O' tongue that speaketh of no truth but lies;
Thou pierce the hearts with pain; people stricken
For every reason thy mouth testifies,
Thy deed maketh thy heart somber, frozen.
Hither thou create, yes, so small a lie.
Thither thy lie waxeth and succumb'th thee.
'Til thither's no more of thy soul to die
but given trust. Pureness will no more be
and thou wilt expect riddles from thy friends.
Yet they wist thy credibility is
Non-existent, and thy amity ends.
Repent thy shadowy deeds; and the bliss
will be offered by thy God; thou shalt gain
honor again. Thou shalt be free from bane.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Gi that Changes Character
(October 25, 2010 Tumblr Post)
I hurried up the winding stairs. I needed to get to the fifth floor of the building. My heart kept on pounding as if something unacceptable in my part were going to happen. Perhaps, this was just an ordinary reaction to going in an environment where there are no peers whom I know well. Or perhaps I was afraid that I might get embarrassed during the night. I breathed deeply as I arrived on the last floor, pacing, now relaxed. I opened the door and saw a familiar woman, conversing to another, fixing something inside her bag. I stepped in and rapidly bowed, saying, “Senpai, osu!”
“Osu!” she smilingly responded.
There were a few people in the waiting room. A child, on the secretary’s desk, was doing her cute things so childishly and confidently as if she were the daughter of the owner. Some boys in white were going out the classroom to the back of a divider, probably undressing their Gi. The environment was most awkward, especially when I don’t have a close acquaintance to chatter with while waiting. Senpai—that is how Karate students, or even Japanese, call their seniors—the woman whom I greeted earlier, was sitting on the other couch in front of me. I looked at her cheerful face and asked, “Senpai, is my Kimono already done?”
“Not yet,” she answered in Bisaya with wide eyes, “I believe you will have it next week.”
What a bummer! It had been a week since I ordered the uniform. They better make it fast. I, being in an awkward situation, focused my attention to the place, looking at the walls and frames with photos about aerobics, karate and ballet recitals, opening my bag as if I were to get something, finding something I do not know, and finally deciding to pick the bottled water. I drank. It is completely natural of me.
“Why were you absent last Thursday?” the woman said, again beaming, her usual expression whenever she talks to her students.
I did not know what to reason, for I felt my true reason was not valid. I could not tell her I felt awkward that day, that I feared I might have class with two black belts—those ones whom I do not know well or ones who are not so ideal to become my teachers for the night. I did not want to be a disturbance to those seniors (as I might slow their practice down for my being novice—like what happened last Tuesday, just this week, that I had to go home without asking permission, before the class commenced. I stammered and spoke in my dialect, “Uhmmm, I was not here, yeah…” For having such an unclear answer, my stare stuck on the floor, never wanting my lie to be detected through my tense eyes.
“We’re going home early tonight.” The woman informed me as I directed my sight on her with a mild facial expression. “Our barangay’s having a miting de abanse and we are to attend.”
“Ah, yes. I see that,” I responded, slightly beaming at her, never overly as she might think it insincere, “Our gym’s also having one tonight. The place’s really noisy when I passed by.”
Several people went out the classroom, young ones and one or two adults. I threw my glance at the classroom door and saw a sweaty brown man with a black belt on. I gave him a fast bow and an osu, exactly the same as I did earlier. After his reply, I sat down again on the cozy couch, trying to chill down and wait until my nervousness is extinguished by my own silence. I thought not about anything. It was pointless experiencing the same ordinary fear over and over again. It takes time to be accustomed to an environment and to its people as for me. I remained meek.
The middle-aged brown man informed me about my uniform and that I might be able to acquire it next week. His wife, the woman I conversed with, suggested that he give an absent student’s new Kimono to me as that student might not enter class until next month. And so mine, which will have probably been finished this following week, will be that student’s.
And so, with the woman’s very commanding manner of suggesting, the brown man offered to me the Kimono. How wonderful it is to hold such white clothes… and an obi. I felt so complete that time.
The woman urged, “Wear it now.”
Of course I was most uncomfortable to immediately wear the uniform before washing it. It’s new… and definitely unwashed. I saw ‘6 1/2’ scribbled on the Uwa-gi and on the Zubon, some colored marks still visible in some parts, and very short strands of red and green threads stuck.
“You can wear it there,” the woman pointed out the counter-slash-cabinet, just at the back of the settee I was on.
