An Exercise in ‘Understanding Lacrhymology’

(This is in solidarity with the international day to end impunity.)

An Exercise in ‘Understanding Lacrhymology’

We have learned in the previous chapter that, in sum, lachrymology is the study of crying. It is among the modern, therapeutic ways to find and to comprehend truths for the individual, the community, the society and the im/material threads that connect, that bind, that keep them, intact, together, whether they like it or not. Now, let us focus on

applied lachrymology, the branch of lachrymology that, as the name implies, deals with its applications in the everyday life of survival, struggle and even strangling of the self. You may practice by applying the anxiety-enlightenment formulae where

you divide the product of individual anxiety and degree of anxiety raised to the third power by the product of the average collective distance of sympathizers and summation of measurable dissent of candles lit during recorded commemorations--to gauge the anxiety-sincerity ratio and probability of in/justice. Now, apply what you have learned and find

the mass needed to accelerate justice with the force available, where force equals anxiety-sincerity ratio multiplied by political will over political awareness. Or, compute that which remains unknown. Choose

at least one of the following cases: 1.) the massacre of, say, 33 journalists, or, make that about 57 individuals (please use the default impunity variable to compute individual anxiety); 2.) one of the individual cases of enforced disappearances (please see Chapter 5: Variables for Particular Anxieties, and use them to compute

the relative amputation of human rights); 3.) one of the presidents who are yet to serve their terms in prison (please include a computation of the volume of arrogance and impunity by solving the angle of smug together with the area of the mug shot); or 4.) one of the hundreds of news of injustices in the past three days. Please show and share your solutions, as there are no similar means to solve problems such as these. Also remember

to 1.) cry regularly, as dry eyes that hold tears back--or has no tears to hold back--end up blinded as unwashed blunders block perception in the same way as excessive crying blurs reality; thus 2.) moderate crying, as over-fatigued eyes may see, if at all, little slivers of light--had light been shed; so 3.) watch out for those xanthous slivers of light that may pierce your cornea and may cause temporary damage to your optic nerves; and, 4.) as you go through difficulties such as these meta-mathematical dilemmas challenging your in/sanity, these digits that you do not really have to go through to understand the tenets of lachrymology, keep in mind that

with accuracy in dosages of fluids and the appropriate concentrated solution of tears and blood and sweat and the correct amount of nicotine and caffeine and philosophy and transcendence and people and dialectics, lachrymology applied to society shall have enough therapeutical effects and aftermaths on the collective unconscious that shall inevitably manifest in the conscious level of the collective material plane.

Shots of Postcards and the Mugshot. That Mugshot.

***Walanghiya, wala nang bukas kung maka-shameless plug alert! at, hindi,

hindi ho ako nakadaang komikon! di naman daw masaya! di ako bitter!***

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Glad that photographs [Melissa Abuga-a's photo album here] landing on my news feed informed me (hehe, I was informed, oops, tama na, cyber bullying is a cyber sin!) that my artworks are

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fortunate enough to reach Cambodia, printed on postcards as part

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of Piya Constantino's be/longing project for the Angkor Art Explo,

[source][this one's by Iggy Rodriguez; if you happen to have a copy of the komix Lihim ng mga Lespu, the Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo effigy photographed on the cover and the Lakbayan scene was designed, if I am not mistaken, by Rodriguez and the Ugatlahi Artist Collective. And, oh, let's end this brief entry with a mugshot, as I want to paint smiles on the faces of you visitors:]

[source says "(www.inquirer.net, photos taken from mugshots.com by Ernie Sarmiento)"][news/update] Now, back to cramming a lot of things. Thanks for dropping by. Must stay away from social-networking sites for a couple of days.

Crab People Power and the Heckler. And Mr. Howie.

Much has already been said about Philippine Collegian Editor-in-Chief Marjohara Tucay's "heckling" during Hillary Clinton's fans club meeting forum And, as I've expected, besides a/n (supposed) opportunity to open up the discussion about the Visiting Forces Agreement and the Mutual Defense Treaty and other issues relevant to Philippine society--and in this instance, sovereignty, it is also the chance of some people to air out their sentiments against UP, activism, and everything they hate in this world--except, of course the masters they un/consciously serve.

