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.