Four New Messages

At 3:30 PM I checked my phone, and there were 4 new messages.

4 new messages for me is creepy... It's not the usual 1 "what time is your break?" from your friend, or the "when's the submission?" message from your classmate. It isn't the 2 "come home na." "your lola is here." messages from your mom. Its not the combination of both either. It's that random one extra message that gets me all riled up, esp[ecially since this week is a highly critical week. What could the fourth message be? "why aren't you answering me?" a follow up messge from an overly excited friend? "come home na." A repeated message from your mom? Or maybe it's "OMG we're so dead! so dead! Aliens have attacked Manila ang they're gonna kill us all!!!!!!" A bit exagerrated, but the general theme is 4th message = no good. Today was no exception. *sigh*

Sa May Muro

That's what you get when you let your heart win.
Anong napala mo sa pagkairal mo sa damdamin mo?

Whoa.
Hay naku.

"E, kung talunin nalang kaya natin?"
"Gago, and taas kaya niyan."
"Hmm..."
"O, ano na, uwi na tayo! May pasok pa bukas!"
"Sandali lang."
"Oi! Saan ka pupunta? Tangina naman e!"
...
...
...
"Saan ka nanggaling? Ano yan?"
"Pogo stick and tawag dito."
"Ano naman gagawin natin diyan?"
"Tatalon."
"Auti ka ba!?"
"Bakit, takot ka?"
"Sino ba 'di matatakot diyan! Ungas!"
"Wag mo na nga ako murahin, basta sundan mo nalang ako."
...
...
...
"O ano? sumunod ka rin pala e!"
"...Nasa...Nasa labas na tayo?"
"Oo. Ayan o. Ayan yung tinalon nating pader."
"Edi, nasa lob niyan ang siyudad?"
"Malamang."
"Wala na tayo sa loob?"
"E kung sapakin nalang kaya kita."
"Masaya naman ako e... Pero, ano nang gagawin natin ngayong wala na tayo saa loob?"
"Edi... mamahalin kita."
"Wala nang aangal?
"Wala."
"Wala nang taguan?"
"Wala."
"O siya. Mahal na rin kita."


tinginingining yan >.<.

files files

Man-dates: Medjo P.I.

Man-dates. They're like man boobs. (wtf >.<)
Sana hindi makalimutan ni Anjo date namin bukas
Hindi pa siya nagtetext e.

UY! Siyangaps! Napanood ko ang Ateneo Fencing Team kanina! (shout out kay Chan! Naks nakalaro ka na rin!) Congrats sa mga nanalo sa UAAP 71 Fencing Tournament! Galing ninyong lahat! (kahit na di ko talaga maintindihan yung sport na yan T-T) ESPADAHAN NALANG!!!!!

Alam kong nagloloko lang si Joel nung sinabi niya sa akin na sumali ako sa Judo team kasi kulang sila sa mga heavyweight (bigatin ng Katipunan!) pero nung inisip isip ko... yuck. weird ng sout ng judokas... plus isang haplos lang sa tagiliran ko titili na ako ng parang babae. saan ka nakakita ng judokang ganun?

mula sa http://www.fmylife.com:

"Today, while in our communal showers in the highschool football locker room, I started to swing my penis around because it feels good and I was alone. Two minutes later the rest of the team hops into the shower with me. 30 dudes, one self-induced boner. FML."

kawawang bata. Mas nakakatakot pa yung nang makita ng buong team ang kanyang galititi ay nag stay pa sila sa shower na kasama ni gago. Naks edi team= 1 gago= 0 .

Andami kong gagawin. Nagpapakabaliw lang ako ngayon. Toodles!

Dedicate Home (Sharing Observed Poverty) Conclusion for Now

A Personal and Observed Poverty: A Narrative (Conclusion for Now)

The greatest lessons I have learned as an adolescent were learned within the narrow side streets of Malate. I just thought that although this initial experience was a far 7 years ago, somewhere within my experience, someone can decipher the same lessons I had learned, and maybe find some new lessons of their own. I think this community, these people, and the experience of poverty in general, whether experienced or observed, should be made open to the world, so that more and more we can understand the situation that is shared by a majority of the urban population. Find your own conclusions and make your own solutions, but be sure to share. This is our world, not mine, not yours.

Dedicate Home (Sharing Observed Poverty) 5

A Personal and Observed Poverty: A Narrative (Part 5)

For two hours I did nothing but take short naps and stare blankly into the view beyond the door. Beyond the door was a small eskinita, and across that was a small G.I. sheet (yero) structure like the one I was in. I saw slippered feet dash, and market baskets being lugged around. I heard the loud shouts of the men, the incessant chattering of the women, and the playful screams and laughter of the children. The scent of murky water mixed with laundry detergent encompassed the area, and an eerie sort of unnatural humidity filled the air. Sunlight contrary to what most believe, was abundant. Although their homes were compacted together leaving only passage ways serving as pseudo roads; as none of the structures were above two stories, sunlight shone brightly within the area. It was hot, truly, but it was precisely this humidity and distinct smell of detergent that stuck best in my mind. This place was the forge, as it was the wash basin.

