang papalag?

This night is the last night of my stay here in Cagayan de Oro, having my week break from work and other work-related brouhahas. The night is so calm and all I can hear as of the moment is the silent whirring of the ceiling fan and the silent orchestra of the keyboards and my heart, not to mention the snore of the sleeping neighbor. Tomorrow I’ll be heading for Davao and be stomped again by papers and neck-breaking backlogs. But that is work, and to face it is inevitable. Sans the mention of stress and the constant consumption of patience. Oh boy, I hope there’s a 24/7 store for this patience. Anyway, the rest is over, which is quite disappointing and nostalgic, for the fact that for the past 8 days of staying here I felt so at home with the knowledge of doing nothing. Yes, the idea of staying at home and waking up at your face slapped by the midday’s rays. Yes, the idea of “Il bel far niente” as what Eat, Pray, Love mentioned. Yes, it is the beauty of doing nothing.

But let me be defensive in this matter, it is doing nothing but accomplishing something. In my short stay here in CDO I have met friends and I have shared precious and meaningful time with my honey. I came to love the fact that I allotted myself ample time to appreciate the pointless things in life (as what I have might think of them or perhaps you yourselves) and find values in things so mundane. Things like walking under an umbrella with your special one during a cold, rainy three o’clock afternoon, reading your new book which was quite stressed outside but so fresh inside because it was not touched nor even read, pigging out on a pizza and ice cream on a drizzly afternoon, lying on your bed with Andrea Bocelli on, and dumping inside the bathroom sans the hurry (since there’s no pressure of work). And another one, staring at the ceiling fan and trying to argue with yourself that it’s turning counterclockwise. Such a reckless waste of time as one might say but such a time of recollection and peace as I might so consider.

I remembered before when I was in high school or in my earlier days of college, I was myself a nazi for time consciousness (not the management though). A single minute wasted is a mortal sin and an hour of squandered moment is a hell. That was a time when I was hard of myself. Currently, I think I overdo it though. Well, you can’t blame me for I am battered by work for almost five years already. I deserve this modest amount of rest. No worries. No guilt. No work. Pure rest, miles and miles away from work. That is what I called pure bliss. You know, the likes of waking up one hour before noon and drinking your coffee with the music on and with your underpants only. If this is a crime, I say then that I’d love to be a criminal. This pleasure of doing nothing and enslaving time is quite addictive.

But everything will have to end. Few hours from the moment I write this, I will be already in the bus for Davao. Attraversiamo. Let’s cross over. I have to cross over from the pleasures of guiltless self-indulgence to the stressful realities of work. Again, attraversiamo.

written on November 2, 2010, 3:09am

eat nothing, do something. 12-hour famine campaign.

Hunger has always been the twin of living. While someone lives, someone survives the everyday pang of hunger.

Today the World Vision Philippines is doing a 12-Hour Famine campaign which invites youth to voluntarily fasts for 12 hours to increase global awareness about this undying problem that the world is experiencing. It starts from 9am and goes until 9pm. For more info, click.

"Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat. " ~ Mother Teresa

mused with life.

"Life lives, life dies. Life laughs, life cries. Life gives up and life tries. But life looks different through everyone's eyes."

It was a busy afternoon. Everyone bustled on the streets and the long dreary sun threw streaks of hatred and blood-curdling heat. The wind was blowing long dry gust of seemingly desert air with wisps of barbecue aroma and morning sweats. Each individual nailed on his own affair without the mind of turning their burnt necks. A misshapen lady was busy with her trade amidst the bellowing jeepney drivers. The clamoring market cradled themselves around shadows of disheveled piles of clothes and draperies. A total scene of morning business which I knew was a signal again of a long and tedious day.

