Spoliarium

“Incidentally” is now officially will be the name of my “What’s up with Gab” series of blog entries. XD

Here’s where I make kwento.

This is actually my second Incidentally Entry. The first one is in my multiply. If you want to see that one, please click here.

http://lagim214.multiply.com/journal/item/139/Incidentally_

***

I’m brokenhearted. Great news.

I should be sad. But I’m not. I’m not happy, either, though.

Watch me perform an amazing feat: talk to myself online, reminiscent of Bob Ong’s chats in his books.

You could imagine that these are the 2 different sides of my brain:

The left cerebral hemisphere is supposed to be the coldly logical, verbal and dominant half of the brain, while the right developed a reputation as the imaginative side, emotional, spatially aware but suppressed. Two personalities in one head, Yin and Yang, hero and villain.

Of course, that kind of asymmetry is only a myth: the brain is more complex than that. [citation] But let’s pretend that these are all the sides to it: logic and emotion
***

L: So.
E: So.
L: Looks like we screwed up again.
E: We did, didn’t we?
L: What happened?
E: Waited too, long. Too scared. All that Pag-agos thing.
L: You’ve forgotten..
E: Yep, that this shit is all about risks. I’m supposed to know that.
L: But I kept you hesitant.
E: Sadly.
L: Kept you up last night.
E: Yeah.
L: And tonight too.
E: Surely.
L: What are you gonna do now?
E: I’m not sure. I’m choosing between back vs push harder.
L: Back ka na. Wala ka nang HP. It’ll just pwn you.
E: Pero. Baka.
L: Ssh. That what your closest friends are saying, too.
E: But she.
L: — She’s what? You know that it’s not supposed to be about her this time.
E: …
L: “A day, a week, and it won’t hurt anymore.”
E: I certainly hope so.
L: I know so. I’m teh logic, remember?
E: Yeah.
L: Don’t worry. You still have your music.
E: Yeah.
L: And your friends.
E: Yeah.
L: And me, of course.
E: Yeah.
L: And Melanie, the girlfriend in the incarnation of the Canon EOS 400D. She will never leave you.
E: XD
***

I’ll be fine. Duh.

For the meantime, I’ll be.. Wasted.

***

Don’t mind this post too much. It will prolly not make much sense to you.

Disclaimer: this article only reflects the opinion of the writer. Nevertheless, his opinions are supported by.. basic factual shit.

Writing about this subject is my way of putting up a wall, a barricade, against painful and self-destructing emotions caused by my apparent involvement in a situation involving unrequited love.

***

Darwin said a scientific man ought to have no wishes, no affections, a heart of stone. That’s me, Mohinder. It’s not you. Go home.“

- Chandra Suresh (to Mohinder) (Homecoming)

Philosophy has taught me many things.

It all started when I became atheist, upon reading about Epicurus’ Problem of Evil, in third year high. By fourth year, I’ve encountered a book which contains a story, a love story, incidentally, which integrates the use and identification of logical fallacies with a typical lovers’ quarrel. And incidentally, the story was entitled, Love is a Fallacy, which I think is actually true.

http://spoliarium.wordpress.com/2007/12/21/love-is-a-fallacy/ 

As I’ve read through and finished the story, I decided to go and delve deeper into this subject as a means of kicking religion’s illogical behind and, as it was demonstrated in the story stated above, as a means of winning my own LQ’s at that time. (And it worked, most of the time.)

But, as time passed by, I’ve grown and learned how to use Philosophy in subjects other than religion (and love), like expressing my views concerning music and visual arts.  Philosophy has taught me to be proud, to stand firmly for what I know is right, because through Philosophy, I’ve learned how to verify and make sure that the things I believe in are right. And that I can prove that I’m right

In effect, Philosophy has made me cold, proud, emotionless, because it is emotion that (usually?) screws up logical thinking and reasonable decision-making. Yes, you read that right, and you know it’s right: Emotion keeps you from thinking clearly. Emotions like anger, sadness, affection,  and lust (lust is in this list, of course) usually keeps you from seeing the bigger, better, clearer picture of your situation and the decisions you have to make. These emotions usually make you see only what you want to see, make you consider only what you want to consider, and eventually lead to a biased decision that will, in turn, lead to your doom.