A "disruptive" incident of "heckling" is a chance for crab people to tell their fellow citizens to shut up and study and work and follow the template of a "normal" life of a "responsible," "law-abiding" citizen for the sake of peace and order and harmony and happiness and rainbows that this beautiful society offers its (sheeple) citizens, with the unconditional love of the United States and its fatherly and motherly bureaucrats that have nothing but the common good in mind. Right? Right. Sick.

At the risk of antagonizing the cultured, the civilized, the people who religiously obey the rule of the law written to contain dissent make us happy and guarantee our democracy and bring out the best in us so we may be successful and empowered, this, ano ba tawag dito, komix, titled "crab people power" is for the hecklers I admire. And this is also for the--uhm, as the chant in an episode of southpark goes--"crab people, crab people, taste like crab, talk like people." Serve the crab people! for breakfast! Kidding lang. Anway,

since there have already been exchanges of opinion regarding the matter, I may as well shut up and share the [facebook note] that had Mr. Howie Severino commenting and deleting his comments afterwards. I wonder what he was thinking as he clicked "enter" to participate in the discussion and "delete" to deny traces of insightful, wonderful words he spilled. Wondering whether that was how he was trained as a journalist, as well. Engage in a debate and remove evidences of the discussion, though aspiring journalists may learn a thing or two from the exchanges. Hm.. How responsible. How principled. Think before you click pala, ha. Lifted the note. I hope Ms. Alaysa Escandor doesn't mind:

***

Reflections on the heckling by Alaysa Escandor

That Hillary Clinton herself, the US Secretary of State, was heckled by a Filipino, and a young student journalist at that, triggered a debate of sorts on the role of journalists. The heckling was done by Marjohara Tucay, incumbent editor in chief of the Philippine Collegian, the student publication of the University of the Philippines.

A day after the heckling, he was interviewed by Mr. Howie Severino, whose insights include –

“Syempre, ang expectation sa isang mamamahayag ay hindi magprotesta kundi magtanong; Yung mga old-fashioned journalists katulad ko, yung training ay nagcocover; May choice ka dun, kung ano ang magiging action mo: mamahayag o protester.”

Okay, so there’s one huge, disturbing conjecture there – that journalists cannot participate in demonstrations. I wonder though where this conjecture has come from, because I don’t know of any code of ethics that bans journalists from protest actions. From receiving gifts and cash, certainly; from moonlighting, sure; from unfair means of information collection, yes. But never from heckling, demonstrations, rallies, strikes. These are, after all, based on the freedom of speech and expression – the very same rights upon which the entire of journalism is founded.

The freedoms that we have, the liberties that journalists like Mr. Severino enjoy, were won through wide and numerous protest actions. Martial law is a constant reminder of that.

It will perhaps surprise Mr. Severino that some of the best known journalists, some even more veteran than him, have actually been involved in demonstrations and other overt political acts. There was Marcelo del Pilar, also Plaridel, who did not just participate in demonstrations, but was part of a whole movement. There was Anna Politkovskaya, the well-loved Russian journalist who spoke fearlessly against Russia's "dirty war" in Chechnya. And who can forget Muntadhar al-Zaidi, the Iraqi journalist who threw both his shoes at then Pres. George Bush, all the while shouting “This is for the widows and orphans and all those killed in Iraq!" Al-Zaidi was declared a hero by his people.

It may surprise Mr. Severino even more that the alternative press and other prestigious media organizations – the Center for Media Freedom and Responsibility, the Center for Community Journalism and Development and the National Union of Journalists of the Philippines, for instance – often organize demonstrations and protest actions for various reasons: to commemorate the Maguindanao Massacre, to demand that justice be delivered to the victims of the massacre, to protest the 43 libel cases slapped by Mike Arroyo, to campaign against lay-offs and contractualization, to campaign for freedom of information, to march against censorship, among many others.

Well, in the first place, the heckling should never have been a matter to contend with. It was a public forum. And by definition, a forum should be open to contesting ideas and debates. The event was even described as “ground-breaking” by Clinton’s team precisely because it was supposedly more accessible to the youth. But it reeks of pretense to call the event a forum when there is an immediate clamp down on individuals who convey ideas that deviate from the usual polite, even worshipful, lines.