I turned around the bend with thoughts mesmerized by those random musings. Well, life was quite a simple complication of things. Sigh. Phew! Another day of uncertainties. "Hey, where are you heading?", asked a rather mused "konduktor" (the driver's assistant) at my lost-in-translation look. "Thanks, but no thanks. Be just in the corner." I stopped first sighting those big trucks running and leaving only traces of black dusts and smokes. The lamp post beside the road must have been a pathetic witness of these city bustlings. My vision tried to scan all the angles of these and then there I saw her. She was rather bludgeoned by long and lonely years. In her eyes mirrored a thousand woes of uncertainties and dubious thoughts. Her body outlined with deathly stabbed of hunger. Her coat rather unkempt which left her with a look of a miserable old witch.

With eyes full of emptiness she crossed the street and there on one corner I stand watching her closely. All the world must have been an audience of this misery but ignorant enough to do anything. She crossed the streets still with all the grace that was left to her. But when she was about to finish that long exodus, a screeching sound hollered from nowhere and send her reeling on the streetside. A painful ghastly sound of shouts was heard from the people around.

The people gathered around and I was one with them. There she lied down with blood sputtering from her mouth. With one last strength and with all the hopes remaining in her, she cried "MEOWWW..." Then she died. Painfully. A cat.

small things.

Be faithful in small things
because it is in them that your strength lies.
~Mother Teresa

___________________

Small things can open up to great realizations. It did mine lately. There's this funny quote, "Money talks but mine said "goodbye!". I can't help but flash a smile for it is rather a sad truth. *smile* Well, I just realized that small things or those considered lowly are but the faithful ones and remains within your limitations. Well, I just look at my cash and I realized that "Jose Rizal" seemed so loyal to stay within the perimeter of my urgent needs. But "Escoda and others" and "Ninoy" just pass by and nothing ,even a memory, is left. Blimey! hehe..

Christmas is coming. Let's celebrate its spirit in the small things that we have. After all, the lowly ones were the first recipient of that joyous news. Let us cherish the small ones that we have. Be contented. That's it. Be contented.

let the hunger games begin.

This week's a busy one, so reading a book was like stealing Mona Lisa. Lol. Anyway, although busy, I have not given the thought to finish at least a book per week or at least have a glimpse of the pages. Hahaha. I have read the Hunger Games Trilogy and the experience was quite overwhelming at the same time disappointing. Overwhelming, in a sense, that this was the first time I collected the complete books of a series. Collecting was like an addiction. Can't explain and can't contain the excitement altogether. I became an instant bibliophile. I have been collecting books lately and some of them became instant reads and some became instant depressants. Bedside drugs, I call them. Disappointed, especially with how the book ends in the Mockingjay, the 3rd installment. Anyhow, the first book, The Hunger Games, let me talk about this thing.

The Hunger Games deals with Katniss Everdeen, her struggles, her story, her fate and her game for life. A post-apocalyptic scenario which requires young blood to vindicate a rebellion. It's a YA fiction so it doesn't require a dictionary to aid you in case you meet a nosebleed-inducing word. Fast-paced. It's like watching a mash-up of Gladiator and Tournament, but this time with younger participants.

There are things which I found unique and intriguing in this book.

1. The book cover. Simple yet meaningful. The bird, which was actually a mockingjay, became the theme of this trilogy. You can find the same bird in the succeeding books and the bird did have a role in the story. The Mockingjay and Katniss. Hmm...Read please. By the way, what's a mockingjay? Mockingbirds exist, but mockingjays? Hmmm...

2. Muttations. At first I thought this was a typo error but actually it does exist in this book. This is what I like with authors. They can freely alter anything and create anything, all for the sake of fiction. And boy! Suzanne did her job well. Muttations or mutts are experiments gone awry (at least as I perceived it until I read the last book). Mockingjays are the cross-breeds of mutts and an ordinary bird. It's actually more of a mutation with a touch of sinisterness.

3. The fashion before death. The tributes (selected children from each District) have to undergo a beauty regimen and fashion showdown only to be murdered by each other in an arena. I mean, will I still care on what I will wear when at the back of mind I can see my dead and mutilated body afterward?