I went at once beside it. I tried to take my pants off, (and good heavens!) slow enough to be halted by the brown man (You wouldn’t try to take your clothes off at the pathway, now would you?)
I transferred to the other side of the room, where other students were putting on their gi. Having no knowledge on how to properly wear the uniform, I went back to seek the guidance of the woman or the brown man; but unfortunately both just got out from the waiting room. To home. I was too shy to call them and inquire about the kimono-wearing procedures. I paced through the room like an innocent child, wondering where his parents are.
In the room, there were other boys now preparing for the class. I had to ask assistance to a small, confident, playful, jovial purple-belt child in the age of 10 or 11… or 12. Now I seemed like an oblivious, naive, idiotic teenager dressed by a younger boy.
The boy made me twist my zubon as the back part was on my front. I took off the pants, the boy beholding my sensitive physique without any awkwardness, until I had it the right way. He tied the strings of my pants and tightened it, just enough, and then covered my upper body with the uwa-gi. I handed the obi to him and the boy strapped it around my waist, and knotted it finally.
“Thanks,” I said with my usual low-pitched, almost inaudible voice.
I was ready.
I entered the classroom and lined up with others. In my right were my seniors. I chose to be the leftmost, as I was the newest in the white belts; and before me was the only lad in t-shirt and jogging pants, who appeared meek. As the instructor scrutinized all of us, he saw this lad and ordered him to change places with me. We did, though that boy was my senior. I did not try glimpsing at him for I was uncomfortable taking his place. I was in my gi. And the whole period was almost uneasy.
I hurried up the winding stairs. I needed to get to the fifth floor of the building. My heart kept on pounding as if something unacceptable in my part were going to happen. Perhaps, this was just an ordinary reaction to going in an environment where there are no peers whom I know well. Or perhaps I was afraid that I might get embarrassed during the night. I breathed deeply as I arrived on the last floor, pacing, now relaxed. I opened the door and saw a familiar woman, conversing to another, fixing something inside her bag. I stepped in and rapidly bowed, saying, “Senpai, osu!”
“Osu!” she smilingly responded.
There were a few people in the waiting room. A child, on the secretary’s desk, was doing her cute things so childishly and confidently as if she were the daughter of the owner. Some boys in white were going out the classroom to the back of a divider, probably undressing their Gi. The environment was most awkward, especially when I don’t have a close acquaintance to chatter with while waiting. Senpai—that is how Karate students, or even Japanese, call their seniors—the woman whom I greeted earlier, was sitting on the other couch in front of me. I looked at her cheerful face and asked, “Senpai, is my Kimono already done?”
“Not yet,” she answered in Bisaya with wide eyes, “I believe you will have it next week.”
What a bummer! It had been a week since I ordered the uniform. They better make it fast. I, being in an awkward situation, focused my attention to the place, looking at the walls and frames with photos about aerobics, karate and ballet recitals, opening my bag as if I were to get something, finding something I do not know, and finally deciding to pick the bottled water. I drank. It is completely natural of me.
“Why were you absent last Thursday?” the woman said, again beaming, her usual expression whenever she talks to her students.
I did not know what to reason, for I felt my true reason was not valid. I could not tell her I felt awkward that day, that I feared I might have class with two black belts—those ones whom I do not know well or ones who are not so ideal to become my teachers for the night. I did not want to be a disturbance to those seniors (as I might slow their practice down for my being novice—like what happened last Tuesday, just this week, that I had to go home without asking permission, before the class commenced. I stammered and spoke in my dialect, “Uhmmm, I was not here, yeah…” For having such an unclear answer, my stare stuck on the floor, never wanting my lie to be detected through my tense eyes.
“We’re going home early tonight.” The woman informed me as I directed my sight on her with a mild facial expression. “Our barangay’s having a miting de abanse and we are to attend.”
“Ah, yes. I see that,” I responded, slightly beaming at her, never overly as she might think it insincere, “Our gym’s also having one tonight. The place’s really noisy when I passed by.”
Several people went out the classroom, young ones and one or two adults. I threw my glance at the classroom door and saw a sweaty brown man with a black belt on. I gave him a fast bow and an osu, exactly the same as I did earlier. After his reply, I sat down again on the cozy couch, trying to chill down and wait until my nervousness is extinguished by my own silence. I thought not about anything. It was pointless experiencing the same ordinary fear over and over again. It takes time to be accustomed to an environment and to its people as for me. I remained meek.
