Something like a teary-eyed post for the Chicago Bulls


Last season’s and this year’s playoffs for the Chicago Bulls are marked by interesting semblances and contrasts. It is the contrasts however that prove to be more dramatic to the somewhat same, eerily wounded Chicago Bulls team.

Last year, they opened the playoffs with a win against the 76ers but lost their MVP pint guard to an injury and decisively turned the result of that first round match. After six games and crucial heartbreaking lapses in Game 6, they eventually bowed to the 76ers. This year, they opened the playoffs just like they closed the previous one, without Derrick Rose and with a loss. They were routed by the Brooklyn Nets in their home court and suddenly, at least for me, their chances are casted with a bleaky pall.

The next three games however, one of which was still played in Brooklyn and the two played in their home at Chicago, characteristically showed the kind of team this bunch of Chicago Bulls is and what they could achieve with their famed discipline and character. They limited the Nets to their worst shooting games of the entire season in Games 2 and 3 in order to seize a 2-1 lead. Once again, it proved that defense, on top of controlling the boards, is an effective weapon for the team-oriented Bulls who works together to pester their opponent’s rhythm in offense. Then in that one-of-a-kind Game 4, the Bulls erratically won by turning to their offense and specifically turning to perhaps their most erratic player, Nate Robinson. They went back from 14 down with less than three minutes on a scoring rampage by Robinson and then went in to force overtime. It took three overtimes before they eventually claim the victory with good defensive efforts and a key offensive board and putback by Nazr Mohammed off a Carlos Boozer free throw miss needed to finally pull away from the tough Brooklyn Nets. After that point, the Bulls had a seemingly comfortable 3-1 lead in the series and needing to win only one game out of the three remaining possible games to advance to the conference semifinals. But the Nets obviously had other plans. They won both Games 5 and 6, the latter just by a single possession, to force a do-or-die Game 7 on their home court. Notably, Kirk Hinrich sat out on Game 5 due to an injury, effectively eliminating an able defender to Deron Williams, one fot eh Nets’ top players. Worse, Luol Deng was also not able to play Game 6 because of another injury and so the Bulls were left not just without Derrick Rose, but also Hinrich, his backup and a vital cog in the Bulls’ defensive rotation, and Deng, another All-Star.

So Game 7 at Brooklyn, where Chicago will make a case against sheer talent being the most significant criterion in winning a basketball game , not to say a basketball playoff series, not to say a championship. With Rose, Hinrich and Deng out and with Taj Gibson and Nate Robinson suffering from illnesses but still playing through them, the Bulls wagered on the enormity of their hearts and their wills to secure the victory and finally advance to the conference semifinals against the Heat. The NBA announcer even called this Bulls team ‘the walking medical ward’ and yet they showed no signs of being fazed. Joakim Noah recording that double-double plus a play0ff career0high sic blocks; Marco Bellinelli rising to the occasion and stepping up in the absence of key players with his team-high 24 points; Jimmy Butler finally showing to get past the playoff jittery stage and playing for the entire 48 minutes of the game; and this entire Bulls team, covering and running after the Nets’ shooters, hustling for loose balls, deflecting passes and tipping in baskets or tapping the ball out for offensive boards.

On a Game 7, you discount talent. That should be a given for the case of both teams who have slugged out a heck of a series that needed a deciding game to see who advances and who does not. On a Game 7, what matters is heart and grit and determination and how well do you put those into court when the game begins until it ends.

Last Saturday, against the Nets, it was the Bulls who came out more passionate, more determined to extend not just their wonderful season highlighted by the precariousness brought by injuries, not to mention THAT injury nursed and being recovered from by Rose, but also their playoff stint where they continue to prove that winning can be done by a team who works and plays together and not rely on flashy superstars who make flashy moves.

