Friday, September 17, 2004
I think I'm buying flowers for the pad tomorrow, and for mom when I visit her on Sunday. What the hey... anything to make me feel good. Flowers in the room are always nice.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
I think I'm buying flowers for the pad tomorrow, and for mom when I visit her on Sunday. What the hey... anything to make me feel good. Flowers in the room are always nice.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
I think I'm buying flowers for the pad tomorrow, and for mom when I visit her on Sunday. What the hey... anything to make me feel good. Flowers in the room are always nice.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
6:13 PM |
Bored, and Some Other Things
Sometimes, when you have a public blog, you have to know which things to keep out, and which things to keep in.
-- Anonymous Blogger
But who really gives a shit? I
want to feel naked to the world. My life has always been an open book anyway. And generally, bloggers tend to post their most searing epiphanies and emotional battle scars online (see Wanggo Gallaga's exquisite rants in
The Flight of the Rocketman), while strangely keeping happy moments off the Net. My Chesire Cat of
Connect the Dots, for example, has yet to blog about her Palanca Award for her poetry. We had a nice exchange via text messaging the other weekend about her burgundy dress for the bash at the Manila Pen, but I still want something longish to chronicle her experience during the awards night. So far,
wala pa. I texted her about it, and she says she's too busy living in the real world. Why is that always the case? Same with me, as well. I tend
not to post when something really important happens. But when I'm bored,
hello Blogger, here I come.
Which is really a nice segue to say what I really want to say:
I am so fucking bored. I am so bored I'm like one of those Energizer bunnies, but this time in need of new batteries. I'm still banging those damn cymbals, ever so slowly now, but I need juice.
So, of course, you might be wondering why I said, just the other day, that I felt strangely happy. Blame Debarge. And Bubu's birthday. (We celebrated his birthday over dinner somewhere nice -- but he was nursing a terrible cold, so it wasn't quite as romantic as I would have wanted it to be.)
Pero cute
naman when you're taking care of your S.O.,
no? My maternal instincts took over last night while we were trying to go to sleep and he was sniffling like there was no tomorrow, and it was nice in a weird, caregiver kind of way.
My mood for the past few weeks, though, ever since I turned 28 (again), has generally been sour. Internally, that is. To the rest of the world, I am soooo sunny, I could kill myself.
"
Hala, si Ian, angst-ridden
na naman," you might say. "How retro."
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I want to dig up my old VHS copies of Ben Stiller's
Reality Bites and Cameron Crowe's
Singles, and mope ...
beautifully.
The truth: I don't know what to do anymore. I'm in a limbo. I'm listless, and I've been spending way too much time in bed when I should be doing something worthwhile, like painting, or taking up photography again, or directing a play, or writing. Or formulating escape plans to get away from this slowly-imploding, God-forsaken country.
But no... I have surrendered to hopeless routine instead. My classes this semester have generally been uninspired, because most of the good students already enrolled last summer, and I'm left with the boring ones. (I would know. I was
the summer literature teacher. And I had a great time teaching those summer kids. That's why I love summer classes. They're always a booster to my academic juice. First semesters, on the other hand, have always been downers.)
I haven't written anything worthwhile for more than a year now. I tried my hand at science fiction -- about how, in the future, they cloned Rizal from a tuff of his hair hidden away in that
lamparilla of his which one of his sisters stole away during the hero's last day in Intramuros; only to find out that the cloned Rizal was, in fact, a woman -- but the finished draft is flat and uninspired. I have a thousand ideas in my head, but I'm always tired to even contemplate sitting down and developing any of them.
I am always tired these days, saddles with the baggage of expectations. There seems to be no time at all to be creative. All of my energies have been focused on studies, and work, and M. And then all I really do is watch
Oprah and
Amazing Race and
Blind Date and
Sex and the City ... I feel I don't own my life anymore. I feel divorced from my reality, and my old aspirations.
(Sighing dramatically.)There's a reason why I'm putting all of these delicate things down online. I've always believed that words have the power of exorcism. I'm writing all these down in my blog because I want to feek free of them in real life.
The other day, walking around Lee Super Plaza like a zombie, I decided to go to the Books Section, but discarded most of the things I saw.
I have too many books at home already, I said.
I can't be buying another one. But there was one book that caught my attention.