It is a dynamic community of hundreds if not thousands of people who were there not by choice, but rather out of the necessity of living. Their poverty is the path they think they must endure. It is the supposed cleansing of their souls so they may one day join their God. That was the paradigm of my students, and it must have been the paradigm of most of the God fearing in the community as well. It is precisely that point that made me realize that Karl Marx was right. Religion, as in the case of Catholicism in area 8, is truly merely an opiate of the people. If they truly believe that God would allow them to be tested by poverty, as a prerequisite to paradise, then we would not have a merciful God, but rather a cruel professor. Weren’t we as individual human beings given the God given gift of rationality and free will? We were given the innate capability to make something of ourselves. We must remember though that our goal is not merely to be the best we can be, but rather that we be the best we can be, for others. The goal was never individual, but rather a collective goal for society in general. We are here to MAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE, but again, in the eyes of my students, they are nothing more than society’s outcasts that the world deigns to let survive. Their dignity is shattered. Once you think of yourself less than your constituents, then your capability suffers, and your being becomes greatly disordered.

Dedicate Home (Sharing Observed Poverty) 4

A Personal and Observed Poverty: A Narrative (Part 4)

I had arrived early one day for class. I was 3 hours early to be exact, and the reason I was early was because I was sick, and if I had stayed longer in my home, my parents would have discovered my illness, and would have thus stopped me from teaching the days' class. I was a persistent kid. I stood in front of the center, and discovered it was locked. It was 11 in the morning, and the heat did nothing for my fever. I felt dizzy and decided to sit beside the center's door under the center's shade. Stereotypical members of the urban poor community passed me by and asked if I was okay. I would nod my response, but they would indomitably query further on my condition, asking if I was really okay. After a few minutes, the day care worker I taught with arrived in a hurry. She said that one of those who had queried me earlier had told her that I was dizzy and obviously sick, waiting by the center's door. She then took me into the depths of the community, a trip that I would re-tread over and over again since that initial time. She took me to her home, a 2x2 meter space of corrugated G.I. sheets with a piece of plywood stuck at the back wall creating a pseudo double decker bed. All that was within the space was a table, a few cushions, a small kalan (gas stove) and a cabinet. She apologized for her home, and asked if I would like to rest first. She directed me to the bottom "bunk" of the makeshift bed, which was layered with a thin cushion and torn sheets. From my position you could see out the door. My fever raged on. In my experience, fevers have always heightened my senses. The reason I found for that phenomenon was that it was only during times of sickness that I bother to lie down and simply experience the multiple sensations opened to me. Lying in a sick bed, there is nothing to take into account but your body, and what it feels. Thus, in sickness, I am open to feel. I am open to see, to smell, to taste, (whatever taste is left) and to hear. We take sensation for granted. It's as if the world is for us to grasp, but we forget that in reality, it is the world that grasps us.

Dedicate Home (Sharing Observed Poverty) 3

A Personal and Observed Poverty: A Narrative (Part 3)

The only real problem I had with the whole teaching encounter was the lack of funds. Lesson plans, lesson guides, and evaluation forms supposedly given daily were delayed week after week because the parish program didn't have enough resources to reproduce the documents. Finally we volunteers decided to reproduce the documents out of our own pockets, just to ensure the proper working of the program. It was a small price to pay in any case. Another problem was that some children would go to class without taking lunch, because of one reason or another. It's an odd thing, seeing hungry children; some cry, some sit at the corner and say not a word, some try satiating themselves by sucking the dirt from their fingers, and others blatantly ask if I have food. It was at times like these that the seeds of Liberation Theology began to sprout in me. I talked about a loving God who provided for his people, and when asked how God provides for his people, all my students could say was that they were protected by their parents, and that they had friends. Maybe the reason why the urban poor's paradigm is so very social is precisely because there is a definite lack, and all you can turn to in times of need are people close to you, and a God who seemingly never answers your prayers. As one of my students once said, "Mahal tayo ng Diyos KAHIT NA HINDI TAYO MAYAMAN (God loves us even though we are poor). Binigyan niya tayo ng mga nagmamahal sa atin, mga kadamay sa mundo (He gave us people who love us, and people who share our situation)." It's a shame that he thinks God loves them DESPITE their poverty. In the eyes of my students, the eyes of innocents, poverty is disordered. Their condition is disordered. It is not a natural condition. It is supposed to be the other condition, not THE condition. If these children can see it, why can't we? Saying that God loves us no matter our social standing would only serve to confuse them. How can a God who loves us equally allow inequality to exist? Even if inequality is man's invention, how could he allow man to create such harsh conditions for his neighbor? As for the children's hunger of that moment, what else could I do but buy simple snacks or bring crackers and tea (yes, tea. I was a weird kid.) The kids especially loved those 10 peso packs of spicy Oishi. 3 or 4 of the kids would share a pack and walk happily home after class.