So in anticipation of their semifinal series with the defending champion Heat (which actually already begun and which they won again, scoring an early upset), I continue to believe that this scrappy, gritty and team-oriented kind of play can stand a decent chance against the superstar-filled, ostentatious play of the Miami Heat. As we close out the sharp contrasts between the first rounds of the Bulls’ playoff stints last year and this year, we can move on and look forward to another good series against their brewing archenemy in Miami Heat. The operation of contrasts will be at the foreground again: it is Lebron, Wade and Bosh and their superstar statuses and capabilities versus the entire Chicago Bulls team willing to dive for loose balls, chase down shooters and pass the ball for open teammates and play together towards victory.

The Bulls are definitely the underdogs, just like they were against the Nets, and they are not far from stealing another against the Heat.

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Since now’s the time for summer outings


The camera thus makes a great deal in capturing us standing cheerily beside a tourist spot’s landmark. Encompassing De Certeau and Andre Bazin (“the charm of family albums… no longer traditional family portraits but rather the disturbing presence of the lives halted at a set moment in their duration, freed from their destiny….”) and feminists insisting on the politics of the body, the photograph, with its ironically frozen materiality, serves as a scintillating piece of object that designates our previous, but also in a way, eternalized situation. We ARE in, say, Camp John Hay, or the gondolas in Venice, or in Puerto Princesa, Palawan; we (care of our body) are in these tourist attractions (care of the markers of these attractions, following De Certeau). And this is a plus especially since we are a people who are proud of going to places, of making experiences.

Somewhere sa Burnham park, Baguio City
Somewhere sa Burnham park, Baguio City

On intellectuals*


I think intellectuals and everything they spew only become problematic when they cannot concretely point out the real-life use and relevance of their entire enterprise. Also, when they fail miserably in recognizing, explicitly or not, the origination of their “intellectualizations” from existing social facts and conditions. In other words, when they compartmentalize thought, when they cloak its ever-going dialectical bond with action, with practice, as if they had not lived or breathed in muds or in mansions before coming up with their thoughts now encased in hardbounds.

The Thinker
The Thinker

*after a quite impassioned exchange with my girlfriend on the value of intellectuals and their writings

Bookish byebye for 2012


As 2012 is about to kill itself, I look back at it in terms of the notable books I have read and movies I have consumed. The year has been a really prolific one in terms of the books I have devoured or yawned on at different points of this past razzle-dazzle twelve months. With the welcome assistance of Booksale and advantageously affordable online bookshops, I was able to amass more books and consequently, purvey a better domicile for gathering dusts in our house both in Baguio and in Caloocan. As for the movies, the residues of the ardor in film viewing instilled in me by my senior year’s Film Criticism class and my girlfriend’s influence to our eventual patronage of Baguio Cinematheque helped sustain the good flow of films watched this year.

I will start with the novels I have read this year. Novels have somewhat curiously become one of my more preferred genres this year. Regardless of authors (as in a Carter or a Joyce in the short story), the novel more principally sold for a good story embroidered in a thick narrative whose consumption parodizes our diurnal viewing of evening soap operas. There will be no externally imposed breaks, only personal choices on when or when not to stop from going on reading and watching the lives of characters unfold with their every decision and every cowardice or valor every day.

I should be starting with Denis Johnson’s Tree of Smoke, a 700-page loader which took me perhaps three months (with breaks of course, and quite a long one) to finish. Vietnam War is real to me only historically. I have not been there. I was not alive when it filled the evening news. Only current media can tell me the story. Denis Johnson makes me want to be happy that I was not there; and yet, happier that despite of that, I can still read novels like this one which gives me an idea, and delivers a poignant insight about the oft-recalled war – all engagingly and beautifully.

700 pages of blood (in paperback)
700 pages of blood (in paperback)

Next, Beckett’s Molloy, a part of a trilogy whose other two I am yet to have a copy of.  Beckett already stole an artery in the heart in Godot, and more so, his Modernist fatalism-then-resurgence was something that already lured me even before. Here in Molloy, he tilled further the opulence of words only to render a dreariness to murder and bury. With scarce conversations and minimal semblance of a typical raucous-to-be-cleaned-up plot, Beckett ditched all the fanciful to come up with an eviscerating tale one should leave in her library.

