Into a butterfly a cocoon emerges

Us Open final: Roger vs Roddick

2006-09-10T14:00:00.000+08:00

I'm already envisioning what the match will be like-Pandy all brute and force with Connors, his newfound coach edging him on from the player's box, the crowd all wild and frenzied cheering the all American Roddick and his not too pleasant antics on court while ROger, on the other side of the net, is just content to let his racket or more like magic wand do the fighting and talking. I don't care what the media says about Roddick's all improved game, to me, it remains as dull as a school's textbook. His game as i see it is the antithesis to Roger's stylish tennis-all Lacroix in its genius , imagination and inventiveness. I don't want to gloat lest I jinx Roger or something but I want the intelligent and the beautiful to triumph in the person of Roger. So, I'll stop my Roddick bashing for now and i'll just continue with more jabbings and stone throwings after ROger wins. Goodluck Rog!

What will be the plot of this year's US Open?

2006-08-31T13:54:00.000+08:00

Here's how i see it: Andre Agassi will be losing in the early rounds. I know this is his farewell tournament and much that he wants to add one final GS to his already 8 I don't think he can make it beyond the quarters. He said in his post match interview that miracles can happen and he has not stopped believing. Well, good for him for showing great faith but miracles and its powers tend to shrink in collision with Fate. Fate, this year and will remain so for a couple more, favors ROger Federer and his quest to be the GReatest Tennis Player of ALL TIME. Sorry Andre.

David Sedaris' Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denims

2006-08-31T13:38:00.000+08:00

There has been a lot of buzz around David Sedaris' books so i got all curious and decided to buy one and see for myself what the hype is all about. Most critics say Sedaris is one witty writer and after reading a few pages from his Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Pants i have to agree. The comic tone is effortless and so fluid that I giggle the way through the first few pages uncontrollably. I'm liking the book so far.

What! Roger Lost To Andy Murray!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2006-08-17T17:44:00.000+08:00

Yes he did. I'm afraid so. It was a shock to say the least because Roger losing (to anyone other than Rafa) is like the sun rising in the west. It just can't happen. Unthinkable. But it did today and to Andy Murray at that. I knew this was coming when he seemed too unRoger-like in his match against Paradorn in the 1st round. His UE were coming fast and furious and most were coming from his usually reliable forehand. I hate it when this guy loses. I feel like the order of the universe has been rattled and the laws of the cosmos being turned upside down. His lost gives me a rather weird feeling. It was painful to see Roger playing badly. I'm missing his sublime, 'Wimby' tennis. Where are those scintillating shots? Those mesmerizing backhands and forehands? I want Rog no other way. I want him back to his usual self come US Open. He must get his 9th GS at Flushing meadows.

Roger must take pity on me and many of his devout fans. We are in pain everytime he falls. Seriously.

'cmmon Rog, let us take the US Open-in killer Rogi, fashion. Goodluck to you baby!

Brad Gilbert was looking smug the whole time during Rog match. BG, by the way, is Andy Murray's coach.

Rules be damned!

2006-07-01T20:42:00.000+08:00

Our Lady of Fatima University makes the silliest of all rules. Just this week they implemented a "No artificial hair color policy" for the nursing students. I mean how ridiculous can they get. I don't see the point. I know nurses are supposed to look clean, plain, chaste, virginal but 'cmmon does having a dyed hair make one unclean and less befitting to be a nurse? We're going to be future nurses not nuns for chrissakes. What is bothering me even more is the whole fuss they're making out of this one. My God, they're actually taking their no-brainer policy seriously!!! It's one thing to create benign,stupid rules, it's another to be deluded into thinking they are the world's greatest. I feel like slapping myself for following, submitting to this policy. If they think this is some way to instill discipline among students, would it hurt so much if they let us acquire discipline in a manner that is dignified and rational? This is getting hilarious and terrifying by the minute. What will they come up with next time? I'm afraid to even think about it.

Wimbledon update

2006-07-01T19:57:00.000+08:00

Roger Federer is through to the 4th round beating Nicolas Mahut in straight sets.On Monday he will face Tomas Berdych whom Roger beat in the Halle final. I don't want to jinx Roger but i really believe he'll manage to pass the 4th round test without so much of a bleep. with the way that he's been playing it's difficult to imagine someone beating Rog in the hallowed grounds of his beloved Wimby.

I'm so relieved that this tourny has finally arrived after the disappointment of the French Open. There's something about Wimbledon that makes it extra special and unique. Most of the players credit it to its aura/atmosphere and antiquity. I agree. but my reason for liking Wimby is more personal. I make no attempt to hide the fact that I adore Rog so to see him so comfortable and so 'at home' in Wimby is enough to make me love Wimby. Roger and Wimbledon-they're perfect together.

Andre Agassi will soon retire. He made the announcement that this year's Wimbledon will be his last. I really hope that he makes it to the finals. Maybe it's too much to ask from an ailing/aging Agassi but who knows he might get all the inspiration from his desire to make his last his best. He'll play Nadal tonight-it's a tough one for Andre but the crowd will be behind him all the way so this might give him the extra push he needs.

Nalbandian and Blake are out. Shocking. The dynamics of tennis is so interesting-momentum shifts, mental breakdowns/meltdowns from players. I don't know what happened to Blake out there but in the last and deciding set, Max Mirnyi just had him by the neck. How disappointing it must be for Blake! Too bad he's such a nice guy and a looker to boot.

Need to go now. The Nadal-Agassi match is on.

French Open and Roger

2006-06-10T09:10:00.000+08:00

The finals is going to be on Sunday and Roger is again going to meet the muscled Malorcan, Rafael Nadal. Will fate be on Roger's side this time? Will the blessings of the tennis gods be upon him? Will history grant him a place in its book? All these will have their answers on Sunday.

As a fan I can never think of a much better proposition than Roger winning the title on Sunday. If that happens I don't know what I'm going to do-I'll probably flood the house with my tears and bring it down with my jubilation. This match, you see, is a huge, huge one and not just because it's the grand slam finals but because of the high stakes for ROg- a.) 'Roger Slam' (4 consecutive grand slam wins) b.) winning streaks in grand slam finals c.) complete tennis domination (by conquering clay, his 'least' favorite surface via the French Open).

If Roger is able to consolidate all his weapons tomorrow against Nadal, then without a doubt he'll claim The victory of his career. He needs to put all his past losses to Nadal behind. He must rise to the occasion, be ruthless, unforgiving, ready to buther and kill. I can't stand him losing to the likes of Rafael Nadal,not anymore. I'm getting tired. Roger is obviously the more talented artist between the two so it pains me to see him succumb to the brute power of Nadal. The artist, the more gifted should win. Nadal's game is hideously ugly, made uglier with his grunting and needless outburst of energy every minute of the entire match. This young kid needs to calm down-seriously! This kind of behavior on court is offensive to the opponent. I don't blame Ivan if he seems to bear contained animosity against Rafael. Ivan after his loss to Rafael Nadal in the semis made some remarks about Nadal's delaying tactic in between points. I've been noticing this behavior of Nadal for quite sometime now so Ivan's gripes are legit. maybe rafael is being coached by his Uncle Toni to do that. Who knows? one thing i KNow is that I don't like him. Everything about Rafael Nadal is exaggeration and I hate it.

Go roger!!! Make this young Spaniard pay for all the past three losses. Make him taste the bitter pang of defeat. Go, go, go Roger! Allez!!!!!

Roger taking the French Open 2006 title

2006-06-04T12:49:00.000+08:00

I'm betting that Roger will win this year's French Open. He has to. He must. Why? well, there are a thousand reasons really but the one that stands out most in my mind as a fan is he'll start weakening Rafael nadal's strangehold on him. The clay is Nadal's turf so if Roger beats him on his favorite surface Rog will totally own him and thus complete his domination. God, Lord Roger must win this one. PLease!!! Hahaha!!I'm a crazed fan. There's no cure for this one. But seriously, even if Roger maintains his No.1 spot at the end of every year if he keeps losing to that 19 yr. old Schwarzenegger of Spain how can he feel total satisfaction. All out, utter, complete, over the top domination is what Roger should aim for-nothing less than this is acceptable. Roger should stop with all politeness, I'm getting tired of it. He must growl like a leopard, make them (the rest of tennis field)fear him. fear, is the dominant factor in total domination. There can be no domination without fear. Kindness won't work. So Rogi, go go for tennis domination!!!! Nadal, must be taken cared of as soon as possible. Talent wise you are so way better. So please do something. Is this a deal my dear Rogi?

Paradox of Writing

2006-06-04T11:22:00.000+08:00

I love the mighty pen. I love the words it struggles to bring to life, the beautiful composition it creates. Since a kid, writing has always appealed to me. I have dreamt of becoming the next Toni Morrison, the next Jane Austen or even the next Alice Walker. Writing is in my blood. I could feel it; I could taste it. There's never a moment, a day that passes that I don't get the urge to write whether I'm in class, at home or doing the most mundane of activities like cleaning plates, washing clothes and dusting furniture. Everywhere in me itches to speak, to cry, to laugh in print-my hand instinctively snatches the closest piece of paper; my body almost involuntarily heads to the nearest computer keyboard eager to punch away. In writing, I have found an ally, a lover and a friend.

Yet, despite my avowed devotion to it, I find myself tangled in its web of paradox. I’m not sure if other writers experience it. May be it’s just me and my, tormented, schizophrenic, conflicted approach to writing. I know not. But one thing I am certain of is that writing for me is a magnet that at once repels and attracts. There is no hint of a doubt that I am drawn to it like a moth is to the light but beneath there lies the trepidation, the hesitation that only true love inspires. This is the paradox of writing. It summons to create only to paralyze those who come arduously, amorously at its door.

Writing guarantees no easy passage. Anyone wanting to take part in it has to suffer and fight through the paradox. There is no other way. It draws blood and love at the same time; in its embrace lingers both tension and release. Writing, I’ve come to realize and come to terms with, is all a sheet of mended paradox from beginning till end. If one wants to escape it, to survive, one has to fully submit to it -absorbing the pains of a blank paper; the scanty, bumpy flow of words; the fears of mediocrity and indignity and; the joys of producing, of finding oneness in writing, and of stringing ideas into a single perfect whole.

This is the reality of writing-at least to me. It may not be a tour in the countryside or a walk in the park but it is and will always be the most gratifying of all experiences simply because it is what it is. In writing, I am myself. In it, I find no need to be someone else or to be burdened by anything except my connection to the text and audience-nothing more. Though it is a landscape of paradoxes, it is the most honest and forgiving-no pretensions, no sins unpardoned. Writing creates a climate that just suits me and my temperament. So no matter how I struggle in its paradox, I raise no complaint. How can I when it has taken me as its own, kept me diligently in its silence and tumultuous splendor?

Writing and life are two inseparable values in an equation. Without one, the other is useless. Life is intended to be written down, to be expressed, to be interpreted, to be shaped, to be given order and to be understood. Writing does all these to life and life submits like a pliant bamboo. There is paradox in writing because its subject and context-life-is one that thrives in contradictions. A mimic and mirror of life, writing, is left with no option but to behave in a full spectrum of paradoxes bringing into the act the faithful writer.

Although life in general feeds the paradox in writing, the mother, the source of its paradox is the love, the passion that drives one to write. It is both the culprit and the inspiration. I have learned that to worship writing, to be crazy about it is to struggle and to suffer. This is the ultimate paradox of writing. A writer fumbles, retreats, pauses at the outset, midway and even near the end of the writing process all for the love, the desire to piece together a wonderful creation. He refuses to offer in the altar of writing a work that is below par and doesn’t meet, pass his lofty expectations and standards.

There is no remedying this paradox, one simply guards against being overwhelmed and eaten alive by it.

To be a writer, I know I need to take courage not in dodging worries, fears and doubts that come along with the paradoxes but in confronting them. A heart of a lion is what writing demands and wants me to have. And this I will possess. In time.

Humor Me:jessica Zafra's Conspiracy of Buns

2006-05-09T02:30:00.001+08:00

Let’s all laugh-that’s the invitation of Jessica Zafra’s Conspiracy of Buns. There are lots to giggle about in her essay: guys being likened to parking spaces, her hilariously absurd theories of gay population explosion, her friend’s ‘very out there’ conspiracy of buns. There’s no escaping the humor in her essay. Every line screams it, forcing the reader to notice and join in the communion of the funny, intelligent and raw. This is the power, the beauty behind Jessica Zafra’s Conspiraccy of Buns. By creating, maintaining the tone of humor in her essay, she is able to draw an intimate link between audience and text. The readers aren’t left scratching their heads after finishing the essay or worse yawning away in utter boredom. We can always find some connection in every passage and thought.

Jessica Zafra’s humor in the essay is not forced; it doesn’t come out as ‘trying hard’. She effortlessly hurls words, phrases, sentences that disarm readers and send them to massive fits of laughter. Her essay is naturally funny. It is no stand-up comedy where the comedienne stands up on stage and delivers rehearsed lines and jokes. In the essay, the humor flows freely, spontaneously almost like a conversation. “Occasionally you meet an apparent perfect specimen. He’s smart, funny, attractive, sensitive, articulate, cultured, dresses well. He even cooks. The first question that pop into your head is not, ‘Is he seeing anyone?’ The first question is ‘Is he gay?’ And if the answer to both questions is no, What is wrong with him?” We can envision ourselves saying these lines to a friend over coffee. Such is the relaxed nature of humor in Zafra’s essay. It embraces more than it alienates.

Although the essay is pointedly light, it doesn’t ignore or trivialize. There may be humor in the essay, an attempt to take the load off of the topic (i.e. gay population explosion) and yet there hovers a sense of importance in all of it. The arguments, thoughts (although said in jest) are very intelligent and witty. Jessica Zafra in this essay explores the different possibilities, probabilities behind the gay explosion phenomenon and how the increasing number of gay guys can decrease the chances of heterosexual females from finding a significant other (SO). Her take on the topic may appear ridiculous but so is the strange meteoric rise in the number of homosexuals today. The absurd inspires the absurd. The weird meets the strange. Just vintage, vintage Jessica Zafra!

The brevity adds coherence to the essay. A reader doesn’t get lost in it for the material is handled well. There are no excesses, waste and pompousness. Conspiracy of Buns is simplicity at its finest (and funniest).

Its crispness is its cutting edge.

In any essay there must always be clear purpose, that one reason which sparks an essay’s creation. In Conspiracy of Buns it is obvious that its aim merely is to tell and by telling hopes to provoke smart, edgy thoughts in its readers. By introducing the topic (i.e, homosexuality) and mentioning possible explanations for its propagation, Jessica Zafra has succeeded in igniting interest. After reading the essay, a reader gets the sudden urge to form his/her own theory on gay population explosion no matter how wacky and so out of this world it is. In Zafra’s essay there’s no room for neutrality, lukewarm response and apathy. It forbids them. Such exquisite control of readers’ reactions comes from her ability to carry out the intention of her text. Jessica Zafra has perfected the ways of achieving her essay’s purpose: make readers laugh, keep them charmed even after the essay has been read through sheer inventiveness, originality and ironic appeal. As readers, the instance we take part in her essay there’s no other choice but to enjoy and be all ‘in the moment’.

In the final passage Jessica Zafra leaves a hanging thought: He raised an eyebrow. I raised an eyebrow. I had the sudden urge to watch Spartacus. This is an effective tool in keeping the audience on their toes till the very end. A reader must be asking herself what Jessica Zafra means by having a sudden urge to watch the epic film Spartacus. What is its connection to the essay? Jessica Zafra simply wants to draw a contrast between the gayness of homosexuals and hard masculinity of Spartacus. And to be noted also is the preceding dialogue between her and her friend prompting Jessica to make that final statement. Her friend accused her of being a haggot (i.e., fag hag) so naturally to shake off the weight of realization, the ‘oo nga no!’ after-feel, Jessica turns to all-manly Spartacus.

A Closer Look: Conrado de Quiros’ Brown Skin, White Masks

2006-05-09T02:28:00.000+08:00

Conrado de Quiros is known for his biting criticisms of society and its forces. He is popular for his impassioned notes about the Philippines’ socio-political landscape-Arroyo’s leadership pitfalls, present politicos’ brazen corruption, snarls of poverty and the seemingly endless, pointless social inequality punctuating Filipinos’ everyday life. It is therefore not a surprise for me to read an essay that has a touch of his signature fiery, intelligent, thoughtful, persuasive commentaries. In Brown Skin, White Masks, Conrado de Quiros talks about the perpetuation of racial prejudice within the context and bounds of our culture. He introduces this subject in the opening paragraph where he mentions a critical letter from TABAK (Tunay na Alyansa ng Bayan Alay sa Katutubo) condemning the racist remark of Vina Morales, the actress cum singer, in one of the episodes of Mel and Jay (the weekly TV program). Although the main statement of his essay is absent in the initial paragraph, we, the readers are given a sneak preview of the textual theme.

In the succeeding paragraphs, Conrado de Quiros works on developing his topic and this he does by poking at the different angles of racial prejudice as they occur in our country and then proceeding to cite examples to support his claim(s). There are four interesting points in the essay (all supported by real-life illustrations) and these are:

(a.) Racial prejudice is practiced, committed benignly and innocently. And because it is done so this way, nobody notices-hence the cycle.
(b.) Ignorance begets bigotry and in the Philippines it happens on a mighty scale.
(c.) Racial prejudice is stroked to feverish heights not only through verbal assaults but also by means of rituals, practices and institutions. (case in point: Beauty contests)
(d.) Whips of discrimination in terms of race are in the hands not only of the elite but also the people of the lowlands who deem themselves higher, better than our ‘natives’.