“Junk VFA! There is nothing mutual in the Mutual Defense Treaty!” These are valid, timely issues presented by Tucay. It would have been the opportune moment to discuss in-depth the repercussions and implications of current US-Philippine relations. But instead of Clinton addressing these concerns, or at least Mr. Severino permitting time for Tucay to expound on them, the student journalist was hurriedly whisked off with the clear goal of preventing another, in Mr. Severino’s term, “disruption.”

Like any other demonstration, the heckling was a created and symbolic event. What the heckling did was to expose the farce that was being played out on national television – the display of liberal democracy values, the supposed existence of freedoms, and the pretense of objective journalism. The heckling exposed it all for the travesty it was.

For all her declarations on protecting democracy, Clinton did not blink when, in a clear act of suppression, Tucay was led outside and barred from re-entering. Would the guards do the same if, instead of “Down with Imperialism!”, Tucay shouted “We love Hillary! We love the US!” while enthusiastically waving a placard that said “Onward with VFA and the Mutual Defense Treaty”?

Unlikely.

Tucay was removed from the forum because of the ideas he forwarded – ideas that did not sit well with Clinton and the existing powers-that-be that she represents or supports. And while she, and the forum’s two hosts, tried to appear magnanimous, the suppression that followed exposed their intolerance.

When artist Mideo Cruz’s Politeismo was censored, the banner call was to protect the “freedom for the thought we hate”. Columnist Raul Pangalangan quoted Atty. Robert Jackson to explain: “The freedom to differ is not limited to things that do not matter much. That would be a mere shadow of freedom. The test of its substance is the right to differ as to things that touch the heart of the existing order.”

Finally, however we many pretend that journalism is objective, the reality is, it is not. Journalism is rife with subjectivities and suppositions, and therefore, is ideological. It will never be objective or neutral.

Mr. Severino’s own biases and subjectivities were demonstrated in the questions he chose to ask Tucay in the aftermath of the heckling, and in the way he chose to frame the interview – “Yung training sa amin ay nagcocover, hindi tayo ang tumatayo sa gitna ng press con o public forum para magsisigaw. Ganito na ba ang orientation ng journalists sa generation mo?”

Perhaps it’s time that “old-fashioned journalists” like Mr. Severino come to recognize that journalism, being ideological, can either perpetuate the system or interrogate it. The question is – which side will he/they/ you be?

*see interview here --> http://www.gmanews.tv/video/99120/ntg-panayam-phl-collegian-editor-na-nanggulo-sa-clinton-forum

***

BTW, I have printscreened [?] comments from Mr. Severino's comments up until Mr. Kenneth Guda's notice that some comments have been deleted. If you've read the exchanges and you spot some errors or anything that doesn't seem right, please do not hesitate to inform me. And, no manipulation of the text whatsoever except for trying to make the screencap as readable as possible. :L Again, you may visit the [note] to view comments that I have failed to include. [to zoom in, right click and open link in a new tab. or, download nyo na lang, right click and save as...]

Reverence [iii]: Camila Vallejo

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*About REVERENCE: Posts labeled with reverence are photographs or images of people the resident of the carcosite admires like a fangurl. Entries such as this shall have no caption or labels, besides this caption that shall blankly describe what REVERENCE is. So blank that all you can do is wander via google about the featured entity and wonder. Well, this is, simply, a facade for fangurling; and an attempt to pretend that the label REVERENCE means something. Yes, hollow words, I know. Good day. By the way, there is a good chance that I am preparing or planning some sort of (private) hagiography for revered entities featured herein.*

[some solidarity with chile here][initial solidarity with chile here]

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***

10K mark update for the most viewed post! [news]

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References [i]: Disquiet [i]

*Posts labeled References re-imagine this present's imaginations in a perceived post-apocalyptic Philippines, called Persephone--a probable future if, together, we vicariously watch history unfold before our very eyes. Without doing anything. OR, go interpret in whatever way you want. Like the writer, the artist is dead anyway. Art won't win any Revolution, though it will, of course, inevitably, serve a purpose.*

Pandora's Boxes [xi]: The "111111 = 6 crowbars x subconscious and more" post

Er.. Believe it or not, I checked the previous "Pandora's Box(es)", and it is marked "[x]." Incidentally, it is--yes, it has been repeated a few, believe me, a very very very few times--11.11.11.11.11.