Molloy Samuel Beckett

From Beckett to Philip Roth. My review of Indignation is also in this blog, and why he reappears in this list of the better books I have read this year? It is because it is a spunky novel, like a campus publication’s editorial entitled No Apologies, featuring a gritty main character in Marcuse who peeks at and prick his surroundings instead of being just pawned in the backdrop. It’s Catcher in the Rye with less heart and more teeth.

Roth's Indignation

Next, Mikhail Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita where the Devil lived in Moscow and spelled his tricks to a hardly discriminating populace. Ironically backdropping this impish excursion is a stalled love affair between the title characters, the Master and Margarita and how this was restored through the kindness of the Devil himself. This novel is less comical than entertaining. Working like an inversion of Dante’s Inferno, there is not too copious blood and violence here. Else, we have an interesting play on symbolisms to say something about the thickening lack of judgment and discrimination in a humanity fazed by more and more mysteries and disappearances.

Master and Margarita

Disappearances which in Norman Wilwaycos’ Ang Gerilya were suffered in terms of a certain degree of revolutionary fervor enough to prompt one to hold a gun and kill people for one’s beliefs. This one is perhaps in all fairness a relatively square depiction of an existing armed struggle in the Philippines what with all its organizational complexities and groundwork vicissitudes. The tinges of crudeness – the fast-paced, the crass dialogue, the short yet thick episodes –perhaps work to align with the genuine picture of what it tries to convey. This one was a reading delight in a few hours, a capturing and welcome for me while I am on incessant thinking mode about my present occupations and commitments.

Gerilya

Then we have Atwood’s A Handmaid’s Tale, another book which I have reviewed in this blog. Atwood is fascinating with her incisive terseness, one that outstrips adages and proverbs with a more magnified context that gives her words more gravity than boastful, catchall statements. In this novel, the dystopia she limned not only tempted me to try to grasp her apparently feminist invocations, but also put me in thrall of her pungently haunting tacit yet provoking quips. It is hard to put the heightened kind of spell which Atwood drove me into with this one. That should be enough said.

The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood

Lastly for the novels, I have Jonathan Franzen intentionally at last. This buddy of David Foster Wallace, who’s encyclopedic Infinite Jest still frustrates me for not yet mustering sufficient guts to read, is I think not far from Wallace in terms of sensibilities and artistic wielding. I loved him so much this year I read two of his novels, Strong Motion and The Corrections, a review of the former also appears in this blog. From these two novels, from the confrontations between Louis and his mother and Chip and Gary and Enid, what is common is that family theme which largely propels the novels. In Strong Motion, there is the delectable subplot of Renee and Louis’ romance. In The Corrections, this function was fulfilled by the respective little dramas of each child – Gary, Denise and Chip. In Franzen’s novels, length is adorable because it is like a sprawl of skin that one would die to put his mouth on. Aside from the totality which one would want to consume not for what it reveals but for Franzen’s sheer manner of telling things, there is this potency of a single sentence which explodes with its sonority and semantic fullness. When these sentences clamp on one another, Franzen more likely has already earned a fan and a trusted reader in you.

He did in me.

Jonathan Franzen compressed earthquakes and abortions and a hypocritical media and more in this one.
Jonathan Franzen compressed earthquakes and abortions and a hypocritical media and more in this one.

The Corrections

A rant on being in Baguio in late October and the frequent use of “LOL” and “:-)” as a response


Before leaving Baguio for Manila earlier this week, I had this rant, with the charger of my laptop not functioning and I am waiting for Jesa and her sister to finally finish their house-transfer and old Baguio people packing and leaving well, sensibly traceless

At a loss, I am discovering how laptop-dependent I have become. I cannot appease myself successfully even when I have haddon and kafka and Dostoyevsky to turn to now that I find Michelle’s fuck buddy suddenly sterilized. Perhaps I just need to get to Caloocan and see home and feel it with my tongue and skin. A long semester aches to be put to rest and the familiar sights in Baguio seem to deny this forever. Bea’s at 9pm and coffee and smoke and fog have all been part of this rabid June to October and a hiatus seems hard to be official as long as I still sense most of the elements that partook in the slapdashness of the past months.