Brian Morton's
Starting Out in the Evening. It feels good, this book. It's so sly in the way it makes you identify with the characters. The language is simple and, in a sense, elegant, and the prose occasional flares with beautiful insight. It makes me want to go back to writing again.
My only hope now is this rising tenderness in me, this slowly swirling desire to move. I'm taking deep breaths. I'm slowly getting excited to get up from my protracted bout of slothfulness. By God, I can do this.
I can.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
6:13 PM |
Bored, and Some Other Things
Sometimes, when you have a public blog, you have to know which things to keep out, and which things to keep in.
-- Anonymous Blogger
But who really gives a shit? I
want to feel naked to the world. My life has always been an open book anyway. And generally, bloggers tend to post their most searing epiphanies and emotional battle scars online (see Wanggo Gallaga's exquisite rants in
The Flight of the Rocketman), while strangely keeping happy moments off the Net. My Chesire Cat of
Connect the Dots, for example, has yet to blog about her Palanca Award for her poetry. We had a nice exchange via text messaging the other weekend about her burgundy dress for the bash at the Manila Pen, but I still want something longish to chronicle her experience during the awards night. So far,
wala pa. I texted her about it, and she says she's too busy living in the real world. Why is that always the case? Same with me, as well. I tend
not to post when something really important happens. But when I'm bored,
hello Blogger, here I come.
Which is really a nice segue to say what I really want to say:
I am so fucking bored. I am so bored I'm like one of those Energizer bunnies, but this time in need of new batteries. I'm still banging those damn cymbals, ever so slowly now, but I need juice.
So, of course, you might be wondering why I said, just the other day, that I felt strangely happy. Blame Debarge. And Bubu's birthday. (We celebrated his birthday over dinner somewhere nice -- but he was nursing a terrible cold, so it wasn't quite as romantic as I would have wanted it to be.)
Pero cute
naman when you're taking care of your S.O.,
no? My maternal instincts took over last night while we were trying to go to sleep and he was sniffling like there was no tomorrow, and it was nice in a weird, caregiver kind of way.
My mood for the past few weeks, though, ever since I turned 28 (again), has generally been sour. Internally, that is. To the rest of the world, I am soooo sunny, I could kill myself.
"
Hala, si Ian, angst-ridden
na naman," you might say. "How retro."
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I want to dig up my old VHS copies of Ben Stiller's
Reality Bites and Cameron Crowe's
Singles, and mope ...
beautifully.
The truth: I don't know what to do anymore. I'm in a limbo. I'm listless, and I've been spending way too much time in bed when I should be doing something worthwhile, like painting, or taking up photography again, or directing a play, or writing. Or formulating escape plans to get away from this slowly-imploding, God-forsaken country.
But no... I have surrendered to hopeless routine instead. My classes this semester have generally been uninspired, because most of the good students already enrolled last summer, and I'm left with the boring ones. (I would know. I was
the summer literature teacher. And I had a great time teaching those summer kids. That's why I love summer classes. They're always a booster to my academic juice. First semesters, on the other hand, have always been downers.)
I haven't written anything worthwhile for more than a year now. I tried my hand at science fiction -- about how, in the future, they cloned Rizal from a tuff of his hair hidden away in that
lamparilla of his which one of his sisters stole away during the hero's last day in Intramuros; only to find out that the cloned Rizal was, in fact, a woman -- but the finished draft is flat and uninspired. I have a thousand ideas in my head, but I'm always tired to even contemplate sitting down and developing any of them.
I am always tired these days, saddles with the baggage of expectations. There seems to be no time at all to be creative. All of my energies have been focused on studies, and work, and M. And then all I really do is watch
Oprah and
Amazing Race and
Blind Date and
Sex and the City ... I feel I don't own my life anymore. I feel divorced from my reality, and my old aspirations.
(Sighing dramatically.)There's a reason why I'm putting all of these delicate things down online. I've always believed that words have the power of exorcism. I'm writing all these down in my blog because I want to feek free of them in real life.
The other day, walking around Lee Super Plaza like a zombie, I decided to go to the Books Section, but discarded most of the things I saw.
I have too many books at home already, I said.
I can't be buying another one. But there was one book that caught my attention.
Brian Morton's
Starting Out in the Evening. It feels good, this book. It's so sly in the way it makes you identify with the characters. The language is simple and, in a sense, elegant, and the prose occasional flares with beautiful insight. It makes me want to go back to writing again.
