Bilbliography - Book II

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The Persistence of Memory.

Memory is both a gift and a curse.

Memory as a

gift

We are soulless without memory.

We became who we are because of the things that happened to us; I became who I am because of these things that happened to me: mother having her picture taken while pregnant of me despite local superstition; falling from a flight of stairs when I was two; being hit by our Filipino teacher with a lesson plan on the head for something that I didn’t do when I was in Grade 6; being slapped on the face after escaping review sessions for the NEAT exams also when I was in Grade 6; shitting on my pants while in a mall because of diarrhea during special summer classes before my first year; being sent outside the classroom for answering and offending our Reading teacher on her birthday in my first year high school; being labeled as KSP in my second year high school; learning how to write about my frustrations in our English class also in my second year; learning how to distinguish true friends from users; insulting a teacher about her looks in front of the class; knowing how to "properly" look at our classmates’ boobs without getting caught; knowing how to appreciate some our classmates’ beauty despite the size and color of their boobs; knowing how to solve identities in our Mathematics class in 4th year; failing in the UPCAT; graduating undecided of what course to take in college; taking up Literature; shifting to Broadcast Communication in my second year; falling in love for the first time in that same year; my heart breaking for the first time also in the same year; attempting to forget in the same year; trying to fell in love again after more than 2 years. And my heart mending for the first time.

Memory

as a curse.

We cannot choose to remember. But neither can we choose to forget. We only either remember or forget. And that is almost everything. But whether we with our mind’s fingers hold on to or let go of the memory-strands of stories that unwind in our life, it is immaterial to the fact that the stories happened.

We are a spool of memories and moments, forgotten and remembered.

(To be continued…)

Stalking 101

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I am a stalker.

And I believe that only intelligent people have the ability to stalk.

So I must be (even if only for a bit) intelligent.

So today, why must I talk about stalkers when the Philippines is melting under the sun while politicians, unmindful of the heat, continue singing their songs and flapping their wings into the beat of the election dance?

It’s because I don’t care. And so shouldn’t you.

But doesn’t it give me creeps to command you not to care while I silently maneuver you into caring about me — ehem — by making you read my blog? Probably yes. (Enter scary movie stinger ala The Ring) But why should it when you don’t care? And if you did or didn’t care, should I care?

But enough of the questions that could not be satisfactorily answered. Let me refresh you about my proposition so that we already can get into the meat of this.

I am a stalker. The height of my stalking career came in 2000, when I first fell in love, and then in 2004, when I had one of my biggest crushes.

I fell in love with a beautiful college freshman when I was in my second year. It started in June and ended in October. So it must have been a one-semester love affair — if it was a love affair. (You see, I still have this fear of calling it that. My idea of any relationship even then required mutuality, even in calling the relationship a relationship.) I made my way to being close with her by, first, stalking her. I "stole" her number from her classmate’s cellphone when someone from the dorm asked me to hand the cellphone to its owner. And the rest is history.

But my stalking powers didn’t stop there. Because even after the October end-of-the-affair part of our whatever-it-was-called affair, I actually continued stalking her. Needless to say (and redundant if mentioned but I still nevertheless am mentioning), I stalked her without her knowing.

(To be continued…)

In the meantime, I am pasting you a link to one of the best personal webpages I have seen. I really like it for its simplicity and forwardness. I will paste more of my favorite webpages (sans erotica et porno pages) next time.

CLICK HERE: Hello Stranger

Bibliography - Book I

This post is a copy of my now defunct Friendster blog. Friendster blog just isn't good, so I migrated all my posts from there to here.

About a Boy.

Not too long ago, I was a boy who didn’t care about the things I did, who didn’t care about what was going to happen to me or to others because of what I did or didn’t do. I still wasn’t that apathetic or antisocial or pachydermic at that time. Neither was I stupid. I just didn’t know what to do with the things I had or didn’t have. Being only 12, I had nothing much to do, so I had all the time in the world to waste away my time. I was myopic. I couldn’t see the water in my eye called "possibility."

I entered UP High School in Iloilo in 1995. A restless boy who came from a rural town 25 kilometers away from the city, I was thrilled about and proud of the idea of schooling in UP. More especially of schooling in the city.

From our town, Alimodian, not many parents could afford to send their child to a city school and not many could pass the entrance exam test in UP. So I had reason to be proud. And so I
was proud.

When I think of all the things that happened to me from way back the time I could remember, I try to ponder all the possibilities — the what-could-have-beens, the what-ifs — that now are in fact not.

Like Milan Kundera in The Unbearable Lightness of Being (or probably it is because of that book I realized this), I arrive at an inevitable conclusion: that the possibilities that didn’t happen will forever remain as possibilities in the past; that they will never ever anymore turn into reality since the time given for them to turn into reality has lapsed. And so they are frozen in time. Like the magnificence of the frozen mammoth in Siberia, the possibility of the frozen possibilities is an illusion.

