Walang magawa sa buhay

post no.20

2008-12-02T09:41:00.002+08:00

malungkot ang flagsem ngayon.
may naaksidente sa NLEX
taga pisay
namatay na daw
condolence sa pamilya niya.

post no. 19

2008-11-25T09:42:00.000+08:00

Birthday ko

DAW

ngayon.
Sabi nila.

Post

2008-11-18T09:38:00.001+08:00

Ito ay isang post.

US Elections

2008-11-08T21:33:00.000+08:00

Nanalo po si Obama.

Post

2008-11-01T16:55:00.002+08:00

Hula ko kilala nyo na itong pic na ito.

Hello

2008-10-30T20:44:00.002+08:00

sabi nila kailangan daw magpost eh.

PAG-IBIG

ni Jose Corazon de Jesus
1926

Isang aklat na maputi, ang isinulat: Luha!
Kaya wala kang mabasa kahit isa mang talata;
Kinabisa at inisip mulang ating pagkabata;
Tumanda ka't nagkauban, hindi mo pa maunawa.

Ang Pag-ibig, isipin mo, pag inisip, nasa-puso!
Pag pinuso, nasa-isip, kaya't hindi mo makuro.
Lapitan mo nang matagal ang pagsuyo'y naglalaho;
Layuan mo at kay-lungkot, nananaghoy ang pagsuyo!

Ang Pag-ibig na dakila'y aayaw nang matagalan,
Parang lintik kung gumuhit sa pisngi ng kadiliman.
Ang halik na ubos-tindi, minsan lamang nahalikan,
At ang ilog kung bumaha, tandaan mo't minsan lamang.

Ang Pag-ibig kapag duwag ay payapa't walang agos,
Walang talon, walang baha, walang luha, walang lunos!
Ang Pag-ibig na matapang ay puso ang inaanod,
Pati dangal, yama't dunong nalulunod sa pag-irog!

Ang Pag-ibig na buko pa'y nakikinig pa sa aral,
Tandang di pa umiibig, nakikita pa ang ilaw,
Ngunit kapag nag-alab na pati mundo'y nalimutan ---
Iyan, ganyan ang Pag-ibig, damdamin mo't puso lamang!

Kapag ikaw'y umuurong sa sakuna't sa panganib
Ay talagang maliwanag at buo ang iyong isip:
Takot pa ang pag-ibig mo, hindi ka pa umiibig:
Pag umibig, pati hukay aariin mong langit!

Ang Pag-ibig ay may mata, ang Pag-ibig ay di bulag;
Ang marunong umibig, bawat sugat ay bulaklak:
Ang pag-ibig ay masakim at aayaw ng kabiyak;
O wala na kahit ano, o ibigay mo ang lahat!

"Ako'y hindi makasulat at ang Nanay ay nakabantay!"
Asahan mo, katoto ko, hindi ka pa minamahal!
Ngunit kapag sumulat na sa ibabaw man ng hukay,
Minamahal ka na niya nang higit sa kanyang buhay!

Kayong mga kabataang pag-ibig ang ninanais,
Kayong mga paruparong sa ilawan lumiligid,
Kapag kayo'y umiibig na, hahanapin ang panganib,
At pakpak ninyo'y masusunog sa pag-ibig!

Enfakid

2008-10-29T20:43:00.003+08:00

Medyo matagal din akong di nakapag internet. Tapos nang binuksan ko ito, ito ang nakita ko:

9+5*2-(7*2)=14

tama ba iyon?

Joke ni Bryan Aquino

2008-10-27T13:29:00.002+08:00

Ano ang pinaka maruming river?

Edi

messerschmidt's river

(messerschmidt's reaver)

News Report

2008-10-27T13:27:00.001+08:00

Communist rebels in the Philippines have freed seven of their colleagues from jail without firing a shot, after tricking prison guards.

In what appears to have been a carefully planned raid, the rebels arrived at a jail near Manila disguised as drugs officers while many of the prison staff were away attending a seminar.

They talked their way into the building, saying they had come to take custody of some of the inmates before overpowering the prison guards and escaping in waiting vans.

The inmates clashed with police at a roadblock as they made their escape.

The freed prisoners were facing charges including murder, kidnapping, and rebellion.

-napulot ko lang po sa isang website.

Comshop

2008-10-27T13:26:00.003+08:00

Hindi na naman natulog si

MAX DOLOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

pangalawang linggo na po niya!!!!