One of the great marks of this essay is the laser-like focus of its purpose. It is clear that Conrado de Quiros wants his essay to have the resounding echo of a slap. His intention is to criticize, to judge, to condemn in order for us, the readers, to see our own mistakes and change. It maybe harsh, blunt and so ‘in your face’ but the words, the accusations are all real. Don’t we all at one time laughed at someone we deem different and beneath us because they belong to a race so not us; a race darker and ‘less civilized’? The essay hurts-and it is supposed to. This is where Conrado de Quiros succeeds for the moment the tone of reproach reaches the ears of the readers, there arises a feeling of accountability and guilt and whence there is guilt there is also the possibility of change. To emphasize the ‘scolds’, Conrado de Quiros in the end stretches his condemnation to a note of warning: “We keep discriminating against our own kind, we will deserve to be discriminated against. Fools have been known to get a dose of their own medicine.”

Apart from clarity of intention, focus can also be seen in the essay’s effectively narrow range of topic. Conrado de Quiros instead of clumsily scooping from the wide abstract basin of racial prejudice opted to concentrate on the local discrimination of racial minorities in the country. The essay does not aim for something ambitious; it favors the concrete, the manageable, and the relevant. There are gazillion forms of social prejudice (prejudice in terms of race is one) and it’s an excellent decision on the part of Conrado de Quiros to concentrate on only one, the one which is most pressing and ironically enough, the one most neglected in this country. By delimiting the range of topic, the essay opens more room for emphasis and consequently the possibility of change. Through emphasis, the message is sent across in clearer, stronger and more convincing form.

The essay’s strongest mark in terms of content is the logic and strength of Conrado de Quiros’s arguments. His arguments spring from the core of racial prejudice: the act of trivializing discrimination, the ignorance behind it and its incorporation into institutions and mainstream activities. The arguments of Conrado de Quiros are coupled with situations validating his claims whose power and force of conviction rests on their authenticity. There’s just no way to debunk them for these occurrences do happen and sadly enough they do so right under our noses (might they be clogged?) One of my professors just last week remarked about how the Aetas living along the sidewalks of Balintawak are becoming one of the city’s eyesores what with all their big hairs, messy appearance, shoddy clothing and black coffee skin.

Now,couldn’t Conrado de Quiros be any more right,could he?

Dull, dull, dull is my Lit class in Fatima

2006-04-29T12:41:00.000+08:00

I'm disappointed. Why is it that my lit prof spends almost two hours discussing the summary of assigned short prose? Just the fucking summary! There are worthier things to talk about and we're wasting our time summarizing. It is so shamefully elementary. Kids in high school can do that. I get tired listening to her paraphrase "dead stars"by Paz Marquez Benitez and worse asking each student to narrate the story. Why can she not just ask us what we think of the story? How we understand it? Understanding is not just skin deep you know-it is an iceberg. There are so many layers to a story especially the good ones and I don't know why she can't even penetrate a layer deeper. Oh well, guess it's too much to ask.

I'm a moth in a beehive

2006-04-29T09:14:00.000+08:00

After a year of studying in the dreamy world of literature I am now in the hard,bone-draining world of nursing. It's not an easy transition to tell the truth. In Literature I feel so at home, so in my turf but in Nursing I'm like a moth in a beehive. This past week of attending nursing classses in the insufferable heat of summer I find myself in a deep daze, walking absentmindedly like an earthling on Planet X. I feel so lost. Nursing culture is so frenzied, so practical, so reality-based, so of this world, so devoid of abstraction, beauty and nuances. It is a landscape punishing for uncompromising artists. I miss the beautiful lull of literature, the language, the artistic freedom and creativity. Since I enrolled (or should I say re-enrolled) in Nursing my literary books are now laying idle,unopened,slowly gathering dust and it just pains me, too much sometimes that I can hardly breathe. I'm not exaggerating here, I mean how can I when I'm obviously,honestly hurting.

I don't know how long I will pine for Literature,my former world, my first love, maybe until I find redemption in finishing my nursing course or until I've come to prove that I can and know how to suffer for my one true passion. It's a long wait but what else can I do? Reality is never friendly;it forces a dreamer to crush his real aspiration and settle instead for something less than what he desires. i won't deny that I'm wearing all white nursing uniforms,studying nursing process, enduring the oppressive feel of OUr Lady of fatima University (OLFU) because I have to, I need to. What about the principle of choice you say? Don't we all as human beings operate on this principle? Isn't life just a matter of choosing what you want and living it? Well, i hate to break the bad news but in poor countries like ours choices don't come too often. Penury or quality life? Nurse with fat checks or artist with emaciated purse? These are hardly what you may call choices. A choice involves freedom and in deciding whether to be poor or not there is none.

It's Saturday today and I'm greatly pleased and relieved for I'll have a three-day rest from the loneliness and desperation of Nursing. Not long enough but it will give me time to regroup. I may not be ecstatic about Nursing-at least for now- but I still have to get to classes every single day, excel in every imaginable way and survive. In this environment my soul may not thrive but it must try to and must take all the emotional blows no matter what for that's the only way I can keep it alive. There's no calling it quits this time-not in my nursing studies, not in finding independence and strength of character, not in my artistic longings, not in continuing to dream and certainly not in life.

I'm a moth in a beehive-that is true but even if I am and probably will be in a long, long time there is no surrendering. I'll keep my large wings (even if they are clipped for now)and though there may be constant buzz around me I'll keep my lightweight flutter. I am different but I won't change anything. Nursing may be my beehive and I am a lone moth in it but I won't be conquered; it won't kill me. Someday I'll come out of it freer and more beautiful.

Obsessions

2006-04-24T23:15:00.000+08:00

What drives people to obsess? What makes them think, dream, desire only one thing? Of course there's Psychology to turn to for answers but it rarely gives a personal feel to the dynamics of obsessions. I think, if we really want to see what's in the heart of OC behavior we should at least once in our lifetime experience it. That's the only way. Until recently, my closest first-hand experience of obsession was being in the company of one back in college. Lara was brilliant in everything-essays, academic papers,tests, discussions,debates and extra-curriculars. She was perfect except for those little fixations life and death emergencies won't even make her miss like having coffee at exactly quarter to 12 in the evening (decaffeinated to be precise), brushing her teeth five times after every meal and tuning in to 98.7 The Master's Touch before she hits the bed. I did find her behaviors uncanny for the first few months but I soon learned to accept her quirks and sometimes even find comfort in them. Obsession is a disorder according to Psychology and thus bad but as long as we don't go stalking people or killing them, in my book it's just fine. In fact, i can argue that it goes beyond mere okay, that it is good and that it helps and saves (existentially speaking,of course).

When I developed my own obsessions, the mild kind, I have grown to understand why so many these days are going obsession crazy. My obsessions I know are nothing compared to the ones my friend had (or still has, i don't know since I haven't had the chance to meet up with her since our college days) but the urge, the compulsion is there. I worship Tori Amos and her music,her cryptic lyrics,her bedroom voice, her crisp piano plays, her originality and uniqueness. For me,she is just the truest of all music makers never mind the lukewarm reviews she got on her recent album, Sleep with Butterflies. The first moment I heard of her I'm hooked. Now, hardly a day goes by that i don't listen to Tori and check websites for some news about her. Books are another one of my obsessions.I can't help myself from buying loads especially when I see brilliant ones ignored and unbought; i always feel like I need to rescue them from ignorance and indifference. But i must confess I haven't read all of them; I'll make an effort soon though(can't stand unread books they give me the worst headache and stress). Roger Federer, the world's No. 1 tennis player of this generation and arguably of all time, is my favorite of all my wacky obsessions. I am so drawn to him and not just because he is the hottest commodity in tennis nowadays (i'm not that super shallow ). He fascinates me because he comes closest to the Ideal, the one Plato keeps ranting about in his works (like the Republic except in this he talks about the Ideal state and not man in ideal form ). if I remember right Plato says that the ideal form of a man is his soul which essentially means that man has to strike a semblance of balance in his life; his desires,will and reason must all be in equal footing. No need to elaborate further (Academic papers can take care of that). What i simply want to say is that Roger Federer is a perfect blend of talent, drive, personality, level-headedness, practicality, discipline,heart and of course,good looks (sigh). It's almost impossible to believe that such a person is alive and breathing in this rotten world of ours but he is flesh and blood real and boy are we lucky for it. Now, can I be blamed if I'm over the top, skyscraper high obsessed with him? (heads sway from side to side). The extent of my fanatical devotion goes as far as watching, following every match of his in every tournament he plays in even if it means bulging eye bags, hours of radiation exposure on the net (for daily update bonanza)and heightened pulse, heart rate (when matches get too tight for comfort). I still have other minor obsessions that are indiscernible so i won't mention them anymore,besides if i do people might begin to suspect i'm a scary freak (haha!!).

With all these heaving, pulsating obsessions of mine, I have come to nip their slippery core. Life,in general, is a big wound-painful,searing,irritating-so most of the time to deaden the sensations people turn to the orderliness, repetitions and assurances of obsessions. There is kindness in them (strangely enough), something which everyday realities barely get to offer. When I listen to the songs of Tori Amos regularly or when I buy books with throbbing impulsiveness I find relief, a profound lightness that can only be found in making important the mundane.

Obsessions do save and help. I stand by this no matter what psychologists may tell me ("Obsessions are unhealthy; Obsessions are a sign of a sick mind; Obsessions won't do people any good; Obsessions can hamper normal functioning...). Of course I know they can be irrational, weird, ridiculous but if through them life becomes easier, more bearable and less grating then who dares to say obsessions are wrong. I think, for as long as no one's getting hurt obsessions are just innocent and harmless. Besides obsessions are a counterpunch to the hollowness of life's absurdities. When I hear about wars and conflicts in other parts of the world I turn to tennis, to Tori Amos and, to my books. To most, my obsessions are trite and foolish-which they are not- but even if they are at least there's no touch of meaninglessness and absurdity in them.

Roger lost to Nadal-AGAIN!!!

2006-04-24T22:32:00.000+08:00

yes, he did! my God, don't even know how to express my frustration. God, Rog-what happened? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Please, please Rog win next time. Please!!! Complete your domination!Damn Rafael Nadal!

untitled

2006-04-19T08:07:00.000+08:00

The years I stood at the entrance of
her palace
This goddess of love
Not like a pauper
who begs for pity
But a guest who earns the right to a
deserved hospitality

It is not without envy
I note her presence
Crimson petals, bare flesh touching
Glasses held in midair
A toast to passionate days

Sometimes waiting outside
really test the patience
My senses are all strained

Before I turn to leave
soulful notes tug at the heart
From the palace windows
A harp is being played

Lenten Hiccups

2006-04-13T09:39:00.000+08:00

No one wants anything to go awry in the Lent.I mean,whether on a vacation somewhere or just at home meditating everyone wants it perfect. Afterall,for most, holy week is the only time in an entire year that they can pause and relax. Still,hiccups can happen even when plans have been followed to the letter. The following are some of the examples:

A.) At home, one is expecting to have a quiet,undisrupted weekend. Maybe a few good reads, a barrage of mellow songs and instrumental pieces at Joey 92.3 and excellent rented vcds/dvds to enjoy. Nice plan for Lent. Then horror of horrors someone knocks on the door,one nervously opens it and the face drops-a visitor stands in the doorway and worse not the friendly,welcomed kind.

B.) The trip has been mapped out since the beginning of the year. Since, everywhere is so hot in April, Baguio is one that appeals the most. As soon as lenten season starts, one packs meticulously, arranges lodging and such. When the day arrives to leave,the telephone rings. One picks up the receiver, the voice on the other line is familiar-Yes, it's the big boss. The hand sweats, for one knows what's coming next-another vacation sabotaged and a weekend of labor, labor and just labor. Well, isn't Lent about sacrifices, sacrifices and more sacrifices?

C.) Going out of the country is one of the pleasures of Lent at least for the 'can affords'. To appear sophisticated and all, one targets Europe for a once in a lifetime travel experience. At the Centennial, one realizes the all too important passport is left at home. So, one telephones a friend to bring it while departure time is fast approaching. Still, one remains in Semana Santa mode-Zen-like,reflective and cool.The reliable friend arrives late but no visible hysteria; one instead quietly proceeds to the counter and re-books a flight. Success. After x hours one is now on the plane bound for Paris. The French city is breathtaking-the scenery, the culture, the food and the people(?). In a hurry to explore the city, one goes alone on a sightseeing spree. It seems promising for awhile until the time to return to the hotel. The map is too hard to read and the people are too French to be of any help. So, one gets lost for hours before finally making it to the safety of the hotel room. So much for a peaceful Lenten vacation. Should just have stayed home and spent the money on something worthier,one that is in keeping with the heart and tradition of the Lent like having fats sucked out of the body, the-what is it called?-, oh yeah, Liposuction. God wants us to have great bodies. A human body is God's temple-remember?-so let's all pretty them up.

Acclimatize

2006-04-07T11:20:00.000+08:00

I like the word. It connotes health and stability. For mountaineers they cannot right away scale the heights without getting used to it. They need to climb up to a certain level then descend and stay low maybe for a night before attacking the mighty elevations the next day or a week after. If they do not acclimatize they can suffer tremendous consequences that might prevent them from finishing their goals. A lot rests on good acclimatization.

In real life the same holds true.

I have observed that people who reach the zenith of their ambitions all too quickly descend just as fast. It's a case of a failure to acclimatize. This is encouraging, an all too good nudge for individuals who slip as much as they ascend. Their running thought should be:Keep on failing and succeeding in alternating pace. Statistics has shown that it is never a great idea to forge straight ahead since a bullet-rise to the top more often than not makes up a brief stay. So, if a longer reign is what you want-acclimatize.

Marat Safin, the Russian tennis player who has a reputation for being an unpredictable talent,won the US open at a fairly young age without much of a hassle. He managed to become the World No. 1 but he only hanged in there for nine weeks or 2.25 months in 2000. What did I say about acclimatization? Of course, you can debunk it by arguing that his personality had much to do with his sojourn at the top. That maybe true in part but I firmly believe it was a case of having too much too soon. The story of Roger Federer, on the other hand, is a perfect example in arguing the other part of the acclimatization theory. Roger Federer, the Swiss tennis genius,got his break only in 2003 a year after the death of Peter Carter (his long-time coach). Before that, he was underachieving. Between his celebrated win against Pete Sampras in Wimbledon 2001 and his first Grand Slam in 2003, he put in lackluster performances which he credited to Peter Carter's untimely demise. Roger's rise therefore to tennis peak was not in rocket speed; it was gradual and a well-acclimatized ascension. Now look at where he is and how long he has been up there. As of late, Roger won the first two ATP Master series of the year-Pacific Life Open in Indian Wells,CA and Nasdaq 100 Open in Miami,FLa-earning him a consecutive back-to-back Masters (a first in the Open Era). He is the No.1 tennis player for nearly three years with 7 grand slams to his sleeve. All these because he acclimatized (and continues to do so).

I may be pushing the acclimatization angle of success to its limits but I find it very valid. There are certainly other factors that contribute to lasting success,that I recognize , still I think the key is adaptability to the heights. It can be dizzying up there, you know, so a steadying ability is a must. You don't really want to get altitude sickness,do you?

Pete Sampras is back

2006-04-07T11:03:00.000+08:00

No,not for good. But he played an exhibition match agaisnt Robby Ginepri that was shown live at usta.com. He lost which to me is not a suprise since he did not play the game professionally for three years. I understand his desire though to re-visit tennis, afterall tennis sheltered him for more than a decade; it was his home and still is no matter what so it is but natural that Pete gets to miss it. I'm ecstatic that he is playing again to be honest since I failed to watch him in his prime and even in the waning years of his tennis life so I want to see what he is like even if I'll get to see a lesser Sampras. It's better than nothing.

The Rain Owns Me

2006-04-03T00:47:00.000+08:00

Drizzle or Storm, I love rains. In the instant a drop touches the ground the air transforms into child's tiptoe,so buoyant like ships. Suddenly everything around gets dreamy and blurry like impressionist art. Time slows down-a sentimental passerby stops for a minute or two to reach out his arm and feel the rain through his fingers; a granny holds her cup of steamy coffee as she ponders her life on a couch; a child dishes his toys and cozies himself up by the window while his mom waltzes in the kitchen. The rain for me is always the most wondrous of all magical catalysts,giving special spins to everything mundane.

As a kid in Pangasinan I used to wait for rains to come,it didn't matter if it was summer,I never stopped hoping for the heavens to start dripping. Of course,I wasn't able to play any outdoor game when it rained but I didn't mind for even then I was already slightly introverted and besides there were a thousand and one things to do at home; it was only matter of creativity which I'm proud to say I had a lot at that age. Then there was the suspension of classes. Much that I loved being in school, I couldn't help but get all excited about not having to worry about quizzes, recitations and lectures even for just a day.

Rains did so much to me when I was growing up (unaware of it at that time)-my penchant for reading, sparks of creativity, inclinations to writing,sharp imagination and love for traveling (yes, the first few urgings start from reading the names of foreign places in books and magazines while lounging on the sofa). So,I'm not surprised at all that I hold stirring affection for rains. It owns me like no other;it is my lover and I am its mistress.

Even now,as an adult,I am still so connected with rains. The only difference is whereas as a young child the rains were a friend,a happy and unknowing mentor, now it has become my healer,my exorcist,my shrink. The years haven't been kind to me you know and I find myself in all sorts of pain. Days stretch like long locks wearying me to no end. So I'm glad when it rains for I get some relief and lightness whether in the cacophonic ruptures of storms or in the dribs and drabs of drizzles.

The rain also functions like therapy for it triggers reminiscences-sometimes sad,sometimes not. It helps me remember which I think is always good no matter what the remembrances are. Anything, if you ask me, is better than denials.

