Pag-iimbento ng Laro gamit ang Egg Container, Butil ng Popcorn o Batong Panghalaman

Nagmumuni sa posibilidad ng egg container bilang instrumento ng communication.

Sa least lunatic moments, di mapigilang makita ang egg container bilang sungka. At ang uncooked popcorn o bato para sa mga halaman bilang pamato/sungka stones. Ang egg container bilang papel o canvas; ang uncooked popcorn at batong panghalaman bilang musical notes o dance moves.

Potential Materials for a Game

Continue reading “Pag-iimbento ng Laro gamit ang Egg Container, Butil ng Popcorn o Batong Panghalaman”


After Acquittal, Skies

When it’s finally over, when it is finally said that


How do we sleep the first peaceful sleep and smile the grandly uninhibited smile?

There is no longer the slightly weak excuse: that it is hard to think about running  while one is running, that it is hard to theorize about the mechanisms that enable running (our bodily functions, our will or motivations to run, the complex meanings of our running and so on) while one is doing the very act of running. I guess it was Eagleton who used this example and a weaker, general guess is that he used this in explaining something about the link between theory and practice, experiences and making sense of them.

(Conversely, there is Lenin, at the end of “State and Revolution,” speaking about the 1917 Revolution — “It’s more pleasant and useful to go through the ‘experience of the revolution’ that to write about it.” – and in the process also subtly speaking about the sweetly complex relationship between theory and practice. There must be no fuss privileging one over the other; there must be pus when we collapse one to the other.)

Will I side with Eagleton or with Lenin? But it is a different context now: there is no literal running, there is no immediate revolution.

After running for a libel case, where do we go, what do we do?

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Socsci 101: Statistics

She said, Godard said there is no love at twenty

She won’t confer an “art” status to photography, especially digital.

It is not about displaying DSLRs; she laments the loss of the developing process; the photographer’s black room.

I said to myself after she said that I think the process is lost altogether.

Clicking does not sound like constituting a process.

She said Apu’s mother is selfish. This was the movie

Sometimes, she does not remember songs she plays.

She does not recommend white bread.

She knows the anatomy and physiology of food.

Somewhere, she is not a butterfly.

Here: a butterfly

I slept with a butterfly tonight, cloyingly

there’s the drizzle of your humming,

but not a breath, only a drizzle.

The butterfly’s black and white

Its flutters winged

and you’re a drizzle

on the summer’s evening

and I slept with a butterfly,

and your wings are missing.

I moved, the butterfly flew

Its flutters winged,

And the evening was a desert.

Its breaths, magma on a giant’s skin,

Its texture, the butterfly’s black and white.

And the evening was a desert.

But it’s a cold, cold summer.

And your wings are missing.

This is Apu's mother.
This is Apu’s mother.
Butterfly, then bed, none else
Butterfly, then bed, none else

Last Monday, people frowned because of the passing of french fries

One thing that could be there in Edgar Samar’s “Orasan” is the fluency of Andre Bazin. What Bazin said proximal to photo albums – what is death but the triumph of time (2010) – I find pertinent to the lesson Mr. Noble learned in Samar’s “Orasan.”

Mr. Noble, the CEO of a large industry in the country, will not stop working even at his young age of 69. He is very conscious of time, and is evidently easily frustrated by it. He usually grumbles about not having done much work (even though he is actually very productive), and tacitly notices how time foils all of his attempts to feel — less than be — productive. It was when he finally retired as the company’s top official and vacationed in the province that his attitude towards time dramatically changed. He realized how time devours every moment (kung paanong ang oras ay lumalamon ng bawat sandali) – how time, especially when we pay too much attention to it, almost effortlessly exhausts the moments in our lives. But for once, while sleeping under a mango tree in the province, Mr. Noble was not harassed by time, he did not allow his moments to be devoured, to be made so painfully passing and worthless by time.