My only hope now is this rising tenderness in me, this slowly swirling desire to move. I'm taking deep breaths. I'm slowly getting excited to get up from my protracted bout of slothfulness. By God, I can do this.
I can.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
6:13 PM |
Bored, and Some Other Things
Sometimes, when you have a public blog, you have to know which things to keep out, and which things to keep in.
-- Anonymous Blogger
But who really gives a shit? I
want to feel naked to the world. My life has always been an open book anyway. And generally, bloggers tend to post their most searing epiphanies and emotional battle scars online (see Wanggo Gallaga's exquisite rants in
The Flight of the Rocketman), while strangely keeping happy moments off the Net. My Chesire Cat of
Connect the Dots, for example, has yet to blog about her Palanca Award for her poetry. We had a nice exchange via text messaging the other weekend about her burgundy dress for the bash at the Manila Pen, but I still want something longish to chronicle her experience during the awards night. So far,
wala pa. I texted her about it, and she says she's too busy living in the real world. Why is that always the case? Same with me, as well. I tend
not to post when something really important happens. But when I'm bored,
hello Blogger, here I come.
Which is really a nice segue to say what I really want to say:
I am so fucking bored. I am so bored I'm like one of those Energizer bunnies, but this time in need of new batteries. I'm still banging those damn cymbals, ever so slowly now, but I need juice.
So, of course, you might be wondering why I said, just the other day, that I felt strangely happy. Blame Debarge. And Bubu's birthday. (We celebrated his birthday over dinner somewhere nice -- but he was nursing a terrible cold, so it wasn't quite as romantic as I would have wanted it to be.)
Pero cute
naman when you're taking care of your S.O.,
no? My maternal instincts took over last night while we were trying to go to sleep and he was sniffling like there was no tomorrow, and it was nice in a weird, caregiver kind of way.
My mood for the past few weeks, though, ever since I turned 28 (again), has generally been sour. Internally, that is. To the rest of the world, I am soooo sunny, I could kill myself.
"
Hala, si Ian, angst-ridden
na naman," you might say. "How retro."
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I want to dig up my old VHS copies of Ben Stiller's
Reality Bites and Cameron Crowe's
Singles, and mope ...
beautifully.
The truth: I don't know what to do anymore. I'm in a limbo. I'm listless, and I've been spending way too much time in bed when I should be doing something worthwhile, like painting, or taking up photography again, or directing a play, or writing. Or formulating escape plans to get away from this slowly-imploding, God-forsaken country.
But no... I have surrendered to hopeless routine instead. My classes this semester have generally been uninspired, because most of the good students already enrolled last summer, and I'm left with the boring ones. (I would know. I was
the summer literature teacher. And I had a great time teaching those summer kids. That's why I love summer classes. They're always a booster to my academic juice. First semesters, on the other hand, have always been downers.)
I haven't written anything worthwhile for more than a year now. I tried my hand at science fiction -- about how, in the future, they cloned Rizal from a tuff of his hair hidden away in that
lamparilla of his which one of his sisters stole away during the hero's last day in Intramuros; only to find out that the cloned Rizal was, in fact, a woman -- but the finished draft is flat and uninspired. I have a thousand ideas in my head, but I'm always tired to even contemplate sitting down and developing any of them.
I am always tired these days, saddles with the baggage of expectations. There seems to be no time at all to be creative. All of my energies have been focused on studies, and work, and M. And then all I really do is watch
Oprah and
Amazing Race and
Blind Date and
Sex and the City ... I feel I don't own my life anymore. I feel divorced from my reality, and my old aspirations.
(Sighing dramatically.)There's a reason why I'm putting all of these delicate things down online. I've always believed that words have the power of exorcism. I'm writing all these down in my blog because I want to feek free of them in real life.
The other day, walking around Lee Super Plaza like a zombie, I decided to go to the Books Section, but discarded most of the things I saw.
I have too many books at home already, I said.
I can't be buying another one. But there was one book that caught my attention.
Brian Morton's
Starting Out in the Evening. It feels good, this book. It's so sly in the way it makes you identify with the characters. The language is simple and, in a sense, elegant, and the prose occasional flares with beautiful insight. It makes me want to go back to writing again.
My only hope now is this rising tenderness in me, this slowly swirling desire to move. I'm taking deep breaths. I'm slowly getting excited to get up from my protracted bout of slothfulness. By God, I can do this.