Baguio is becoming stale. Without the fervency palpable in Jesa’s shadows, this city would be doomed to a slaughtered aesthetics. People only look uglier and uglier; entrapped in a polluted environment whose values being buttressed are sick and self-expedient. In supermarkets, people seem to aspire to dazzle in celebrity-like fashion: colorful designer clothes or outrageous, eccentric dresses that perhaps want to monopolize all attention in haraway. Here: the massive rise of fashion in today’s paranoia. I think this relates to the fad of appearance amplified in the fucking posts- world. One values appearance more than anything else: principles, sensibility, intimacy. So we have here speedy individuals outdoing one another in “appearing” better and in the process, make less genuine connection. There are no bridges being built among people; rather, more attention to the way one smells, the way one’s hair looks like. In an age when everything is being prefixed with posts-, as if to erase the things they precede (postmodern to the modern; post-theory to theory); when there are more advertisements and new Ipad models than knowledge and awareness of our rights or poetry, appearances have not only deceived us; they have succeeded in implying that there are nothing else aside from them.

Superficiality and everything micro penetrated our everyday consciousness and behavior and we must begin probing and penetrating in counter unless the postmodern disavowal of depth wins out. We need to appreciate the radical manners once more – way s of looking at things with invigorated and passionate plumbing of the details and implications all the way to the deepest level. For instance, we must not sulk upon perspectives that trace climate change majorly to multinational corporation’s doings, or deficient school facilities to annual budget slashes. Terry Eagleton warned us about history dashing in the immensity of its steps and potentially swooping down on us with the pettiness of our actions. The tides are always on the onslaught and we seem to become content with flimsy tents commonly going by soft ideals and slogans we cannot harden on the ground. People are dying in famish and we become deeply content with and perhaps subtly rid of guilt by purchasing doughnuts or charity sweepstakes that claim part of the proceeds will go to feeding the poor. Storms and landslides and droughts imperil lives and crops and we “do our part” by purchasing Eco-friendly bags, captivated by the catchphrases like “Go Green, Save Mother Earth!”

We are missing the point exactly because the tip of the iceberg is not the iceberg. We need to dive forward and deeper and try to see things in their greater immensity and not just chew the bits of information thrown by the media or the bulk of truth spewed by big story-makers. The more we hook ourselves with appearances, the less we see the scars under the Prada, or the lonely heart under the bejeweled body.

Always, outflow of words like this verges on outrunning a sermon. Still, that should not impede the propulsion of discourse. This too is another thing. For when big words like “war on terror,” “axis of evil” and “financial crisis” are continually being fabricated and skewed for us, we need to go beyond timid, lousy answers such as, “Yep,” “That’s a good point,” “LOL,” “IKR” and “:-).”

Doubt is perennial


We were mopers at our worst, stolid thinkers at our best.

When I was tired and sleepy and waiting aimlessly for the motions of the clock, I will not hit the sack. Idioms, idioms, they are becoming safe and boring ways of redressing the expected. What is the point of sleeping but succumbing to the limitations of our body, exposing ourselves to the ghosts of what we avoid – unspoken dreams we won’t utter to ourselves while looking at mirrors lest we want this terrible guilt that make us less credible even to ourselves.

What is the point of staying awake? It is this: living. Breathing, and waiting for sunrises and cuckoos whose point of origin we do not have an idea of, and these: drinking glasses of water and reading the hell out of those who purport to be arcane and magnanimous, and writing words and attempting to make way through the endless bombardments of everyday.

Do I know the limit of wakefulness?

Sometime soon, I shall give up, and opt to recline, and then doze off, and then find out that I again is looking forward to more hours of imagined somnambulism, cathartic smoking, body-breaking and rule-bending with my activities, my outreaches, my sometimes hopeless whispers to the wind.

Does the wind carry what we throw at it?