4. District 13. Its existence is as mysterious and intriguing as the fate of District 12. Only 12 districts were mentioned so far and what is District 13? The Districts were assigned with varying job roles with the District 12 as coal miners. The Capitol, being the head, bitches them all, getting various supplies from each of them. The Capitol initiates the Hunger Games to teach the other districts who's the boss of them.

5. The funny names. Enough said.

6. Avox. Vox in Latin means voice. If Harry Potter has the house-elves, then HG has the Avoxes. Except for the fact that Avoxes swallowed the remote control switched to silent mode. Kidding! Their tongues were cut for their treacherous deeds for the Capitol. So they're rendered silent for the rest of their lives. Katniss met one in the Capitol.

7. The Chocolate at the end of the Cornetto. No ice cream in this book. Hahaha. That's how I described the end of every chapter. Every chapter ends with a wham line which redirects the flow of the story and keeps my interest high for the next chapter. The beginning of the Hunger Games welcomes you with this.

Now if you want a good read, grab one. I'm not a fan of romance so I focused more on the survival game and the subtle violence. In as much as I like Harry Potter books, this one's a good catch also. The violence's not overkill and the characters are not boring. Although Peeta is sometimes.

One thing, I am so happy that Hunger Games did not end like Breaking Dawn of the Twilight. Brrrr... Indescribably disappointing. They should have lift a finger to kill Bella. Annoying.

There...Done with my homework. Hehehe
Next: Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins

busy. sorry.

Been busy with the school's foundation day. Phew! Acting busy actually. Lol.

By the way, I had the 3 copies of The Hunger Games Series. Done reading. Post later some reviews. Although late, but who cares? Lol.

See yah.

The Invitation that I made. There was a slight change though, but the new one's more likely the same with this.

Ciao, ciao!

a major major drawback for filipinos

No one's to be blamed.

Although we would like to point our silly fingers to anyone just to satiate that feeling of "I-would-not-do-that-gosh-that's-a-shame-for-Filipinos" stance. In the first place, we would never know what would happen in case we were in that muddy pool where the hostage-taker was in. We could only blame because we thought we could do something but we couldn't. The media and the police failed but their situation could only offer as much as our minds were mangled in the thought that something better could be done. We sat there on the edge of our seats dumbfounded, grief-stricken, angry, repulsed by the thought that a fellow Filipino had done such but we could only air our concern, the retribution strategy we're planning, in front of the television. We could just sit there and do anything but help in such crisis.

Blaming the media for such an unwittingly airing of the hostage crisis will just slap us the fact that this is their job first and foremost. Although there was a major backfire, but everyone's just doing their job, the police on their part and the media on their own part as well. There is an issue of regulating the media coverage in cases such as this. But where will we draw the line? How will we draw the line? And then we will all return again to the blaming habit. It is the government's responsibility and we will all end blaming the Head of the State. But Pnoy can only extend as much help by excruciatingly uncovering a solution from the deepest recesses of his brain. It's not that nobody cared and nobody did something, but it's the fact that it's what the circumstance offered and all we need to do is to learn our lesson now. We can blame as much and care as less but this will not solve the problem. I hope this crisis will not escalate our sickening habit of blaming the likes of Rolando Mendoza, a fellow Filipino, even when issues died down. This would soon pass. But the shattered pieces of our faith to our fellow countrymen will take some time of mending. I hope that we can show as much faith as the other nationalities showed sympathy to us amidst this national tragedy.

Again, this will be a matter of choice for us. We can choose to blame or not. But the solution should always start from us. And this I think should not be a matter of choice.

silence and my lolo.

This was once a story that I always tell my friends or whoever it is that I came across with (and whenever opportunity knocks). From this, I sometimes concluded that melancholy and silence were my close comrades ever since, although sometimes I was in denial. This happened when I was in my fifth grade, and somehow the memory lingered and the experience seemed fresh. During the time which I mentioned, my Lolo died. This was my first experience of death involving relatives. And though my Lolo was such, I never encountered the idea of grieving, or the idea of crying for someone. We were not that close, albeit I bought cupcakes for him and somehow rendered my service to him. I was contented with the idea of grandfather-grandson relationship but there was no fuss or involvement of love. I was just a grandson. But never a loved one.