Today, it is summer in the Philippines; I guarantee the heat is enough to melt an iron and burn a forest. To cry for rain now is madness. There's not a drop for the past week or so that it's beginning to suffocate me. Bad news for me, guess I might have to wait until June for a rendezvous with my rain,my pal. This means no relief, no calm,no inner quietings for me. But that's fine; I know it will come just like I know a drought has to end sometime.

Quiapo, the ‘Barometer’of Philippine Progress

2006-03-29T00:46:00.000+08:00

Ah, Quiapo! Quiapo. Quiapo. Quiapo. If a place could best sum up the culture of a country then in the Philippines there’s but Quiapo and only Quiapo. Everything about it is so Filipino: its streets, people, mood, flurries, air and diversity. It’s hard for me to say but this Manila district mirrors who and what we are as a nation whether we dare admit or not.

The other day I had the chance of revisiting the place and I wasn’t all too surprised to see a Quiapo still unchanged. I saw familiar figures-beggars blanketing every square inch of available space with their greasy flesh, transfixed in their spots like a bunch of solitary logs. Fake products-cds, dvds, stereos, cellular phones, kitchen wares, cosmetics, medicine, bags, shoes, office equipment, home appliances, clothes and accessories-greeted my eyes as soon as my feet made their first contact on Quiapo’s stern concrete. Wily sellers made scurried attempts in convincing me into purchasing their wares in their usual cunning ways. Then there were the ‘manghuhulas’-the fixtures of Quiapo, the modern-day sorcerers, prophets of the desperate and doubting, foreseers of the future. I strive to scour my memory for an instance when I had not seen them there and try as I might, I could not come up with one. These hags (most of them are) with an all-seeing Tarot cards had become a permanent brush stroke on the Quiapo canvass; they had through the years metamorphosed into an institution rivaling the church towering like a titan behind them.

As I continued my tour that afternoon, I was reminded that the stoic face of Quiapo is not all trivialities. Paupers, swindlers and sweet-talking soothsayers may be the poster scenes of Quiapo-the ones you’ll get to notice first simply because of their bold sketches and easy recall-but I learned from my visit that there are things unchanged in Quiapo that have far grimmer countenance.

It’s only at night when the curtain falls and the frenzies of the day subside that a cold heaviness hangs low on Quiapo. When we were still renting an apartment in Blumentritt, Manila I used to frequent the district and since traffic could be as tight as a corset in the ripe evening I would get home nearly midnight or close to dawn. While on these bumpy, rickety jeepney rides, images of late night Quiapo would whizzed pass me, like the manic turning of the page. Sure these looks were nothing but glimpses, snap views of Quiapo at night but they stuck with me after all these years like they had been glued to my mind with Epoxy. I just could not put them to rest. It’s almost like having the hands scorched from accidentally touching a feverish pan for a full second or less; the moment of contact was short but the effects-the swelling and the pain-may take awhile to nurse and heal. Upon reaching the safety of my bed after every eventful trip, the sights of my evening excursions would always backtrack in my head-children shoving their small heads into a plastic full of rugby; high-heeled clad girls with overly-made up faces giggling to the whispers of some old blokes as the neon flashes of night clubs flickered in the background; darkened corners and their dirty lodgers seemingly unaware of the horde of rodents nipping at their body parts; wearied souls trudging blindly along alleys lost and unsure where to take the next turn; lumps of garbage left accenting the pavement as some dinky mementoes of Quiapo’s daily grind; grimy, soot-covered buildings echoing the overall tone of the district; sleazy brothels and inns lining the streets; madmen punctuating the dead air with their hollering and cussing; then there were the ill-fed figures thinning away, slowly fading into nothing. Of course, I would still find my sleep but on the morrow I knew I had to pass the same place; I knew I had to be again a witness to a stark Quiapo- the Philippines in a nutshell.

At this point, I know I can be accused of stereotyping the Philippines. Afterall, isn’t there a progressive Ayala to speak of? An Ayala with spacious lanes, micro-minied ladies, bespectacled and clean-shaven gents, classy hotels and tuxedoed foreigners. Why can it not represent the Philippines as much as Quiapo? Why can it not form an easy association upon mention of the country's name? Why can’t a Juan dela Cruz think first of going to Ayala instead of the accessible Quiapo on an ordinary shopping day?

Well to start with, this Makati district is still relatively new, a mere sprout compared to the tall hedges that is Quiapo. The fact is-its newness brings an uncomfortable note to an otherwise routine piece. When I see its ultra modern structures and high-end malls I fail to see the Philippines I grew up on; I see something else instead- a place so far removed and too foreign to be called ours. Secondly, this business district, as it is so called, does not capture the majority of realities we live and face in our everyday; it does not hold in its clasp the wretched soul of our country. But Quiapo does. Albeit, in the most painful and searing way. Quiapo gets the thumbs-up sign for an imitation far too real and perfect. I should say-Bravo!-right? And I could, except, of course, my hands are too tired to even raise a clap.

I hope I’m not sounding too bleak and downhearted because I hate exaggerated pessimism. To see blotches of it on any text is a stab on the good name of fairness. When I claim that Quiapo is Philippines on a small scale I do not mean to step on our nation and be all negative. No country afterall is really hopeless and certainly not the Philippines. I just need to tell things as they are. “Write what you see and never tell a lie”- is my writing creed right now. So although the Arroyo government is hyping our economic façade by focusing and re-focusing on the Makati district and its multi million dollar businesses (which are mostly owned by expatriates) I am opting to rely on the Quiapo barometer as a gauge of where we stand as nation on the plane of progress. Unlike the Ayala district, Quiapo’s reading is fairly accurate. When it says our country is in a hole; when it says we’re as poor as scavenger dogs-I believe it-for in Quiapo there are no half-baked or dolled-up truths; there are only the barest of realities so bare and so ruthlessly honest they hurt.

I’m now staying in Fairview, Quezon city; Quiapo is multiple miles away from here so I don’t get to visit it that often and as much as I want to. I hope the next time I catch a sight of Quiapo, it’s all going to be different. I may miss the old one but I wouldn’t mind an all improved Quiapo. For if ever that happens it only means one thing- the Philippines is on its way up, up the ladder of happy fortune and good tidings.

Holy is thy game Rogi!

2006-03-20T19:57:00.000+08:00

Now, Roger's effect on me is creeping me out. Earlier this morning while watching him demolish Blake in his usual audacious, baffling way, I found myself in the holiest of verbal orgies. I don't know how many times i uttered "christ", "lord", "god" the entire duration of the match. I believe I might have said them after every point. What was I to do and say? All his shots were utterly divine-crafted in the highlands of gods and goddesses-leaving me no choice but to revere the otherworldy in Rogi. I'm afraid I'm turning blasphemous by the second. But it aint blasphemy when it concerns Roger, afterall there's nothing vain in his game or in the way I glorify his magnificence. When he continues to play such tennis masterpieces for the next 3 or 4 years , I wouldn't be surprised if I suddenly find myself in a convent.

A Rag's Life

2006-03-20T17:51:00.000+08:00

I am a rag. I am a rag. A rag! A rag! A raaaaaaaggggggggg! Yes, i am. Is this self-assertion? Perhaps. Or it could just be as simple as a man mumbling his name when introducing himself or when asked-"Hello, I'm Mr. Isagani Cruz". Yeah, something like that. Nothing grand. But you know what? I love saying my name;it does seem rather cute. Rag. Rag. Rag. There are lots of catchier ones though, longer ones like microwave oven, computer, radio and television.I much prefer the one-syllable slur of my name though. Just one, eh. So now you know there really isn't anything compound about me-even my name is embarrassingly plain. Pity me. But I'm glad I was given one-a name I mean. It's all I have anyway so there isn't much a choice except to adore it.Whether I love being one is, of course, another tale to tell.

Can I make a confession? yes, I can? Okay, here's one:It's at parties that I find it most difficult to accept who I am. I get terribly, irrationally insecure. When my master ushers in the guests, especially the ladies, my eyes gleam in envy. Their dresses are so modern, so glamorous; the sequins and accents even match the shiny silver of the floor. Unbelievable. Oh, how beautiful are they!I'll give my all for just a moment,a meager taste of this good life. I want to be a shimmering gold necklace, a splendid pair of shoes or a fantabulous piece of designer cloth. I am going to be dazzling when it happens. But who am I kidding? It's just wishful thinking on my part-a dreaming among the clouds. I know when the dreaming ends I'll re-enter the ugly realities of my world-the world to where I righfully belong.

Oh, how I loathe at times being a mere Rag. It is so disdainful. I can't tolerate being old and torn. Am I accursed? Did some angry god of this universe put a terrible curse upon me, eternally condemning me to a plight of unimaginable woe? Maybe. Who knows? But it's funny,I feel happier thinking that I earned the ire of the deities than swallowing the idea that my existence, my birth (if one can call it that) was a mere incidence, an inconsequential blot on the pages of the universe's history. It is more dignified i suppose. It may not be as noble or celebrated a beginning as I would have imagined it to be but I'll take it. I'll have it no matter how utterly foolish it is attributing my lowly existence to invisible and mythical deities. It's way better than the alternative-humans inventing or creating me. Did I say I hate man more so than I hate myself?

Human beings are the culprit. Are they not? Three years of living with and for them has told me a lot. A.)They are so selfish.They seek only their own comfort and often at the expense of others. In fact, my very creation is founded on their selfishness. They need my kind to clean their dirt. (B.) Human beings are so hideously fake. Oh yes, they are. I'm glad I'm not like them. With me, what you see is what there is. I am a Rag-nothing more, nothing less. Humans, I have learned, are way too complicated for me. They tap each other's shoulders when facing one another or when asking for something but once a person's back is turned they will stab like crazy. It's frightening really-a bloodless, icy cold murder. (c.) Man is a pathological liar. He lies without so much of a blink. Did you fuck your bestfriend's wife? Did you cheat an exam or an election? Did you envy your neighbor for his brand new Mercedes? Did you steal a ten-peso bill from your mother's purse? Ask them all these and they all will answer an emphatic "NO!". It's amazing. I have more to say about man and his many paradoxes but I don't think I can do so in a single page or even two. And isn't this journal supposed to be about me?

About me? yes, about me. My dirty (in the literal sense) purpose has been predestined by man. At first, I thought this was something i had to be thankful for. Man is my master and I, the slave. This is a fact I have long settled with. From the minute I was bought, i was ready to be of service. Don't we afterall strive to be functional? Even when in the long run we know our use, our function will end. In the early days, my owner's feet would land on my back, tossing me through and fro with their force across the stained wooden floor. Not the most flattering of jobs, I know. But those times were more tolerable than this pensive idleness I am now resigned to. With the way I am now, I can't help reminiscing the days when I wasn't owned by anybody. Believe it or not I used to be clean and even beautiful.

In market stalls, there were many of us-rags of all colors, styles and shapes. Some were small. Some were of medium size and others were quite large. In appearance, we were also different. Some were ordinary looking-no flamboyance, no elaborate design. Others were striking and too arresting that they haven't had a hard time attracting prospective buyers. Me,on the other hand? I was not so beautiful, not very much I guess. I now have a hard time recalling what I was. It does seem like a distant yesterday. What I can remember though is how proud we were, very excited and rowdy-always betting on which rag will go first. Looking back now, I think it silly to think the way we did. Does it really matter who get bought first? But it did seem to matter so much to us then. Perhaps we were just too ignorant of what we will become or maybe we were just a needy bunch of rags wanting a 'home'. Either way I no longer care.

The 'big day' came too soon than I expected. This is how I like to call the day I was chosen (I love the word 'chosen' more than the word 'bought'; it seems kindlier and friendlier). Unaware of it then, but that was the day I bade farewell to all wonderful ideals. I, of course, never saw it that way. I saw only 'the dream' coming into reality before my eyes. Oh, I would have liked to have given myself a good spanking then. How stupid could I get? But if I did, what good would it have done me anyway? I can only feel, think and dream but I have no power to make things happen. Really, I'm as spineless as soggy vegetables.

Sad to say, my pleasant memories also grinded to a halt that same day. I could no more recall anything memorable afterwards. How true the saying that nice things and happy times never get to last sometimes not even a snappy millisecond. Everything rushes in and out. Grasses lose their verdant touch when spring is over to give way to the thick browns of summer. This,so far, is the head-scratching lesson the world of man has taught me. I learned it but I don't get it.

I am now weak and soon will follow the fate of those before me. I'm hoping to have a fancy burial-an expensive coffin to house my raggedy body, decorative wreathes for aesthetic pamper. Now, now, isn't this hilarious? I mean, 'cmmon-a Princess Diana-like burial for me? Who will ever consider it? Humans? Will they dare notice me? Who am I fooling here? Human beings see only their 'world' and value only their own kind. I have never found out why. And I never bothered to know for man is a giant of confusion, ironies and strangeness. They are too much for me.

I will not have an outstanding funeral and a burial-that is for certain. The soiled and rusty garbage can beside me will be my sure destination. I have not much 'life' to live, only a few days perhaps and it will be goodbye to my tragic 'world'. In all honesty, I know not exactly what to feel. I should be jumping with unrestrained glee because finally...IT WILL ALL BE OVER! But it's a juggle of emotions for me. I'm sad to leave for a moment, indifferent at most times, regretful the next and then come the spasms of acceptance.

There's a gloomy lump in me for though I detest my life as a rag there's,you know, the possibility of missing it. I'm also nonchalant about my coming death for i am aware that there really isn't much to leave behind-maybe a polished glass here or a dust-free window there but nothing really significant that comes to mind. Then there's also some regret for if I'll be honest with myself-I haven't really been anything that I've always wanted to be. And finally-acceptance. I am starting to realize that I can't go with so much anger and hatred (in my puny heart) toward man and my fate. I must let it all flow, forgive and forego, for i have served my purpose in man's world-I have cleaned every bit of their dirt. Yes, THEIR DIRT! I say this, not with as much disgust anymore. I am dirty and will continue to be dirty even in death but so is Man. Man is so much a rag as I am. Our only difference, of course, is-I know it; I am aware of it but Man, as usual, is as blind and unknowing as ever.

I am a rag. I am filthy. I am tattered. And I...accept it!

Discoveries and surprises in the semis of the Pacific Life Open

2006-03-20T10:34:00.000+08:00

a.) James Blake did what Roger failed to do last week in the Dubai open-defeat the young Rafael Nadal. I was mildly surprised since I was all gearing up for a Federer vs Nadal final. But I'm elated for James; he truly deserved it. It was a good thing that both his matches against Nadal took place in US. If my memory serves me right, Blake crushed Nadal in the 1st round(or was it second?) of last year's US Open . And again he repeated this feat in Indian wells,CA. James Blake really enjoyed homecourt advantage in both matches.

b.) The American hero, James Blake stunned me with a strong performance against Nadal. My, oh my, he could hit clean and startling winners much like the great Roger. My eyes were popping in amazement. In that match Blake was the finer player, unquestionably so. Nadal with all his bravado couldn't steal a win. He was just outplayed from beginning till the end. This achievement of Blake is even more impressive when seen in the light of his recent misfortunes. I think he broke a neck or something, caught a virus and was paralyzed as a result then there's also the death of his dad. So, this is some tremendous comeback. I think this merits a thousand and one claps. Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! ...

c.) Nadal was through drinking some water from a plastic bottle then he placed the one he had drank from next to an unopened reserve. What was interesting about that you say? He positioned it so meticulously making sure it was exactly parallel to the other one and within such calculated distance. And this he did constantly every break throughout the match. Then there was also his socks. Whenever the other pair started to slide down his ankle, he would stop and pull it back to its original height in exactly the same level as the other. And again like the bottles he would do this non-stop the entire match. I was amused watching him do all these. When the match ended i made the conclusion: Nadal is an Obsessive-Compulsive freak. Hahahaha!!! he really is. No wonder he has been amassing so many titles. His OC tendencies can be captured in his overzealous desire to take every point in a match. Could he be watching too much of Monk (the tv series)? well, so long as he benefits from it, why complain?

Nadal, on second thought!

2006-03-18T13:29:00.000+08:00

Okay, I'm forced to take back what I said about Nadal and his game after seeing him defeat Marcos Baghdatis in Indian Wells. He's not exactly a one-dimensional player like i once described. Here's what I discovered about Nadal today and had me changing my earlier take on his tennis.

(a.) He can have variety. All the while i thought he's only good exchanging shots from the baseline. well, i'm wrong. Nadal can make modest use of the entire court. He still has a lot to work on though. Maybe some honing on his net shots which I find to be just above average.

(b.) He can volley. Yes, he can. I'm surprised. Not yet in the level of Sampras or Rogi but he's only 19 so there's a lot of years ahead of him to improve.

(c.) He can be an intelligent player. What i like about Roger is that, he is such a great master planner. Sometimes you get the feeling that the court gets transformed into a chessboard when he plays. He outthinks all his opponents and with such subtlety. When I saw Nadal in his last match, I'm shocked to find out that he can also be a strategist. Of course, his game remains ugly because of the manner of his strokes but glad to know he is not all muscles.

* His next opponent in the semis is James Blake. I want Blake to win but I think Nadal is destined to reach the finals. Roger will be waiting for him on Sunday if he makes it. When that happens it's going to be a riot but I know Roger will win it this time. He has to. He must not give up his lofty throne no matter what-and certainly not to Rafael Nadal.

Poverty is no circus!

