The Witches of Eastwick

A good book for me is something which I'll read even though I know what the plot is (I'm not looking at you Harry Potter). It may be that the prose is excellent, weaving vivid imagery into every page, making every place, every character come alive with mere words. It may be that while the prose is dull, the philosophy behind the story is deep and resounding. Some examples of such books for me are Frank Herbert's Dune, Toni Morrison's Beloved, Edgar Allan Poe's works, and now, recently read, John Updike's The Witches of Eastwick.

 
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Someday, dear, there will be nothing left in the world but hair and Clorox bottles

Behind my back, the television is murmuring Pedro Penduko's show over at ABS-CBN. The scene has one of the protagonists asking why her professor is so mad at one of her students, Watashi, who happens to have a Japanese dad. The professor (played by Anna Capri, one of my favorite actresses) emotionally explained how her grandmother was a comfort woman during the last war. This explanation was liberally sprinkled by screams of 'wag po' in the background, presumably by her lola, in sepia. And then some giant monkey guy enters the classroom to attack the professor. She faints in terror.

This post is not about this giant monkey guy though, it's about comfort women.

Freshman year, History I. We had some visitors for class that day. Some old ladies tottered in and sat down in front of the class, and not until our professor introduced them to us did we realize who they were. You'd think they'd be anxious and twittery people, traumatized by their experience of abuse and terror. But no, they had a placid composure about them; nobody would have guessed. As the ladies were telling us about their experience though, this composure melted away. The most heartbreaking was when one of them cried as she explained how fifteen to thirty Japanese men would come everyday and beat her up before raping her. If I remember correctly, she was no more than fourteen at that time.

 
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Habit

Peter says a lot of wise things, claiming to be an old fogey whose benevolence protects all his subjects. He's probably the best person to ask advice from because he says things you don't want to hear in a way that makes you want to hear them—I mean he can probably sell you cancer if he felt like it. Maybe it's because he's a psychology graduate, but I credit it to plain ole talent.

 
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Estrangement

So maybe I'm emo, the genuine kind of emo. I hate being branded that—it has such horrible connotations, like you feeling bad about something is a bad thing intrinsically and that you do it all the time even if there is actually no reason to. Pop culture nowadays is all about branding and stereotypes. Saying you're not like everyone else and that you're special and that your pain is unique fits you in a stereotype. And makes you emo.

I feel displaced and out of place lately. I don't like what I'm studying in school and I'm slowly gaining weight. Marco is a nice guy and he tries his best, but sometimes we miss out on some important points simply because our perceptions of the world in general do not match. What makes it all worse is that I had a falling out with my friends—it's my fault I guess, and I don't really want to start going about blaming anyone. Things just happen, and even though I feel resentment regarding this falling out thing, I just try to shrug it away. Things happen. They just do.

 
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Death and Videoke Machines

Death is death. One can go about it quietly or with the gunpowder of drama, whichever suits them best. I don't consider it a mystery or as an object of fascination like that fellow Poe. I guess it's interesting to watch a person stop breathing, more interesting to watch this person getting killed unnaturally. I sometimes stop and think about it. But really now? As far as I'm concerned, I'm immortal. If by some misfortune the gods miscalculated the length of my immortality to something shorter than it shouldn't be, then I die early. End of my story.

 
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Because I’m A Social Calamity

I feel as if I should be doing my report in European politics right now, but nah. I have worthier things to waste my time on than electoral politics in divided societies and what-not. Blogging is a good, if not the best way to throw away time. I have such unbelievable amounts of the stuff I'd sell it to anyone who has the purchasing power.

What sucks though, is that  while I have all the time in the world to put to bad use, I am usually exhausted of late. That's why I should be sleeping right now rather than blogging because my class starts at 8 am tomorrow and everybody knows that Monday is a bitch. So before I either sleep or finish this report, I'll put some random stuff in here of the past week:

 
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XIX

Nineteen is just a transition. I don’t care much for the age itself, but what it means: I’m one year nearer twenty, one year nearer the two-decade mark ending my teenage stage. As if it was something to mourn for, no. But it is something to miss.

Time is an illusion, age (and pretty much everything else) is a state of mind. I’m not in the mood to preach—is this a change? Perhaps, a symptom of getting older. The whole the-world-is-against-me-and-don’t-understand-me phase is old enough to be discarded for something more practical, lasting and devoid of romance. What?

Surrender.

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Fairy tales are not for the faint of heart

I grew up with fairytales. My mom loved buying me books with them in it, and one could say that they motivated me to read until my eyes are the sorry mess they are now. Princesses and magical toads, shimmering castles and Prince Charmings—these things fascinated me when I was little, and they still do. Not that I believe in magic nor am I a hopeless romantic, but the stuff of fairy tales are more exciting than the stuff of real life, and thus, more real.

Sometime in the early 90's, an aunt of mine brought home a thick book of fairy tales, with Sinbad, Aladdin, Snow White, Cinderella, and even Bluebeard living inside its pages. No, it has none of the sugary nonsense of Disney retellings with happily ever afters ending each story. It has big words and small text. It has blood and gore, and is often morbid. I found out the real nature of whimsical fairy tales: not all of them ends happily, and most of those that do tell sad stories anyway. 

 
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Why and How You Make Me Happy

I am not one for cheesiness. Things that make my feet touch the clouds, my heart all fuzzy like cotton candy and my head like irridiscent soap bubbles I'd rather say in a bland, straightforward manner laced with what i like to imagine as wit. I believe that human emotions are rather limited; what makes them unique are the reasons that bring them about. And how one expresses them.

I do not like explaining, but in a rare chance and if you call within twenty minutes, you get a free, you heard it, a free bag of nothing. I fancy telling you about why I'm happy right now. I think reading this when we get into a fight again will make you feel better and call fifteen more times until I feel sorry for you and answer the phone. Also, your birthday is near. Consider this as a pre-birthday thing. Although I'm still a little upset about you going to spend your birthday with your frat.

That said, these are the reasons why and how you make me happy.

 
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Dorm?

The commute to Manila from Cavite and back is killing me. For the first time in my college life, I am seriously considering getting a dorm. Maybe for the past three years, too many people started living in Cavite and buses started breaking down; maybe my schedule simply sucks; or maybe I'm just really old and I have no more stamina or patience for five hours of travel everyday.

 
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