My grandfather’s wake was like a closed-door meeting. If his death hadn’t been the reason, then probably his children won’t be there that time. My uncles and aunts were a mix brood of austere disciplinarians and probably advocates of boredom. Their grief was nothing but a poignant show of lack of interest. And with which I felt sure by that time was slowly crawling inside me and seem to echo in my mind. What was present in their minds and in that house was everything but silence. Drinks. Food. Some were playing cards. My cousins were running around. All seemed to be in a chaos. Chaos and grief mixed at the same time. I didn’t understand that well how this two could be mixed. I want silence. This is impossible inside the house but I’m too timid to go outside. And so, amidst this raucous scenario I decided to disappear, at least. So I look for a cozy place but every room seemed to be an accomplice to this ironic festivity.

I found a place. Finally. It was under the table, totally covered by a thick carpet-like cloth tarnished with old age smell. At least the smell was tolerable. But this table was not just a table; for on top of this, was where my grandfather’s coffin laid. It was there, a mute wooden casket which seemed to me the only witness of my unbecoming attitude. I respect my Lolo like the way I did for my father. But I respect my peace more. And if to hide under this table was the sole manner I could achieve what I ached for, then to hell with that coffin. And my Lolo seemed to like this idea. He was there above, inside the coffin. Silent. With the last glimpse of my Mom crying, I crept under and be engulfed with the silence I desperately wanted. The tablecloth, which appeared like gigantic curtains to me, was my sole cover and my wall to this unexplainable enmity. And for the first time after five painful hours, I silently lied down there on the bare wooden floor, smiling, closing my eyes. I was alone. I was with myself.

From then on I befriended silence. I was not a loner though. I hate to be alone. But I want some time to be left alone. And this is a matter of choice. And now, sitting here with a laptop in front of me with the noisy background of honking cars and beer-drinking people, I drank again the intoxicating experience of silence, of peace. But only this time, I chose it to be swimming across a sea of wonderful noises and sounds.

And I kinda like it.

do not bother me. please.

drawn on a post-it, when everything's so boring.

art.

Left to right: Ms Nholl, Ms. Eva and Ms. Elna

Ewan ko ba bakit wala akong nagawa ngayong araw ng Linggo - as in totally wala - except the usual routine of doing laundry. After that I slept, and the rest of the afternoon was a painful drag of hours coupled with routinized daydreaming and planning. These series of events carefully laid - that is - inside my head, yes, in my mind with my body on my bed. Maybe my mind was just so preoccupied with so many things that my body froze. Haha. Another excuse for another lazy Sunday. This was like one of those days where in being productive sucks both ways - either you're trying way too hard or you're doubting the credibility of your toil. There's no competition though - at least I believe. Anyhow, I don't want to feel any pressure, at least for the time being but I don't want to slacken also. Aargghh...

Better forget this.

Anyway, last Friday night, right after we had some Coke float slurping and senseless conversation, we headed to Ponce Suites to tour a friend. We deserved this - a just compensation, as I call it -to end our rough weekdays and to begin a hopeful-restful weekend. Yes, to my belief - and relief - that stress could just be sucked through that straw - and be finally flushed out as urine. How I wished it could be that easy.

The "sepia-toned" streets, as what Ms. Elna fondly called them, proved to be a good host for another array of conversations- at least this time they were sensible and dramatic, and funny. Contrary to the noises on the streets adjunct to these, our giggles were the only disturbing decibels on this neighborhood. Except, of course, for some few honking cars. We cared less though - after all this was our night - and their whims or concerns would just aggravate the reason of such behavior. We had a common purpose - to watch the gallery of Kublai. And this walk, our ticket.