New post

2008-10-15T15:03:00.003+08:00

Sabi nila kailangan daw magpost eh.

Dahil malapit narin lang ang halloween magpopost nalang ako nang halloween poem.

How Might a Spirit Settle in the Wind

How might a spirit settle in the wind?
After death, how might a soul find peace?
Love lasts long after lips and laughter cease,
Leaving only memories behind.
Out of longings, one might linen spin,
Weaving well the welkin edged with fleece.
Each spirit must from wandering seek release,
Else ever through the weary midnights wend,
Not resting till love's angels dark descend.

Inferno test results

2008-10-03T15:01:00.000+08:00

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Eigth Level of Hell - the Malebolge!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Very Low
Level 2 (Lustful)	High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	Very Low
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	High
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	Very Low
Level 7 (Violent)	Low
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	Very High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	Low

Take the Dante Inferno Hell Test

Two Kinds

2008-09-23T15:02:00.001+08:00

Two Kinds

My mother believed you could be anything you wanted to be in America. You could open a restaurant. You could work for the government and get good retirement. You could buy a house with almost no money down. You could become rich. You could become instantly famous.
"Of course, you can be a prodigy, too," my mother told me when I was nine. "You can be best anything. What does Auntie Lindo know? Her daughter, she is only best tricky."
America was where all my mother's hopes lay. She had come to San Francisco in 1949 after losing everything in China: her mother and father, her home, her first husband, and two daughters, twin baby girls. But she never looked back with regret. Things could get better in so many ways.
We didn't immediately pick the right kind of prodigy. At first my mother thought I could be a Chinese Shirley Temple. We'd watch Shirley's old movies on TV as though they were training films. My mother would poke my arm and say, "Ni kan.You watch." And I would see Shirley tapping her feet, or singing a sailor song, or pursing her lips into a very round O while saying "Oh, my goodness."
Ni kan," my mother said, as Shirley's eyes flooded with tears. "You already know how. Don't need talent for crying!"
Soon after my mother got this idea about Shirley Temple, she took me to the beauty training school in the Mission District and put me in the hands of a student who could barely hold the scissors without shaking. Instead of getting big fat curls, I emerged with an uneven mass of crinkly black fuzz. My mother dragged me off to the bathroom and tried to wet down my hair.
"You look like a Negro Chinese," she lamented, as if I had done this on purpose.
The instructor of the beauty training school had to lop off these soggy clumps to make my hair even again. "Peter Pan is very popular these days" the instructor assured my mother. I now had bad hair the length of a boy's, with curly bangs that hung at a slant two inches above my eyebrows. I liked the haircut, and it made me actually look forward to my future fame.
In fact, in the beginning I was just as excited as my mother, maybe even more so. I pictured this prodigy part of me as many different images, and I tried each one on for size. I was a dainty ballerina girl standing by the curtain, waiting to hear the music that would send me floating on my tiptoes. I was like the Christ child lifted out of the straw manger, crying with holy indignity. I was Cinderella stepping from her pumpkin carriage with sparkly cartoon music filling the air.
In all of my imaginings I was filled with a sense that I would soon become perfect: My mother and father would adore me. I would be beyond reproach. I would never feel the need to sulk, or to clamor for anything. But sometimes the prodigy in me became impatient. "If you don't hurry up and get me out of here, I'm disappearing for good," it warned. " And then you'll always be nothing."
Every night after dinner my mother and I would sit at the Formica topped kitchen table. She would present new tests, taking her examples from stories of amazing children that she read in Ripley's Believe It or Not or Good Housekeeping, Reader's digest, or any of a dozen other magazines she kept in a pile in our bathroom. My mother got these magazines from people whose houses she cleaned. And since she cleaned many houses each week, we had a great assortment. She would look through them all, searching for stories about remarkable children.
The first night she brought out a story about a three-year-old boy who knew the capitals of all the states and even the most of the European countries. A teacher was quoted as saying that the little boy could also pronounce the names of the foreign cities correctly. "What's the capital of Finland? my mother asked me, looking at the story.
All I knew was the capital of California, because Sacramento was the name of the street we lived on in Chinatown. "Nairobi!" I quessed, saying the most foreign word I could think of. She checked to see if that might be one way to pronounce Helsinki before showing me the answer.
The tests got harder - multiplying numbers in my head, finding the queen of hearts in a deck of cards, trying to stand on my head without using my hands, predicting the daily temperatures in Los angeles, New York, and London. One night I had to look at a page from the Bible for three minutes and then report everything I could remember. "Now Jehoshaphat had riches and honor in abundance and...that's all I remember, Ma," I said.