That's mm/dd/yy+hr:min, though the order does not really matter. And, oh, those are a lot of crowbars 1111111111 = ten (10) crowbars! Feel free to choose 1 and hit those motherfvckers with it! Pun intended! Lame pun, I know! (And, yeah, 11-11-11 was November 11, 1911 [I wonder, did they make a big fuss back then?], not this day, but to join the bandwagon, let's 111111!)

Let me then share with you what this post would like to recollect. As I've mentioned that I've been dreaming again in the previous post (that was also a post that kind of shamelessly plugs my entry [{this} is the link to the actual entry, or, search for the group "Dito sa Mundong Kiko" in Facebook and do what you want with your life, vote for my entry, for another entry, ignore this remark, whatever] into some sort of a contest but dont worry because I would not plague your feed with my plug as I would deactivate, again, my facebook account at approximately 3:33AM), and I consider most dreams as nightmares, and

no worse nightmare than the feeling of having a routine that makes life seem mundane. I have been feeling like a machine lately and I (re)connect or (re)relate this to the machine-man mishmash themes that I am often fond of. Such may be traced back as early as circa 2006.

The artwork herein was created waaay back. I was a computer science major. I had planned, haha, a series back then. I was young and ambitious, though now, I still try to go beyond what I thought I cannot, or so I thought--the difference is, I am not young anymore, as vital signs indicate deteriorating health, if not old age or both. Anyway,

at its inset is the "self" or the "character" in my entry for QBCCC volume one. And, another work in progress among piles of works remaining in progress has something to do with these things, with this recollection. That is all. Good day. Good 11.11.11.11.11.

Lengthy PS! This is also day when, as I've heard from the radio on the way home, Donaire was married. When asked why, he said because the number 111111 is lucky. When asked about his opinion regarding his wife wearing the wedding gown prior the wedding ceremony, he said he does not believe in superstition. Those statements are from the very same interview.

Is he delivering a punchline? Or-- I just don't ..get it (but, do I have to get it? Would I want to? Is it worth my time? Your time? Anyway!). Ugh, not worth thinking about, at least at this time. :L These evil, depressing, slash-other-people's wrists, hormonal times of anxiety.

PPS! As I've mentioned before, the september-october issue of UP Forum is up for [download]. Now, the articles have been uploaded, so, I'll update and link and all. My article on agri/cultural homogenization is [here], artworks [here], [here] and [here is a somewhat pixelated? pixelized? version]. Thank you.

Kiko ex Machina Dreams

I've emailed this to a contest, and I think it is quite obvious what the contest is all about. Hope they received my mail. It is a contest on Facebook where my account is only active when I am online. Just because. Because I am miserable. Kidding. Someone miserable cannot kid.

Anyway, this time, I would not campaign for my entry the way I spammed before (btw, I did not garner the most 'like' votes but the judges, who had 30% of the say, had mercy on me). Actually, I would not tell you to 'like' my entry at all, except in this post. I think one's final score depends on both the likes and the "vote" of Manix.

Another contest is another opportunity, or perhaps drive, to try being productive, as I have been otherwise the previous days. My system feels weaker. Stamina's not the same anymore. Way, way more powerless than before. Holy mother of the gods.

For some, sleep is something they yearn for--those insomniacs, and maybe junkies of all sorts who are having trouble sleeping. For me, sleep is something I'd rather not have. But on the average, I've spent at least six hours of this week's nights asleep--against my will, of course.

But hey, I've been dreaming again--or, maybe I am beginning to remember the dreams I had. Yet, I don't want dreams. I want to stay here. So, I'll try my best to not sleep tonight. It's 11.11.11 in a few.