2006-03-13T13:48:00.000+08:00

Just today i saw the re-airing of Wowowee, the noontime show on tv after almost a month of pronounced absence since the tragic Ultra stampede. Willie Revillame, the program's host was in his usual bantering ways and he seemed to have battled his alleged trauma from the incident just fine. Everything on the show looked every bit as normal. Laughter was plentiful, rupturing in amplified crackles. Everyone was in high spirits. Prizes, monetary or otherwise, were in abundance. So, I'm guessing we'll have more of Wowowee's circusy performance for months to come-whether proven liable for its share in the tragedy or not (Filipino spectators will soon forget the whole incident faster than we can say,"Guilty"). Still,we need to ask, "Whose fault is it anyway?" or should the question be:"Wherein lies the fault?"

The body investigating the Ultra stampede (is it the NBI?) is cooking some criminal liabilities for the personalities and corporations concerned. They talk primarily of negligence which takes several forms: lack of foresight, poor planning and dismal execution. When we come to think of it, this pile of accusations, although valid, is not the real offense. These misgivings are peripherals to the main crime.

HIV causes AIDS-that we all know. The striker as we've come to believe is a naughty virus but a deeper probe indicts man and his elementary grasp of safe sex. It's the same thing with the tragedy at ULTRA. The deaths of those people tell not just a story of negligence or a clumsy preparation. It's not as simple as that. There's a mine of issues buried beneath the incident, far greater than the investigative reports tell us. The stampede is the skin of a manifold sin Wowowee, you and I, and all the rest of the world sinking in a quagmire of poverty are all guilty of.

I've watched a few episodes of Wowowee before the much-talked about tragedy. Willie usually begins the show by revving up the crowd, dropping joke after joke which most of the time are to me more tasteless, undignified and crass than hilarious. He continues by picking on the pitiful audience for their many lacks. I don't find it the least bit funny or entertaining. These people put up with this demeaning form of entertainment in the name of despair and desperateness. It is all for the money or who knows maybe some chance to escape a moment of their misery.

Now,please do tell, what's there to laugh about?

Poverty has a way of twisting those it afflicts. In the attempt to quelch it, dignity is sacrificed. The sad part is, we, the ones who make the biggest noise in claiming and wanting to help, take more part in scraping them their last ounce of dignity than they do theirs.When Wowowee's host Willie Revillame recites the mantra of the show-"Gusto po namin kayong tulungan. Ang Wowowee po ay hindi po para sa amin kundi po para sa inyo na nangagailangan. Ito po ay para sa sambayanag Pilipino"-I get the sudden urge to go bash his grinning teeth.

Don't they understand anything-these imbeciles?

Poverty is no laughing matter. It is not an entertainment. It is not a circus. Why make it into one big freakshow? Wowowee should bear in mind that poverty is not an instrument to garner high tv ratings; it is not an opportunity to shove money after money into the hungry mouths of the needy, all unearned and free just because they seem willing and eager. They're not dogs, let's not turn them into one. Even in poverty, there is such a thing as dignity. Let us, please, don't take it away from them. Not that.

The greatest transgression that led to the perishing of more than 79 human beings at Ultra that fateful Saturday morning is not poverty itself. No, its not. I believe, there's a larger problem than poverty, far more acute for it stems, shockingly so, from the potential source of aid.

Poverty, I've learned, is no better off because of the way we treat it. Just when you think homeless families taking their naps at night in dark street corners is already bad and kids barely 6 years old daring traffic just so they could sell sampaguita strands whose worth can barely feed them one meal is a sorry state here comes the bigger blow. POverty is being taken advantaged of, abused and made fun of all under the guise of altruism.

The condition of poverty has morphed into something more sinister. Unbelievable. With everything that's been going on it's hard not to think that poverty has become a lost cause. Even the staunchest and sincerest fighter of poverty must feel squeezed of all the juices of optimism.

How can we not?

I think if we are really raring to put one final stamp on poverty, we should go to the roots. We need to stop resorting to game shows that do nothing except perpetuate the cycle of poverty and assign airheaded clowns for hosts.

Poverty is a disease and it's a chronic one.

Let's all take it seriously.

First defeat for 2006!

2006-03-13T08:54:00.000+08:00

I can barely open my PC and go web hopping for fear that I might find some negative write-ups about Roger's defeat to Rafael Nadal in the Dubai Open finals. I don't think I'm strong enough to stomach any mild bashing. It's Australian Open 2005 all over again for me*.

Why can't Roger just pulverize Rafael into fine powder? In their 4 meetings Roger has managed to steal a measly one win. Incredible. Roger's game by itself is exceptional that opponents become immaterial as dust particles. Then why the startling defeats? I'm truly not getting this. What is it about Nadal that troubles Roger that much?

I haven't seen them play each other so I can't make any assessment. All I know is that Nadal is a superb defensive player;he can reach any shot no matter where he is on court. He is also a claycourt specialist, meaning, he grinds and grinds till kingdom come from the baseline. But i think his massive weapon, tennis skills aside, is his matador like spirit. On court, he is a growling lion, always on the lookout for a bloody kill. With his age, he seems more like a cub really, but the moment he starts playing you're forced to forget he's a mere 19 yrs. old. With all that said, Rafael Nadal still doesn't impress me much. For one, he lacks touch. He hits the ball so hard every passing moment that sooner or later you'll find yourself humming the latest Madonna hits for some added entertainment, Nadal and his never ending fist-pumps couldn't make up for. Yes, he can be boring! Lord, how can anyone stand tennis without some beautiful shots and timely caress? I can't. Nadal runs and runs, hits and hits, all in one fashion-run fast and hit with all your life! Does he think the ball is a stone and tennis a marathon? He plays ugly! But,of course, whatever my feelings for Nadal and his game are irrelevant to the issue at hand. He gets to Roger. As a fan , I hate to give form to this fact. But being one is not all worship and bows, sometimes one needs to give a little loving kick here and there.

The Pacific Open in Indian Wells CA has started. Will Roger make it to the finals and defend his title? Can he defeat Rafael if both of them will reach the finals? Will it be a happy ending for Roger in California? I say yes to all. No, this is not a fan's blind faith but an objective belief in his capabilities. After his lost to Nadal in Dubai I don't think Roger will allow another defeat. Unknown to many, Roger is a very competitive player why else would he be winning so many ATP titles the past years if he's not? We may not see this fiery spirit when he plays because his demeanor always resembles that of a lamb, ever meek and gentle but inside Roger is a raging rapid;within is a constant bullfight.

Sport domination they say has en expiry date. Its end is in the cards. Of course it is. In the case of Roger however, I believe he'll be on top for many more years. He's got staying power and a tennis carved to last. Critics can prophesy a fast-approaching descent from the Himalayas of tennis for Rogi but who the hell cares. I don't. I'm predicting a domination that will span his entire career. He'll only lose the No.1 spot when he leaves tennis for good. Until then Mr. Rafael Nadal has to content himself with numero dos.

Did i say I'm a fan?

(*Roger lost to Marat Safin in the semifinals)

Death and Eternal Gardens

2006-03-11T20:32:00.000+08:00

It's amazing how one can easily spot irony in this tiny archipelago. You can be casually walking one of its stench-ridden streets. Watching inane tv programs on the boob tube. Indulging in benign chit chats with pals, neighbors or some faceless, nameless blokes you happen to meet in bus and train stations. OR you could be riding a Victory Liner bus bound for Baguio one deathly boring Tuesday afternoon.

My mom and I decided to visit our wasted home in Artacho (in the far ends of Pangasinan ),thus the trip. At first, i wasn't too thrilled about the whole thing. Manila, as despicable as it is, is surprisingly addictive so the idea of straying a day or two away from it has made me all sulky and reticent. To lift my dark mood i turned to the great expectations of sightseeing. It didn't fail me for just as soon as NLEX came into view i saw something that amused me slightly. A cemetery with a massive sculpture at its gates is named ETERNAL GARDENS. I smelled irony. Again a lesson is relearned- travelling is an excellent way of tracking down life's little ironies.

ETERNAL GARDENS? Hmmmm. Why would anyone call a cemetery-the territory of the dead!- this way? Oh i see, it's the whole Christian viewpoint that beyond death there is the promise of eternal, everlasting life (well, that is, if you have lived a chaste, pious life prior to your demise if not you can kiss blessed eternity goodbye.)But 'cmmon the name is a cloud of mockery. People die. What's eternal about that? Cemeteries are there precisely because Eternity is nothing more than just a dinky word in the Dictionary. They could be correct (i mean the name)though, in another sense. Death is time cut short, the final break. It is proof to life's impermanence whether you've lived over a 100 or 200, it doesn't matter, in the end you're still dead. If there's anything eternal ,it's death. If this is what the name of the cemetery means, then who ever named it, got it right. But I doubt it, no one really believes death to be permanent for isn't there such a xtian concept as resurrection not unless of course you're some embittered, die-hard atheist. So, the irony in the name stands.

***

If only there is such a thing as eternity, there's no need to worry about death. In fact, we wouldn't have any concept of death at all. death? what death?! We could all do away with Philosophy and Religion for both are spun by the reality of mortality. But then the fact remains-there is no forever and death looms ahead. When I saw the name of the cemetery it got me into thinking. Eternity is the solution to our fear and aversion to death but do we really want it? It would be great to be freed from the restrictions of Time.No deadlines. No pressure. No stress. But I don't think I can put up with Eternity. It's too much. Although endless stories are for awhile fun and interesting since chapter after chapter gets added non-stop, I still want the finality of an ending. Endings shape stories. I think without the benefit of one, stories can in the long run slip into painful boredom and pointlessness. That's what troubles me about Eternity. When every possible thing has been done, will I be like Sisyphus forced to do the same job over and over again? I'm more afraid of the repetitive hammerings of day to day existence than death; more terrified of meaninglessness than what awaits beyond the gates of Eternal Gardens.

Tic, tac, Tic, tac says the clock!!!

2006-03-02T16:36:00.000+08:00

Lola Immin will soon turn 90 years old this June. She has outlived almost everybody of her generation. Amazing. World war II has been long noted in history books. Recollections of Japanese occupation are now muddied. I am now 25. Many novels are now called perennial classics when a few decades ago they were as contemporary as Stephen king's books. What was supposed to be Millenium bug in 2000 is now as defunct as MS-DOS. Podcasting is now in. And still my lola continues to withstand the whiplash of time.

Apart from a few sagging flesh, aged lines and a suspected dementia my lola Immin is still standing. She is a weed. The sternest wildflower. My hands graze my forehead in a salute. To her strength. To her death-defying feat.

But much that i admire her longevity , I don't think i crave it. There's something about aging that turns me off. It's not the loosening of skin. The weakening of body muscles. Or even the curving of the spine. Nothing of the physical manifestations of aging scares me.

Boy Abunda, the noted male/gay talk show host in the country, raised his concerns about aging. He said he is terrified of turning old alone. Many share his fear. For aferall, aging isolates. It is a magnet of rejection. You're old? Be gone! Shoo! Numbers can discriminate.

This is not however why I crumble before the mighty feet of Aging.

In elderly homes, old people complain of uselessness. They trudge somberly,in quiet dejection. My lola Immin is no exception. She may no longer articulate it but i know she feels the same way. When lola was still in her old form, she used to do all the mundane household chores. She forbade me from touching the laundry much more smearing my hands with the soap bar. She probably was the busiest 'lola' in history. Now, she can barely control her waste. Her hands had long ceased cleaning plates, wringing wet clothes or ironing the dry ones. They are now reduced to tapping walls (when she enters her hyperactive mood), pulling her bed sheet, rolling blankets into a ball and clasping objects while she absentmindedly saunters out of her room.

Lola Immin no longer resembles the lola of my childhood. Seeing her makes me wants to shut my eyes and curse Aging.

The greatest thief is not a living flesh. It's not your Quiapo snatcher. NO. This, I've learned while watching lola disintegrates into the heaviness of Nothing. Aging, robs you not of your material possessions but of the one thing that defines you. That makes you. Purpose-is what it robs you of. Not your car. Not your money.

When Purpose gets taken away, what then is left of you?

A blank space? Not even.

Interestingly enough, it's not the popular fears about Aging that really get to me. I don't even know if I can find words for it.

When a bird dies in mid-flight, it seems poetic. When a young soldier dies fighting, it appears heroic. But when a person dies slowly, succumbing to the tic, tac, tic tac hum of Aging, you immediately want to turn away from the scene. To break into an agitated run. To escape

From what? To where?

I don't know.

Maybe from the taunting smirks of Time. From the oppressive feeling of dying in captivity. From the fading,labouring tick of the clock. From the pain of anticipation.

Indeed Time is the true Auschwitz and Aging its Hitler.

When an aged person rocks her chair on a sunny, laidback afternoon she thinks of her tormentor. Time. Every screech of the chair is a mock. From the living room she could hear the faint murmur of the clock.

Tic, tac, tic, tac, tic, tac...

Part V My Top Ten favorite Books!

2006-02-28T13:19:00.000+08:00

9. Veronika Decides to Die by Paulo Coelho (There seems to be quiet dignity in the title of the book. This was what caught my attention the first time I laid eyes on it,prodding me to buy Paulo Coelho's most intriguing book to date. Suicide is seen by most as a final act of surrender, one that belies a functioning mind or a certain degree of self-awareness. In the Philippine vernacular, I believe, we describe the person committing suicide as "wala sa sarili" or "wala sa isip". This shows clearly that we conceive of suicide as some sort of a lapse in sanity or a state of madness where the action is not deemed rational. The perception has basis, of course, since most suicidal idiots are profiled as flailing, emotional incompetents. I, however (setting popular perception aside) see things quite differently. Suicide, for me, is hara-kiri. Japanese warriors in Japan of old commit sepuku, a ritual suicide, in the attempt to save face. For these fallen warriors it is an act of bravery, not cowardice; a symbolic act of sublime defiance and not of ugly surrender. I know from religious and moral points of view, suicide is wrong, no matter what fashion or form it takes, regardless of motive or design. I, too, think it is. But somehow I can't stop myself from admiring seppuku, for despite these men taking their lives into their own hands, there is touching dignity behind the act. There is no shameful helplessness, blind submission or clawing fears, there is only stern determination, unwilting concentration and unwavering committment to die. No fuss, no drama. It's difficult for me to say this but it does command respect more so than the actions of our supposedly noteworthy politicians. There should be some forced public hara-kiri in this country. See if that won't have them changing their ways in a second. On second thought, hara-kiris are solely for honorable men and not for shameful politicos. A public hara-kiri? We give them too much credit. They're not a tad worth the dignified exit of hara-kiri.

"Veronika Decides to Die" is not mainly on suicide as the title of the book suggests. It is more a social criticism where the author has taken liberties in denouncing the collective sane actions of society as mad. For Paulo Coelho, Veronika who committed suicide and was placed in a mental institution is more a semblance of sanity than the general public who eats and drinks restrictions, biases, prejudices, moral recriminations and rash judgments on a regular basis. Ironically, Veronika who is labelled mad by everybody is saner than the rest (of those in the 'outside world') because within the four walls of the institution she is able to explore all the bounds and dimensions of freedom or the lack thereof. There she is free to create her own reality, not some pseudo reality shaped by the majority. The message of the book may not be accepted in waves by many but it certainly has created ripples of discomfort, some sort of a shakening of the foundation. If there's anything that i managed to pull out of the book, it's living life not in halting, staccato steps but in bold, unrestrained, erratic strides. Of course, it will be hard. The world is one mental institution and I'm going to be the only one sane so just imagine how difficult it would be. hahahaha!!!!

Relationships-too fragile to handle!!!

2006-02-28T10:37:00.000+08:00

Pieces of glassware are beautiful in their fragility. I hope I can say the same thing about relationships. Sure they are delicate. Soft. Fluffy. Breakage prone. Newly punctured wound. But unlike glass there is no beauty in their fragility. Just torn friendships. Wasted love. Disgruntled parties. Wet hankies. And acid reminiscences.

I hate it. Sometimes I think it useless to ever build one. What the fuck for?

Here's the grain of reality.

You can tender them with care for years but try making a moment of clumsy mistake and you'll ruin them permanently. Like death. I see relationships as budding flowers that are forever in constant budding and never fully opening. No glorious bloom. No thriving.

I hear tales of this sort. From acquaintances. Neighbors.Boob tube. Newspapers. Books. Anywhere. Everywhere. A friend of mine recounted how his wife never forgave him for cheating. He was remorseful but a decade or so of marriage was gone in a puff. One, stupid err was all it took. His story is no isolated case. There are plenty around to hear, see and tell. I, too have one. Maybe, the silent stranger sitting next to you in a bus has too.

Most relationships whether we want to or not always end up in graveyards. Instead of renewed ties, years leave you decayed flesh and pieces of cold bones.

Time's trots are like rains that wash away the foundation of relationships. You won't notice it at first. Pretensions, denials wrap you tight. But like a mudslide, it will catch you by surprise.

After my high school graduation my friends and i went our separate ways. Each entered different universities and pursued different dreams. True to our friendship we kept in touch for the next few years. I tried letters,phone calls, occasional visits but over time i felt a tugging away. A slow erosion. I have the urge to throw the stone of blame. To me. To them. To God. To Time. To fate. To some unknown force. To X. To Y. To Z. And the list goes on.

I don't know if my friends feel it too. Who knows it could just be me and my fragile, fragile relationships.

Dubai Open 2006

2006-02-24T10:47:00.000+08:00

warning: This is another tennis rumbling, so don't bother to read on all you who deem tennis a sleep-inducer. Go turn on your T.v. instead, I'm sure ESPN or Solar Sports has an hourly wrestling coverage to get you all fired up.