The middle-aged brown man informed me about my uniform and that I might be able to acquire it next week. His wife, the woman I conversed with, suggested that he give an absent student’s new Kimono to me as that student might not enter class until next month. And so mine, which will have probably been finished this following week, will be that student’s.
And so, with the woman’s very commanding manner of suggesting, the brown man offered to me the Kimono. How wonderful it is to hold such white clothes… and an obi. I felt so complete that time.
The woman urged, “Wear it now.”
Of course I was most uncomfortable to immediately wear the uniform before washing it. It’s new… and definitely unwashed. I saw ‘6 1/2’ scribbled on the Uwa-gi and on the Zubon, some colored marks still visible in some parts, and very short strands of red and green threads stuck.
“You can wear it there,” the woman pointed out the counter-slash-cabinet, just at the back of the settee I was on.
I went at once beside it. I tried to take my pants off, (and good heavens!) slow enough to be halted by the brown man (You wouldn’t try to take your clothes off at the pathway, now would you?)
I transferred to the other side of the room, where other students were putting on their gi. Having no knowledge on how to properly wear the uniform, I went back to seek the guidance of the woman or the brown man; but unfortunately both just got out from the waiting room. To home. I was too shy to call them and inquire about the kimono-wearing procedures. I paced through the room like an innocent child, wondering where his parents are.
In the room, there were other boys now preparing for the class. I had to ask assistance to a small, confident, playful, jovial purple-belt child in the age of 10 or 11… or 12. Now I seemed like an oblivious, naive, idiotic teenager dressed by a younger boy.
The boy made me twist my zubon as the back part was on my front. I took off the pants, the boy beholding my sensitive physique without any awkwardness, until I had it the right way. He tied the strings of my pants and tightened it, just enough, and then covered my upper body with the uwa-gi. I handed the obi to him and the boy strapped it around my waist, and knotted it finally.
“Thanks,” I said with my usual low-pitched, almost inaudible voice.
I was ready.
I entered the classroom and lined up with others. In my right were my seniors. I chose to be the leftmost, as I was the newest in the white belts; and before me was the only lad in t-shirt and jogging pants, who appeared meek. As the instructor scrutinized all of us, he saw this lad and ordered him to change places with me. We did, though that boy was my senior. I did not try glimpsing at him for I was uncomfortable taking his place. I was in my gi. And the whole period was almost uneasy.
The Mirage
(October 2, 2010 Tumblr Post)
Me: Unsa gani ka year imong birthday?
Me: 1993?
Friend: 2010! Hahahaha
Me: Eeeeeehhhhhhhh
Friend: 1994. Nanu mnx?
Me: (After how many minutes) Kailangan nako imong birthdate kay giprocess nako atong papers.
Friend: LOLx
Me: lol!
Friend: pra mirage contract. hahahaha
Me: (Searches the meaning of mirage in Encarta Dictionaries... means something illusory: something that appears to be real but is unreal or merely imagined... thinks for a while... "I've never heard of that term... Mirage Contract.")
Friend: (Goes offline)
Me: (After 30 mins. "Bummer! He meant... Marriage contract! Ha-ha-ha-ha!")
Me: Unsa gani ka year imong birthday?
Me: 1993?
Friend: 2010! Hahahaha
Me: Eeeeeehhhhhhhh
Friend: 1994. Nanu mnx?
Me: (After how many minutes) Kailangan nako imong birthdate kay giprocess nako atong papers.
Friend: LOLx
Me: lol!
Friend: pra mirage contract. hahahaha
Me: (Searches the meaning of mirage in Encarta Dictionaries... means something illusory: something that appears to be real but is unreal or merely imagined... thinks for a while... "I've never heard of that term... Mirage Contract.")
Friend: (Goes offline)
Me: (After 30 mins. "Bummer! He meant... Marriage contract! Ha-ha-ha-ha!")
Procrastination
(July 30, 2010 Tumblr Post)
I had my new Journal. I told you because you might wonder why I hadn’t visited this site anymore, or why I hadn’t posted anything for quite a while. I had my new Journal. I figured out it would be better to have immediate access like a notebook or somewhat, as ideas can be ephemeral and I could not always utilize the computer from time to time. With great ease, I am able to express everything in the new Journal, due to my not minding what words are proper or appropriate for me to say there. Unlike in sites like this, many might read and discover stuff that could be possibly used as a weapon to ruin my image or to shame my part. I could not say my new Journal would be safe from others, but a notebook full of records from a day-to-day interaction with the world is completely appealing to me; I don’t understand but its sight is beauty to me especially when it gets old and brown, it would be so classy. I don’t care if others might read it, but it would totally be pleasing to me that they could see a wondrous creation (well, that’s the other half of the readers’ probable reactions).
