Get this. I'm not into these blog memes where you have to do shit and spill something about yourself, but this person I know made her answers so impersonal but interesting at the same time I was encouraged to do the same.
Here's me at an attempt for a meme: Fill in the blanks with what suits you
1. Burgers -- the best food to take on a picnic.
2. I remember the last time I watched a movie back home. It was 500 Days of Summer.
3. I find how flip flops could mean either footwear or digital circuity computer stuff, funny.
4. To love someone is to find someone who is so close to you that the line between "him" and "her" becomes very fine.
5. Life is a long hike and it is up to us on what route to travel.
6. When I crave food, it's usually a slab of prime rib of beef au jus marinated in red wine and served medium rare over seasonal vegetables and chicken parmesan.
7. And as for the weekend, tonight (Thursday) I'm looking forward to my parents letting the issue slide, tomorrow my plans include having a blast at the CSSS kick off party.. without busting my wallet that much, and Sunday, I want to be the bastion of academic excellence.
Puppeteer
21 September 2011
I move a leg. And another one. In a few moments, I begin to do something my puppeteer calls walking. He smiles. As he twitches the cross-rods, his audience is entertained, dazzled by this wondrous thing that moves.
He pulls strings here and there, and I realize I am not alone. There are hundreds of us - perhaps even thousands, all moving, all doing stuff - to the delight of the audience. My fellow puppets seem not to take notice of the strings connected to them: it's like they haven't seen it yet.. or just prefer not to give a damn.
I look at the audience. A massive plethora of myriad individuals, watching us, studying us. Then I see something above them - strings. They are puppets as well, puppets who are currently just watching us do stunts. Eventually my eye catches one of the stage puppets move ot of the stage to be replaced with someone from the audience. After a few moments, I feel my legs being walked out of the stage. I am now being made a part of the audience as well.
All of the motions, all of the people watching, makes me wonder who moves these many puppets, who controls them. I squint up toward the light to take a glance at the puppeteer's nametag. His name is Society. For the past few hours, I keep seeing someone go to Society and help him move the puppets. A few hours ago, there was only one. Now there are hundreds of them, each making at least 10 puppets move. They all have the same nametag: Technology.
Now Society doesn't always control the puppets by himself. Sometimes, he crushes them, destroys them, throws them into a fire for reasons I could not comprehend. Sometimes Society just cuts off a puppet's strings, rendering the poor wooden figure lifeless, laying in a heap of wooden uselessness on the floor. He occasionally wipes out puppets of a certain color, of a certain height. There are times when he threw an entire region of people away.
Both the puppeteer and his group of sidekicks with the name Technology take part in this horrendous display of destruction. But there are times when they actually improve some people. They polish their wooden eyes, make them more attractive, make them do more actions. Sometimes, they augment the puppet's capabilities. They help them be the best puppet they can be, for the delight of the audience.
I take a look at myself for a second and I was shocked with what I saw: right there, on the dull tin plate pinned to my chest, is the name Society.
White crayon
06 September 2011
The white crayon doesn't show up until you have a 16-pack of crayons.
What is it for anyway? Crayola said it's for 'advanced coloring techniques', where you were supposed to highlight glossy surfaces or emphasize a chiaroscuro, but what kind of pre-schooler would come up with such a concept? I don't even see a kindergartner saying chiaroscuro correctly.
The white crayon. Basically useless, very neutral. It sits at the edge of the 16-crayon pack, waiting to be used. No doubt that after some usage, the white crayon will be the sharpest, most crisp, while all the other crayons have shown dullness due to repeated use.
The crayon has its own brilliance though; a hidden one. Just like how it was supposed to be used to emphasize shading, the white crayon serves a higher purpose. It is not meant to be used or even understood by normal people. Only a chosen few can understand the significance of the white crayon, and when they do, they unleash a masterpiece.
It has its own time, when some artist uses crayons to work on something extravagant, something life-like. It is when the white crayon becomes essential. It rises above the purpose of toddlers using it to create rugged crayon drawings and becomes a tool to enhance, to accentuate, to beautify. It has its own time, when art finally becomes art, an authentic appreciation of the visual world, a symphony of colors orchestrated in the hands of the artist. And in between this mélange of hues and shades, the shades of the white crayon bind them together, make them cohesive, or draw the boundaries between one color and the other.
It is then that the white crayon does its job. Unfortunate as it may seem, the white crayon is the underestimated knight of the crayon box, whose real purpose is only known to a few. Often misunderstood, the white crayon symbolizes everyone whose real potential haven't been tapped, those whose brilliance will someday break the twilight of the world's dismal, repetitive drudgery. A day will come when all the world's hidden talents will emerge and bring forth the real ability mankind has.
What was hidden shall be seen. The white crayon, inert as it may seem, does actually have a purpose. And it's one that is the most artistic of all: to impart beauty onto the world.
What is it for anyway? Crayola said it's for 'advanced coloring techniques', where you were supposed to highlight glossy surfaces or emphasize a chiaroscuro, but what kind of pre-schooler would come up with such a concept? I don't even see a kindergartner saying chiaroscuro correctly.