And after seeing, once again, my mother's disappointed face, something inside me began to die. I hated the tests, the raised hopes and failed expectations. Before going to bed that night I looked in the mirror above the bathroom sink, and I saw only my face staring back - and understood that it would always be this ordinary face - I began to cry. Such a sad, ugly girl! I made high - pitched noises like a crazed animal, trying to scratch out the face in the mirror.
And then I saw what seemed to be the prodigy side of me - a face I had never seen before. I looked at my reflection, blinking so that I could see more clearly. The girl staring back at me was angry, powerful. She and I were the same. I had new thoughts, willful thoughts - or. rather, thoughts filled with lots of won'ts. I won't let her change me, I promised myself. I won't be what I'm not.
So now when my mother presented her tests, I performed listlessly, my head propped on one arm. I pretended to be bored. And I was. I got so bored that I started counting the bellows of the foghorns out on the bay while my mother drilled me in other areas. The sound was comforting and reminded me of the cow jumping over the moon. And the next day I played a game with myself, seeing if my mother would give up on me before eight bellows. After a while I usually counted ony one bellow, maybe two at most. At last she was beginning to give up hope.
Two or three months went by without any mention of my being a prodigy. And then one day my mother was watching the Ed Sullivan Show on TV. The TV was old and the sound kept shorting out. Every time my mother got halfway up from the sofa to adjust the set, the sound would come back on and Sullivan would be talking. As soon as she sat down, Sullivan would go silent again. She got up - the TV broke into loud piano music. She sat down - silence. Up and down, back and forth, quiet and loud. It was like a stiff, embraceless dance between her and the TV set. Finally, she stood by the set with her hand on the sound dial.
She seemed entranced by the music, a frenzied little piano piece with a mesmerizing quality, which alternated between quick, playful passages and teasing, lilting ones.
"Ni kan," my mother said, calling me over with hurried hand gestures. "Look here."
I could see why my mother was fascinated by the music. It was being pounded out by a little Chinese girl, about nine years old, with a Peter Pan haircut. The girl had the sauciness of a Shirley Temple. She was proudly modest, like a proper Chinese Child. And she also did a fancy sweep of a curtsy, so that the fluffy skirt of her white dress cascaded to the floor like petals of a large carnation.
In spite of these warning signs, I wasn't worried. Our family had no piano and we couldn't afford to buy one, let alone reams of sheet music and piano lessons. So I could be generous in my comments when my mother badmouthed the little girl on TV.
"Play note right, but doesn't sound good!" my mother complained "No singing sound."
"What are you picking on her for?" I said carelessly. " She's pretty good. Maybe she's not the best, but she's trying hard." I knew almost immediately that I would be sorry I had said that.
"Just like you," she said. "Not the best. Because you not trying." She gave a little huff as she let go of the sound dial and sat down on the sofa.
The little Chinese girl sat down also, to play an encore of "Anitra's Tanz," by Grieg. I remember the song, because later on I had to learn how to play it.
Three days after watching the Ed Sullivan Show my mother told me what my schedule would be for piano lessons and piano practice. She had talked to Mr. Chong, who lived on the first floor of our apartment building. Mr.Chong was a retired piano teacher, and my mother had traded housecleaning services for weekly lessons and a piano for me to practice on every day, two hours a day, from four until six.
When my mother told me this, I felt as though I had been sent to hell. I whined, and then kicked my foot a little when I couldn't stand it anymore.
"Why don't you like me the way I am?" I cried. "I'm not a genius! I can't play the piano. And even if I could, I wouldn't go on TV if you paid me a million dollars!"
My mother slapped me. "Who ask you to be genius?" she shouted. "Only ask you be your best. For you sake. You think I want you to be genius? Hnnh! What for!Who ask you!"
"So ungrateful," I heard her mutter in Chinese, "If she had as much talent as she has temper, she'd be famous now."
Mr. Chong, whom I secretly nicknamed Old Chong, was very strange, always tapping his fingers to the silent music of an invisible orchsta. He looked ancient in my eyes. He had lost most of the h air on the top of his head, and he wore thick glasses and had eyes that alwys looked tired. Vut he must have been younger that I though, since he lived withhis mother and was not yet married.
I met Old Lady Chong once, and that was enough. She had a peculiar smell, like a baby that had done something in its pants, and her fingers felt like a dead person's, like an old peach I once found in the back of the refrigerator: its skin just slid off the flesh when I picked it up.
I soon found out why Old Chong had retired from teaching piano. He was deaf. "Like Beethoven!" he shouted to me: We're both listening only in our head!" And he would start to conduct his frantic silent sonatas.
Our lessons went like this. He would open the book and point to different things, explaining, their purpose: "Key! Treble! Bass! No sharps or flats! So this is C major! Listen now and play after me!"
And then he would play the C scale a few times, a simple cord, and then, as if inspired by an old unreachable itch, he would gradually add more notes and running trills and a pounding bass until the music was really something quite grand.