Hands of (these) Time(s)

Finally, the September-October biodiversity issue of the UP Forum is out (out! hehe!). Download the issue [here], and if you have the luxury of time, please read the article "Agrobiodiversity and Monoculture Homogenization in Agri/Culture" from the pdf file and tell me what you think. Shared lo-reso versions of the published artworks in this blog entry. Above is "Shoot from a Bullet Wound," for "A Sacrifice for Future Generations: The Plight of Environment Conservationists in the Philippine," a feature article about slain taxonomist Leonard Co. He was not like those scientists who limit their studies in classrooms and laboratories, unlike so-called scholars who are nothing more than carreerists. To have a peek of how great a scientist (without having to acquire a PhD) he is, please [read one of bulatlat's articles] about the scientist of the people, another of the increasing number of deaths that have not been granted justice yet. [The previous blog entry] was all misery and nostalgia, so, let me reminisce a dead dream, then, if I may:

I remember how I could have been studying under UPLB's MS Environmental Science under a scholarship, had I chosen to pursue the sciences. Nope, no delusions of becoming a Leonard Co, as it is too late for me but maybe I can do things the way he did it, but I don't think I have enough courage of all-out serving the people--something way way way better than that laughable "all-out justice" the Palace is-- anyway. Besides considering factors such as time for artsy things, I was also worried about the consequences, had I chosen to pursue EnviSci and failed to finish the degree in two years time: I'd have to pay (re-pay? payback?) them back the same cost that they've spent on my studies, which means I'd do a sort of a downtrodden Philippines, by debt servicing for the rest of what is left of my life--

--given the situation in the university, where students compete for slots in large lecture classes that makes learning more difficult, given the fact that I had a bachelor's degree in the arts, so, I'd have to take undergrad biology courses, I thought my chances of finishing the MS in two years seem slimmer. So, again, risking sounding like a dick, I've passed the screening for the scholarship but I have to refuse the sciences, as I am worried of the risks, again, just as before: I've shifted from my BS Computer Science degree into a BA degree waaay back. And here I am, writing and drawing about technology and stuff. The irony. (Above is "Constructing Biodiversity" for the article "A Brief Survey of the Past, Present and Future of Biodiversity Research in the Philippine")

And, right after shifting courses, one of the first subjects I've successfully enrolled in--that, say, turned me into this and into the, say, niche I believe I am somehow getting into, getting the hang of--was HUM 160: Science and Technology in Literature, where the first poem I have submitted was in another language, in the C programming language--something that never found the light of publication, and I kinda think I know why--it kinda sucked in a way. Anyway, fortunately, we were required to read Einstein's Dreams, which is one of the probable reasons why I am here, in an attempt to mishmash themes of time, biology, machines and, I dont know, entropy, destruction, and all that.

Time is something twisted. Or, insane. Or, inconsistent, or messed up, or broken, maybe (just like this top blog thing that doesn't display the updated ranking, for chrissakes). Maybe, which is why I've been fascinated by The Invisibles, and Transmetropolitan, and futurism and alternate history, and the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and immortality and the tarot, and magic and robots and steampunk and cyberpunk and Dr. Who and science fiction and, ugh, enough cataloguing, as, I just want to say that (btw, above is "AgriCultural Imperialsim 000," the artwork for my article in UP Forum.)--

--if I were to return to my past--neither the past as it may be a future or a present to somebody else nor the past that has gay implications of having feelings and hopping with h-h-w-w romance as thought catalog puts it--I will spend less time with sleep (or maybe take drugs so I could spend no time with sleep! Kidding!) and other relaxing activities and more time with the sciences, and obliterate Ghost in the Shell into insignificance, then oblivion. Wishful thinking, I know. And, why the title "Hands of (these) Time(s)"? Oh, hours ago, I've scored Umberto Eco's collection of essays, "Turning Back the Clock: Hot Wars and Media Populism," hardcover, for 170php, and another poetry anthology of "american negros," hey, that is what the title says, "american negro poetry." Those (and 1910! and 1969!) are enough compensations from the misfortune and unproductivity of the previous week, and, hopefully a good start of another, sigh, long weekend.

PS! all three of my Umberto Eco books are interestingly nonfiction. The first essay in Turning Back the Clock felt kinda sad. An analysis / backtrack re: worldwide world wars, paleowars and neowars alike, between Xtians and Muslims, which are, needless to say, not really a holy, or a religuous, or a cultural war, but one that is rooted on economics, and, that, my friends, ends this blabber, as, again, a lot of unchecked boxes in the to-do list, still, god, kill me, please. Kidding. Kill me after, at most, 7 years, and it shall be fine with me. I need caffeine. Now.