I can.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Thursday, September 16, 2004
11:01 AM |
Rain is Orgasmic
I'm strangely happy today. Must have been the sporadic rain in Dumaguete lately. It has not rained in Dumaguete for quite some time -- a perplexing, dry extension of summer. Whenever I turned on the TV for news and I'd hear about the floods in China, the gales over Manila, the hurricane havoc over Florida and the Carribean, I'd ask myself:
Rain, what rain? The last time there was a typhoon in Dumaguete was in 1993 or thereabouts. That one came with such viciousness, but the people of Dumagueute -- unsure over what to do in such circumstances -- just went about their day like it was just another day. I went to the movies that day, for example, and saw Rob Reiner's
When Harry Met Sally...in Ever Theater. In the darkness of the theater, I found my brothers and their barkada, too, eating popcorn and throwing kernels at the screen. On the way home on a lazy pedicab, the wind was pulling out everything. Trees were flying about, and what-not. The pedicab driver and I were looking around, bemused.
How cute, I said.
That was what I said, too, when I went to Manila last year for the Palanca, and another hurricane was making Manila a Third World version of Venice. I remember I was stuck in a taxicab on the way to my hotel from the airport, and flood water was all around us. I could hear the water lapping at the bottom of the car. I told myself,
Hala, parang boat ang taxi! and beamed. It was just so cute.
That's me, Dumaguete Boy. Knows only summer all year around.
But the rain is starting to come back
naman, mostly at night when everybody else has gone to bed. Except for an insomniac like me. The pitter-patter last night was cold comfort. I love the rain. This morning, when I woke up, I felt refreshed. I was smiling.
Or maybe I feel good because I woke up to the sound of Debarge's
Who's Holding Donna Now filling the entire apartment. No better morning music than this 80's hit. My bubu was dancing about the pad, naked, lip-synching to the song.
Give him that, I said to myself, smiling.
Today is his birthday after all.Happy Birthday, M. Trust me, being 21 is orgasmic.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
11:01 AM |
Rain is Orgasmic
I'm strangely happy today. Must have been the sporadic rain in Dumaguete lately. It has not rained in Dumaguete for quite some time -- a perplexing, dry extension of summer. Whenever I turned on the TV for news and I'd hear about the floods in China, the gales over Manila, the hurricane havoc over Florida and the Carribean, I'd ask myself:
Rain, what rain? The last time there was a typhoon in Dumaguete was in 1993 or thereabouts. That one came with such viciousness, but the people of Dumagueute -- unsure over what to do in such circumstances -- just went about their day like it was just another day. I went to the movies that day, for example, and saw Rob Reiner's
When Harry Met Sally...in Ever Theater. In the darkness of the theater, I found my brothers and their barkada, too, eating popcorn and throwing kernels at the screen. On the way home on a lazy pedicab, the wind was pulling out everything. Trees were flying about, and what-not. The pedicab driver and I were looking around, bemused.
How cute, I said.
That was what I said, too, when I went to Manila last year for the Palanca, and another hurricane was making Manila a Third World version of Venice. I remember I was stuck in a taxicab on the way to my hotel from the airport, and flood water was all around us. I could hear the water lapping at the bottom of the car. I told myself,
Hala, parang boat ang taxi! and beamed. It was just so cute.
That's me, Dumaguete Boy. Knows only summer all year around.
But the rain is starting to come back
naman, mostly at night when everybody else has gone to bed. Except for an insomniac like me. The pitter-patter last night was cold comfort. I love the rain. This morning, when I woke up, I felt refreshed. I was smiling.
Or maybe I feel good because I woke up to the sound of Debarge's
Who's Holding Donna Now filling the entire apartment. No better morning music than this 80's hit. My bubu was dancing about the pad, naked, lip-synching to the song.
Give him that, I said to myself, smiling.
Today is his birthday after all.Happy Birthday, M. Trust me, being 21 is orgasmic.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
11:01 AM |
Rain is Orgasmic
I'm strangely happy today. Must have been the sporadic rain in Dumaguete lately. It has not rained in Dumaguete for quite some time -- a perplexing, dry extension of summer. Whenever I turned on the TV for news and I'd hear about the floods in China, the gales over Manila, the hurricane havoc over Florida and the Carribean, I'd ask myself:
Rain, what rain? The last time there was a typhoon in Dumaguete was in 1993 or thereabouts. That one came with such viciousness, but the people of Dumagueute -- unsure over what to do in such circumstances -- just went about their day like it was just another day. I went to the movies that day, for example, and saw Rob Reiner's
When Harry Met Sally...in Ever Theater. In the darkness of the theater, I found my brothers and their barkada, too, eating popcorn and throwing kernels at the screen. On the way home on a lazy pedicab, the wind was pulling out everything. Trees were flying about, and what-not. The pedicab driver and I were looking around, bemused.