The white crayon. Basically useless, very neutral. It sits at the edge of the 16-crayon pack, waiting to be used. No doubt that after some usage, the white crayon will be the sharpest, most crisp, while all the other crayons have shown dullness due to repeated use.
The crayon has its own brilliance though; a hidden one. Just like how it was supposed to be used to emphasize shading, the white crayon serves a higher purpose. It is not meant to be used or even understood by normal people. Only a chosen few can understand the significance of the white crayon, and when they do, they unleash a masterpiece.
It has its own time, when some artist uses crayons to work on something extravagant, something life-like. It is when the white crayon becomes essential. It rises above the purpose of toddlers using it to create rugged crayon drawings and becomes a tool to enhance, to accentuate, to beautify. It has its own time, when art finally becomes art, an authentic appreciation of the visual world, a symphony of colors orchestrated in the hands of the artist. And in between this mélange of hues and shades, the shades of the white crayon bind them together, make them cohesive, or draw the boundaries between one color and the other.
It is then that the white crayon does its job. Unfortunate as it may seem, the white crayon is the underestimated knight of the crayon box, whose real purpose is only known to a few. Often misunderstood, the white crayon symbolizes everyone whose real potential haven't been tapped, those whose brilliance will someday break the twilight of the world's dismal, repetitive drudgery. A day will come when all the world's hidden talents will emerge and bring forth the real ability mankind has.
What was hidden shall be seen. The white crayon, inert as it may seem, does actually have a purpose. And it's one that is the most artistic of all: to impart beauty onto the world.
Like Frankie said, I did it my way.
Regrets, I've had not a few, but a lot. Like tonight.
So guys, here's the plaintext.
It's the first day of school, and as always, I traversed the hallways alone. Typical immigrant non-native-English-speaking freshman dude. Three classes passed, and I never met a soul. Or maybe it's just me, trying to rush myself into things? Maybe it's just me not taking one step at a time.
Maybe. That's the same thing I thought when I attended my first class on campus, last summer. But whatever, maybe this term, I'll have to meet people. Maybe joining student organizations would be a great tactic after all. Maybe just pulling up all the courage I can get to say, "Hi, I'm Leonard" would get me places. After all, it's a 300-seater lecture hall and I could just move to another seat far away from one where a failed introduction occurred.
Two paragraphs of maybes. Just like any other typical youth blogpost, full of what ifs. What I hate is asking myself what if questions, unless I'm doing science. This post is intended to be one of those sleepy thoughts that I have while at school, or the myriad scattershot opinions I have at night. But no. Tomorrow, I will speak my mind. No more thoughts to myself.
Tomorrow, the world shall hear my story.
P.S. F'Real's strawberry milkshake is so fucking good.
So guys, here's the plaintext.
It's the first day of school, and as always, I traversed the hallways alone. Typical immigrant non-native-English-speaking freshman dude. Three classes passed, and I never met a soul. Or maybe it's just me, trying to rush myself into things? Maybe it's just me not taking one step at a time.
Maybe. That's the same thing I thought when I attended my first class on campus, last summer. But whatever, maybe this term, I'll have to meet people. Maybe joining student organizations would be a great tactic after all. Maybe just pulling up all the courage I can get to say, "Hi, I'm Leonard" would get me places. After all, it's a 300-seater lecture hall and I could just move to another seat far away from one where a failed introduction occurred.
Two paragraphs of maybes. Just like any other typical youth blogpost, full of what ifs. What I hate is asking myself what if questions, unless I'm doing science. This post is intended to be one of those sleepy thoughts that I have while at school, or the myriad scattershot opinions I have at night. But no. Tomorrow, I will speak my mind. No more thoughts to myself.
Tomorrow, the world shall hear my story.
P.S. F'Real's strawberry milkshake is so fucking good.
Writer's block
11 August 2011
You see, I'm a Scorpio. Just like Picasso or da Vinci, I never finish most of the work I start, just like this blog.
I once dreamt that I would be rich and famous, at least in the blogosphere. So the First Movement has begun. It was supposed to be a dramatic entrada, the first wave of a raging surge of emotions and feeling expressed and captured in free-flowing lines of prose.
But then things changed. Just like the tides, my literary excursions ebbed into the deepest confines of my mind. I was once again trapped, lost in words wanting to come out but couldn't be expressed. I always have a concept blossoming somewhere in my mind, but when I face the intimidation brought by the blinking cursor in front of me, my mind ends up at a loss for words. A loss for words! How excruciatingly forlorn!
My life's work distanced me from the thing I like most, writing. Translating my unknown thoughts into known patterns, combinations of glyphs that invoke a common definition to people who recognize it. And being the writer I am, I go as far as extending the mere common word into something more provocative, more daring, more passionate. I like using big words, the way they slush, swirl, and hang around, waiting to be used, waiting to be proof of impeccable eloquence in the language.