Then he surrendered his wristwatch to Mang Emong, the caretaker of their little farm. We know how symbols work.


She said, that is not exactly a happy song, listen to the lyrics.

No, I meant, it sounds happy. Listen to the tune, he said.

It is highly possible. That we would be eyeing form not content, form more than content: the illusion of wetness in lips more than the words that erupt from them; the quiet blare of guitars and saxophone more than the succession of the words in the lyrics; the callousness of colors than the message of paintings.

Outside, all the walking are wet and not humongous. What they say is fatigue and dismay, how they say it is through blind steps. They will not care about matters of form and content.


He was wondering about being 21. He knew he has to live, and he wants to live, and in order to live, he needs to have money. He was tired of texting his mother. He knows the importance of getting a job. And he knows how Koreans flock the city because learning English is quite cheap here. He knows his labor will be exploited, yes, because he sort of read Marx and he has seen people dying in the ocean fishing for life for their family.

But he also wanted to do something unnatural, something bourgeois, something fancy, something full. He envies some of his friends, writing and writing and making music for the gods that is his very medium of worshiping. And still subsisting, yes, from that stark economic point of view. He envies some of the people he has not seen yet, whose breathe he has not smelled yet, subtly trumpeting art as the temple where they kneel at and actually kneeling there and perhaps feeling contented. He suddenly remembered All-American Rejects, You’re probably still working, at a nine-to-five pace. I wonder how bad that tastes.

He used to eat salt and rice for dinner. That tastes better.


He returned to David Foster Wallace. I want to sip all the waterness of water. I want to be able to say, This is water, this is water.

Bye French Fries  (from:
Bye French Fries

The Andre Bazin quote came from: The Film Theory Reader: debates and arguments. Published by Routledge.

Genuine depressions are better than fake joys


Today, I bought Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises at the SM North Edsa Branch of Book Sale. Someone retorted to this, saying that Hemingway is a depressant. I was restless at the back of a haggard bus, standing and waiting to triumphantly pass by a heated early Friday night rush hour. My sister and I just came from UP Diliman where she would take an admission examination next week. And after a frantic searching for the Math Building, the venue of her test, we eased ourselves off with a detour to SM North before going home. I dropped by National Book Store first to look for Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber, the book whose title story I quote often and silently established as a personal favorite.  Since I started earning a fairly regular money for myself, I began eyeing a copy of this one. It was nowhere to be found in Baguio book stores and I remembered seeing one in SM North so I returned with anticipation earlier. Sadly, the book costs a little over 500 pesos and despite my wish to have a copy, my frugality prevailed and let this chance to pass. Depressing.

Hemingway is nearly a favorite. The depression, the terseness in his characters’ expressions, the seemingly inevitable failures, the seemingly perpetual absence of light and hope and everything fancy – and so I replied back to that someone who remarked of Hemingway’s depressions, Better to have Hemingway’s depressions than false joys in the TV, in Eat Bulaga or Showtime for instance or in cute boys signing incomprehensible Koreans over at MYX.





Funnily tragic*

*This article was first published in the Animated Me column of the July 01 issue of the Baguio Midland Courier

Last Thursday, while my friend and I were walking from the city market and going up the footbridge at Maharlika, she was helplessly victimized by a pickpocket who worked, as I assume, so nonchalantly, so deftly, in order for both my friend and I to be hardly aware of what he was just doing. Suddenly gone were my friend’s favorite Dinosaurman purse which included inside it some bills totaling to nearly a thousand pesos, her school ID and ATM card.

It was sort of funny, how in a matter of seconds, we can become poorer by a thousand pesos, and also temporarily disabled to enter the school library and full of anxiety and regret after just losing valuables in a busy, crowded place. In a society where every day we find it more difficult to survive and cope with the price of living, incidents like this are just sufficient to make us judge a day to be a bad one and make us learn a lesson in the hard way.