I would play after him, the simple scale, the simple chord, and then just play some nonsense that sounded like a dat running up and down on top of gargafe cans. Old Chong would smile and applaud and say Very good! Bt now ou must learn to keep time!"
So that's how I discovered that Old Chong's eyes were too slow to keep up with the wrong notes I was playing. He went through the motions in half time. To help me keep rhythm, he stood behind me and pushed down on my right shoulder for every beat. He balanced pennies on top of my wrists so that I would keep them still as I slowly played scales and arpeggios. He had me curve my hand around an apple and keep that shame when playing chords. He marched stiffly to show me how to make each finger dance up and down, staccato, like an obedient little soldier.
He taught me all these things, and that was how I also learned I could be lazy and get away with mistakes, lots of mistakes. If I hit the wrong notes because I hadn't practiced enough, I never corrected myself, I just kept playing in rhythm. And Old Chong kept conducting his own private reverie.
So maybe I never really gave myself a fair chance. I did pick up the basics pretty quickly, and I might have become a good pianist at the young age. But I was so determined not to try, not to be anybody different, and I learned to play only the most ear-splitting preludes, the most discordant hymns
Over the next year I practiced like this, dutifully in my own way. And then one day I heard my mother and her friend Lindo Jong both after church, and I was leaning against a brick wall, wearing a dress with stiff white petticoats. Auntie Linds daughter, Waverly, who was my age, was standing farther down the wall, about five feet away. We had grown up together and shared all the closeness of two sisters, squabbling over crayons and dolls. In other words, for the most part, we hated each other. I thought she was snotty. Waverly Jong had gained a certain amount of fame as "Chinatown's Littlest Chinese Chess Champion."
"She bring home too many trophy." Auntie Lindo lamented that Sunday. "All day she play chess. All day I have no time do nothing but dust off her winnings." She threw a scolding look at Waverly, who pretended not to see her.
"You lucky you don't have this problem," Auntie Lindo said with a sigh to my mother.
And my mother squared her shoulders and bragged: "our problem worser than yours. If we ask Jing-mei wash dish, she hear nothing but music. It's like you can't stop this natural talent." And right then I was determined to put a stop to her foolish pride.
A few weeks later Old Chong and my mother conspired to have me play in a talent show that was to be held in the church hall. But then my parents had saved up enough to buy me a secondhand piano, a black Wurlitzer spinet with a scarred bench. It was the showpiece of our living room.
For the talent show I was to play a piece called "Pleading Child," from Schumann's Scenes From Childhood. It was a simple, moody piece that sounded more difficult than it was. I was supposed to memorize the whole thing. But i dawdled over it, playing a few bars and then cheating, looking up to see what notes followed. I never really listed to what I was playing. I daydreamed about being somewhere else, about being someone else.
The part I liked to practice best was the fancy curtsy: right foot out, touch the rose on the carpet with a pointed foot, sweep to the side, bend left leg, look up, and smile.
My parents invited all the couples from their social club to witness my debut. Auntie Lindo and Uncle Tin were there. Waverly and her two older brothers had also come. The first two rows were filled with children either younger or older than I was. The littlest ones got to go first. They recited simple nursery rhymes, squawked out tunes on miniature violins, and twirled hula hoops in pink ballet tutus, and when they bowed or curtsied, the audience would sigh in unison, "Awww, and then clap enthusiastically.
When my turn came, I was very confident. I remember my childish excitement. It was as if I knew, without a doubt, that the prodigy side of me really did exist. I had no fear whatsoever, no nervousness. I remember thinking, This is it! This is it! I looked out over the audience, at my mother's blank face, my father's yawn, Auntie Lindo's stiff-lipped smile, Waverly's sulky expression. I had on a white dress, layered with sheets of lace, and a pink bow in my Peter Pan haircut. As I sat down, I envisioned people jumping to their feet and Ed Sullivan rushing up to introduce me to everyone on TV.
And I started to play. Everything was so beautiful. I was so caught up in how lovely I looked that I wasn't worried about how I would sound. So I was surprised when I hit the first wrong note. And then I hit another and another. A chill started at the top of my head and began to trickle down. Yet I couldn't stop playing, as though my hands were bewitched. I kept thinking my fingers would adjust themselves back, like a train switching to the right track. I played this strange jumble through to the end, the sour notes staying with me all the way.
When I stood up, I discovered my legs were shaking. Maybe I had just been nervous, and the audience, like Old Chong had seen me go through the right motions and had not heard anything wrong at all. I swept my right foot out, went down on my knee, looked up, and smiled. The room was quiet, except fot Old Chong, who was beaming and shouting "Bravo! Bravo! Well done!" By then I saw my mother's face, her stricken face. The audience clapped weakly, and I walked back to my chair, with my whole face quivering as I tried not to cry, I heard a little boy whisper loudly to his mother. "That was awful," and mother whispered "Well, she certainly tried."