Let me hear you answer. Are we really living? Are we really thinking? There was this advertisement saying that impossible is nothing. With all seeming positiveness, with all its radiation of motivation and inspiration, who shall not take heed? But what was it saying exactly? What is impossible but a word, what spurs us to keep on pushing the envelope of possible further. But please buy their shoes, it will help you breach past the designated “impossible.” To put things in quotes, like: “this,” is to make us reread and think twice about that word – its source, its situation, its meaning. It seems like the way we think is usually shaped by these advertisements, and by what we hear from rostrums, from the pulpit, from who’s in front the chalkboard, from who’s inside the enshrined national office. I am lost for coherence. But at least, I do not pretend to be stating a unity. This is why we are falling apart. Not all of us are willing to participate in the silent game of making believe and pretending that things are all going fine, that things are as smooth as long lost pasts we only encounter in books and novels. But this is what we have: falling apart and incongruity. There are no shrouds big enough to prevent the explosion of sad events.

This is where we end. So let’s cola and smoke.

I and the Puerto Galera streets.

For stasis


Now I am bringing them here, modas, the mushy sentiments, the sort of hardcore political commentaries, the sentimental poems, the unabashedly, blandly political poems – all comprising the mélange of myself and my connivances, disputes and struggles with the world and others.

For this blog, the intention was for it not to be a container of experiences, but of knowledge, and let us pretend first that there’s a clean gap between those two. Not for ramblings about the day or people whom I want to gaze at the moon with, but for reflections and observations and thoughts from everyday – films watched, people met, places traveled.

The problem for that paragraph is that the difference between the two elements being talked about is not clearly put, and to begin with, is not really clear-cut. But what I was trying to say is that this blog was not intended for mushiness, for the personal, or perhaps more aptly, the overly personal. This should be for the words coming from my more detached part, the thinker, the onlooker, the constantly attempting analyst, the stolid critique, political or cultural.

Another problem is that the “knowledge” and “experience” are not exactly poles apart from each other. The two overlap, but as I paraphrase a passage I read in a book on postmodernity, the more one knows, the less one experiences; and the more one experiences, the less one knows. However, what appears to be a simplistic proposition cannot be exempted from potential arguments. In the application of Dialectics in practical Marxism in the Philippines, this can be elucidated by changing the terminologies and show how the two elements are always related to each other. Knowledge is also “theory” while experience lies closer to “practice.” Within these terms, the relation can be located at the way by which one helps in the development of the other in continuous fashion. Theory is put into, tested, validated in practice; and then practice, with the aid of constant observation, reflection and evaluation can develop the theory further which in turn can result to more developed practices. The point perhaps is that there must be a certain balance that will keep us from being drawn too much on either knowledge or experiences, theory or practice, or following Philippines Marxism, dogmatism or empiricism, although those terms zero in on more specific situations.

So again, I am bringing them here now: the rides of the calendars, random musings and gorgeous thoughts emerging from the taciturn, the most taciturn violences of everyday — hopping tertiary publications for CEGP, meeting city mayors and municipal councilors for alliance works (hehe, usually through solicitations), slow talks with fast thinkers and unguarded poets, sighting despondencies in the city market, fake glamour in malls and high-end restaurants, Kristeva in the infants in the office, Butler in disco bars, Mao in regular meetings.

The personal is political, a cliché that could sum up the tracks laid in here. When I write too much about love, I meant the pop-sounding, cheesy love, perhaps I am reading too much Shakespeare and Carter and should retake my dose of MLM. When I keep on spouting about the pressing need to organize and immerse with the masses, perhaps I have recently been to Kalinga seeing peasants and their children brave the afternoon heat for the seedlings to be planted and spent a dinner or two sharing kangkong and tinapa with them and our difficult, but nonetheless cheerful conversations.