The Dubai tourny will start (for the men's singles) on the 27th of this month. Of course, i can't follow it on tv since sports channels are so anti tennis but I'll be checking on the tourny's website for the update. Many tennis tournaments have passed since the Oz Open but I'm particularly interested in this one (Dubai Open) since Roger federer will be in it (along with returning top players like Marat safin, Rafael nadal and Andre Agassi.) So for this reason, i think this tournament promises to be memorable. Roger, I believe, has won the title in Dubai thrice already since 2003 so if by any chance (not that Roger's wins are all borne by chance) he wins, this will be his 4th consecutive triumph in the hot, humid Middle east country.

***

Roger has not graced any tournament since January 29 which is not at all a surprise since he did look a liitle spent after his 7th GS win. He needed every bit of rest there is in the world, if you ask me. So, he heeded my advice and went on to vacation in Dubai for a week (with his omnipresent of a girlfriend, Mirka) before returning to his hometown Basel. This is what is great about being THE Roger federer of tennis. When all the rest of the field are working like crazy, jumping from one tourny to another another without the respite of a day-off,Roger, the hedonist, is in a tourny skipping spree mode, resting his time away. Being the runaway No.1 in the world has after all its privileges, unspoken and implied but i have to admit very well-earned. Mr. Federer can tour the universe if he wants, for months on end, without any care in the world and come back still the ever conquering tennis monarch that he is. So, tell me who wouldn't want to be No. 1? or should i say, who wouldn't want to be Roger federer?

***
Marat will be back on tour this Monday in Dubai after months of hibernation. He slipped in the ATP ranking, rather drastically,from No. 4 (i think) to forty something. I can't wait to see how he'll manage to face the spring after yet another winter in his career. of course, he can bamboozle everyone with a stirring comeback or he can, in a Marat Safin like fashion, slip further down the ranking. i don't want to see the latter happening but Marat has a way of making people expect the worst. I'm keeping my fingers crossed, hope must not slide for redemption can be underway. Marat Safin is one tennis player who has so many redemptions on his back,I hope this time, if he manages to reach the top ten, it will be his last.

***
I am no fan of Rafael Nadal. i offer no explanation. It's all feeling really and nothing more. There is his great enthusiasm on court and magnificent gladiator like spirit to admire and rant about but he has not softened my tennis heart the way Roger does or even marat. Could it be his burgeoning youth? i happen to love the charm of experience and the antiquated smell of geriatrics you know(hahaha!!!). really I do. Oh well, I just ain't a rafa follower, that's all. No need to elaborate. But i hope he does well in Dubai. He seems like a likable lad and definitely a good tennis player.

***
The women's singles in dubai is now ongoing. I'm not too enthusiastic about WTA but ever since Martina Hingis joined the flock, i made headway conversion. She reminds me so much of Roger, that's why. Not only because they're both children of Switzerland but mainly bec. of their striking similarities in the way they play tennis. Roger is a tactician and so is Hingis. Roger is no power player and so is Hingis. Roger thinks on court and so does Hingis. Roger's tennis is all about finesse and pace and so is Hingis's tennis. There is touch and variety in roger's game and there is too in Hingis's. In every aspect of the game, there's a vestige of similarity. Of course, Roger has more winning, stunning shots than martina but in all other areas they play almost the same. So, it goes without saying that I'm a fan of Hingis. It's but natural if you claim to be a Rogi lapdog. Martina is through to the quarterfinals in Dubai so I'm hoping the succeeding rounds will all be easy tests for her. WTA needs a Roger and I do wish its going to be Martina Hingis.

***
It's almost saddening to see the traces of a bygone era straining to keep its fading mark alive in a new world. Andre Agassi is a living legend. Flat out. He has already won 8 GS and i don't know how many masters (i'm sure there are a lot). It is amazing to still see him play when all his contemporaries have made their fond adieus to the sport. He must truly love tennis to stay this long and suffer the indignitiy of losing to younger players (some would call it heroic) again and again. Sure he is still on the upper echelon of tennis but he is no longer the Agassi of before. He can no more beat the likes of Roger Federer or Rafael Nadal. I really think he should retire now that he is still a winning, consistent top ten player and not when people are struggling to remember his last ATP title or triumph. I would like to see him go wih a bang, maybe a last GS. If he wins in New York for the last time, it's going to be heartwarming.I picture him holding the trophy, throwing tearful kisses to the crowd and making one final bow-to the sport he has so loved and to the era that has cradled him.

Part IV My Top ten fav books!!!

2006-02-22T11:35:00.001+08:00

8. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte (I regret not having to read the book much sooner. I should have made my acquiantance when I was still a high-schooler. If only I did, for sure by now my dalliance with the book would have stretched on for almost a decade. Should blame it on my school's lack of solid literary program. How could i not have known Emily Bronte and her Wuthering Heights then? To say it is most shocking is an understatement. Well, anyways, enough of my gripes and more on my thoughts on Wuthering Heights and why it should be made a part of anyone's book collection (that is, if one ever bothers having a collection!). Wuthering Heights, my friends, is in a league of its own. Incomparable,is what it is. Once you've read it you'll never want to pick another romance novel again for fear that they'll always fall short by comparison. Well, if I may be blunt-it's true! No romantic fictional prose that i've come across since reading Wuthering Heights is worthy enough to lick its boots. I mean this without a hint of exaggeration. This book just dazzles and bedazzles. I understand why earlier readers during the times of Emily Bronte did not make their apt embraces or open greetings at first sight of Wuthering heights. I probably wouldn't. Emily Bronte's finest work is all wilderness and storms (metaphorically speaking, of course). It is, to put it plainly-shockingly wild. Heathcliff and Catherine, the two protagonists, bring passion and love to searing, inhumane heights. When Catherine was a few hours away from death, she got a visit from Heathcliff who was in a state of increasing agitation since the news of Catherine's sickness reached him. The moments of this last meeting will just leave a reader (even the strongest one) shuddering-a reflexive convulsion to their loving brutality. Could true love be this consuming and savage? Emily Bronte has made it seem so in her novel. What kills me about the book is not so much the undying love of Heathcliff and Catherine (I get that a lot from cheap, mushy Harlequin paperbacks) but more of the ability of the book to grip and stir the imagination. Wuthering Heights although categorically subsumed a romantic prose is just ain't a romance novel. To describe or call Wuthering heights romantic is blasphemous (at least to me). It is far too novel (in her times), too audacious, too dark, too stupendous to be called one. Wuthering Heights, is in literature, Stravinsky's "Rite Of Spring". To me, that says it all. Amen.

here's an excerpt: (This is an exchange between Heathcliff and Catherine at their last meeting.)

Heathcliff had knelt on one knee to embrace her; he attempted to rise, but she seized his hair, and kept him down.

'i wish I could hold you',she continued bitterly, 'till we were both dead! I shouldn't care what you suffered. I care nothing for your suferings. Why shouldn't you suffer? I do! Will you forget me-will you be happy when I am in th earth? Will you say twenty years hence, "That's the grave of catherine Earnshaw. I loved her long ago, and was wretched to lose her;but it is past. I've loved many others since-my children are dearer to me than she was, and at death, i shall not rejoice that I am going to her, I shall be sorry that I must leave them!" Will you say so, heath clif?'

'don't torture me till I'mmad as yourself',cried he, wrenching his head free, and grinding his teeth.

PART III My Top ten favorite Books

2006-02-18T10:16:00.000+08:00

6. The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger: (Society's hypocrital bunch should read this one. Who knows they might find their own mirror image in the array of characters Salinger created in his book and by some stroke of miracle be driven to remove their blinders. On second thought,they couldn't, could they? I mean, hypocrites are the toughest nut to crack, their illusion of rightneousness is much like a bubble insulating them from their fetid rottenness. Holden Caulfield (the narrator in the book) is a ruthless hound-he always seems to sniff the air for any scent of phoniness. i just like him. Feel free to oppose and say Holden is a madman, a failure and an out- and-out loser. Think whatever you want. Still, I believe Holden for all his lies and emotional clutter is way much better than our average churchgoing,self-important public. He just has this knowing understanding of life and seems to see the world,its people naked. And for that Holden is a level higher than the rest of the field. J.D. Salinger has created a very witty,biting, humorous, frank, unapologetic novel in Catcher in the Rye. A must read. Can't wait to get my hands on it again.
here's an excerpt: (Holden in this passage is having a talk with his sister Phoebe in her room after sneaking in to avoid any confrontation with his parents.)

"anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids and nobody's around-nobody big, I mean-except me. And i'm standing on th edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff-I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. that's all I'd do all day. i'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. i know it's crazy, but that's the only thing i'd really like to be. i know it's crazy."
7. A Tree Grows In Brooklyn by Betty Smith (For some reason I find coming of age novels refreshingly striking perhaps it's that magical allure of being transported into the protagonist's childhood reminiscences where every account is told in open-eyed innocence and youthful passion. In "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" one is introduced to the young Francie Nolan and her less opulent yet inspiring life in Brooklyn during the opening years of the 20th c. This book is a tear-jerker and unabashedly so. It is deliriously melodramatic but I love it. Betty Smith's superb, clear and detailed characterization (of Francie) makes the overcast episodes in the story understandable, turning you into a symphatizer rather than just a mere passive reader. This is where " A Tree Grows In Brooklyn" manages to separate itself from the many sentimental thrashies stacked in many bookstore shelves.These books want your tears to wet their pages but somehow the tear ducts just won't cooperate, leaving you even drier than the Sahara. You see, there must be right atmosphere, proper context, background and in-depth characterization in order to illicit some emotional reponse from the readers. I can't cry and symphatize with the main character if I don't know her, right? Nor can I emphatize with her when her plight and affairs are not known or worse, muddled. Betty Smith has done a marvelous job by moulding a character as well-loved, inspiring, intimate and as real a literary figure as Francie Nolan. She's a brave dreamer. She really is. The novel is outstanding because of her. If suddenly you're finding inspiration to be much like a raindrop in the desert then you can try betty smith's "A tree grows in BrooklyN". you'll thank me afterwards,i'm sure.

here's an excerpt:(this is a note in Francie Nolan's diary.)

"If I open this envelope 50 years from now, I will be again as I am now and there will be no growing old for me. there's a long, long time yet before 50 years, millions of hours of time. But one hour has gone already since I sat here; one hour less to live; one hour gone away from all the hours of my life. Dear God let me be something every minute of every hour of my life. let me be gay;let me be sad. let me be cold;let me be warm.Let me be hungry; have too much to eat. let me be ragged or well-dressed.let me be sincere-be deceitful. let me be truthful;let me be liar. let me be honourable and let me sin. Only let me be something every blessed minute. And when i sleep, let me dream all the time so not one little piece of living is lost."

Part II: My Top Ten favorite Books!!!

2006-02-17T06:55:00.000+08:00

4. TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD by HARPER LEE (This book is a Bildungsroman novel, well almost, since the story mainly revolves around the childhood experiences of Jem and Scout in Maycomb and does not really zero in or follow their entry into adulthood much like Pip in the Great Expectations. But,in essence, it still is a Bildungsroman for it harps on maturation brought on by some turning events in the life of the two (jem and Scout).
I'm just smitten by the book's refined sentimentality and refreshing idealism. Atticus, the father of Jem and Scout, stands for everything that is bright and good about life. And so does the book. Many works of literature have come and gone but To kill a Mockingbird stands out because it is a constant reminder of what it really takes and what it really means to be a human being. just timeless, timeless classic. peerless! No wonder everybody loves it.
The message of the book: Kill the mockingbird within us, the one that mimicks the sounds and noises of society. Let's start listening instead to our own inner conscience and to the call of human truth.Big hurrah to the book!!!)

5. THE GREAT GATSBY by F. SCOTT FITZGERALD (The Great Gatsby-how great is he? NOw, one can have varying opinions on this one since we all have different, personal standards of greatness. For me, however, Jay Gatsby is one unique specimen of greatness. Just like Nick, the narrator, I've completely fallen in love with Gatsby. He is one hell of a character. Damn, if a guy spends all his time, energy and resources to recreate the past and woo the girl he loves then-wow!-he is, to my meager standards, one great of a man. A fabulous,fabulous character. Scott Fitzgerald, has created a masterpiece in the Great Gatsby. No doubt about that. The ending has been crafted by Fitzgerald to drive down the message that he wanted-the past once lost can no longer be found and brought back to life, an attempt to do so would only lead to disaster, disappoinment and tragedy. Gatsby died. He paid the ultimate price for his dream. But for me, his dream may have failed him, still the fire that egged him on lives on. Never in my life will I forget Gatsby. Never.)

excerpt: Gatsby believed in the green light, theorgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter-tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther...And one fine morning- So we beat on, boats agaisnt the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

My top ten favorite books!!

2006-02-16T13:21:00.000+08:00

Frankly, choosing my top ten favorite books is no easy matter. I've read quite a modest sum since a youngster so narrowing down the ones i like to mere 10 books is much like a child asked to pick 10 different candies in a room full of sweets. But choose i must since a discerning reader is no and cannot be a Don Juan, indiscriminate loves, you see, betray an incapacity to value and the true romancer of text values a lot that is why among all lovers he is by far the pickiest.

The following books are listed in no particular order. (Note: All these are fictional prose, next time I'll follow this up with my favorite non-fic books. There's not a lot though, I'm just not exta fond of them, I guess. )

1. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand (Most people judge this as more a philosophical book than a literary one. They have a point. But still one can't discount the fact that Ms. Rand has created one of the most gripping literary characters in the history of literature in the person of Howard Roark. This man, my friends, is superman (minus the powers and fear of Kryptonite). I'll discuss why and more lengthily when I'm in no particular rush.)

2. The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro ( This book makes butlers particularly interesting. Before reading this one, my only idea of butlers is of English servants mainly in charge of wines and liquors. I never thought they have such an extensive role. As soon as my eyes caught on the last word, i dropped the book and was ready to fall prostrate before Ishiguro's feet. The book is marvelous in its subtlety. To appreciate this book, one has to be patient since this is no Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code (if you know what I mean). Nothing much happens in the book but my oh my what a great study of character. Give you the details next time.)

3. The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides (The topic of suicide is so overused a theme in many creative works (Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy comes to mind). Some managed to give suicide its fair treatment eschewing the blood and gore of it but the rest are big, big disappointments.The Virgin Suicides-whew-what can I say about it except that it's the best book on suicide I've ever read. Jeffrey Eugenides is a writing god. Forgive the hurried veneration, just can't help it. Man, his prose is just divine!!! Please, if you're reading Danielle Steel now, drop it,for chrissakes, throw it away and go search for The virgin Suicides in the bookstore. you'll have the most pleasant reading experience of a lifetime. I'll guarantee you that! What are you waiting for? Go!!! hahahaha!!!!

to be continued...

"We Won't Cry About This" by S. V.-A great literary find!

2006-02-11T18:50:00.000+08:00

Title of short story: “We Won’t Cry About This” by Socorro A. Villanueva

I. Literary Background of the Short Story

This literary piece is written by Socorro A. Villanueva which has earned the first prize in the 52nd Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards under the short story category, English division. Although it has reaped such a prestigious accolade, it has remained relatively unpopular owing probably to the fact that it has been composed fairly recently and the grave tendency of academic institutions to overly emphasize in their Literature courses traditional short stories by renowned international authors like Anton Chekhov, Kate Chopin, O. Henry, Franz kafka, and Bernard Malamud. It was only in 2002 that it started receiving its due recognition but like so many other great short stories only the passing of time can hardened it into what it will inevitably become-a Philippine literary classic.

The author, Socorro A. Villanueva is presently taking her M.A. in Creative Writing at the University of the Philippines-Diliman. Aside from receiving the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards in 2002, she was also the recipient of the N.V.M. Gonzalez Award for her story, “Lavender”, in 2001. She was also a fellow in the UP National Writers’ Workshop in 2001 and a member of the Saturday Group.

II. A Synopsis of the short story, “We Won’t Cry About This” by Socorro A. Villanueva

The short story centers around a teenager’s (who also acts as the narrator in this literary piece) attempt to come to terms with her mom’s sickness and impending death. Her mom whose character is so keenly described by her daughter has caught the dreaded “Big C” but has remained steadfast, refusing to let her illness weaken her spirit and zest for life. She is portrayed by her daughter as someone who has a larger than life personality and a borderline eccentric-crushing all the usual expectations and notions of what a mother should or shouldn’t be. As a mother, she is definitely one loose cannonball, a negation of all stereotypes-she is messy and “outrageously lazy”, parties constantly with friends, gets drunk, dates younger men, chats with books, (especially by Raplh Waldo Emerson) and adamantly keeps her baldness like a bejeweled crown. Her mom, in sum, shuns the melodrama of motherhood, of living and of death.

When their father left them for good, her mom again stood firm, like she always does whether in the face of giant hurdles or before the beckoning doors of the inevitable. The daughter in the story, no doubt loves and feels for her mom like any normal daughter would but one could sense her masked anger at her mom’s effort to hide her pains, physical or otherwise. She sees this as an implicit attempt on her mom’s part to rob her and her sister the right to grieve, to feel, pressing all the emotions into one lump of denial, cowering beneath the weight of her mom’s signature line-“we won’t cry about this”.

The physical state of her mother deteriorated and she was hospitalized during the Christmas season forcing them to spend Christmas in the hospital. Although sad and unprepared to face the reality of her mom’s imminent demise, the teenager in the story manages to see what counts and what in their situation is really important and that is to treasure the precious moments leant to them by time and fate.