And now I realized how many people were in the audience - the whole world, it seemed. I was aware of eyes burning into my back. I felt the shame of my mother and father as they sat stiffly through the rest of the show.
We could have escaped during intermission. Pride and some strange sense of honor must have anchored my parents to their chairs. And so we watched it all. The eighteen-year-old boy with a fake moustache who did a magic show and juggled flaming hoops while riding a unicycle. The breasted girl with white make up who sang an aria from Madame Butterflyand got an honorable mention. And the eleven-year-old boy who was firts prize playing a tricky violin song that sounded like a busy bee.
After the show the Hsus, the Jongs, and the St. Clairs, from the Joy Luck Club, came up to my mother and father.
"Lots of talented kids," Auntie Lindo said vaguely, smiling broadly. "That was somethin' else," my father said, and I wondered if he was referring to me in a humorous way, or whether he even remembered what I had done.
Waverly looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. "You aren't a genius like me," she said matter-of-factly. And if I hadn't felt so bad, I would have pulled her braids and punched her stomach.
But my mother's expression was what devastated me: a quiet, blank look that said she had lost everything. I felt the same way, and everybody seemed now to be coming up, like gawkers at the scene of an accident to see what parts were actually missing.
When we got on the bus to go home, my father was humming the busy-bee tune and my mother kept silent. I kept thinking she wanted to wait until we got home before shouting at me. But when my father unlocked the door to our apartment, my mother walked in and went straight to the back, into the bedroom. No accusations, No blame. And in a way, I felt disappointed. I had been waiting for her to start shouting, so that I could shout back and cry and blame her for all my misery.
I had assumed that my talent-show fiasco meant that I would never have to play the piano again. But two days later, after school, my mother came out of the kitchen and saw me watching TV.
"Four clock," she reminded me, as if it were any other day. I was stunned, as though she were asking me to go through the talent-show torture again. I planted myself more squarely in front of the TV.
"Turn off TV," she called from the kitchen five minutes later. I didn't budge. And then I decided, I didn't have to do what mother said anymore. I wasn't her slave. This wasn't China. I had listened to her before, and look what happened she was the stupid one.
She came out of the kitchen and stood in the arched entryway of the living room. "Four clock," she said once again, louder.
"I'm not going to play anymore," I said nonchalantly. "Why should I? I'm not a genius."
She stood in front of the TV. I saw that her chest was heaving up and down in an angry way.
"No!" I said, and I now felt stronger, as if my true self had finally emerged. So this was what had been inside me all along.
"No! I won't!" I screamed. She snapped off the TV, yanked me by the arm and pulled me off the floor. She was frighteningly strong, half pulling, half carrying me towards the piano as I kicked the throw rugs under my feet. She lifted me up onto the hard bench. I was sobbing by now, looking at her bitterly. Her chest was heaving even more and her mouth was open, smiling crazily as if she were pleased that I was crying.
"You want me to be something that I'm not!" I sobbed. " I'll never be the kind of daughter you want me to be!"
"Only two kinds of daughters," she shouted in Chinese. "Those who are obedient and those who follow their own mind! Only one kind of daughter can live in this house. Obedient daughter!"
"Then I wish I weren't your daughter, I wish you weren't my mother," I shouted. As I said these things I got scared. It felt like worms and toads and slimy things crawling out of my chest, but it also felt good, that this awful side of me had surfaced, at last.
"Too late to change this," my mother said shrilly.
And I could sense her anger rising to its breaking point. I wanted see it spill over. And that's when I remembered the babies she had lost in China, the ones we never talked about. "Then I wish I'd never been born!" I shouted. " I wish I were dead! Like them."
It was as if I had said magic words. Alakazam!-her face went blank, her mouth closed, her arms went slack, and she backed out of the room, stunned, as if she were blowing away like a small brown leaf, thin, brittle, lifeless.
It was not the only disappointment my mother felt in me. In the years that followed, I failed her many times, each time asserting my will, my right to fall short of expectations. I didn't get straight As. I didn't become class president. I didn't get into Stanford. I dropped out of college.
Unlike my mother, I did not believe I could be anything I wanted to be, I could only be me.
And for all those years we never talked about the disaster at the recital or my terrible delarations afterward at the piano bench. Neither of us talked about it again, as if it were a betrayal that was now unspeakable. So I never found a way to ask her why she had hoped for something so large that failure was inevitable.
And even worse, I never asked her about what frightened me the most: Why had she given up hope? For after our struggle at the piano, she never mentioned my playing again. The lessons stopped The lid to the piano was closed shutting out the dust, my misery, and her dreams.
So she surprised me. A few years ago she offered to give me the piano, for my thirtieth birthday. I had not played in all those years. I saw the offer as a sign of forgiveness, a tremendous burden removed. "Are you sure?" I asked shyly. "I mean, won't you and Dad miss it?" "No, this your piano," she said firmly. "Always your piano. You only one can play."
"Well, I probably can't play anymore," I said. "It's been years." "You pick up fast," my mother said, as if she knew this was certain. " You have natural talent. You could be a genius if you want to." "No, I couldn't." "You just not trying," my mother said. And she was neither angry nor sad. She said it as if announcing a fact that could never be disproved. "Take it," she said.
But I didn't at first. It was enough that she had offered it to me. And after that, everytime I saw it in my parents' living room, standing in front of the bay window, it made me feel proud, as if it were a shiny trophy that I had won back.
Last week I sent a tuner over to my parent's apartment and had the piano reconditioned, for purely sentimental reasons. My mother had died a few months before and I had been bgetting things in order for my father a little bit at a time. I put the jewelry in special silk pouches. The sweaters I put in mothproof boxes. I found some old chinese silk dresses, the kind with little slits up the sides. I rubbed the old silk against my skin, and then wrapped them in tissue and decided to take them hoe with me.
After I had the piano tuned, I opened the lid and touched the keys. It sounded even richer that I remembered. Really, it was a very good piano. Inside the bench were the same exercise notes with handwritten scales, the same sedcondhand music books with their covers held together with yellow tape.
I opened up the Schumann book to the dark little piecce I had played at the recital. It was on the left-hand page, "Pleading Child." It looked more difficult than I remembered. I played a few bars, surprised at how easily the notes came back to me.
And for the first time, or so it seemed, I noticed the piece on the right-hand side, It was called "Perfectly Contented." I tried to play this one as well. It had a lighter melody but with the same flowing rhythm and turned out to be quite easy. "Pleading Child" was shorter but slower; "Perfectly Contented" was longer but faster. And after I had played them both a few times, I realized they were two halves of the same song.
[1989]