Candelabra [komix x poetry]

I am not sure if this, say, mash-up of media "works," but here it is, anyway. Comments, violent reactions, death threats, insults, and the like are most welcome, if they have even a tinge of constructive criticism. Thought I wouldn't post anything as I've said in the previous blog entry. I've submitted this somewhere, by the way. Three somewheres.

One doesn't seem to have space for it, though I am glad that the publishers used [lagundi lungs] as an illustration to an article on herbal medicine, and, no, those "herbs" sprouting out of bronchial tubes [?] aren't something you are probably smoking, as, those are, as the title says, lagundi leaves. The same publishers are also to publish three more drawings, of yours truly, for the sorta feature supplement thing that shall come out sooner than that fag I know. (fag, smoke, haha, fun.)

The other two publications didn't respond yet. Rather than waiting and sharing this komix x poetry abomination (or whatever you want to label it) that I have written and drawn while thinking of *sigh* you and other corpses, rather than waiting and sharing this pa-literary pa-artsy abomination (or whatever you want to label it) days, weeks, months after you remember your dead, let me try to, I don't know, comfort you, though I don't know who the fuck you and your dead are. Let us lament for one last moment, this year. Or, grieve all you want, all-year round for all I care. And, pardon the drama, but let me share "Re-spell. Re-animate. Re-define. / Kwadernostalgia," the initial rationale of putting up a blog, as lifted from the olde one:

10.31.-11.01.2009. Samhain. Or most of us would probably prefer 'all saints' day,' 'halloween,' 'all hallow's eve,' or whatever you want to call the midnight that connects october thirty-one and november one. A day when the lives of the dead are remembered and celebrated would be a sweet day to conceive and give birth to a new online journal. Now close your eyes. Feel the breeze left by Santi, the demon who disguised itself as a wicked storm just to bless this day in a subtle, seemingly-undiabolical manner. Hear the silence of creeping death. Smell the stench of despair and frustration seething and possessing the fresh air. Keep your eyes closed. And you experience eigengrau.

Yes. There seems to be a problem with the spelling. I replaced the second e with a. Besides the username 'eigengrau' being already taken (and I prefer to not use numbers in usernames or site names), I wanted the word to capture all the vowel sounds. I also wanted the word to have an internal rhtyhm that seemingly rhymes with 'pagan.' Or maybe I just want to justify my re-spelling of the word to EIGANGRAU.

Anyway, another day to reanimate the death. When I hear or perceive the word death, one particular death never fails to come to mind. Let us call it the death, and the person, the Shade. The death changed my life. Kwaderno is the Tagalog term for notebook. Nostalgia is something you could google, if it is your first time to encounter the term (kasi, nagtuition increase. baka ganoon kababa kalidad ng edukasyon.). Or find what you call 'context clues' in the text. I searched my drawer for a folio that contains a poem that someone wrote for me. I failed to find it. Instead, I unearthed an old notebook. Closed and abandoned at the time when the gates of the University of the Philippines Los Banos has just opened for me. The notebook preserved silly poems, tolerable stories and amateur sketches. It also kept memories. Of the Shade.

I realized that way back in high school, I was relatively a normal kid compared to my self now. I am somewhere between popstar, popculture kids and the artsy, dark, weird ones, according to my subjective categorization. I love people like normal people, I express how I feel like normal people do--at least in the written form. I reminisced how the Shade and I met. How we came to be what we are and how we have what we did. Inserted between the sleeve and the transparent identification card holder is my name--made by the Shade out of overlapping construction paper. I flipped the pages and found lame poems with the Shade's comments at the side. I flipped the pages of notes, drawings, video game notes, undecipherable words, more lame journal entries and noted numbers and textmessages, until I had no pages left to flip. Tucked at the backdoor sleeve of the brown-somewhat-leathery notebook is a letter. The letter the Shade gave me after we reveal the cadavers we kept deep in the secret compartments of our closets. And now, the Shade is a systema skeletale kept six feet deep, beneath the earthen partitions. Up until now, the Shade remains a skeleton in my closet, at least for most people.