III. In Defense of the Literary Value of “We Won’t Cry About This” By Socorro A. Villanueva.

Although Socorro A. Villanueva’s short story is undoubtedly a literary gem and hands down worldclass material, it is still necessary to cement credence to the claim. Defending the literary value of this short prose is the main task I have committed myself to doing, for to shower praises without thorough consideration is like throwing feathers in the wind-undecided, shifty, ready to change at the slightest dodge of dissenting and varying opinions. To avoid literary bias, I have developed a set of criteria which I sourced out from authorities in the field of literature such as Carla M. Pacis who co-edited the “Likhaan Book of Poetry and Fiction 2002”. The criteria I intend to use in defending the merit of the short story are divided into general and detailed criteria. Having a set standard against which one can measure the literary value of a creative work concretizes the concept of ‘world-class’ which at a superficial level simply means possessing high quality, of high caliber or one of the best in the world. Such a definition is, of course, vague to say the least, offering little insight as to what constitutes ‘high quality’ or ‘greatness’. In the succeeding section, I will be identifying and explaining the criteria and literary standards I plan to use in gauging and assessing the world-class status of the short story in question.

A. The Literary Criteria Identified and Explained

In the essay “Heart in Hiding”* of Katherine Patterson who is a well-known writer of young adult fiction, the properties of beauty are identified as simple, harmonious and brilliant. Fiction is a thing of beauty, every great piece of creative prose in the history of literature seethes and oozes with everything that is beautiful. I know beauty as the ultimate criterion in judging the literary value of any fictional narrative prose is too abstract a term, escaping rigid definitions time and time again, it is almost as if its essence lies so much in its refusal to be named and to be defined. It is because of this very nature of beauty that makes it so difficult, I would say problematic to use as a criterion in assessing a creative work or a work of art in general. However, just because the ‘borders’ of beauty are indeterminate, that doesn’t make it inauthentic or useless as a criterion. In order to make ‘beauty’ operational and thus a functional basis in literary assessment, certain ‘core’ properties can be ascertained and used. In my defense of the short prose, “We Won’t Cry about This” by Socorro A. Villanueva, I intend to adopt the qualities of beauty (i.e., simple, harmonious and brilliant) as mentioned by Katherine Patterson. For after all, it seems an act of extreme carelessness to discount the role of beauty in literature, in fact it takes center stage in any literary undertaking especially in judging the worth of creative works. Beauty as the eternal hallmark of literary excellence remains as an unmovable a fact as the earth’s rotational dance on its axis.

Simplicity in a story according to Carla M. Pacis (2002, p.79) is when it is complete in itself-direct without superfluous words. The standout quality of literary masterpieces such as “The Darling” by Anton Chekhov, “A Clean and Well-Lighted Place” by Ernest Hemingway, “Bliss” by Katherine Mansfield, and “Haircut” by Ring Lardner is the unassuming words and phrases used, every element (i.e., theme, plot, tone, style, character, setting and point of view) in these stories are created and developed without pompousness or an at attempt at the complex. Simplicity as the finest test of literary greatness is affirmed by the author Jim Maxwell, when he pointed out that most of the immortal works in literature not only have the brilliance of brevity but also the dignity of simplicity. He added further that there is eloquence in simplicity, it speaks loud and clear without insulting the intelligence of the listener. Such is the true defining character of simplicity and this will be the operational definition I will be using throughout the entire essay.

The next criterion in literary assessment is harmony. Harmony as characterized by Carla M. Pacis in her essay “Fiction as a Thing of Beauty”(2001,p 79 ,1) is “when the characters, setting and plot gracefully conform to one another and to the language of the whole.” By injecting and striving for harmony in any given piece of literary work, one produces an impression of unity, leaving us, the discerning readers, a sense of coherence and satisfaction. It would indeed be a disastrously bad experience to read a fictional narrative be it a novel or a short story whose plot, characters, tone/style and setting are clashing in fury and never fully complementing each other. I would not be too harsh if I say that the absence of harmony in any (supposedly) literary writing makes that work just a piece of stinking and good for nothing thrash (pardon the redundancy; it is mainly intended for emphasis). Imagine what utter horror it would be to have for instance a certain story set in the Victorian era and then bringing in some punk rockers to act as your lead characters using foul and irreverent language. Certainly, such choice of character/s, setting and language renders the entire material unrealistic and unbelievable. This is the main reason why harmony is so paramount in creating credibility, effectiveness and coherence in any literary work.

Aside from beauty and harmony, brilliance is another important literary criterion that must not be left out. Brilliance is all about clarity and never about intellectual (or technical) cleverness as rightly pointed out by Carla M. Pacis in her essay (2001, p.79). She explained that what is essential about the concept of brilliance is that it sheds light not only on the story itself but to other stories and other lives. In other words it illumines the unfolding of the story and the intensity of illumination stretches beyond the ‘immediate zone’ by lending insights and much needed understanding of other works. Its clarity makes it possible for readers to form easy association and internalize the message the story strives to convey. A brilliant literary work has a pronounced impact on the lives of people lucky enough to have read it and thus brilliance becomes a hammer, a chisel, a mallet for it holds immense capacity to shape and to change.

Simplicity, harmony and brilliance are the general qualities of a good short story and in seeking or defending the merit of a creative work one must plow through the text in search for these literary signposts. However, the process of literary assessment is a detailed endeavor which means that as one follows the scent of beauty in a work, one must simultaneously inspect each element of the short story, analyzing each using certain set guidelines. For instance a good theme of a short story is one that is relevant, substantial and strong. Therefore, one must first identify the theme/s and then make an objective literary judgment based on the qualifications mentioned. This is how my entire defense of the literary worth of Socorro A.Villanueva’s, “We Won’t Cry About This”will go.

The major elements of a short story include the theme, plot, structure, characters, setting, point of view and style. How a story unfolds and develops is the plot and it usually follows the conflict-development-resolution pyramid plot pattern. An excellent short story contains only a single plot-this is in keeping with the principle of simplicity that governs all literary masterpieces. Aside from being simple, the plot must be engrossing and interesting. It must be noted at this point that simplicity does not equate to mental catatonia where the lone buzz and movement are all coming from the cyclic swirls and rolls of the eyeball. A simple plot can be interesting once the other elements are in place.

The characters are the main participants in the short story and they assume the central focus of the entire text. In order to have a really captivating fictional narrative, the characters in the story should be and must be interesting, unforgettable and well rounded. After all, who would want to read a short story whose characters are stiff and one-dimensional? I'd rather skin some potatoes than put up with such literary ineptness. A keen reader knows when the created characters are forced and unnatural for tell-tale signs will begin to sprout midway in your reading such as the gnawing uneasiness that springs from the anticipation than some extraterrestrial is peparing a leap from the pages before you. In other words, the characters are unrealistic, stereotypical and not true representatives of real people. Riveting characters are always those whose personalities are not categorically ‘black’ and ‘white’ or bad and good for in truth and in fact no sort of individuals exist in our earthly plane. People are dynamic and not static, flawless and never perfect, probably because we live in the ‘grayest’ of all worlds and boundaries get shattered by the minute, limits are endlessly tested and crossed.

Setting in a story is the ‘when’ and ‘where’ of the action or the main event. Like the rest of the elements of a short story, this is also a crucial factor in creating a superb fictional narrative and thus must be handled with care. An outstanding setting has to be relevant, familiar, appropriate and well-chosen. The time and place should not be randomly or haphazardly selected, otherwise there is danger of your setting becoming a misfit.

In summary, a good story must have a strong theme, a fascinating plot, a fitting structure, unforgettable characters, a well-chosen setting and an appealing style.

B. An Analysis and Estimation of the Literary value of “We won’t cry about This” by Socorro A. Villanueva Using the Criteria Identified

Is the short story, “we won’t cry about this” beautiful? I must admit that such a query is not as simple as answering it with a “yes” or “no” for it requires delving and dipping one’s hands in the relatively untested water of the text, so to speak. As mentioned earlier, beauty in fiction is all about simplicity, harmony and brilliance. In the story, the words or language being used are not difficult to follow, in fact the author has taken it in stride to avoid scintillating terms, overly-decorated phrases or any heavy musings, creating the impression that one is just browsing through the diary of a teenager. The conversations between the mother and the daughter in the story (as recounted by the teenage daughter herself) are so fluid and natural that it is not hard to get caught up with the flow. Take this initial dialogue in the beginning of the story for instance when the daughter-cum-narrator harps on her mom’s eccentricities (i.e., talking to books, being lazy) and her mom nonchalantly brushes off her tirades.

“You have a problem with that?” she asks me without looking up from the page. She looks pale.
“I think, Ma, you’re going psycho,” I say, and she laughs, says she suspects she was born nuts and may have passed it on to me along with her nose and skin color.
“It’s child abuse, what you do. Raising us crazy by example,”
“Hey!” she says. “Who say’s I’m raising who here? I’m just reading a book for Christ’s sake!”

Notice the directness of every statement, it is obvious that the author shuns the attempt to baffle or confound the readers, leaving no room at all for second-guessing. However, even if the presentation is simple, one cannot discount the sense of importance in each line, a testament to the sheer eloquence that masquerades in the plain and uncompounded. From the above excerpt, one begins to understand the dynamics of the mother-daughter relationship. The teenage daughter obviously disagrees with her mom’s unconventional mothering, although verbally articulated, her opposition takes on the nature of a jest or of the comical or even of mild irritation, which the author deliberately maintains throughout the narrative. On the part of the mother, this seeming disapproval from her daughter is taken lightly, opting to remain the way she is-unruffled, cool and indifferent (well, at least on the surface). All these interpretations can be gleaned from that short exchange between the mother and the elder daughter. This is a proof of the richness of the text amidst the simplicity of execution and delivery. Another aspect of simplicity that one discerns from the short story in question aside from directness, ease of the language used, is the appropriate length of the story. Lengthy fictional narratives, especially short stories are more often than not draining to read, and becomes susceptible to redundancy as it progresses, which can potentially annihilate the overall integrity of the text. The “Metamorphosis” by Franz Kafka is obviously an exception, although relatively long, Kafka has such an amazing and complete control of his material that he managed to pull it off regardless of the size of his work. Still, customarily it is not advisable to stretch a short story to such great lengths unless otherwise needed. “We won’t cry about this” has just the right length, consisting of approximately seven pages or less since the whole narrative is divided into subsections (and each subsection narrates an event in the life of the main character) so once compressed the text can even be reduced to five pages maximum.

Harmony is another characteristic of a world-class fictional narrative be it a novel or a short prose. Socorro A. Villanueva’s “We Won’t Cry About This” is definitely not lacking in harmony, if anything it reeks and overflows with harmony and coherence. The major characters in the story are all women of the 21st century-independent, free-spirited, assertive, intelligent and sensitive. This choice of characterization would not be at all appropriate if the story were set during the Spanish era and in a rural, conservative community at that. However, I am not saying that women during the earlier times did not possess the qualities of women of our generation, surely there were gals back then who were as brazen and audacious like Gabriella Silang, Haydee Yorac or India’s Shantha Sinha. I point merely to the fact that our modern setting is more conducive to the formation of the aforementioned qualities. By placing the characters of the story in the modern times and in an urban, middle class setting, Socorro A. Villanueva has created a believable scenario. The mother in the story parties with her amigas constantly, drinks until the wee hours of the morning, reads such an eclectic array of books (by Gary Zukav, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Thoreau and Thich Nhat Hanh), dates younger men and seems to have certain affinity for mess and laziness. In our times, such a mom is acceptable, tolerable, even considered cool and cute. This is not so the case when the author opted for other options in terms of time and place. An eccentric, free-spirited, independent mom in the 21st century, living in a middle class urban setting is the perfect blend Socorro A. Villanueva has created in her work. The harmony in the story does not only extend to the characters and setting but also to the general plot and language used. Since the narrator is a teenager and thus fairly young the language is frank, straightforward and honest. The choice of words and phrases fits that of an adolescent and is definitely reflective of the personality and state of mind of the narrator. This proper mixing of the language, setting and characters of the story are captured in the following passages/excerpts.

Tita Lanie has come to stay in the house, for good, looks like. Tita Lanie is Ma’s younger sister, a big-time lawyer who is such a fussy bitch that she is unable to get a man. (This is the narrator's irreverent description of her tita. Note the candid tone and the lslightly offensive expression.)

In March-nothing good happens in March-Ma comes home with her hair all gone, and head shaved to a shine. She zooms into the dining room and goes: “Ta-da!” Squeak and I shriek. A freaking Sinead O’Connor! She is forty-three, for crying out loud! (Again the narrator’s mode of language suits her age and character to a tee. Her reaction to her mom’s baldness is so typical of youth-tactless, unhindered and spontaneous. In this excerpt the reference to a modern pop icon only reinforces the contemporary tone of the entire text.)

I buy her a beret from a thrift shop, black and stinking like hell, who knows where the beret came from? Maybe some scruffy artist who doesn’t know shampoo from snot. She wears it to breakfast: “Ooh-la-la,”she says, “ver is zee pat-tey dey fwa?” I want to cry into my coffee. (This is another passage in the text that is a runaway winner. Socorro A. Villanueva knows her character a lot and this mastery translates to perfection in language. The author has given the daughter a voice that mirrors the ebbs and flows of youth, the uncertainty and repressed grief of someone trying to cope with a potential loss and the love and concern of a child.)

The clarity of a text is a necessary factor in determining the superiority and brilliance of a text. Anton Chekhov’s Gooseberries is just one of the supreme examples of literary brilliance, although subtlety is the main ingredient in most of Chekhov’s short stories, in this narrative there is such a breathtaking display of clarity in the truth implicitly revealed. “A Clean and Well-lighted Place” by Ernest Hemingway breathes brilliance into its every line, tackling the truth about growing old without the semblance of a sermon. Just like the above masterpieces, brilliance is the coat that Socorro A. Villanueva’s beautiful piece proudly dons. The truth in her narrative hangs glaringly before the reader for though emotions are understated, one can sense and feel the churning, turning of despair, loneliness and fear veiled by nonchalance and forced normalcy. By clearly presenting the truth of what it is like to cope with a loved one’s sickness and eventual passing from the perspective and point of view of a teenager, she manages to move and involve the reader. If this is not a sign of true brilliance, I don’t know what is. This ability of the author to paint vividly the reality of the daughter’s situation and her muffled struggle is evidenced by her allowing us, the readers, to see the main character’s hurt and to understand that the pain is hidden behind the angry and irritated retorts. The following excerpts are examples of the clarity of language, content and presentation that defines Villanueva’s short prose.

You never know what Ma thinks. She has headaches and pains bigger than the house, Squeak says, though I don’t know how she knows. Ma never speaks of pain. “We won’t cry about this,” she’s been saying for as long as I can remember. The times we fell from our bikes, when we cancelled a beach trip because Squeak got the pox, when our dog Bruno died; and that’s what she said when she announced she had cancer. We won’t cry about this. Like when Pa left, there was no pain to talk about, and I wonder where the pain goes when you just keep it in. Maybe they become cancer cells that eat you alive. Metastatic whatever. Who knows? (Although the daughter is trying to be dismissive, appearing to be cool about the whole thing, her anxiety cannot be disguised. In fact this same coolness is an evidence of her worry for afterall a facade always suggests an interior. In this passage like the rest of Socorro Villanueva’s work one finds no intellectual phrases, words or clauses, what she offers instead is the clarity of exposition. )

I hang the baseball caps on a wire, color-coded, across her dressing. Ma says she likes it. “Give me a clear view of my life options,”she says. Ha! One Sunday, she was feeling good and the three of us, we troop to the Glorietta mall like we were some baseball cap patrol. I drive; do that all the time now, but never the BMW, which belongs to Ignatio et Lamina but we still get to keep, Ma being on indefinite leave-she says,” humanitarian leave, they’re so kind, yada yada”-on full pay and benefits. I think: Ad agency president on mortal leave. Beat that! Let her drive to heaven in the Bee-Em!(Again the author lends sarcasm and mockery to the voice of the main character and this she does ever so consistently for purposes of clarity and emphasis. She wants the readers to have a clear understanding of who the main character is, what she is like and where she is coming from. This goal finds fulfillment in the transformation of Katrina to a seeming close pal permitting us to comprehend her every outburst and tantrum, maybe even more so than Katrina herself. Such is the stunning brilliance of this prose. It escapes the need for an explanation or clarification be it on the personality of the characters or on some peripheral points in the story since everything is so clearly and subtly suggested.)

Themes and motifs in a short story comprise the central idea of the whole text and if chosen and treated right could render the work meaningful, drawing all the elements together much like a tie or a rope. A good theme has to be substantial, timely, relevant, strong and subtle. These requirements I know are rather ambitious but literary excellence has to be measured against punishing standards, allowing no leniency of any form otherwise sloppy works may find their way into the hallowed halls of the elite. Maybe this is literary snobbery but how else can we separate the weed from the wheat (so to speak)? The theme in Socorro A. Villanueva’s prose is expressed in the title, “We Won’t Cry About This” which she successfully weaves in the text repeatedly and yet oh so quietly. This she does by bringing our attention to the mother’s attitude and reaction toward her illness (as reported by the daughter) for in her actions is the restatement of the theme. The theme of the short prose to be exact lies on how we interpret and understand the implications of the statement, “We won’t cry about this. It seems at first glance that it hints on denial, fear, lack of strength or inability to face the situation. These seem to be the state of emotions that we presume to be lurking behind the utterance, “We won’t cry about this” especially when one realizes the vulnerability of human beings under the ‘umbrella’ of sickness and death. The mother, in saying and living the words,”We won’t cry about this” maybe feeling a little bit of the emotions just mentioned which is but normal in her case. However, one must note that in the refusal to display emotions there rests a shade of quiet strength and painful acceptance which the author wants to convey in her short prose. One of the clues that points to the real theme is the daughter’s apparent sarcasm toward the philosophy of denial and non-acceptance as seen in the following passage.