This was like the fourth or fifth time I was on this place. And the works of art would just give me the same reactions- amazement, envy, and inspiration. The mute boredom inside me seemed to echo in those arts. Gradually convinced, I'd resolve to do a work like this. Again. And again I would forget it upon leaving the shadow of the eagle graced upon its entrance. Those monuments beside the streets just before the entrance were the silent witness of the visitor's purpose: to be lost in art or maybe just to kill time. In any ways or means, these arts will always leave something - and at some point - will be crucial to one's life.

sense and insensibility.

Sometimes I wish to be whisked in a different place like I will just tap my shoes, and, voila!, I am in France or Mt. Fiji. Anywhere my head takes me and my mood transports me to. I want to get lost in some place. I want to be alone. But it seems it's only in my thoughts that such a penchant wish can take place. Hmmm, even my mind is nothing but a tapestry of betrayal. I am losing my senses. Getting numb minute by minute, drinking the subtle poison of a stressful life believing that it will be blissful to indulge in such a futile effort of excellence and fecundity. Almost to the point of drying up my soul and my art. Hating is an understatement, but being pretentious could be a caveat for self-preservation.

My inner sanctum is shattering and I want to put back the shambled pieces. The squalor of hypocrisy is taking its toll but I don't want to be enslaved. Who would want anyway to prostrate one's self for something superficial, self-deprecating compliment, a tap-on-the-back ritual? Such benediction for me is but a malediction in package of immaculate mockery. Ostentatious show of benevolence but it's actually a parcel of insensibility.

How can you preach the pleasure of your senses when you are numb and working juxtaposed with your leprotic honesty? It becomes sensible your sensible senses sensed insensibility.

I just go with the flow.

That's cliche.

good times gonna come

aqualung

i am melting.

A smile for a day counts a thousand melted frustrations. 

There has never been a day that I don't feel frustrated inside the classroom. I don't even know if I am just pushing myself too much and dreaming of too much perfection. I tried to achieve with most of nerve-cracking effort to convey the concept or precept of discipline to my students. I resort to different methods and each seemed to be an entry for frustration. It's almost an illusion. It's doable, I believe. But sometimes nearly impossible. Crying seems to be my last succor, my shelter. Yet, every time they come to me, with sweaty faces and carefree innocence, I can't help but rationalize my worth as a teacher. Frustrating, yes, but fulfilling and ethereal also. Teachers are masochist I believe. Or shall I say, I almost believe. Not in an evil sense though.

All the day's problem seem to be vacuumed by that invisible vortex created by their hugs and smiles. Many times I have been tempted to stop teaching, but each attempt will just prove that their pure comfort and heartwarming (and sometimes hair-raising) embrace are more powerful. And then I forget that I have problems, concerns. I learn to play. I become a child again.

I do not love teaching, to be honest. But there's something far more magnetic in this profession that made me stay for almost half a decade. I am still in the process of discovering things. I don't know teaching that much, albeit years of experience, but I know that I still have the greatest teachers in my midst. I know the children are there. And their smiles reassures me of this fact. Everyday. 

And I am melting again.

eiga sai 2010, japanese film festival.

I thought I was watching Twilight again.

The titillating screams and estrogen-filled cinema were few things I could recall from the deep regions of my brain. Deja vu? Sure. The wet-dog smell of the cinema carpet just accentuated my memories, but only now with different movies. The Battery Future in Our Hands made me remember the jam-packed place with screaming girls spewing the name of Edward. It made me wonder all the time why the movie house had this ambiance whenever cute faces, thick eyebrows, countenance that rounded off to a girl's were flashed on that omniscient and oblivious white projector screen. Dumbfounded and annoyed at the same time, I can do nothing but just breathe a relief; for having such an experience was better than staying at home. Added to the fact that I will be wasting most of my day doing nothing, except in my mind. I don't cry for spilled milk though, but it'll be a waste.

The Eiga Sai 2010, Japanese Film Festival, showcased exquisitely-chosen and tasteful films which, as far as my poor memory's concerned, had been ranked in my fave and worth-spending movie list. Only instead this time, I spent not a single peso. Literally saying, not a single hard-earned and fleeting peso-seso-sesoses. It's free. Nowadays, movies for free appeared rarely like the Lochness monster (if there is). So it's an up-for-grabs thing and people like me don't just let it swim away. Just sweet. So sweet. After all, it's Philippines-Japan Friendship Month Celebration! Kampai!