The Shade never paid me a visit. I hope it would, so we could tell each other stories and adventures that occured in the past six years. And the bass heavy vocals of Type O Negative's Peter Steele rants and echoes in my head: "Loving you is like loving the dead..."

Which seems to be the case at this moment, at this dead expressionless night. I have to rethink and redefine things I fail to understand. Tonight, just like all the nights with the same date, I summon the Shade for counsel and wisdom, and welcome you to Eigangrau.

Copypasted the text, didn't edit, am bidding you good night, Shade. Again.

Spectacleshards [vi]: Ngugi's

11022011. hey, today's date's a palindrome, by the way. a mirror, to, say, reflect on things and all that bullshit of soul searching during all souls' day. just saying.

Proposed full entry title's spectacleshards [v]: ngugi's, or november jumpstart, though there is nothing that has commenced or that is to be commenced as unchecked boxes in the to-do list pile up like I have more tomorrows than any of you, like I have more than 24 hours a day. Not sure whether I am biting more off than I can chew, but, planner says I have left a lot undone and I am way out of schedule. Well, probably, most people in this fast-paced, quick-changing motherfucker of a world feels the same.

"He took the children out into the field to study nature, as he put it. He picked flowers and taught the names of the various parts: the stigma, the pistil, pollen, the petals. He told them a little about fertilization. One child cried out:

'Look. A flower with petals of blood.' "

And, by the way, I'd pepper this post with such quotes from Petals of Blood by Ngugi wa Thiong'o, so, more than a mindless rant of frustration and crap, this post may somehow help you in ways I would never know. Take it as my way of thanking you for dropping by. But, think twice before reading the block quotes, as I am not too cautious with blurting out spoilers, though I doubt there will be spoilers as these are--yes, again, not copypasted, but--encoded (so, yes, please do point out anything wrong, from what fuckeries I am saying to grammatical lapses) from pages 21 to 22 of the book. Encoded, just like most of the previous spectacleshards you might find interesting: [Zizek's] [Borges's] [Pirsig's] [Calvino's] [Philippines graphic's]--

--in which this spectacleshards is a first, a loner adrift the carcosite spectacleshards, being an excerpt from a novel, friendless, while there are three excerpts from short fiction pieces and two are nonfiction, Pirsig's and Zizek's.

"It was a solitary red beanflower in a field dominated by white, blue and violet flowers. No matter how you looked at it, it gave you the impression of a flow of blood. Munira bent over it and with a trembling hand plucked it. It had probably been the light playing upon it, for now it was just a red flower."

[Here] is a link to Zizek's beautiful and insightful speech during the Occupy Wall Street protests, though I share Rolando Tolentino's [take] as regards the "occupy" movement worldwide, and, I'd also like to link the [points] raised by Teo Marasigan. By the way, I felt that facebook is too occupied, crowded, cluttered, so, I deactivated it, again, to, sort of, detoxify. But despite the burial of that cyber projection, information never fails to overflow and overwhelm the fuck out of me, flooding, fucking, raping my mind into oblivion and ignorance of the things I thought I know, destroying and creating truths, all over, like an endless un/learning process, which is nice, but, tiring--now I have, again, at least 25 tabs waiting to be read, now, or until the next time I go online. I have downloads in progress, though I have .avi's .pdf's .cbr's .mp3's etc eating cyber dust. Consumerism leaves me with no choice but to not have a choice. At all.

" 'There is no color called blood. What you mean is that it is red. You see? You must learn the names of the seven colours of the rainbow. Flowers are of different kinds, different colours. Now I want each one of you to pick a flower ... Count the number of petals and pistils and show me its pollen ... ' "

What happened in the previous month? Nothing productive worth celebrating as the september jumpstart, I think, but, somehow, the samhain countdown of october compelled me to be / to seem productive. Yet after reading this article, I felt alarmed, thinking that I'd rather go on an actual trip, one on a road that's concrete, than, well, a trip deep within one of the rooms inside my head--or my head inside this room? Which is which? After minute or two of re/thinking, I'd rather go on a recluse. I am steps away from lessening cyber foot prints anyway. And, I hope you lurkers fucking comment when you stumble upon this blog. A "hey there" would suffice. Paranoia never leaves my side, as I sometimes feel like those hits /stats mean danger. How? Why? What the fuck am I talking about? Well, if you didn't dig it, you probably don't know who I am, so, I suggest we hang out some time.