At the beginning, it was easy to get mad at the poor stealer. Especially when after what he has done, you felt like you have just been a bad child to your parents who break their backs in the day and hardly get a rest in the night just to send you to school and send cash allowance that you need in order to live in a far city. It was easy to blame the thief and others like him who turn to doing things like that instead of doing something more decent and lawful in order to cope with their own lives.

Then there could be a phase of self-blaming too. How, for instance, we could have been more careful with our belongings, more watchful and guarded of seemingly naïve pickpockets who are just waiting for the perfect timing while we are all rushing through the unsleeping parts of the city. How we could have tucked our wallets and gadgets inside our pockets where they are less likely to be taken by people with wrong intentions. How we could have refrained from withdrawing money from the ATM and hence, give away a lesser amount to a thief who is an expert of his “craft” when all is said and done.

However, a clearer thought can allow us to look at the roots of incidents like that and might keep us from blaming either the thief or ourselves and our carelessness. We all know how widespread and how countless are the thieves lurking in the streets we pass by every day. The fact that they have devised ways to make themselves appear less suspicious requires us to be even more cautious and careful. For all we know, that stranger sitting beside in a jeepney or that person behind us in a grocery counter is planning to steal something from us. Not even the fact that we are in a public place can assure us that we are completely shielded from those who have intents of stealing something from us.

In our society where poverty reeks at every corner, where people struggle to feed themselves, and much more send their children to school or their sick relatives to the hospital, we have all learned a variety of ways just to get through every day and find ways to live. Unluckily, stealing, among other crimes like kidnapping for ransom, smuggling goods and gambling, are just some of the means we have utilized for the sake of providing for our needs. In that sense, we are not inherently to blame at all; resorting to lawless tactics just to survive is not entirely unforgivable given the circumstances that always pressure us to do the things we do.

What we must pay more attention to is this pervading social condition that breeds thieves, smugglers, kidnappers among others. It is a social condition where people can hardly afford the things they need because they do not have jobs that can enable them to pay for what they need. We are all in a society where even having a job does not secure us to obtain all our basic needs. For in this society, most of the jobs do not provide payments commensurate to the work done by the individuals and likewise to the expenses entailed by a daily, decent living. For the record, the 426 peso minimum wage in Metro Manila is not even half of the 993 peso cost of daily living allowance for a family of six members.  Given these conditions, how can we be so surprised when a lot of people turn to stealing and other lawless acts just to provide for themselves.

In the end, this is not to condone what the pickpockets do. This is just a reminder that behind these acts are larger conditions and operations in the society that force them to resort to such acts and make anyone of us all prone to be victimized. Hence, more than cursing these criminals, we must rage against and strive to adjust the social setting where these kinds of people are bred.

As for my friend, both of us just opt to think in more humane terms: Isipin na lang natin, may sakit ‘yung nanay nung magnanakaw tapos kailangan niya ng pambili ng gamot.

This is how we succumb to funny tragedies. And unless the conditions that can force us to resort to lawlessness are terminated, we cannot stop from consoling ourselves with such humane thoughts.

How earning five thousand pesos in two hours becomes actually despicable

Sometime last month, on the course of my online writing occupation which was my own, little way of helping myself enroll on a Masteral program, I took an eleven-page assignment costing almost 12 dollars per page and totaling to round 130 dollars. The thing is that I just breezed through the assignment as aside from the fact that I already have a lot of knowledge about the topic, the customer already prepared something which I have used in doing the product.

In sum, I was able to finish the eleven-page paper in just two hours, wildly content, rabidly praising the fluke I just came across in the chancy arena of online writing. My six-hour mantra, until the hype of that feat grew on me: “Five thousand in two hours.”