I keep a journal. Used to, but then people mocked me. They mocked my notebook, my ability to translate hidden thoughts into spoken words, to express the world as I perceive it, as I feel it. They don't want me to express myself, about how I see the world through my dismal, despicable eyes. I thought that was how the world works; they're satisfied living in their memory, of putting their thoughts in their mind, never getting out, never getting expressed.
I may have some things that I have to keep to myself, but my writing must not falter. I must continue to write, on and on, until all words have faded out of existence, until my mind stops, until my soul wavers. Not unless I am dead shall I stop using big words. The world is my viewpoint, and my mind is the blueprint. A blueprint to build, not a physical entity, but a personalized account of my own existence, a narrative of my being. With my mind as a blueprint and the power of words as my medium, I shall create a world, a world made entirely out of my own view, the real world as I see it through my eyes.
I am a writer, a builder of worlds, the master of linguistic expression. Forsooth, I am a writer. I have the power to distort or enhance a person's world view. I can bring forth harmonic truth or chaotic lies. I am a writer. And the world is my viewpoint.
I once dreamt that I would be rich and famous, at least in the blogosphere. So the First Movement has begun. It was supposed to be a dramatic entrada, the first wave of a raging surge of emotions and feeling expressed and captured in free-flowing lines of prose.
But then things changed. Just like the tides, my literary excursions ebbed into the deepest confines of my mind. I was once again trapped, lost in words wanting to come out but couldn't be expressed. I always have a concept blossoming somewhere in my mind, but when I face the intimidation brought by the blinking cursor in front of me, my mind ends up at a loss for words. A loss for words! How excruciatingly forlorn!
My life's work distanced me from the thing I like most, writing. Translating my unknown thoughts into known patterns, combinations of glyphs that invoke a common definition to people who recognize it. And being the writer I am, I go as far as extending the mere common word into something more provocative, more daring, more passionate. I like using big words, the way they slush, swirl, and hang around, waiting to be used, waiting to be proof of impeccable eloquence in the language.
I keep a journal. Used to, but then people mocked me. They mocked my notebook, my ability to translate hidden thoughts into spoken words, to express the world as I perceive it, as I feel it. They don't want me to express myself, about how I see the world through my dismal, despicable eyes. I thought that was how the world works; they're satisfied living in their memory, of putting their thoughts in their mind, never getting out, never getting expressed.
I may have some things that I have to keep to myself, but my writing must not falter. I must continue to write, on and on, until all words have faded out of existence, until my mind stops, until my soul wavers. Not unless I am dead shall I stop using big words. The world is my viewpoint, and my mind is the blueprint. A blueprint to build, not a physical entity, but a personalized account of my own existence, a narrative of my being. With my mind as a blueprint and the power of words as my medium, I shall create a world, a world made entirely out of my own view, the real world as I see it through my eyes.
I am a writer, a builder of worlds, the master of linguistic expression. Forsooth, I am a writer. I have the power to distort or enhance a person's world view. I can bring forth harmonic truth or chaotic lies. I am a writer. And the world is my viewpoint.
Glass slippers and pumpkin cars
05 April 2011
It's funny how little girls get treated like royalty. Princesses, shades of pink, a tiara and a ballgown, all those sparkly and glittery jazz. But as she grows, the poor little princess begins to realize that life does not end in 'happily ever after'. She removes her tiara, steps down from her throne, and removes her ballgown (!!!) to reveal her usual, normal-person dress.
In a snap, her shiny coach goes back into a pumpkin, and her servants become nothing more than rats. She does her normal activities, studying, sleeping, working. Aside from the things she has to do to keep herself alive, there's nothing new happening. It's the same thing every day.
Our princess gets trapped in the realm of drudgery, as she deals with unpaid credit card balances, academic pressure, and the stress of the workplace. She curses the weather for being too extreme, her boss for being too much of a jerk, and her family for being indifferent to her feelings. She envies those people who has real friends. She goes home with a sigh, she drags herself to school. This is her life.
Every once in a while, she puts on her tiara and pretends it's all going to be alright. She pretends that she can get everything with the snap of a finger, that she can get a good laugh from the court jester. She gives orders here and there, pampering herself with the royal benefits of being a princess.
The microwave oven beeps and she snaps back to her misery. And somewhere, somehow, she hopes that somebody has her slipper.
In a snap, her shiny coach goes back into a pumpkin, and her servants become nothing more than rats. She does her normal activities, studying, sleeping, working. Aside from the things she has to do to keep herself alive, there's nothing new happening. It's the same thing every day.
Our princess gets trapped in the realm of drudgery, as she deals with unpaid credit card balances, academic pressure, and the stress of the workplace. She curses the weather for being too extreme, her boss for being too much of a jerk, and her family for being indifferent to her feelings. She envies those people who has real friends. She goes home with a sigh, she drags herself to school. This is her life.
Every once in a while, she puts on her tiara and pretends it's all going to be alright. She pretends that she can get everything with the snap of a finger, that she can get a good laugh from the court jester. She gives orders here and there, pampering herself with the royal benefits of being a princess.
The microwave oven beeps and she snaps back to her misery. And somewhere, somehow, she hopes that somebody has her slipper.
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