Last one

2008-09-12T12:40:00.002+08:00

Last post na rin para sa requirement salamat naman.

Guts

2008-09-12T03:29:00.000+08:00

Sa tingin ko nabasa nyo na ito. Pasensya na po wala lang talaga akong maipost.

Guts
By Chuck Palahniuk
(from the collection Haunted)
Inhale.
Take in as much air as you can.
This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and
then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was thirteen years old he heard
about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a
dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you
can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a
little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his
rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To
conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to
look at the supermarket checkstand, the lonely carrot and petroleum
jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store
cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing
the big evening he has planned.
So, my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the
ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it
with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm.
Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's suppertime. She says to come down,
right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the
dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot and it's gone. All his dirty
clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry.
No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring
knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for
his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now he's
grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner,
every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his
parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them.
That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "Spirit of the Stairway." In French:
Esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer,
but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You
have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching,
you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party…
As you start down the stairway, then -- magic. You come up with the
perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the Spirit of the Stairway.
The trouble is even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid
things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate
things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked
about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most
of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they
beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around the
kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the
kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They
put some pants on their kid. They made it look… better. Intentional
at least. The regular kind of sad, teen suicide.
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the
Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do
here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the
public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy
tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as
your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the
kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother
says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod
inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod
inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world, sending back
French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.
After this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show up at school.
That night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework for the next
couple weeks. Because he's in the hospital.
He's got to share a room with old people getting their guts worked
on. He says how they all have to share the same television. All he's
got for privacy is a curtain. His folks don't come and visit. On the
phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big
brother in the Navy.
On the phone, the kid says how -- the day before -- he was just a
little stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He
was lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines,
getting ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his Navy
brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks
around for something that might do the job. A ball-point pen's too
big. A pencil's too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the
candle, there's a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work.
With just the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax
off the candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands.
Long and smooth and thin.
Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the
piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out
the top, he gets to work.
Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They've
totally re-invented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are
getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one good
squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out
anymore.
The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep
inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube.
From downstairs, his mom shouts it's suppertime. She says to come
down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different
people, but we all live pretty much the same life.
It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax so he
figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his
back hurts. His kidneys. He can't stand straight.
This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the
background you can hear bells ding, people screaming. Game shows.
The X-rays show the truth, something long and thin, bent double
inside his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all
the minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and more rough, coated
with crystals of calcium, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft
lining of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His
kidneys are backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red
with blood.
This kid and his folks, his whole family, them looking at the black X-
ray with the doctor and the nurses standing there, the big V of wax
glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way
Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.
On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.
They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid
mistake, and now he'll never be a lawyer.
Sticking stuff inside yourself. Sticking yourself inside stuff. A
candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to
be big trouble.
What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking
off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents'
swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the bottom
and slip off my swim trucks. I'd sit down there for two, three, four
minutes.
Just from jacking off, I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house
to myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my
stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.
After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe
each handful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even
with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ
almighty, my Mom.
That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister,
thinking she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed
retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father AND the
uncle.
In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.
The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming
pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked
and sitting on it.
As the French would say: Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked?
Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute
you'll never be a lawyer.
One minute, I'm settling on the pool bottom, and the sky is wavy,
light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is
silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow-striped swim
trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a