(I just had few things in my mind and I could’ve written them here, unfortunately I had that terrible deciding again not to because some people—-like my siblings/relatives—-might view this. I hate this. That is why I preferred writing in a notebook.)
This is not good-bye, totally. I will return when I have time being confident again to speak my mind here. This is funny. Hey, have I told some horrible things happened today? Yeah! You’ve got to know them. Uhmmm, you know I just had an awesome idea. I shall write my Journal here someday. Yes! I will.
I had my new Journal. I told you because you might wonder why I hadn’t visited this site anymore, or why I hadn’t posted anything for quite a while. I had my new Journal. I figured out it would be better to have immediate access like a notebook or somewhat, as ideas can be ephemeral and I could not always utilize the computer from time to time. With great ease, I am able to express everything in the new Journal, due to my not minding what words are proper or appropriate for me to say there. Unlike in sites like this, many might read and discover stuff that could be possibly used as a weapon to ruin my image or to shame my part. I could not say my new Journal would be safe from others, but a notebook full of records from a day-to-day interaction with the world is completely appealing to me; I don’t understand but its sight is beauty to me especially when it gets old and brown, it would be so classy. I don’t care if others might read it, but it would totally be pleasing to me that they could see a wondrous creation (well, that’s the other half of the readers’ probable reactions).
(I just had few things in my mind and I could’ve written them here, unfortunately I had that terrible deciding again not to because some people—-like my siblings/relatives—-might view this. I hate this. That is why I preferred writing in a notebook.)
This is not good-bye, totally. I will return when I have time being confident again to speak my mind here. This is funny. Hey, have I told some horrible things happened today? Yeah! You’ve got to know them. Uhmmm, you know I just had an awesome idea. I shall write my Journal here someday. Yes! I will.
The Plight
(August 18, 2010 Tumblr post)
Comparison is a great knowledge. It is knowing what you and others have in common or not. It is not to make faces fret, it is to make lips smile and people reflect; yet the ends of this knowledge are always dependent on the thinkers’ minds, whether they are set in optimism or grave envy (I wish in humongous hope, that you are in good set.) By this ability of seeing things, I discovered beauty and satisfaction; misery and frailty. These discoveries tend to amplify my young sympathy for others and having so several—or perhaps, infinite—encounters of people whom I regard as those in misery and frailty, I completely become saddened but spirited in reaching my own goals to provide help for the poor. Beggars (some with illnesses) everywhere in the city; mais vendors who roam different barangays, rain or shine just to earn; an old woman with a bad posture carrying a sack of bottles and cans on her back; honest sikad drivers, all of them I have seen and familiarized myself. How I adore them! They never resolved their problems with crime. And I am the one who longs for their own alleviation. I can envision giving them awards. If only I were wealthy, that vision would become so real in an instant. Their doing clean jobs in order to survive, simply conveys a matter so significant to all. When the minds of our own people were programmed with this ideal attribute, then how our country would prosper! And how our individual lives would be in eternal peace! That is, if that ever happened. But reality is thinking and accepting that the opposite of anything and everything is existent.
This reality I have not seen yet. Not in actual. I only have seen them on TV or heard on the radio, and they affect me but not to a degree so high. Being ordered by my sister to acquire something from my aunt who worked in the Hall of Justice, I felt much incredibly enthusiastic possibly because I always have been in the house for many months with only a few getting-out-of-the-house. Doing this is a plight I could say— even though it gave me slight gladness— due to the very small number of Carbide jeepneys in the city that I had to wait for hours. But thankfully, one came by the moment I stood to wait in front the Cathedral. A commonly small vehicle, I had to squeeze my legs for there was a fish vendor who brought at least 3 big pails of fish. I painstakingly avoided the touch of the containers for I am considerably disgusted by raw meat. Minutes later with the vendor already gone, the jeepney was already turning right away from Poprock. As the driver continued on that direction, he passed a van and I saw this boy of age not older than me and not very, very young either. At my first view, he was seemingly ordinary. I decided to scrutinize him and to my disheartening surprise, I learned he was holding right to his nose a brownish, translucent bottle with a fulvous liquid inside. He was smelling it… sniffing it. My eyes contracted and probed. I had not extinguished my hunger of investigating him yet. I scrutinized still, and I believe he had glanced at me once but I mattered to him not, peradventure. The vehicle moved farther as I pondered. It was bad. I saw it with my own eyes. And unbelievably, I felt a strange sense of accomplishment seeing him. Nevertheless, I told myself he must be hungry, he must be miserable, he must be lost. His mother might be sick, or he might have been abandoned. Whatever reason a person has, resorting to such an act is inexcusable. Was he influenced? Was he desperate? Does he seek attention? Is that all he knew in life? I tried to put myself in his situation but I cannot picture it out. I would cry, seriously, in thanking that I was not born to be him. I was glad that I have wisdom… enough wisdom to know how to handle downfalls… enough wisdom to be content. It was the feeling greatest of all, I certainly claim now. To have ever seen him is most touching. I urged myself to believe that he must be captured and brought to an institution that could forever change him. Soon he was out of sight, and I stared blankly at the bright, blue sky. Indeed, my journey this day was never a plight.