How can something frozen and stone dead be magnificent? And how can something that’s already past still be possible? Possibility really is a thing of the future. So once lightning strikes a certain point, the factuality of that point having been hit becomes established. The other possible lightning hit points become fiction.

The day I received the letter confirming my having passed the UP High School Entrance Exam was the night my father slapped me on the face. Of all the memories that could be remembered or forgotten, this one memory is still etched on my brain. This one memory which I didn’t chose to remember nor even choose to forget.

Can anyone choose his or her memory?

Iloilo - The Queen Shitty of the South

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Today, I spent P 22.00 for my fare from Alimodian to Mandurriao (beside the old Carlo’s Restaurant at the corner of the airport road and the Benigno Aquino Highway), and another P 7.00 from there to the University of Iloilo.

Today, I ‘m supposed to do overtime work at the office. Today would have been my first day of officially doing overtime work. As mentioned in a previous article, we have heaps and piles of faculty evaluation to encode, and that’s what I came back and do overtime work for.

But not until 9:30 am this morning.

Nag-brownout na naman.

And after writing those few lines, I realized that writing (read: complaining) about brownouts will not get me (or anyone in the Philippines for that matter) any further. And so I’m stopping. Brownouts are a reality of life for Ilonggos. Oh, it should be "reality for Filipinos"? I’m sorry for understating. So it’s a fact. As factual as everybody shitting everyday.

Maybe I’ll continue the stuff I wrote above next time. I don’t feel good anyway.

And here goes the continuation:

(Added on 04-22-2007 at 2:21 pm)

So why is this article titled "Queen Shitty of the South"? It’s plain and simple. I was annoyed by the brownout yesterday. What I was trying to establish in my unfinished and incoherent babbles above is that I spent money to go to the city and do overtime work. But, because of the morning brownout, I had to leave the office at 10:00 am. That’s 2 hours after arriving at the office; that’s a little over 3 hours after leaving my house, which is around 30 kilometers from the office. And that’s goodbye overtime work pay for me.

Think expenses. Think ROI. Think big. Think Iloilo?

And so to bluntly put into words what I’m trying to connect here, it is that the Iloilo City (and the whole Philippine Government) could NOT provide me — one of its peoples — with enough electricity for me to be able to do my work. Just what can I do about that?

And Jerry Treñas has the guts to put up billboards all around Iloilo City pronouncing his dreams of making Iloilo "The Next Big Thing" and the "Premiere City by 2015." Yes, mayor. Dream on.

Presenting...

This post is a copy of my now defunct Friendster blog. Friendster blog just isn't good, so I migrated all my posts from there to here.

… me!

After several years of planning to have my picture, wearing a barong and sablay, taken, I have finally done it. Thanks to the very warm air that circled our house that day, it occurred to me to wear a barong and my sablay and have my picture taken. Special thanks go to my sister, of course, who took the shots. Exactly when this happened I don’t remember. But I’ll try to look at the original picture at home. Embedded in the file should be the date when it was taken.

So that should answer your question — if you were asking it in your mind when you saw the picture: I didn’t just graduate. And besides, graduation in UP is still on April 25. This is just for show. I posted this here for pride purposes (I’m proud of this picture!) and upon someone very special’s request.

The Fart (a.k.a. Whining in a Lower Key)

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And for this week, I did something I’m really good at — failing. (Enter Pachelbel’s Canon in D, if you please.) Last week, I promised (if at least to myself) to return here, with a bang. But it’s been three days (since Monday, of course) and there has been no explosion. Not even a sign of a fart. Only blank pages that’ll never show up.

My excuse of course is extreme busy-ness, what else? Pounds and pounds of papers had (and still have) to be encoded, and hundreds and hundreds of transactions to be made with hundreds and hundreds of people.

Nah. Just a few people. Countable with the fingers and the toes. But the pounds and pounds of papers are true. We have been encoding students’ evaluation of faculty members since Moday, and are preparing for the College of Engineering BS MarE Program (that’s Marine Engineering for you) ISO Accreditation scheduled next week.

So once again I have a valid reason. But what the heck. It still depresses me that I have not done it. Others can do it despite their schedule, so why can’t I?

——–

Just a few days ago, I discovered that I am doing something that I am not supposed to do. That is, I perform a task that’s not supposed to be mine according to my job description and the job description of the person who is supposed to do the job that I am doing. It’s a tangle of word webs, isn’t it. But it’s plain and sugarlessly simple: I’m at a loss. But I’m at a loss in figuring out how to complain. Why? Because that has been the practice here in this office way long before I worked here. Stupid culture. Very middle ages-y. But I’ll try to find my way out of this tangle. I will. I will. (Fading echo effect.)

The Whiner (Chapter I)

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(NOTE: For reasons of discontent, I have heavily edited this piece. This edit was made last April 19, 2007 at 11:06 AM.)