I struggle with my books and barely turn out the papers. Middle-of-term papers, reflection papers, critique papers, hey-it’s Tuesday-let’s-write-a-paper papers. God, these Jesuits are suckers for papers-one five-pager every frigging day, almost! It’s raining C’s and D’s in my life. But, heck, who’s going to cry about it?( It is obvious from this passage that Katrina, the daughter disapproves of her mom’s constant plea to hush real emotions not realizing that her mom merely wants to protect her and that plea is a call for bravery and strength of spirit. By emphasizing the irritation and disagreement of the daughter, the author subtly pulls the readers to a better grasp of the entire text, specifically the meaning of the text. She wants us to understand that hiding one’s true feelings is not commendable and yet she seems to be telling us that neither does hysteria nor emotivity. What is and should be done instead in these circumstances is to enjoy the remaining moments, conserving and spending one’s energy into what is productive and important.)

I find the strength of the theme to be embedded in its capacity to draw the assents, nods and the yes-it’s-true remarks from readers. In other words, it has the potential to move and grip because of the convincing truth it relays. And so long as a theme speaks of truth, no matter what color, hue or tint it assumes, it will always remain relevant, substantial and universal.

Characterization in the short prose is impressive-the depth, the thought behind it, the clarity and its genuineness. Socorro A. Villanueva’ characters are as real as one can get-they are not saints or angels but flawed human beings who are gradually coping with life’s slaps and kicks (so to speak). The mother is far from perfect and yet as a reader one can’t help but relate to her, empathize with her and just see how remarkable an individual she is amidst her struggle and pain. This is the depth in Socorro A. Villanueva’s characterization-main players are given multi-layered personality. Take for instance the case of the mother, on the surface she is mostly quirky and unorthodox but like the act of undressing one sees that there is more to a person than the garb for underneath one notices qualities that have more bearing-her kindness, strength and her love and concern for her children. Katrina, the teenage narrator and daughter in the story is also as interesting, complex and dynamic a character as her mom. After a few minutes of reading the prose, one is tempted to judge Katrina as merely a bratty, rebellious and arrogant teenager, an adolescent in every inch, but once the story has caught on the reader, one unearths a Katrina who is just afraid, worried and unsure. There is nothing one-dimensional or static about the characters, everyone is evolving and trying to come to terms with the crisis at hand. The daughter, in the beginning of the narrative is angry at her mom and at life but as she slowly finds understanding in their situation, she mellows down, become more sensitive and accepting. Another aspect of the superb characterization in this prose is the clarity of the intentions and motivations of the central characters, their actions are not randomly committed but instead are done in response to an emotion, a thought or a feeling.

Conflict resolution is also another quality of a good story. It is most unpleasant for readers to have stories that dangle in mid-air, there must always be an ‘act of crossing or of landing’ so to speak otherwise there’s no point in bothering to read fictional narratives. I fancy books especially fiction that have redeeming value in their stories so I scamper around the text looking for this sort of conflict resolution. In Socorro A. Villanueva’s short prose the conflict is both internal and external but mainly the conflict resides within the characters’ psyche. The external conflict revolves around the effort to deal with the mother’s illness which is an outside force while the internal conflict rages inside Katrina, her emotions swinging a la pendulum between denial and acceptance. What brought the resolution in this short story is the violent incident in December which ensues from Katrina coming home late and thus earning the ire of her sister, Squeak. The fight between the siblings could be regarded as the climax of the story wherein all the rage, curbed emotions of the past days, months and years were let out. What follows this climax is the falling action found in the last section of the prose, when Katrina cozies with her mom in the hospital along with Squeak, sad and maybe even fearful but somehow one begins to sense a quiet understanding in her action, a resigned piercing acceptance and a desire to embrace the present. This newfound enlightenment comes with the knowledge that heading toward the future is a skate on the ice-forever slippery and uncertain. The succeeding excerpt expresses the end of the conflict.

I think of Christmases past-there have been many happy times, but is that all we fucking get? Ma’s eyes close and I close mine, too, fighting to shut off images of Christmases up ahead.

There are still a lot of areas in the short story that are remarkably outstanding and worth mentioning in my justification. However, I think I have already pointed out what I deem essential and so I’ve decided to skid to a halt. A dress they say is most stunning when all the important and right pieces are put together and there is no touch of the overkill. I think I'm going to apply the same principle here by shunning all flowery excesses and the insincerity of flattery.

tennis cds/dvds-oh! where art thou?

2006-02-10T23:57:00.000+08:00

i know it's too much to ask in a country too caught up with boxing and basketball but c'mmon sell some tennis dvds/cds-for crying out loud!!!! now that the Australian open is over Cable channels have stopped airing any tennis tournament (geez!!!). how inconsiderate can they be!!! Suffering is the lot of filipino tennis fans-this I've learned since I've endeared myself to the sport. Oh woe! what awful woe! Who heareth mine lamentations? must fate inflict me such severest of punishment. hahaha. now, i'm going abosolutely mad. but tell me who wouldn't? I think i can even forgive these goddamn sports channels for giving sparse tennis coverage if only there are available tennis cds/dvds around to appease my painful cravings. But there's just none. How's that possible? I'm a recent convert to the sport so i just found out only recently that tennis matches on cd/dvd format are just nonexistent. Well, i guess there's nothing for me to do but wait till these tv networks decide to cover some tennis tournament. Now, that's a long long wait for me. I want my daily dose of tennis!!!! please help, anyone? hahahahaha

PIcasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon

2006-02-09T19:59:00.000+08:00

I admit I know so very litle about paintings. Shameful. But despite my apparent pitfalls (i.e.,ignorance) i have to say I'm deeply drawn to them. Art carries so much power, especially paintings because it only takes a minute or two (sometimes much less) to create the desired impact so unlike literature which requires a week of sleepless nights before the message (whatever it is) gets sent across. It is for this reason that i think painters should not only be talented and gifted but must also be, i suppose, conscious spirits who know and understand the reason behind their art.

Pablo Picasso is one such artist. A very special kind and the rarest of the lot. Not only was he aware of what his paintings were meant for but he set out to achieve and realize the purpose of his works. He had a vision, one conceived by his overwhelming genius and this pushed him to the vey brink of human imagination, creating work after work of shocking brilliance. When one sees his paintings for the first time one gets an almost reverential feeling not just for the brazen, audacious, screaming images (that proliferate his creations) but mainly at the recognition that one is now beholding something extraordinary, born out of Picasso's all-consuming fire, passion and madness. It is almost as if his soul is laid bare in his paintings. So to such breathtaking masterpieces, the only proper response is hallowed silence.

This is exactly what I did when i glimpsed Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. I saw it in one of the glossy art books in our library back in college. Of course, i already knew who Pablo Picasso was even in high school but I never got to really dig deep into his artistic genius. When I frist set sight on Les Demoiselles d'Avignon years back I was completely floored. The effect on me was just unbelievable. Yup, it was disturbing and haunting to say the least. Even after the page has been turned and the book closed, the images of the five prostitutes and their horrible faces remained. Who says, taking up arms and storming the streets is the only definition of revolutionary? Picasso's works especially Les Demoiselles d'Avignon are just revolutionary art in its purest form. These pieces have been given life to astound, shock and rattle our core defenses. His art speaks like a command, forcing us to see the world in a different light, changing in turn the framework of our existence.

Since my interest in Picasso has been rekindled, I started reading the book, Picasso: Creator and Destroyer by Arianna Stassinopoulos Huffington which gives a rather extensive recount of Picasso's life. Interesting read. But to be honest, i think it unnecessary to read his biography, it just seems too redundant. AS soon as I saw a couple of his works, I felt like I already know him. Maybe I just loaned the book from the library to confirm what I already know. Turns out i was right. Picasso's art tells his story and is the total sum of his life.

Here are some of the comments Picasso received from his friends abou his Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. (got it from the book)

Georges Braque: " It made me feel, as if someone was drinking gasoline and spitting fire."

Andre Salmon: "It was the ugliness of the faces that froze with horror the half-converted."

Is Truth popular?

2006-02-09T08:25:00.001+08:00

Yesterday, while battling the humdrum of an afternoon jeepney ride, I turned slighly philosophical. Idleness, you see, is one of the triggers to philosophical musing (in case you don't know). Socrates, the great sage, might disagree with me on this one, but even he benefitted a lot from not having a 9 to 5 job, right? so, anyways, as my oxygen depleted lungs competed for some clean, fresh air amongst the seas and oceans of pollutants, my mind took on a wandering of its own.

When i was in college,one of the lingering problems in philosophy that used to fuel many a lecture and discussion (not to mention a total time sucker) is the nature of truth. This, I believe, is the rock on which Philosophy stands. It is the driving force behind its multitude of hows and whys, their waves and onslaughts. If there's anything I love or find remotely interesting about the whole endeavour of philosophy, this has got to be it. To commit oneself to the idea of truth and to the lofty quest of finding it, is for me, heroism at its finest. So, while my co-passengers busied themselves with their own occupation (you know, the usual- ogling, mindless chattings,desperate stares and yes, napping) I prided myself for bothering to think and waste a few brain cells in the process. Heroism, you see, has a price.

As the jeepney driver from hell picks up death-defying speed, I quickly escaped into my own inner world of heady abstractions. I've often wondered, constantly, why I seem to have total aversion to what many are proclaiming to be gospel truths. When i saw some ABS-CBN stars, after the tragic stampede at the Ultra last Saturday, expessing their grief and condolences to those bereft families and extending generous helps, I can't help raising an eyebrow or two. Not that i don't believe in the whole philosophy of sharing and giving but there's something amiss about it that I can't quite put my finger on. Maybe the act itself is right but the premise on which it rests is somehow suspicious. Many of those who swear by the credo of altruism believe they are living by and for the truth. But, really, are they? I think some are just in for the ride. Too many people are like that but i doubt if anyone would dare admit it. Unselfish acts, in other words, are embraced because they are thought to be grounded on the truth by virtue ofits resounding nods from the great majority and not by the very sheer force of its essence.

There are still so many truths out there held by the majority that we all love to talk about and practice with the overzealousness of one possessed. I am sure that though many of these are all hype ( a product of dutiful publicity over an extended period of time from no less than our church authorities, government, great thinkers of our age and all the shakers and movers of humanity), some are indeed true. However, it won't change my belief or diffuse that nagging thought of mine (which says) that anything so blatantly obvious can't really be the real thing. It just can't be.

Truth, i realized , is not for everybody. It is afterall like a luxurious item, a designer brand, a Prada that is fit and reserved only for the fortunate few. How i envy them, really. They would be conducting their daily activities with the sureness of the self-assured. Every morning, is for them a chance to bring form to the truth they so know and how liberating that must feel.

For now, i can only imagine.

Extraordinary win from an extraordinary man!

2006-02-01T15:18:00.001+08:00

Roger Federer, the crowned king of tennis, has done it again. This time at the recently concluded Australian Open. The 7th career grand slam for this man was as moving and heart-wrenching as a dramatic sequence in a movie maybe even more so because this was a moment that no script could replicate-it was just so real and raw.

As a fan of Roger Federer, i was on the verge of pulling out all my hair strands in the early part of the match when surprisingly Marcos Baghdatis snatched a spectacular set from the champion. I couldn't believe it. I stared at the boob tube in shock. People who might have seen me during those crucial moments would have thought I'm watching some bizarre horror flick. To be honest, Rogi looked so cornered for the most part of the first set and I've never seen him like that in the grand slam finals he partcipated in, well, with the exception of wimbledon '04 where he lost the first set to AndyRoddick. But that was different, in a way, because in the Wimbledon he was playing a seeded player but at the Australian Open he was up agaisnt an unseeded player and a relative unknown. I don't mean to underestimate Marcos Baghdatis for he proved he can pose a serious challenge to the great Roger but compared to Rogi this young guy from Cypriot had nothing much to lose in the match, expectations are not pinned so heavily on his back, just the searing hopes for a fairytale ending to a seeming dreamy run to the finals and nothing more. For Rogi however, this meant everything, a whole deal lot more than we could ever imagine. The pressure was on him, right from the very start. So many were predicting his victory in the tournament-the media, fans, tournament organisers, experts. In other words, just about everybody.

It is for this reason that i wanted him badly to win. He needed a release, that i knew and i thought i want the pressure off of him in the manner of a win instead of a painful defeat. So, after the first set, i cheered him on and predetermined a victory that was righfully his. Well, as per natural he cruised through the 3rd and 4th sets, 6-0 6-2 sealing the inevitable win for Roger federer. As soon as Baghdatis netted a backhand (not sure whether it's the forehand or the bh) on matchpoint, i expected another demonstration of a trademark Rogi grand slam victory reaction (i.e., Rogi falling down on his knees, his hands covering his face in disbelief and obvious relief a la Wimbledon '03) but there was none. Roger just raised both his hands in the air, yelped some strange cry of victory then he approached the net rather wearily, rested his hands there for the briefest of moments while waiting to make the customary gentleman's handshake with Marcos as the Cypriot hero was still nowhere near the net. That was it. I shouldn't find it odd for afterall that win was the man's 7th grand slam title. (7th GS, for Christ's sake!) What's there to be ecstatic about, right? Even the warmest person feels the dulling effect of the excess and plenty.

Then came the awarding ceremony.

Marcos Baghdatis in his defeat was most gracious and everybody was enamored. I, the staunchest Rogi fan, can't help but be drawn to the novice's magnetic charm encased in his youthful passion and monstrous smiles. During his speech he forgot to congratulate Rogi and thank his girlfriend maybe due to excitement, rashness or inexperience.Well, anyways, his omission was soon overlooked. Soon
Rogi's turn to accept the trophy and make the usual victory speech came. He climbed up the stage and received his trophy from no less than the great Rod Laver. There was the usual handshake between the two greats, some warm hug from Rogi then he ventured towards the microphone. I expected him to mumble some mandatory post victory rhetorics but i got none. Instead Roger gave me and the rest of the world who were watching, the most beautiful, awe-inspiring moment in the history of television. The impressions of those scenes will on our days of despair or the ordinary, bring some much needed comfort, hope and stir. Roger, clutching the trophy on his side, couldn't deliver a decent speech, he sputtered in the beginning with " What can i say?" then went on to repeat it with "I don't know what to say?". Everybody witnessing this scene couldn't help but emphatize with Roger, who was apparently speechless and too overwhelmed by the occasion. When he finally could muster a statement, he congratulated Marcos for a job well done and then he followed this with (while gesturing towards his trophy) "I hope you know how much this means to me". Those words carry so much meaning and emotions and for us who heard it that night it seemed almost like a plea. Yes, it was a plea for understanding, for recognition like a gifted artist who is prone and vulnerable to misunderstandings because his genius so effectively distorts the perception. As soon as this sentence left his mouth, Roger wept. It was the release he so needed and we looked on both in pity and admiration. His tears were like a break in the dam or a crack on the wall allowing him to breathe before he suffocates in his own brilliance and quest for perfection. It was also a moment for us to inhale the greatness of a man displaying his overwhelming humility, love, passion and respect for the game, its history and tradition. His every sob tugged at the heart for we recognize in it the sincerity that is so markedly rare in our world. Roger's emotional outpouring that Sunday evening made us all rethink the nature and form of his successes. He is all elegance, poise, and beauty on court all the time that we think his victories come easy and with the barest of efforts not realizing that talent alone does not suffice. His recent triumph at the AO made us all appreciate the fighter in Rogi, the dedication, focus and sheer determination that catapulted him to the peak of tennis heights and had many proclaiming him a deity atop Mt. Olympus.

When he cried, i saw it as a triumph of the human spirit and to honour it and the moment i too cried along with him .

It definitely was an extraordinary win from an extaordinary man.

Hail King Rogi!!!!!!

Curtain call at the Australian Open on Sunday

2006-01-28T15:52:00.001+08:00

Yup folks, the Australian Open will soon be over on Sunday. I know, no one really gives a damn especially the members of basketball, soccer cults but since this is my very own blog i can freely rant about it for as long as I want. This year's AO didn't turn out badly, maybe the other big guns pulled out before the onset of the tournament like Marat Safin, Andre Agassi and Rafael Nadal but overall I would say it has been good. On Sunday, the big day, Roger federer will battle it out with the unexpected star of the slam , Marcos Baghdatis so i daresay it's going to be really interesting. For one, Roger's performance in the 4th round and quarterfinals has been called into question so the posibility of an upset is being considered (which i doubt, since I so believe in Roger) and if this ever happens (god forbid) the media will suggests two things:

a.) Roger is no longer dominant as he has been for the last two years and is already on his way down (which I find to be another baloney since this is just the first slam of the season and Roger's tennis hasn't changed at all, it's still as divine and heavenly as ever . Need I also add that Rogi won and successfully defended his title in Doha this January. )

b.) Marcos Baghdatis is the newly anointed one and the looming threat to roger's supremacy throughout the season. (With all due respect to baghdatis and to what he has come to symbolize in his hometown, he is still far from being stamped the title of a rival . His game is impressive and his wins over the top seeds, Andy Roddick, David Nalbandian and Ivan Ljubicic are unbelievable but I don't think he can be consistent. So, if he wins, although well deserved it definitely won't be a dent to Roger's greatness and anticipated reign the whole year of 2006).

Brushing outcome and results aside, I expect tomorrow's finals to be enthralling, over the top fantastic and just downright brilliant. They owe that at least to fans whose staunch support for the game has kept the sport alive and afloat
amidst the frenzy and the roars of other sports. Tennis is a beautiful game whose soul rests on the love (shown by ten nis players, fans and other movers and shakers of the sport) laid on its doorstep so i hope such adoration will not only come in sprinkles but in buckets in the hopes that tennis will have the reign of an infinity. Hail tennis!!!!!