Comparison is a great knowledge. It is knowing what you and others have in common or not. It is not to make faces fret, it is to make lips smile and people reflect; yet the ends of this knowledge are always dependent on the thinkers’ minds, whether they are set in optimism or grave envy (I wish in humongous hope, that you are in good set.) By this ability of seeing things, I discovered beauty and satisfaction; misery and frailty. These discoveries tend to amplify my young sympathy for others and having so several—or perhaps, infinite—encounters of people whom I regard as those in misery and frailty, I completely become saddened but spirited in reaching my own goals to provide help for the poor. Beggars (some with illnesses) everywhere in the city; mais vendors who roam different barangays, rain or shine just to earn; an old woman with a bad posture carrying a sack of bottles and cans on her back; honest sikad drivers, all of them I have seen and familiarized myself. How I adore them! They never resolved their problems with crime. And I am the one who longs for their own alleviation. I can envision giving them awards. If only I were wealthy, that vision would become so real in an instant. Their doing clean jobs in order to survive, simply conveys a matter so significant to all. When the minds of our own people were programmed with this ideal attribute, then how our country would prosper! And how our individual lives would be in eternal peace! That is, if that ever happened. But reality is thinking and accepting that the opposite of anything and everything is existent.
This reality I have not seen yet. Not in actual. I only have seen them on TV or heard on the radio, and they affect me but not to a degree so high. Being ordered by my sister to acquire something from my aunt who worked in the Hall of Justice, I felt much incredibly enthusiastic possibly because I always have been in the house for many months with only a few getting-out-of-the-house. Doing this is a plight I could say— even though it gave me slight gladness— due to the very small number of Carbide jeepneys in the city that I had to wait for hours. But thankfully, one came by the moment I stood to wait in front the Cathedral. A commonly small vehicle, I had to squeeze my legs for there was a fish vendor who brought at least 3 big pails of fish. I painstakingly avoided the touch of the containers for I am considerably disgusted by raw meat. Minutes later with the vendor already gone, the jeepney was already turning right away from Poprock. As the driver continued on that direction, he passed a van and I saw this boy of age not older than me and not very, very young either. At my first view, he was seemingly ordinary. I decided to scrutinize him and to my disheartening surprise, I learned he was holding right to his nose a brownish, translucent bottle with a fulvous liquid inside. He was smelling it… sniffing it. My eyes contracted and probed. I had not extinguished my hunger of investigating him yet. I scrutinized still, and I believe he had glanced at me once but I mattered to him not, peradventure. The vehicle moved farther as I pondered. It was bad. I saw it with my own eyes. And unbelievably, I felt a strange sense of accomplishment seeing him. Nevertheless, I told myself he must be hungry, he must be miserable, he must be lost. His mother might be sick, or he might have been abandoned. Whatever reason a person has, resorting to such an act is inexcusable. Was he influenced? Was he desperate? Does he seek attention? Is that all he knew in life? I tried to put myself in his situation but I cannot picture it out. I would cry, seriously, in thanking that I was not born to be him. I was glad that I have wisdom… enough wisdom to know how to handle downfalls… enough wisdom to be content. It was the feeling greatest of all, I certainly claim now. To have ever seen him is most touching. I urged myself to believe that he must be captured and brought to an institution that could forever change him. Soon he was out of sight, and I stared blankly at the bright, blue sky. Indeed, my journey this day was never a plight.
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