How cute, I said.
That was what I said, too, when I went to Manila last year for the Palanca, and another hurricane was making Manila a Third World version of Venice. I remember I was stuck in a taxicab on the way to my hotel from the airport, and flood water was all around us. I could hear the water lapping at the bottom of the car. I told myself,
Hala, parang boat ang taxi! and beamed. It was just so cute.
That's me, Dumaguete Boy. Knows only summer all year around.
But the rain is starting to come back
naman, mostly at night when everybody else has gone to bed. Except for an insomniac like me. The pitter-patter last night was cold comfort. I love the rain. This morning, when I woke up, I felt refreshed. I was smiling.
Or maybe I feel good because I woke up to the sound of Debarge's
Who's Holding Donna Now filling the entire apartment. No better morning music than this 80's hit. My bubu was dancing about the pad, naked, lip-synching to the song.
Give him that, I said to myself, smiling.
Today is his birthday after all.Happy Birthday, M. Trust me, being 21 is orgasmic.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
10:42 AM |
Poor Americans...
Ain't this the truth? For a clearer picture of things, click
here.
[via
calvin wetzel]
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
10:42 AM |
Poor Americans...
Ain't this the truth? For a clearer picture of things, click
here.
[via
calvin wetzel]
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
10:42 AM |
Poor Americans...
Ain't this the truth? For a clearer picture of things, click
here.
[via
calvin wetzel]
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
1:27 PM |
Bunny Horror
The Exorcist! The Shining! Titanic! Alien! Jaws! Played by bunnies! This has got to be the funniest find I've had in the Net in a long, long time.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
1:27 PM |
Bunny Horror
The Exorcist! The Shining! Titanic! Alien! Jaws! Played by bunnies! This has got to be the funniest find I've had in the Net in a long, long time.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
1:27 PM |
Bunny Horror
The Exorcist! The Shining! Titanic! Alien! Jaws! Played by bunnies! This has got to be the funniest find I've had in the Net in a long, long time.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
1:10 PM |
Top 10 Christian Break-up Lines
1. "I'm sorry, I've found someone more spiritual."
2. "I'm sorry, it's just not God's will."
3. "I feel called to the ministry -- very soon and very far from you as soon as possible."
4. "I'm sorry, it could never work. I'm a sanguine and you're a phlegmatic."
5. "God loves me and must have a better plan for my life."
6. "You know, I feel like I'm dating my brother."
7. "At least I got a lot out of our Bible studies together."
8. "You need someone with lower standards."
9. "I think we should just be prayer partners."
10. "I do love you, but it's just agape now"
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
1:10 PM |
Top 10 Christian Break-up Lines
1. "I'm sorry, I've found someone more spiritual."
2. "I'm sorry, it's just not God's will."
3. "I feel called to the ministry -- very soon and very far from you as soon as possible."
4. "I'm sorry, it could never work. I'm a sanguine and you're a phlegmatic."
5. "God loves me and must have a better plan for my life."
6. "You know, I feel like I'm dating my brother."
7. "At least I got a lot out of our Bible studies together."
8. "You need someone with lower standards."
9. "I think we should just be prayer partners."
10. "I do love you, but it's just agape now"
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
1:10 PM |
Top 10 Christian Break-up Lines
1. "I'm sorry, I've found someone more spiritual."
2. "I'm sorry, it's just not God's will."
3. "I feel called to the ministry -- very soon and very far from you as soon as possible."
4. "I'm sorry, it could never work. I'm a sanguine and you're a phlegmatic."
5. "God loves me and must have a better plan for my life."
6. "You know, I feel like I'm dating my brother."
7. "At least I got a lot out of our Bible studies together."
8. "You need someone with lower standards."
9. "I think we should just be prayer partners."
10. "I do love you, but it's just agape now"
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Sunday, September 12, 2004
11:17 PM |
See, Kakay? I Told You We'd Make It
One year...
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
11:17 PM |
See, Kakay? I Told You We'd Make It
One year...
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
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