I’m not a whiner, so I usually don’t complain. I hate whiners and perpetual complainers. That’s why I’ve gotten over Jessica Zafra. I admit to having liked her in my first few reads. But those are rightly termed first few read. Lucky for me, I immediately noticed what should be noticed of her: She is a perpetual whiner: she whines like a blender forever blending sour mango and thick ice.

Anyway, I love her short story, "Portents" and her essay "A History of the Geek Civilization." Those are the only writings I remember from her. Everything else seems to be like complaints written for newspaper editors. They are just a few strokes short of death threats to whom it may concern.

Okay, I’ll stop there. I know JZ fans lurk almost anywhere.

But what with JZ? This article is not about her. Ironically, I am using her name to officially announce that this is about the same thing I’m complaining about her: whining. Yes, here in this article — and if you have noticed that this is properly labeled Chapter I, you’ll know that others will follow — I am going to do a lot of whining.

First thing first:

I am announcing to those who need the information that the 2007 National PRISAA is going to be held here in Iloilo. Yes, here in Iloilo. Just a few weeks before the elections. And my, what a circus I think this event will be! A time for politicians to throw themselves in trampolines, to swallow swords, and to make money appear on peoples’ hands from — voila! — nowhere.

(And I had to be interrupted with my writing for 3 hours by a trip to the Iloilo Provincial Capitol to forward letters to SB Members, and then to the University of San Agustin, then to De Paul College, then to Jaro National High School which, to my delightful surprise is named Graciano Lopez-Jaena Memorial High School.) Now what was I supposed to whine about? Ahh, the unpreparedness of those who were supposed to prepare and prepare for this event. I won’t mention names, of course. Nah-ah. I’m zipping my mouth.

So what does one do with lack of time? I cannot complain. I ain’t a complainer. But I’ll be back next week. And with a vengeance.

My Belated First Post

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Forgive me for my arrogance, but I failed to introduce myself to you, lost reader.

You see, I sometimes lose myself to bouts of (in)sanity. During these fortuitous times, thought-bubbles (in yet undeciphered hieroglyphs) drift into my head. And these are mostly my thoughts: Yes, I admit to my occasional pretensions of thinking grandiose thoughts; I admit to my ambitiousness; and admit to the fact that I spend lots of time pondering over being not as brilliant as one can possibly be. I envy the really brilliant people. But that’s getting off-topic. And giving you a hint to my scattered thoughts. (And, once again, that’s getting off-topic.)

So there are lots of things that need to be remembered and, hence, need to be written: because I am one of those who cannot remember things so well; because I am one of those who think that I, despite my being not that brilliant, can occasionally (or accidentally) think of brilliant thoughts, too! And these passing brilliant albeit accidental thoughts are a trophy to those who do not think such thoughts so often.

And so I now am writing. This blog is my trophy.

And oh, I forgot. My name is Eman. Good day, lost reader.

Welcome to my Blog

This post is a copy of my now defunct Friendster blog. Friendster blog just isn't good, so I migrated all my posts from there to here.

So much for belated greetings. But to those who found (or lost their way to) my page,

my warmest welcome to you.

Giving in to the temptation of mimicking better (but not necessarily pioneering) others (probably the same weakness-to-temptations gene runs through our blood), I think of the probable reasons why you’re here:

1) You are lost;

2) You are a lost classmate from my Lit & Broad Comm Days who may be wondering what I’m now up to. It was mostly you who read and listened to my tattles anyway;

3) You know me a bit and want to know more about me, and so you try to investigate if there’s any stuff here that’ll give you those additional bits;

4) You just browsed through your mail and have been "alerted" by the Friendster Service Team that I updated my blog. Ironically, I’d like to ask, "How do I turn the alert off?" More about this in a different article someday;

5) You are a real lost cause. You have nothing else to do. Your boredom is killing you so you spend your time — all the time in the world — to browse through everybody else’s blog and later wonder why you don’t have your own;

6) You are a super being. You may be busy doing things all the time but have just taken a little break. So you spend some time — a fraction of the time in the world — to browse through someone’s blog. And, randomly, you browse through peoples’ blogs. And you are back to being lost at my blog.

Still, my warmest welcome.

To Catch Cold

… is easy. I even managed to do it "without batting an eyelash." I did it "singlehandedly." No, it’s actually a classic "Look, Ma! No hands!" kind of accomplishment. I did it. And so can everybody else.

But why is it only me then who suffers so much from such a kind of cold? Bwisit. This must be the worst cold I ever had. It’s a cold of a different kind. Kabasa sa iya pero mabatyagan ko nga daw gabagtik sya sa sulod! And my nose hurts so much from this. Grrrrr!

As of the time of writing of this very word, gailig ang akun sip-un sa akun ilong. And as much as it seems yucky to you, reader, it feels very bwisit to me.

May God bless me.