"He stood looking at the flower he had plucked and then threw the petals away. Yet another boy cried:

'I have found another. Petals of blood - I mean read ... It has no stigma or pistils ... Nothing inside.'

He went to him and the others surrounded him:"

There. Dig it? Of course you don't. Ha! Talking in riddles doesn't work all the time.

" 'No, you are wrong,' he said, taking the flower. This color is not even red ... It does not have the fullness of colour of the other one. This one is yellowish red. Now you say it has nothing inside. Look at the stem from which you got it. You see anything?'

'Yes,' cried the boys. 'There is a worm - a green worm with several hands or legs.'

'Right. This is a worm-eaten flower ... It cannot bear fruit. That's why we must always kill worms ... A flower can also become this colour if it's prevented from reaching the light.'

Last month are news of some of those who died that are never even worms deserving to be killed. Among them, shedding light to the darkness of the exploits of this established order, are two who served the people: one claimed by "natural" death, the other by bullets. It is All Souls' day, and I wonder, had there been souls, how many of them are still roaming the mortal world in search of the justice that remains unserved despite their bodies being almost, if not completely, decomposed by worms? This is quite a lengthy blog entry, right? Had neither facebook Wall for status messages nor public tweets as outlets, so, I abuse this space in the interwebz. Hang in there, I am almost done, we are almost done with these senselessness, I think.

"He was pleased with himself. But then the children started asking awkward questions. Why did things eat each other? Why can't the eaten eat back? Why did God allow this to happen? He had never bothered with those kind of questions and to silence them, he told them that it was simply a law of nature. What was a law? What was nature? Was he a man? Was he God? A law was simply a law and nature was nature. What about men and god? Children, he told them, it's time for a break."

Maybe it is. After pondering on death, I'd like to concede that god is a necessity, thus prayers are, I think, mandatory, given the sociocultural context of the Philippines--whether we like it or not. As an Apocalyptica song goes, "I don't believe in god, but I'll pray for you." It has been a long while and I haven't written about you in public again, yet. And I am not sure if I will, anytime soon. But, yes, I somehow did. Now. And a maybe few weeks ago, if that counts.

Anyway, I am hoping that Petals of Blood equals or surpasses the enjoyment I had with Wizard of the Crow. Yes, that tendency again to measure an author's work with his other works. Speaking of "works," I think, after this, I would not post an entry anytime soon (yes, I am writing as if anyone's reading) since a lot of things are long overdue, and I hope deactivating facebook and privatizing [eh?] twitter are effective strategies for focusing (and perhaps feeling safe, ha, paranoia strikes given the chance), one task at a time, though I think nothing is really helping and "discipline," whatever the fuck that means, is the key to, say, success.

And, speaking of measuring using other works of the author against his own as yardstick, I remember how a co-fellow and I talked about being anthologized in two local compendiums of contemporary writing--with one daring to not include those in the literary canon, while the other one tends to seem all-inclusive, regardless of whatever borders, creating some sort of a unity, or a pluralist, populist, gesture of togetherness despite differences. With the former grounded with theory and the latter criticizing theory, I think I am with the former, as I believe multi-perspectives, or pluralist worldviews, oftentimes justify hegemony and elitism through borderless compromises.

This is also why I am kind of cynical with the Occupy Wall Street that, I hope, wouldn't turn out to be among those fads that later cease to exist, furthering the skepticism and doubt of people with "collective action." I am not really sure with what I am saying, so I'll strike through these paragraphs, okay?

SAMHAIN COUNTDOWN ends

finally. here they are. the final entries. samhain #04 is sammy in wonderland. samhain #s 03, 02, 01 are see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil [i][ii][iii]. today, 11/1/11, i shall bury a cyber projection. hope it remains dead for as long as i can keep it dead, but i am cynical about such burials. but, i sincerely want it dead for at least 15 days, and at most, forever.

inks fucking dry. literally. figuratively. feeling ill. creeping death everywhere. plagued w paranoia.