It has made my heart rigid, harsh, painful, but nevertheless, just, fair, unbiased, and more importantly, honest.

Yes, honest. Because in Philosophy, the most important thing we seek and promote is the truth. The whole truth: no bias, no partiality, no idiocy and bigotry.

In defense of my rigid, harsh, painful heart of stone, Philosophy has also taught it how to look at the other side, how to consider everything that concerns your current situation, and the decisions you have to make. Everything.

It has taught me to be open-minded

It has also taught me what not to consider. Specifically, through the fallacies:

“Two men are having a debate. The first one gets up and says, ‘My opponent is a notorious liar. You can’t believe a word that he is going to say.’ … Now, Polly, think. Think hard. What’s wrong?”

For example, ad hominem is an argument targeted at the opponent himself, and not the previous argument. In this particular excerpt from the story, the supposed “previous argument” does not exist. His opponent has not spoken yet, and yet he is attacking him already.

Remember, “So what? Your statements do not matter because you’re ugly/gay/an atheist” or any other similar attack directly to your opponent does not  make his arguments less valid, true or credible.

(..Well, anyway, I could go on on how useful fallacies are everyday (especially in my house where everyone’s just too angry to realize that everything that’s coming out of their mouths are just trash), but I shouldn’t be covering that here, right now.)

Yes, I’ve exchanged my emotions for a heart of stone, but also, for a mind far superior than yours (see, this is the pride talking). With Philosophy, I could see things more clearly, think more deeply, and know more than you can ever do. And I’m happy (wait, that’s an emotion) that I’ve made that decision.

***

Quote at the beginning of this article is from Heroes, http://heroeswiki.com

Disclaimer: This is not my material. I just found it in the internet and reproduced it in this blog for reference purposes.

***

Love is a Fallacy

by Max Shulman

 

Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute and astute—I was all of these. My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, precise as a chemist’s scales, as penetrating as a scalpel. And—think of it!—I only eighteen.

It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect. Take, for example, Petey Bellows, my roommate at the university. Same age, same background, but dumb as an ox. A nice enough fellow, you understand, but nothing upstairs. Emotional type. Unstable. Impressionable. Worst of all, a faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason. To be swept up in every new craze that comes along, to surrender oneself to idiocy just because everybody else is doing it—this, to me, is the acme of mindlessness. Not, however, to Petey.

One afternoon I found Petey lying on his bed with an expression of such distress on his face that I immediately diagnosed appendicitis. “Don’t move,” I said, “Don’t take a laxative. I’ll get a doctor.”

“Raccoon,” he mumbled thickly.

“Raccoon?” I said, pausing in my flight.

“I want a raccoon coat,” he wailed.

I perceived that his trouble was not physical, but mental. “Why do you want a raccoon coat?”

“I should have known it,” he cried, pounding his temples. “I should have known they’d come back when the Charleston came back. Like a fool I spent all my money for textbooks, and now I can’t get a raccoon coat.”

“Can you mean,” I said incredulously, “that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?”

“All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them. Where’ve you been?”

“In the library,” I said, naming a place not frequented by Big Men on Campus.

He leaped from the bed and paced the room. “I’ve got to have a raccoon coat,” he said passionately. “I’ve got to!”

“Petey, why? Look at it rationally. Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed. They smell bad. They weigh too much. They’re unsightly. They—”

“You don’t understand,” he interrupted impatiently. “It’s the thing to do. Don’t you want to be in the swim?”

“No,” I said truthfully.

“Well, I do,” he declared. “I’d give anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!”

My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear. “Anything?” I asked, looking at him narrowly.

“Anything,” he affirmed in ringing tones.

I stroked my chin thoughtfully. It so happened that I knew where to get my hands on a raccoon coat. My father had had one in his undergraduate days; it lay now in a trunk in the attic back home. It also happened that Petey had something I wanted. He didn’t have it exactly, but at least he had first rights on it. I refer to his girl, Polly Espy.

I had long coveted Polly Espy. Let me emphasize that my desire for this young woman was not emotional in nature. She was, to be sure, a girl who excited the emotions, but I was not one to let my heart rule my head. I wanted Polly for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral reason.