I watched most of the films although I missed Frantz Kafka’s A Country Doctor and Miyori in the Sacred Forest. Most of the films were thought-taunting and deeply-moving which made me appreciate them more. The Bandage Club and the Tokyo Tower: Mom and Me, and Sometimes Dad were my favorites. I Just Didn’t Do It was such a good film that I didn't bother to finish it. The rotten judiciary system which was a touchy subject made me reflect on our own system. Watching the whole film made me uneasy. It's like watching a familiar Philippine scenario but only this time with Japanese characters and a facade of foreignness. It's haunting. Revolting. Tormenting. And very honest. The Glasses aired tranquility in ambiance and simplicity and wonder on its characters. Until now, I am still wondering how that shaved ice taste. Hmmm... Such a treat for one's weekend.

Kampai!

i still have time to read. and to blog.

I acquired the book of Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Suskind, and I was thrilled. I devoured the book at hand and managed to finish it (after periods of interruption and frustrations) after two days and a night. 

I watched the movie first, if you remembered. The movie was after all an almost faithful recreation of the book, with the characters brought to life solidifying my imagination and enhancing my memory as each pages were procreated as flitting and well-befitting as the concoction of the words that were used. The book was a mediocre work of a god, that if you know what I mean. I was merely (an understatement) drawn by the words which were as clear as they were colorful,  as they reverberated in the inner recesses of my brain. If Grenouille was so intoxicated by virginal scents, I was allured and drugged by the wondrously harnessed texts. I forgot I was just a reader. At least temporarily. The story was a perfect work of a genius with Grenouille being a perfect murderer, a sublime image of a psychopath, a personage worth hating and loving at the same time. 

I definitely gave a thumbs-up for the story, the plot. The movie, however, still could not contain the delightfully macabre description of everything that was on the book. Don't fret for the movie though. It is as volatile as the book, and to watch it is blissful as reading the book, however with certain degree of  homage to the book.

Spoilers. The movie salvaged 12 virginal scents with the addition of the final scent, that was Laure's, to complete the perfect scent that Grenouille concocted in his mind. However, in the book, Grenouille needed 24 sacrificial virgins and Laure, to perfect his gallery for the creation of his infamous perfume. A major modification? That's why sometimes movies suck. And we who watched suck the most. So read! Lol. Click.

oh really? i don't even know him.

I write like
Chuck Palahniuk

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

I haven't even read any of his books. But I've been constantly haunted by them whenever I pass among the shelves of NBS. Hmmm...

and then i don't like fridays at all.

My Friday was suppose to be the "crème de la crème" of my days, enough for me to say at my wit's end, "TGIF!". But as of the moment, I merely vomit at the thought of hearing that Friday's coming. I love my work Lord. God knows how I love it. But to the point of killing myself (I felt like exaggerating now), and mustering all my effort of self-preservation and girding my patience, all I can say is "give me liberty or give me death!". I can hold it but NOT now. This is the very moment when all I want is for the earth to swallow me up. In fact, gobble me up.

It baffles me sometimes if I am still attuned with myself or the whiner in me just squeals too much. I don't know whom to reach and to air these concerns that were boiling inside me. It's a denial, but I don't want to reach a meltdown. Am I burning out? Stress becomes my lover now and I coy at the slightest indifference I want to show. I made love to stress everyday, and I don't know if I am still reaching climax. Flaccid. I want to rest. Deadlines meet deadlines and my sanity's hanging at balance. Breather. Breather. Breathe. Right now, I am staring at the monitor with nothing but a poker face and a carte blanche to complain. I'm trying my best not to whine. Let this blog be the sole witness.

The spirit's willing but the flesh is weak to complain. As I've said before, I did my best to muster patience and to pocket my litany of complains. But the pocket's shallow and it overflows. Sigh. Sigh. Help. Help.