Dedicate Home (Sharing Observed Poverty) 2

A Personal and Observed Poverty: A Narrative (Part 2)

I taught catechism to young children of ages of 7-12. My post was the communities' city run day care center, which was basically a room on the ground floor of a 2 storey concrete structure. The room was small. It was about six square meters, and had 2 windows and a door. One window was facing Adriatico, and the other window, along with the door, was facing the fronting unnamed eskinita. The educational tools available were merely a table, a stack of chairs, and a bookshelf filled with books much too complicated for children of such a young age to understand, and thus for the most part, they were left unused. As an example: The first copy of Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace that I had read was from said bookshelf. It's ironic really, the day care worker who was assigned to assist me said to me that the books were donations from the city government. If the government expects day care students to read Tolstoy and Austen, then they have no idea about the current educational system. The classes I taught were from 2 to 4. 20 kids per class, 2 classes a day. It was easy to motivate the kids, and I had no problems with attendance. They all came day after day for the 3 weeks we were supposed to be together. If anything, what made me return there daily (sans a few absences on my part) was the expression on the children's faces after a heartwarming lesson. The senior instructors had warned me that teaching the younger batch would be difficult, but I didn't mind the awkward questions (nagdudugo pa ba si Jesus?) and the indiscriminate quarrel between classmates now and again. They were children, and it was precisely this fact that made teaching Catechism all the more easy. These children believed in what I taught, and were ready to accept the willful behavior dictated by adopting the Catholic faith. It may seem shallow, but a single "magagalit si Jesus" would be enough to tear quarrelers apart. This simple naiveté, a simplistic fear of God is precisely what in that moment would bring them to heaven versus me to purgatory.

I taught catechism to young children of ages of 7-12. My post was the communities' city run day care center, which was basically a room on the ground floor of a 2 storey concrete structure. The room was small. It was about six square meters, and had 2 windows and a door. One window was facing Adriatico, and the other window, along with the door, was facing the fronting unnamed eskinita. The educational tools available were merely a table, a stack of chairs, and a bookshelf filled with books much too complicated for children of such a young age to understand, and thus for the most part, they were left unused. As an example: The first copy of Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace that I had read was from said bookshelf. It's ironic really, the day care worker who was assigned to assist me said to me that the books were donations from the city government. If the government expects day care students to read Tolstoy and Austen, then they have no idea about the current educational system.

The classes I taught were from 2 to 4. 20 kids per class, 2 classes a day. It was easy to motivate the kids, and I had no problems with attendance. They all came day after day for the 3 weeks we were supposed to be together. If anything, what made me return there daily (sans a few absences on my part) was the expression on the children's faces after a heartwarming lesson. The senior instructors had warned me that teaching the younger batch would be difficult, but I didn't mind the awkward questions (nagdudugo pa ba si Jesus?) and the indiscriminate quarrel between classmates now and again. They were children, and it was precisely this fact that made teaching Catechism all the more easy. These children believed in what I taught, and were ready to accept the willful behavior dictated by adopting the Catholic faith. It may seem shallow, but a single "magagalit si Jesus" would be enough to tear quarrelers apart. This simple naiveté, a simplistic fear of God is precisely what in that moment would bring them to heaven versus me to purgatory.

A Horse and His Boy

I just had the oddest day today... I'd like to thank my fellow Psychistas Fran, Erika and Patrick for a truly awkward day. Depravity when taken in discourse becomes hobby. While at the smocket, Fran Erika and I talked about all sorts of depravities. Gossip, priestly pedophiles, child molestation and rape, teacher student relations, (and of course the psychological basis and psycho-social effects of said events on the human psyche.)

Then we started talking about "2 girls 1 cup." OMG. WTH.
Then we started talking about "Mr. Hands." OMG. WTF.

Then out of curiosity, we watched the videos. On campus. >:)
It was the weirdest day of my life. We walked around campus looking for a secluded spot to watch the videos. >.< I swear... we never did anything like this in DLSU... it's just like highschool.

Those videos changed my life forever.
THAT was depraved.
Of course it was all taken in a discursive sense. We analyzed it all, but still... WTF!?!?!?!


Watch this. There are lots of these on Youtube. These are initial reactions to watching Mr. Hands... Mr. Hands died after his little stunt... he ruptured his colon. There was something seriously wrong with that man, and all we can do is treat him like entertainment... There's something wrong with that.

The Dead on Rainy Days

It's raining... on the hill... rain... hill... rain... hill... water flows down the steeps and slides of grass and sandy sides. They drain into the barred pits that lead to lower chambers. There, the water bids them wake. The corpses flood out from the earth's belly onto the brick layered path on the hill. Victims of the canine's bite. Floating bodies that seek to share their undead fate. We of the hill hide in fear. The dead do come on rainy days.

Stephen King on Stephanie Meyer

Stephen King:
"Both Rowling and Meyer, they're speaking directly to young people... The real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can't write worth a darn. She's not very good."

=) I love Stephen King.

The *maniacal laughter* Senate

This will be unbased and useless. (Just like the institution this wishes to critique.)

Philstar Headline:
SENATORS WANT HEADS TO ROLL AT SEC

The Headline in My Head:
PEOPLE NEED SENATORS' HEADS TO ROLL