I was a freshman in law school. In a few years I would be out in practice. I was well aware of the importance of the right kind of wife in furthering a lawyer’s career. The successful lawyers I had observed were, almost without exception, married to beautiful, gracious, intelligent women. With one omission, Polly fitted these specifications perfectly.

Beautiful she was. She was not yet of pin-up proportions, but I felt that time would supply the lack. She already had the makings.

Gracious she was. By gracious I mean full of graces. She had an erectness of carriage, an ease of bearing, a poise that clearly indicated the best of breeding. At table her manners were exquisite. I had seen her at the Kozy Kampus Korner eating the specialty of the house—a sandwich that contained scraps of pot roast, gravy, chopped nuts, and a dipper of sauerkraut—without even getting her fingers moist.

Intelligent she was not. In fact, she veered in the opposite direction. But I believed that under my guidance she would smarten up. At any rate, it was worth a try. It is, after all, easier to make a beautiful dumb girl smart than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.

“Petey,” I said, “are you in love with Polly Espy?”

“I think she’s a keen kid,” he replied, “but I don’t know if you’d call it love. Why?”

“Do you,” I asked, “have any kind of formal arrangement with her? I mean are you going steady or anything like that?”

“No. We see each other quite a bit, but we both have other dates. Why?”

“Is there,” I asked, “any other man for whom she has a particular fondness?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

I nodded with satisfaction. “In other words, if you were out of the picture, the field would be open. Is that right?”

“I guess so. What are you getting at?”

“Nothing , nothing,” I said innocently, and took my suitcase out the closet.

“Where are you going?” asked Petey.

“Home for weekend.” I threw a few things into the bag.

“Listen,” he said, clutching my arm eagerly, “while you’re home, you couldn’t get some money from your old man, could you, and lend it to me so I can buy a raccoon coat?”

“I may do better than that,” I said with a mysterious wink and closed my bag and left.

 

 

 

“Look,” I said to Petey when I got back Monday morning. I threw open the suitcase and revealed the huge, hairy, gamy object that my father had worn in his Stutz Bearcat in 1925.

“Holy Toledo!” said Petey reverently. He plunged his hands into the raccoon coat and then his face. “Holy Toledo!” he repeated fifteen or twenty times.

“Would you like it?” I asked.

“Oh yes!” he cried, clutching the greasy pelt to him. Then a canny look came into his eyes. “What do you want for it?”

“Your girl.” I said, mincing no words.

“Polly?” he said in a horrified whisper. “You want Polly?”

“That’s right.”

He flung the coat from him. “Never,” he said stoutly.

I shrugged. “Okay. If you don’t want to be in the swim, I guess it’s your business.”

I sat down in a chair and pretended to read a book, but out of the corner of my eye I kept watching Petey. He was a torn man. First he looked at the coat with the expression of a waif at a bakery window. Then he turned away and set his jaw resolutely. Then he looked back at the coat, with even more longing in his face. Then he turned away, but with not so much resolution this time. Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing, resolution waning. Finally he didn’t turn away at all; he just stood and stared with mad lust at the coat.

“It isn’t as though I was in love with Polly,” he said thickly. “Or going steady or anything like that.”

“That’s right,” I murmured.

“What’s Polly to me, or me to Polly?”

“Not a thing,” said I.

“It’s just been a casual kick—just a few laughs, that’s all.”

“Try on the coat,” said I.

He complied. The coat bunched high over his ears and dropped all the way down to his shoe tops. He looked like a mound of dead raccoons. “Fits fine,” he said happily.

I rose from my chair. “Is it a deal?” I asked, extending my hand.

He swallowed. “It’s a deal,” he said and shook my hand.

 

 

 

I had my first date with Polly the following evening. This was in the nature of a survey; I wanted to find out just how much work I had to do to get her mind up to the standard I required. I took her first to dinner. “Gee, that was a delish dinner,” she said as we left the restaurant. Then I took her to a movie. “Gee, that was a marvy movie,” she said as we left the theatre. And then I took her home. “Gee, I had a sensaysh time,” she said as she bade me good night.

I went back to my room with a heavy heart. I had gravely underestimated the size of my task. This girl’s lack of information was terrifying. Nor would it be enough merely to supply her with information. First she had to be taught to think. This loomed as a project of no small dimensions, and at first I was tempted to give her back to Petey. But then I got to thinking about her abundant physical charms and about the way she entered a room and the way she handled a knife and fork, and I decided to make an effort.