And I want to utilize this blog, to make my CEGP friends see that I am not all on hardcore politics, like Imperyalismo ibagsak or Penoy si Pinoy. In a sense, I am, I’d like to think, or, I want to believe. But I’m a juggler of forms and I might be shouting those lines boldly already without actually shouting them. Every time I accost them, I seldom balk because I think that they have that notion of me and that makes them uneasy or makes me an unwanted stimulus for them to respond to. So I am showing these other sides, altogether revealing the multiple facets. Like, I listen to Katy Perry and Miley Cyrus and Florence and the Machines and James Morrisson; I have hundreds of pens, all working, I read Shakespeare and Murakami the same way that I have Marx’s and Mao’s basic statements in memory, and I enjoy SM too, sometimes, and used to watch and rave at Pacquiao’s knockout wins.

No wonder why I am under humanities in college, and still more inclined to it now. Let us not lose our humanities in these times and age of simulacra, late capitalism, malakolonya at malapyudal na lipunan, suspicion to origins, new Millennium, plain retardation and end of history and new ideology.

 

 

 

Till next weekend


No jinxs, no myths, only two commas and a completion of a first sentence towards the end of Friday. Night. Which in some sense, is just beginning to most people perhaps.

The original plan for tonight was not as shy as what actually happened, although it was neither too grand. With my checked body clock and perhaps a tacit 2012 resolution to kill the nocturnal in me and start being more productive in the day, and not at night, the weekdays just felt a bit heavier. Meetings, relishing office atmosphere, writing propaganda statements, mingling with Cordi pubs during their CHED Presscon, arranging interviews and being interviewed via phone patch – the week was lived in daytime, not mostly after midnight reading Western thinkers or snatching NBA time or wasting time in the internet. I welcomed the reversal and despite my seeming over-fondness of being a night person most of the time after graduation, there was neither difficulty nor major adjustments.

And then I thought of it, just right this moment, how day seems to be the more realistic, while night portents more of romanticism, escape, self-deluding poetry. In the day, people sweat their backs off, riding the public transport, ambling from Session to Magsaysay, make money, race with their lives, duel with the dangers of the metro, breathe polluted air and second-hand smoke.  In the night, they drink the hours away, salivating at the breeze, basking at hands which they held and which were not theirs, resorting to thick, cozy jackets, ukay or otherwise. Someone called it catatonia, the awakening at night, rising from the dead just like the zombies, jubilating at the relative peace, jubilating at the partial death of law.

And is not that one of my more candid celebrations in the recent past, back in my catatonic days – the law is dead in the evening. Right now, looking at that perhaps misguided declaration, I sense a tincture of cowardice. Nights are venues for escape, and those who frolic on it are escapists. From the density of the metro, from the street lights and the police’s whistle, from the annoying heat, from the hard, bleak realities the day presents without miss, without exaggeration.

And so, I am right here, in the fifth paragraph, the third straight one shoving all the others just to get “and” at the onset. It’s almost 12, almost technically Saturday and I am sort of saying to myself that the night should be just beginning. My new self-set curfew for sleep is 3am. Yes, I failed to comply to that one time already this week, last Tuesday night, while rushing some really important project for someone really special. Now, I am keen at sleeping on time, even though I whispered to myself earlier and in the days before that there should be one night when I will sit down and just get the words out of my head and take a shot at beauty. Tonight shall be that night.

Ok, back to the plan. The original plan. It included Tanduay ice, just a bottle, and some fine smoke, and some cold January Baguio air, and a pen and a notepad. And yes, before that, a good dinner, no canned foods, no NFA rice. Friday nights. This time, I anticipated it with more zeal, after successfully upholding the idea that I am just like most people who work five days a week, eight hours a day. Friday nights announce the onset of the weekend, temporary break from figures and papers and reports and hurried lunches and forgotten dinners. On my first Friday night post-catatonia, I had relatively ambitious imaginations.

But I ended up with corned beef, steamed in the sinaing just like hotdogs can manage. Apparently, corned beefs need onions and garlics, my dinner was sort of out of taste. And not Tanduay Ice, because with the way Marcos Highway is being “renovated” and the ensuing traffic, all I was able to go to earlier for the night’s supplies was Tiongsan Harrison. And yes, they don’t have Tanduay Ice. Even just a bottle? Yes, they don’t have even just a bottle. Queue might be getting longer in the sweet terminal, unbearably longer already and I may find myself robbed of a jeepney ride to home. I do not want to start the night with that.