friend, a neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football
practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and
I'm grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.
One minute, I've got enough air, and my dick's in my hand. My folks
are gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's supposed
to be home for hours.
My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to
catch another big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.
I do this again and again.
This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like
taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten
out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until
bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs
straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete
bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from
being so long in the water.
And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The
pearls.
It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the
bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.
Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people
get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair
caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of
people do. Most of them in Florida.
People just don't talk about it. Not even French people talk about
EVERYTHING.
Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half
standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot
under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not
touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.
Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway to
the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head
getting loud and fast.
The bright sparks of light crossing and criss-crossing my eyes, I
turn and look back… but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some
kind of snake, blue-white and braided with veins has come up out of
the pool drain and it's holding onto my butt. Some of the veins are
leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away
from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails
away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue-
white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.
That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a
sea serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been
hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.
So… I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of
it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as
long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butthole. With
another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still
feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.
Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a
long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse-pill vitamin my Dad
makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship.
With extra iron and omega-three fatty acids.
It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.
It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me.
What doctors call, prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.
Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of
water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big
problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the
far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working -
unraveling my insides -- until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a
400-pound shit, and you can see how this might turn you inside out.
What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way
your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctor's call it
fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin runny mess
studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.
That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts
floating around me. Even with my guts unraveling out my ass, me
holding onto what's left, even then my first want is to somehow get
my swimsuit back on.
God forbid my folks see my dick.
My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my
yellow-striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still,
getting into them is impossible.
You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lamb-skin
condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter.
Smear it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then, try to
tear it. Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so
slimy you can't hold on.
A lamb-skin condom, that's just plain old intestine.
You can see what I'm up against.
You let go for a second, and you're gutted.
You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.
You don't swim, and you drown.
It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right
now.
What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on
itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered
to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts.
The opposite of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off.
This is the baby they brought home from the hospital thirteen years
ago. Here's the kid they hoped would snag a football scholarship and
get an MBA. Who'd care for them in their old age. Here's all their
hopes and dreams. Floating here, naked and dead. All around him, big
milky pearls of wasted sperm.
Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel,
collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen telephone, the ragged,
torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow-striped
swim trunks.
What even the French won't talk about.
That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A
Russian phrase. The way we say: "I need that like I need a hole in my
head…" Russian people say: "I need that like I need teeth in my
asshole…"
Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse
Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their
leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell
out of being dead.
Hell… even if you're Russian, some day you just might want those
teeth.
Otherwise, what you have to do is -- you have to twist around. You
hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face.
You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air, and you will
chew through anything to get that next breath.
It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if
you expect a kiss good night.
If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat
calamari.
It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got
in trouble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my Mom
said, "You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in
shock." And she learned how to cook poached eggs.
All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me…
I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.
Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner
parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast
they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs
around inside my guts for longer than a couple hours, it comes out
still food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll
stand up and find it still sitting there in the toilet.
After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don't digest meat so
great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky
to have my six inches. So I never got a football scholarship. Never
got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they
grew up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that
day when I was thirteen.
Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that
swimming pool. In the end my Dad just told the pool guy it was a dog.
The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the
pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and
fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big
orange vitamin pill still inside, even then, my Dad just said, "That
dog was fucking nuts."
Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my Dad say, "We
couldn't trust that dog alone for a second…"
Then my sister missed her period.
Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and
we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my
folks never mentioned it again.
Ever.
That is our invisible carrot.
You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.
I still have not.
End