I went about it, as in all things, systematically. I gave her a course in logic. It happened that I, as a law student, was taking a course in logic myself, so I had all the facts at my fingertips. “Poll’,” I said to her when I picked her up on our next date, “tonight we are going over to the Knoll and talk.”

“Oo, terrif,” she replied. One thing I will say for this girl: you would go far to find another so agreeable.

We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting place, and we sat down under an old oak, and she looked at me expectantly. “What are we going to talk about?” she asked.

“Logic.”

She thought this over for a minute and decided she liked it. “Magnif,” she said.

“Logic,” I said, clearing my throat, “is the science of thinking. Before we can think correctly, we must first learn to recognize the common fallacies of logic. These we will take up tonight.”

“Wow-dow!” she cried, clapping her hands delightedly.

I winced, but went bravely on. “First let us examine the fallacy called Dicto Simpliciter.”

“By all means,” she urged, batting her lashes eagerly.

“Dicto Simpliciter means an argument based on an unqualified generalization. For example: Exercise is good. Therefore everybody should exercise.”

“I agree,” said Polly earnestly. “I mean exercise is wonderful. I mean it builds the body and everything.”

“Polly,” I said gently, “the argument is a fallacy. Exercise is good is an unqualified generalization. For instance, if you have heart disease, exercise is bad, not good. Many people are ordered by their doctors not to exercise. You must qualify the generalization. You must say exercise is usually good, or exercise is good for most people. Otherwise you have committed a Dicto Simpliciter. Do you see?”

“No,” she confessed. “But this is marvy. Do more! Do more!”

“It will be better if you stop tugging at my sleeve,” I told her, and when she desisted, I continued. “Next we take up a fallacy called Hasty Generalization. Listen carefully: You can’t speak French. Petey Bellows can’t speak French. I must therefore conclude that nobody at the University of Minnesota can speak French.”

“Really?” said Polly, amazed. “Nobody?”

I hid my exasperation. “Polly, it’s a fallacy. The generalization is reached too hastily. There are too few instances to support such a conclusion.”

“Know any more fallacies?” she asked breathlessly. “This is more fun than dancing even.”

I fought off a wave of despair. I was getting nowhere with this girl, absolutely nowhere. Still, I am nothing if not persistent. I continued. “Next comes Post Hoc. Listen to this: Let’s not take Bill on our picnic. Every time we take him out with us, it rains.”

“I know somebody just like that,” she exclaimed. “A girl back home—Eula Becker, her name is. It never fails. Every single time we take her on a picnic—”

“Polly,” I said sharply, “it’s a fallacy. Eula Becker doesn’t cause the rain. She has no connection with the rain. You are guilty of Post Hoc if you blame Eula Becker.”

“I’ll never do it again,” she promised contritely. “Are you mad at me?”

I sighed. “No, Polly, I’m not mad.”

“Then tell me some more fallacies.”

“All right. Let’s try Contradictory Premises.”

“Yes, let’s,” she chirped, blinking her eyes happily.

I frowned, but plunged ahead. “Here’s an example of Contradictory Premises: If God can do anything, can He make a stone so heavy that He won’t be able to lift it?”

“Of course,” she replied promptly.

“But if He can do anything, He can lift the stone,” I pointed out.

“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, then I guess He can’t make the stone.”

“But He can do anything,” I reminded her.

She scratched her pretty, empty head. “I’m all confused,” she admitted.

“Of course you are. Because when the premises of an argument contradict each other, there can be no argument. If there is an irresistible force, there can be no immovable object. If there is an immovable object, there can be no irresistible force. Get it?”

“Tell me more of this keen stuff,” she said eagerly.

I consulted my watch. “I think we’d better call it a night. I’ll take you home now, and you go over all the things you’ve learned. We’ll have another session tomorrow night.”

I deposited her at the girls’ dormitory, where she assured me that she had had a perfectly terrif evening, and I went glumly home to my room. Petey lay snoring in his bed, the raccoon coat huddled like a great hairy beast at his feet. For a moment I considered waking him and telling him that he could have his girl back. It seemed clear that my project was doomed to failure. The girl simply had a logic-proof head.