So I consoled myself, with made-up assurance, the stores near our home will still be open when I get there and they might have Tanduay Ice.

But what they have is San Mig Light.

And I thought, sige na nga, pwede na rin ‘to.

There were too many narrations, boring ones. What I want is beauty in brief. I stopped gulping the beer down and proceeded here, but without much contentment. Perhaps the real point is that something lacks, no, someone is not here. And all Friday nights would seem incomplete, too wilted, without her matching what I saw in my head from Monday to Thursday. Silences with our laptops, different preoccupations but sometimes rhythmic breathings, occasional nudging and teasing, Bloc Pary or John Mayer breaks. But these are only words. And all I have now is a head in a coil and an Itunes program opened but paused.

So hello weekend.

Beginnings are most welcome


In a quite unexpected instance, it hit me again: starting a new blog.

I have been reading blogs lately, beyond the blogs I have been sort of religiously following in the previous months. The old ones fall more to one category, and let me be unabashed with words: the blogs that map the everyday, sentiments and rants about the world, about daily experiences, seldom dwelling on the political, or the intellectual, shy, sophomoric, but nonetheless considerably sonorous poetry, some cultural reviews – generally expressive, personal writing.

The new ones, and thanks to my rather rare inclination to saunter around and maximize the vastness of the internet (and expand its association beyond facebook and emails and nba.com),  let me saw the greater potentials of blogging, the borders I did not fully recognize and which, upon seeing them, have stimulated me to start my own online odyssey. I see photography, and despite my admitted lack of familiarity with the rudiments of the files, I can speak of appreciation and an attempt at criticism. There were also painting blogs, or something like that. And the same applies of photography blogs. And then there are blogs that talk of economy, politics, and yes, culture, that big three that are left uncategorized but definitely are very close to one another. I wonder then, if blogs would, in the future, be containers not just of thoughts, but of thoughts about thoughts, like a seemingly unimaginable self-reflexive account of everything accounted and analyzed and the act of analysis itself.

They say letters are giving way to the visual. Or more exactly: that the visual is in, and implicitly, that print is out. But in summoning the poststructuralist declaration that everything is text, I’d like to believe that all media can be employed altogether in the process of textulization, and in the ever-important process of participating in the discourses in the society. Books and news papers may be losing the steam they once normally radiate but blogs are here and they add twist to words, thanks to funky lay-outs, the possibility of having advertisements and a wider scheme available for interactivity and discussions.

And in the time of globalization, technology and all, (which is globalization tamed through terminologies), blogging can be a way to soften the intended assault. Destroy the system from within, old times have inserted in my mind. You include yourself in the discourses, and in the venue where a large part of the discourses happen; you mark yourself in history, not for calcification but for continual negotiation and contradiction, and ultimately, growth. Let us mess with one another and let us take a pledge at wanting to arrive at better ideas. I have a point which you might not agree at, I have a poem which you might not find truly interesting, or aesthetically fine, let us kill them part by part, as long as we are keen at arriving at something better.

In the dialectics that need to be followed, there is no other way but up. And let us forget first about our problematization of language, of valuations and all, to go up is to progress.

So I’ll get this vessel of moments going and we can talk about, or argue about “progress” and “globalization” and “aesthetics” or “the worth of blogging” now. And the lacks that first entries always pose can be filled in, gradually and successively, albeit never completely. We all know this, perhaps subconsciously, how everything – conclusions, completions, ends – are always temporary, how they belie their immediate meanings.

Precisely why we keep on writing until our pens die or our keyboards sink into decrepit, talking until our pauses mean that we are delving deeper to make sense, and living until we harmonize “knowledge” and “experience,” harmonize “theory” and “practice,” and mastered to balance the shift of focus from one to the other, as always, in a progressive direction.