Land of Bondage, Land of the Free

2008-09-11T03:22:00.000+08:00

Land of Bondage, Land of the Free

By Raul Manglapus

And yet gentlemen, the tao is constitutionally free. No wonder, then that the tao, being a slave, has acquired the habits of a slave. No wonder that after three centuries in chains, without freedom, without hope, he should lose the erect and fearless posture of the freeman, and become the bent, misshapen, indolent, vicious, pitiful thing that he is! Who dares accuse him, who dares rise up in judgment against this man, reduced to this sub-human level by three centuries of oppression. The tao does not come here tonight to be judged — but to judge! Hear then his accusation and his sentence:

I indict the Spanish encomendero for inventing taxes impossible to bear.

I indict the usurer for saddling me with debts impossible to pay.

I indict the irresponsible radical leaders who undermine, with insidious eloquence, the confidence of my kind in our government.

You accuse me of not supporting my family. Free me from bondage, and I shall prove you false.

You accuse me of ignorance. But I am ignorant because my master finds it profitable to keep me ignorant. Free me from bondage, and I shall prove you false.

You accuse me of indolence. But I am indolent not because I have no will, but because I have no hope. Why should I labor, if all the fruits of my labor go to pay an unpayable debt. Free me from bondage, and I shall prove you false.

Give me land. Land to own. Land unbeholden to any tyrant. Land that will be free. Give me land for I am starving. Give me land that my children may not die. Sell it to me, sell it to me at a fair price, as one freeman sells to another and not as a usurer sells to a slave. I am poor, but I will pay it! I will work, work until I fall from weariness for my privilege, for my inalienable right to be free!

BUT IF YOU WILL NOT GRANT ME THIS … If you will not grant me this last request, this ultimate demand, then build a wall around your home … build it high! … build it strong! Place a sentry on every parapet! … for I who have been silent these three hundred years will come in the night when you are feasting, with my cry and my bolo at your door. And may God have mercy on your soul!

Requirement

2008-09-10T03:09:00.000+08:00

Sa lahat nang mapapadpad sa blog na ito...

Pasensya na po kayo. Gusto ko na sanang kalimutan ito pero requirement daw ito para sa comsci.

So wag kayong magexpect na may mapapala kayo dito. Dahil para lang ito sa requirement.

Maraming salamat sa inyong pang-unawa.

Hello

2008-07-30T15:39:00.000+08:00

Hello po. Ako po si Gino Senosin.

Walang magawa sa buhay

post no.20

post no. 19

DAW

Post

US Elections

Post

Hello

Enfakid

Joke ni Bryan Aquino

Ano ang pinaka maruming river?Edi

messerschmidt's river

(messerschmidt's reaver)

News Report

Comshop

MAX DOLOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

New post

How Might a Spirit Settle in the Wind

Inferno test results

Two Kinds

Last one

Guts

Land of Bondage, Land of the Free

Requirement

Hello

Ano ang pinaka maruming river?

Edi