Here I go again...

Here I go again...



Hummin': La-dee-dee-da-dum...

Warning: Long post...but it's rather interesting.

I had promised myself that I wouldn't watch soap operas ever again. I know, it sounds like a hasty decision, but read on and you will understand.

I was never the type to watch telenovelas and enjoy the similar, out-of-reality plots. But the first time that I tried watching a telenovela, I found myself a devoted follower, waiting like a hungry, salivating mutt for episode after episode (albeit in VCDs before the fever hit this country). I fell for the whole package (the story, the characters and all their paraphernalia) head over heels in loopy, psychopathic, fan-crazed love.

So after recovering from that "disorder", (it took me quite a while) I stayed away from any kind of novelas, whether they may be Spanish, Filipino, Chinese or Korean. I made sure that any kind of that mushy hodgepodge do not even come close to entering my system again. I just didn't want anything to do with it.

Then came the latest Korean-novela, Lovers in Paris.

No, I did not watch it on ABS-CBN, even when all my family members (except my bro) and friends religiously fawned over it every weeknight. Whenever the timeslot for that soap came around, I repeatedly told myself like an old woman gibbering a spiritual mantra, "It is better safe than sorry."

No one could have changed my mind.

...Or so I thought.


Lovers In Paris: The Collapse of my Resolution


I was strong, steadfast, determined. But the same culprit, who had me watching my first ever Chinovela, had me once again. Yesterday, my determination officially crumbled to pieces.

She excitedly proclaimed, "I have Lovers in Paris in VCD!!!"

And I replied without a hint of interest, "Uh-huh" and continued eating my lunch.

"Let's watch!" came the excited, high-pitch shrill of her voice.

"Uhm, NO."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to be hooked again...make that, EVER again." I meant it too.

"Arte mo ha..." Rebuffed but persistent, she tried again. "Come on, just try one episode."

"That's what I did the last time! I tried one and I ended up watching seasons 1 & 2, their other individual soaps, bought all their albums, spent thousands on concerts, squeezed myself in a press conference just to snap a few shots of him, transformed into a giddy fan who melted at pictures of them and became a moderator for a fansite!"

She got my point. "Ehhh..." was all she reasoned.

I thought I had won, but then I felt myself being dragged to the sofa.

It was deja vu. I still have that memory of her pulling me to the living room, making watch with her and translate what little Mandarin Chinese I could understand. "Sit and watch," she ordered.

I stood up. "Oh no...no, no, NO." I said it as firmly as I could.

"Sama mo..." She said, hurt was evident in her voice. "I always watch alone. Where's the fun in that if you don't have another person crying or laughing or gushing with you?" She sighed dejectedly.

"Hay nako...'wag mo akong dramahan." I wanted her to know I wasn't changing my mind, but my voice just didn't sound convincing enough.

"I've only watched a few of these episodes on TV, but I know it's really good. You'll like it, promise." When she's in this mood, it's hard to get her off your back.

"That's what I'm fearing," I confessed. One of her eyebrows raised up quizzically. "I'm afraid that I might like it TOO MUCH."

"Please? Please? Please? I don't want to watch alone..." She begged, her voice dropping to its knees and her eyes going all puppy-ish. "Please?"

The fourth one got me. I heaved out a sigh, sat my big tushie on the couch and motioned for her to start the DVD player.

We slept at 3:30 AM. I have paunchy eyebags and a sore throat.

Need I say more?



PS: My only consolation is that the story's engaging, but the guys aren't my type at all. At least I know I wouldn't be digging through sites for pictures of them anytime soon. LOL!

PPS: My sister's selling VCDs of Lovers In Paris. Anyone interested? Leave a tag. Hehe!

Hermit? Ermitanyo?

Hermit? Ermitanyo?



Silence.

I wonder why sometimes I find myself wanting to detach from this reality, from this world. I get this urge to close off all means of direct communication (e.g. cellphone, landline, instant messenger and the likes.) and spend the day without having a decent conversation with anyone.

I stare into space for hours, sometimes sitting in front of the screen, sometimes while lying on the bed--my thoughts swirling in an uncomprehensible dance of colors, each one emitting sparks as it hits another. It is during these times that I am able to find the inspiration to write, to create an extension of myself.

I play no music, not one that comes from the radio, the component or the computer. There wouldn't be drums, guitars or pianos to distract me from my short, precious time of solitude. It is during this time that I am able to fully appreciate the little sounds of everyday, fading as I zone out.

I hear the music of silence--soothing, reliable, tranquil.

There are times when I'd wish I wasn't living in such a busy, polluted city, but then, remembering all the malls I wouldn't be able to shop in changes my mind in an instant.

It's just sad that peace is one of the accessible comforts I have to give up.

Getting Hit On by the Taxi Driver

Getting Hit On by the Taxi Driver



Hummin': The angry buzzing of bees


Argh.

What's worse that having no one think you're pretty?!

Having a 30-ish, total stranger, taxi driver tell you that you are.

And I knew it's all BOGUS! I mean it...

He asked my age, my school, my province, my parents' occupation and my cellphone number! Not just that but he was asking when I'm free so he could fetch me in taxi and go on a date somewhere. Damn.

Then he started saying, "Mayaman ka ano?" (You're rich, huh?) Isn't that an obvious revelation that he might be a gold-digger who's running out of time? Being an old pedophile and all!?

Even when I refused to answer him, he kept insisting for my number and asking stuff about me. Can't he understand that a grunt usually means a person is not interested??? Damn.