At instances like this, we can be easily duped about the true nature of online writing. First, as abovementioned, doing business here is part chance, part mental work that often verges on being mechanical.  I can babble about the textuality of Tommy Hilfiger advertisements, the psychology of love, Wordsworth’s romanticism as panacea to the social ills and so on with apparent ease but this kind of work is hardly fulfilling apart from the money. Although far better than the more repetitive nature of content writing, doing “academic writing” online is not exactly fun and challenging always as I am also guilty of devising ways to fulfills tasks expedite.  And people often have the idea that we can earn a lot of easy money here as one just needs a computer and an internet connection to be in this job.  And voila — dollars, dollars. If luck hovers around you, you might just get a similar 130 dollar task you can finish in two, three hours.

But again, as evinced by the present trend, there are months when the number of orders are staggeringly low and there are severely limited chances to earn. And for all its seeming ease and perks, this selling of intellectual labor can be pinned down to the nasty operations of a neo-liberal economy that heavily relies on cheap labor in order to further the accumulation of profit and capital.

And so at the expense of my five thousand pesos and the huge, albeit fleeting joy I derived from it, is the great boost online writing companies obtain from my cheap intellectual labor.

Of all reasons to stay awake at night — the moon.

*I just have to do things like this, every once in a while. When does poetry lays down and politics take a back seat. Where is the limit of science, philosophy, Essence, cogito, signifiance and the equator? The moon is her and I try not to smoke. When I give in, I know I am alone. (a disclaimer, a bat swinging and hitting something other than the aim, a surprising bat emerging out to the wilderness) 

First, no one shall touch you, and inflict you harm, and redefine nightmares that troubles you with no end at night.

My lungs will sing songs for you, how they are maimed by cigarette sticks in your absence, how they resonate with the will to live and see you again avoiding the sun with your eyes while your arms bathe under it. And then I will listen to that giggle of yours, in the lifeless spaces except yours. They won’t be fake ones, because we will learn to master the pursuit of genuineness – cry when we want to, when we have to, blind to the others’ gaze, spirited to just spill ourselves and dilute all the restraints staying deep us. You will be giggling because life is beautiful – what with all the colors of fog welcoming the night; the inks of pen reminding us we can write our biography, our history, our failures and successes; the dregs on the bottom of the coffe mugs telling us we can already have a refill; rainbows speaking about change; our hands speaking about our agencies, our potential for activity.

I will sing Slide Away to you, as we get into the brink of falling asleep, as the soles of our feet estimate the roughness of the ground, as we find ways, figuring out what to do amidst the collision of imperatives and desires, chasing the sun in the coldness of July and rains sputtering on the roof and waking our senses. We won’t need to fret about the weather. I stare at your palms and navigate the plains of softness and security and I know I will be sane and fine. I wish you would just blush or ask me What the hell Ivan?! And I could cinch, and speak for our nearness. As you pass through the stones and the dusts of the concrete, I would ask if I could turn you into “us” – walking side by side in the pavement while people gaze, eat their popcorns, throw surmises, mind our business we often silently keep to ourselves, unnamed, limited to interpretation. If someone accuses you of libel, we would not retract, but keep affirming, standing on our grounds. We have not only truth and good intentions and the assurance of being in the right; we have “us” and all the others behind us. If someone makes you think you should be dropping a crucial subject. I would strive to learn logarithms and derivatives as fast as possible and talk about them with you while we find space for ourselves in every waning sunlight.

Tonight, I don’t need Jessie Day and her white teeth in New Girl. I want you, talking to me like all the trust has ran out except for what lies between us, you, studying the shape of the veins in my palms like a scholar inspects artifacts buried for centuries under the dark pits of soil. Again, the tragedy is that these are only words. No more songs and cuteness and romanticism now, I will breathe the hours away until I sense you again, living with the stretches of the moments, near me; I will hear your dances again, smell the wrinkles in your face, look at your whimpers, taste your 7pm resignation, touch the once untouchable arteries beneath your dress. We will find better ways, and make better days. And we will get rid of poems, you will have me, and I will have your indecisiveness and fear of names, telling me to stay; that is yours and I will stay.

This is what we share, I believe, I'd like to believe, among many other things.