__________________________________________________________________________________________________ what a frustrating women's singles finals! I expected it to be a hard fought battle since two of the best tennis players of the wta made it to the finals (Amelie Mauresmo and Justin Henin Hardenne) but it ended after an hour or so with Justin caling it quits in the middle of the match. She complained of stomach upset and looked distressed which I think personally was not directly due to any discomfort she was feeling at that time, could be more psychological in nature to be honest. Amelie took the first in such overwhelming fashion leaving Justin utterly out of place with her floods of unforced error and this pattern was carried onto the early part of the succeeding round. This must have depleted Justin mentally thus the early exit . Boy, was it a surprise to see Justin so beaten down and dejected. I really hope she'd be okay for the rest of the year and she won't suffer from any seriuos repurcussions as a result of this experience. But I guess even if she didn't retire early, she'd still lose the match since Amelie was certainly on the roll. So, i have to say Amelie's first grand slam victory was certainly well-deserved. I hope the media won't rob her of her due credit because of Justin unexpected retirement. Congratulations Amelie Mauresmo, well done.

Tommy haas vs Roger federer (4th round) AO open

2006-01-22T01:20:00.000+08:00

Now, don't want to pre-empt anything here but I'm confident Rogi will win the 4th round. I know Haas was able to defeat Roger when they played in the Kooyong classic before the start of the AO but that was an exhibition. I mean, Rogi wasn't at all at his best then plus the fact that he wasn't playing for any title. he only lost there because he slackened off a little bit. Don't intend to underestimate Haas but let's face it for the past three rounds Roger just delivered fantastic tennis so I believe if he continues this way Haas won't stand a chance.

Roger's excellence-a cause for serious thinking

2006-01-21T22:51:00.002+08:00

What a win from the Swiss genius! In the 3rd round of the AO he rendered Max Mirnyi helpless and physically spent. He was just on the roll, firing miracle shots in unbelievable succession from all over the court. Everything he did today in the match was just pure poetry. The strokes were joyfully lyrical making wide-eyed spectators gush in obvious admiration. Rogi's tennis is beyond words,really. Every known adjective in the English language has been used to extol his greatness but none could capture the flowing beauty of his winners.

And I mean NONE.

Roger stays true to the spirit of excellence day in, day out. He breathes it and lives it. Now, if only men could produce this level of brilliance on a regular basis in their chosen career or field, the world would be all smiles and glee. The world's misery will go down multiple notches. Crimes will skydive in number. Surly folks will plunge in an alarming rate. We can start forgetting all forms of psychological imbalance like neurosis, schizophrenia and other funny-sounding labels for whackos. Earth, if this ever come to pass, will be a tourist destination for all our alien compatriots(since we all belong to the same cosmos). Now, that's some wild thought. But alas, not everybody can be a Roger Federer. This is despairingly understandable since brilliance aferall is not a sure deal. Hunger, thirst, capacity to love, sex. All these are innate, spontaneous human qualities but not brilliance. what a woeful fact indeed. if you think a philandering boyfriend is worth going ballistic about, you're quite mistaken. The dwindling amount of excellence should and daresay must all drive us into massive feats of rage and excessive drunken misery. I mean it. It has been a constant wonder to me why we seem okay with mediocrity finding it one of life's many norms instead of some form of abberation. I think we have completely and totally lost it. It seems an absolute ridiculous joke that we,the exalted human race, the most supreme in the kingdom animalia is so resigned to the ignominy of the ordinary. We should be ashamed of ourselves. I think lesser animals are having a laugh out of this one, really. i wish the ground would gobble me up now in an instant that way i won't have to put up with the mocking stares of the tiny felines camped outside the apartment.
The hunger for the slightest rustle of excellence is one of the reasons why I watch Roger Federer play. It may be just a sport for many and they may find it puzzling why
i stay glued to the t.v. the whole time that he is on but to me his tennis is a constant source of wonderful, beautiful relief. When Roger makes one of those exquisite backhand passing shots, I can't help raising my fist in the air and mutter my regular repertoire of superlatives. This is my own brand of tribute to Roger and his genius, feeble though it may seem.

When Roger reaches the final in Melbourne at the Australian Open i will again sound my thunderous claps. His every glorious shot will be met with shrieks of exclamation. That's the least I can do as a salute to a man who has allowed me to take a peak into the boundless realm of human greatness which we don't often get to see in a world married to the familiar.

Thanks Rogi.

Update on the Australian Open

2006-01-21T17:25:00.001+08:00

a.) Lleyton hewitt, the hope of Australia, has been eliminated quite early from the tournament. It was a bitter disappointment for the hometown crowd, for sure. There was something about lleyton that night, his trademark shrieks of "c'mmon" were in absentia and his fist pumps were not as hard or as plenty. Now, could that be an evidence of some inner fire turning cold?! Hope not. But you know pressure,it could very well pulverize even the strongest and sturdiest. For lleyton to avoid that, he has to release some of the pressure and weight of expectations by, well, winning the AO. It's a tall order but he has proven that he can (so long as he avoids facing the mighty federer) when he reached the championship round last year (only to lose to the eventual winner, Marat Safin). He has to take the title or else the pressure will eventually caught up with him. of course, if the pressure gets too much to handle, there's always the option of quitting the sport. But then again, it's lleyton we're talking about here. This bloke is no wimp, as he has proven time and time again. He just needs to work on his game, I mean, improve certain areas like volleying. Also, he seems uncomfortable making all the dropshots and the angles. he has to take the needed risks or else he'll never get to beat Roger for the rest of his career. now, that embarrassing thought will get Lleyton all fired up, for sure.

b.) James Blake lost in the third round of the AO. i find this quite unfortunate since the guy is most affable. He seems to be one of the most polished and cultured of the lot. His interviews reflect this obeservation of mine.

I noticed during his match with robredo that he was sort of struggling a bit fitness wise. I didn't see the same James Blake i saw at the US Open last September. At one point in the match his legs just gave way and he fell flat on the court. Now, it would be unfortunate if this affects his run for the top 10 in the ATP ranking this season.

Go James Blake! You sure deserve to reap life's rich bounties.

c.) There's something about David Nalbandian that just unsettles me. No, it's not about him beating Roger last November in Shanghai.Nope, I'm no bitter fan and in the name of fair play and justice i would say he deserves that win.

David Nalbandian, for all his intensity on court, just couldn't win me over maybe it's the way his mini ponytail sticks out of his head. Okay, now I'm veering way out of line here but i just can't help it. His hair bugs me and I'm so raring to cut it off as soon as i get the chance to be near him. My scissors has now been set aside solely for that purpose.

But seriously, Nalbandian is not the most charming man on court. He appears rather cold to me both on and off court. I think he really needs a makeover both on his personality and outward appearance.

Now,please.

My sentiments don't matter at all when it comes to what is essential in tennis-court performance and Naldandian despite his want of charm is just making huge waves in Melbourne these past few days. Last Thursday he snatched a win from jarkko nieminen and
quite convincingly i would say. He has a newfound confidence now, David Nalbandian and this explains why for the past rounds he has managed to control the matches even when giving away a few sets.

Let's see where this will take him, this brimming confidence of his.

d.) Tennis is such a queer sport. I mean, battles could be won and lost right in the head even before the game has even started. Lleyton lost probably because he was doubting himself since his first round match agasint Robin Vik wasn't an easy win. This air of vulnerability was evident during lleyton's match against Juan Ignacio Chela. Chela sniffed the air and he smelled lleyton's uncertainty, pouncing on it relentessly. When Chela took the first two sets, i knew Lleyton was as good as finished. Poor Lleyton.Oh, well, let's just see how lleyton will take this defeat as painful as it is.

Update on the Australian Open

2006-01-21T17:25:00.000+08:00

"My Antonia" by Willa Cather

2006-01-19T14:30:00.000+08:00

I'm currently reading "My Antonia" by Willa cather. It seems nice so far. The character, Antonia, is the heroine in the story and she is portrayed by cather as one courageous gal. I'm still on the part where Jim Burden (the narrator) lost his parents and he went on to live with his grandpa and grandma in Nebraska. There he met Antonia as a young girl although much older that he was back when they first met. I have to say that Willa cather's writing style is simple, there's no attempt to experiment here with the structure of the English language as some of the more adventurous contemporary writers of today. Her imagery so far is exquisite and one can easily picture a dreamy Nebraska. Cather in the first few chapters that i've read doesn't seem to falter in her treatment of her material. So, i think that's a good sign. Hope to finish it today.

Marat Safin, the tormented genius

2006-01-19T13:18:00.000+08:00

Marat Safin will definitely be missed at this year's AO. He always brings a certain edge to to the tournament,owing to his unpredictable nature. I just love it when he begins to talk to himself on court when a shot he played didn't quite hit the other court as a winner. He looks endearing and amusing. Okay, there are times when it can get a little bit grating especially for his fans wanting him to straighten himself out before he gets beaten by some so-so player. I really pity his fans, just imagine the ups and downs they have to go through and endure for his sake. Marat Safin needs to grow up if he really wants to push his career to something like Rogi's. He has wasted so many years of his life in self-doubt, motley of complaints and heap upon heap of broken rackets. In his interviews one could sense his despair and sadness which he tries to mask by flavoring his answers with his trademark humour and sarcasm. I don't doubt for one second that he loves tennis but he is like a hurt lover who rebels when he is not getting what he wants from his lady love. Marat safin expects too much and when his expectations are not met he just slithers away in quiet dejection. Honestly, i've never seen him happy not even when he won the Australian Open title las year. Maybe he felt like it was a present that was long overdue. He is really the exact opposite of Roger federer, well at least just in terms of attitude and outlook since in the talent department both are extremely gifted. Marat safin could challenge Federer consistently if he only shakes off that defeatist demeanor that he has so skillfully mastered over the years. God, doesn't he realized he's not 20 years old anymore?! But i guess, he'll remain the way he is, no matter how much Peter Lundgren (his coach) tries to hammer some much needed change in his demented charge. It's all
part of Marat safin's charm, really.
But if there's anything that i admire about Marat Safin it's his downright honesty and sarcastic take on life. He seems to have a certain understanding and acceptance of life's dark truths which most of us would rather shrug off. This is the reason why he is so tormented. He knows and so he suffers.

Marat come back soon okay? You're just one of a kind and keep that strange charm about you. Now, I'm really being harsh here but just like you said you'll always be a hippo no matter what. So be the cutest hippo for life!

another display of tennis genius from the Swiss maestro!

2006-01-19T11:46:00.000+08:00

After Rogi's (Roger Federer) second round victory agaisnt Florian Mayer I'm inspired to write another praise article for Roger and his seeming never-ending brilliance. The scoreline 6-1,6-4, 6-0 can't quite express the artistry, the glorious, magnificent shots that seemed to flow from the racket of Roger federer for three straight sets. I've never seen anything quite like it. Not even from the great Pete Sampras. There's no one like him in terms of talent and ease of execution. I couldn't quite explain his genius, the source, the consistency and the ability to convert this gift to audacious, smashing victories. His tennis literally takes my breath away. Everybody keeps saying that the way he plays the game is a thing of beauty and i have to agree with them. The beauty of his tennis comes partly from his quest for perfection. This fact is so evident when he showed frustration over mishits form today's match when there really was no need to be since he was
clearly leading in all the sets and kicking Mayer's ass in such a thorough fashion. But Roger screamed and shouted when some of his backhand shots were called long and there were only quite a few maybe 5 at most. His being a perfectionist explains in part why he has managed to stay on top for a long time now. However, flirting with perfection has its own drawback, (case in point: Marat Safin) that is, if you let mistakes made and done hover for a long time than what is really needed. Dwelling on them excessively on court could make you lose matches when you should have won them far too easily. Roger is just amazing in that he has coupled his passion for perfection with a great coping mechanism. True, he gets frustrated but as he said himself he forgets it as soon as his shouts faded into echoes. Roger, really has everything from a tough mental attitude to a dazzling shot making skills that leave opponents stupefied and amazed. Way to go Rogi! hats off to you and to your greatness! You rule! Go for the AO title!

literary criticism spoils the fun in reading!

2006-01-18T18:56:00.000+08:00

I have had a long-standing love affair with books for as long as I could remember. Just the act of picking a book and turning the pages would be enough to send me to a blissful state, it's the closest to a religious experience that i could bring myself to muster. Not even sermons (which i find too overdone and forced at least the sermons I've heard so far) , religious rituals can create such outstanding effect on me the way that reading does. I never felt happier and more contented as when i would sit on a chair with a book in hand and eyes idly caressing the printed words, at every pause the shadows of the afternoon sun would beckon me to look up just in time to catch their mystery and uncanny beauty. For me nothing could be so complete and priceless as those moments. That's the main reason why I read, really. Nothing big or intellectual. I read for pleasure and fun. It's that simple but again this take on reading can draw a lot of criticisms and derision from experts. Reading,they say, should be a serious business because afterall you're reading the works of literary geniuses and such should be studied and enjoyed for all the right reasons. I say, bullshit. I feel strongly against such view because not only does it destroy the msytic of reading , disrupt the flow of the written words but it also reduces literature to an object of study rather than a work of art that has to be experienced in an instant and as a whole. I know being an MA Comparative literature student, I'm not supposed to say or feel anything agaisnt literary citicism since it comprises a big chunk of the entire comparative lit undertaking but I have to say my piece even on a mere blog as this one. okay, i confess i secretly hate it, I mean, literary criticism. Studying all the different and need i say laborious and complex literary theories has for awhile deadened my capacity for enjoyment. It is really one hell of a spoiler. I remember reading Margaret Atwood's "Surfacing" for the first time and i found myself,to my utter chagrin and surprise, deciding on which among the many lit theories I managed to understand could best assess MA's book and i further horrified myself by proceeding to dissect MA's book from a postcolonialist's perspective. Nothing could be more scarier than that. Okay, I'm exaggerating a little bit here but really it was unexpected. It just wasn't me. I usually pick up a book, read and follow the plot, experience the book, the story, with all my senses. Now, I'm reduced to analyzing and judging the worth of the book based on literary theories that tear the text limb by limb until you can't recognize the work anymore because before you know it there will be nothing left, just some littered fragments here and there. The soul of the book has been purged, butchered and desecrated. I learned that literary theories put more distance between the text and reader instead of bringing them closer (for it supposedly will make you understand the work better) because it forbids an outright taste, a first touch. A perfect analogy would be when a person gets asked after eating a sumptuous meal how he finds the dishes served and to such a question he would reply a profusion of superlatives in the form of verbal gesticulations like "wow", "great", "amazing" or some non-verbal gestures like a satisfied smile or an approving nod as an obvious expression of immediate pleasure and enjoyment. However, instead of taking the positive comments for what they are, the one asking the question spoils the enjoyment by querying further, asking why and what makes the meal enjoyable, forcing the happy customer to delve onto the cold, uninviting world of food science. Reading is a wonderful experience and should remain as such. It is supposed to be fun. Literary criticism although scholars maintain a higher form of literary appreciation remains for me and for the rest of the bunch who are true lovers of books a real spoiler and a certified party pooper.

p.s.
OKay, i'll compromise, no need for me to be harsh here since afterall i'm a student of literature. When reading a book for the first time i still believe that there's no need to bring in the horde of literary theories and be all intellectual or scholarly. Bibliophiles are pleasure seekers, so it's important to stay true to one's nature. Literary criticism can have its place when one is on her second reading and really wants to have a deeper understanding of the text or if LC is your bread and butter.Hahahahaha!!!!

Roger Federer's AO opening round-a walk in the park!

2006-01-18T18:22:00.000+08:00

Denis Istomin was Rogi's first victim in the first round of Asia/Pacific Grand slam. As an arduous fan of Roger, I was really looking forward to seing him on centre court again after over a month of missing him in action since the ATP tour ended last November. He seemed fit and just unbelievable as always. The trademark shots of his were in full swing, though i must admit there weren't as many since Denis Istomin didn't take Rogi to as many rallies as Rogi probably would have wanted to (this was due to Denis istomin's eagerness to finish off the shots as soon as possible which then led to many unforced errors as product of the young man's inexperience). Overall, the match wasn't really a trouble to the Swiss genius, he just sort of cruised, really just a walk in the park as evidenced by the scoreline 6-2, 6-3, 6-2. Well, there's nothing much denis can really do about that but i'm sure even though he lost that he was happy with the outcome since he has had the opportunity of playing agaisnt the best tennis player in the world today. Really hope that he drew lessons from his first encounter with the world No.1 and his debut at Rod Laver Arena.
Roger will play agaisnt Florian Mayer in the second round tomorrow at noon. My prediction? He'll serve some hot, hot bagels (for sure). I hope he will. But even if he won't i 'm positive he'll win it in straight sets. Always expect the best from the champion. Go roger!!!! Win the Australian open, allez!!! Now, I'm beginning to sound like a crazed fan which I am by the way!

Any surprises in the AO?

2006-01-11T01:49:00.000+08:00

jan 11,'06

I'm so glad the Australian Open will soon start in a few days, i missed Roger Federer play his unparalled brand of tennis. (Hate the sports cable channels for failing to show the recently concluded Exxonmobil open at Doha, they'd rather air some stupid boxing or wrestling matches, not that I look down on these sports but the amount of exposure given to them far exceed those of tennis'. This goes to show that we're a boxing crazed land owing, of course, to the many successes of Manny pacquiao.) In just five days I'll be commencing my vigil on Roger's journey to the finals (yup, I'm confident he'll pass the semi-final test, unlike last year but again it could be just an overzealous fan's prediction, which i, unabashedly am.) and I'm really excited. Though, i'm betting on Roger reclaiming the crown which was surprisingly snatched by Safin at last year's AO semi-final, some surprises may bound to happen (who doesn't like surprises anyways? Well, i do, so long as the surprises don't concern Roger and his bid for the title. Yup, i know i have no shame!)