I was sweating bullets despite the cold blast of aircon. And I was totally panicking inside my head. I was involuntarily conjuring up worst case scenarios in my mind, and planning (if ever I would need to) how I could jump off the taxi without getting killed. (OA eh noh?)

I hated every second of the longest 30-minute ride of my life!

Arggggghhh!!! Watch out for this taxi--PWY 732.

Citrus Tears

Citrus Tears




They say, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."

It's a metaphor for saying that even when life throws you the worst things, you have to learn to cope with it and make the best out of it. You can deal with the hurt, the loss, but in the end, all you have to do is keep the lessons you've learned and move on.

As I was peeling an orange a while ago, some of the juice squirts got into my eye, and they stung like hell. I couldn't see for a while, and I blinked over and over again, hoping to rub the sour substance away.

After a few seconds, tears started spilling from that eye and I couldn't help it. I simply rubbed the tears away, while still trying to see from my right eye. But, just as fast as it came, the pain subsided and went away.

The painful incident didn't tell me to stop eating or peeling oranges for myself. Instead, it taught me that when peeling oranges, distance must be kept.

The same goes for life.

When trials come your way, you can shed a few tears, take what you can and then, you move on. You must pick yourself from the dirt, or the dark, and then, go on living a little wiser.

I have learned much more today than making orange juice out of oranges.

...I've learned that crying eases the pain away.

"Poet" in Doubt

"Poet" in Doubt



Hummin': Twelve Day of Xmas

I had my FA105 Introduction to Creative Writing Class today. My professor, Danilo Franciso M. Reyes, required us to write on a sheet of paper about books that we've read recently and how we felt about them.

At first, I was confident. I was thinking, oh yeah, I've read a couple of books just last week so this is going to be easy, but then just as I tried to remember what the titles were, my mind drew a blank. I couldn't remember the names of the authors nor the titles of the books.

Not even the lead characters names were retrievable from my memory bank. I mean, I could remember the plot, but names just eluded me at that point. I kept thinking, how could I forget all that? Didn't I read all 800++ pages of each story?

Afterwards, Sir Reyes began asking us about our favorite authors. The class wasn't quite responding as he hoped. No one wanted to volunteer an answer, so he asked, "Does anyone look up to J.K. Rowling?" As an avid Harry Potter reader sitting at the very side of the class, I nodded my head vigorously.

But my response went unnoticed. He asked again, perplexed, "Has anyone in this class of Creative Writing majors read Harry Potter?"

Silence.

I raised my left hand and looked around. My hand was the only one up. I couldn't believe it, and apparently, he didn't see it either. His eyebrows shot up to his hairline at the thought that these supposedly "writers" or wannabes didn't read Harry Potter.

"Well," he says, "What about your favorite poets?" His questions were again met by downward gazes and blank, uncertain stares. "None?"

From the silence, I assumed the same. He adds, "It's actually called name-dropping. And it helps to shut people up when you mention particular poets and you make them realize that you've read a lot of literature." He shakes his head and says, "How can you write poems when you don't have any favorite poems that you read?"

From that point on, I began questioning myself, shutting all other noise out.

I felt like I was a driftwood in the middle of the ocean, floating aimlessly.

I had written a lot of poems over the years, some were lost, some I had saved in a journal; but I admit that I don't have any "great" poets that I idolize. I just never took a liking to reading poetry that held too much air. There are just poems that even after reading and analyzing each layer and line, I still don't understand. I tend to classfiy those kinds of poems as mental garbles, or elitists.

I truly believe that if you want to express your feelings, you would express it in the way that most people would understand. Wouldn't it be practical to let other people understand what you have to say? Not just other people, but ordinary people who wouldn't be intimidated by all the high-falluting words. Do we not write because we want to convey what we keep deep inside?

I left the class still confused. Some of the so-called "great" poets tend to do this, drown the readers in all their intelligence and limitless vocabulary, and that makes me dislike their work. Could there be something wrong with me, as one who aspires that level of greatness? Can I even call myself a real poet? Or will I ever truly be one?

Could my indifference to what I think most writers idolize signify I have less passion and less ambition than they do? Could the yo-yo-ing in my craft mean that I don't love reading, or more importantly, writing as much as I should?

Hmmm...

Cellular

Cellular



Hummin': Father & Son by Cat Stevens

I suspected upon entering the cinema, that Cellular would just be another thriller with a rehashed plot. But I was surprised to see that this movie actually surpassed all my expectations.

The blending of action, suspense and a little comedy was just in the right proportions such that the outcome was a very interesting movie that made the audience gasp and laugh at particular scenes.

The film starts off with Jessica sending off her son to school. Then, the typical kidnapping at home with mean-looking thugs killing off the housemaid happens, and they take Jessica and deposits her in an attic. The lead captor played by Jason Statham comes in and smashes the phone with a baseball bat (which, for the sake of the plot, leaves the phone shell-less and in pieces, but somehow maintains the dial tone.) Then, he questions her about the whereabouts of her husband and the location of the mysterious "thing."

What's unique about this movie is that it manages to keep the kidnappers' motives hidden. And what the audience suspects to be what the husband is NOT telling his wife is more than what it seems.

Kim Basinger as Jessica Martin delivered an effective portrayal of a mother trying to save her family, with only the connection to Chris Evans as Ryan as their last resort for salvation. Ryan after hearing the threats and screams from the other end of the line, takes on the superhero role in the film, doing everything he can to keep in contact with Jessica. This is where most of the "thrills" come in.

I have to end here, so that I won't spoil the movie for those who are still going to watch it.

In totality, I think that the movie is worth every minute of your time and every cent of your money. Plus, it has great eyecandy (See sample above) to boot. ~_^