But then I reconsidered. I had wasted one evening; I might as well waste another. Who knew? Maybe somewhere in the extinct crater of her mind a few members still smoldered. Maybe somehow I could fan them into flame. Admittedly it was not a prospect fraught with hope, but I decided to give it one more try.

 

 

 

Seated under the oak the next evening I said, “Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad Misericordiam.”

She quivered with delight.

“Listen closely,” I said. “A man applies for a job. When the boss asks him what his qualifications are, he replies that he has a wife and six children at home, the wife is a helpless cripple, the children have nothing to eat, no clothes to wear, no shoes on their feet, there are no beds in the house, no coal in the cellar, and winter is coming.”

A tear rolled down each of Polly’s pink cheeks. “Oh, this is awful, awful,” she sobbed.

“Yes, it’s awful,” I agreed, “but it’s no argument. The man never answered the boss’s question about his qualifications. Instead he appealed to the boss’s sympathy. He committed the fallacy of Ad Misericordiam. Do you understand?”

“Have you got a handkerchief?” she blubbered.

I handed her a handkerchief and tried to keep from screaming while she wiped her eyes. “Next,” I said in a carefully controlled tone, “we will discuss False Analogy. Here is an example: Students should be allowed to look at their textbooks during examinations. After all, surgeons have X-rays to guide them during an operation, lawyers have briefs to guide them during a trial, carpenters have blueprints to guide them when they are building a house. Why, then, shouldn’t students be allowed to look at their textbooks during an examination?”

“There now,” she said enthusiastically, “is the most marvy idea I’ve heard in years.”

“Polly,” I said testily, “the argument is all wrong. Doctors, lawyers, and carpenters aren’t taking a test to see how much they have learned, but students are. The situations are altogether different, and you can’t make an analogy between them.”

“I still think it’s a good idea,” said Polly.

“Nuts,” I muttered. Doggedly I pressed on. “Next we’ll try Hypothesis Contrary to Fact.”

“Sounds yummy,” was Polly’s reaction.

“Listen: If Madame Curie had not happened to leave a photographic plate in a drawer with a chunk of pitchblende, the world today would not know about radium.”

“True, true,” said Polly, nodding her head “Did you see the movie? Oh, it just knocked me out. That Walter Pidgeon is so dreamy. I mean he fractures me.”

“If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment,” I said coldly, “I would like to point out that statement is a fallacy. Maybe Madame Curie would have discovered radium at some later date. Maybe somebody else would have discovered it. Maybe any number of things would have happened. You can’t start with a hypothesis that is not true and then draw any supportable conclusions from it.”

“They ought to put Walter Pidgeon in more pictures,” said Polly, “I hardly ever see him any more.”

One more chance, I decided. But just one more. There is a limit to what flesh and blood can bear. “The next fallacy is called Poisoning the Well.”

“How cute!” she gurgled.

“Two men are having a debate. The first one gets up and says, ‘My opponent is a notorious liar. You can’t believe a word that he is going to say.’ … Now, Polly, think. Think hard. What’s wrong?”

I watched her closely as she knit her creamy brow in concentration. Suddenly a glimmer of intelligence—the first I had seen—came into her eyes. “It’s not fair,” she said with indignation. “It’s not a bit fair. What chance has the second man got if the first man calls him a liar before he even begins talking?”

“Right!” I cried exultantly. “One hundred per cent right. It’s not fair. The first man has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it. He has hamstrung his opponent before he could even start … Polly, I’m proud of you.”

“Pshaws,” she murmured, blushing with pleasure.

“You see, my dear, these things aren’t so hard. All you have to do is concentrate. Think—examine—evaluate. Come now, let’s review everything we have learned.”

“Fire away,” she said with an airy wave of her hand.

Heartened by the knowledge that Polly was not altogether a cretin, I began a long, patient review of all I had told her. Over and over and over again I cited instances, pointed out flaws, kept hammering away without letup. It was like digging a tunnel. At first, everything was work, sweat, and darkness. I had no idea when I would reach the light, or even if I would. But I persisted. I pounded and clawed and scraped, and finally I was rewarded. I saw a chink of light. And then the chink got bigger and the sun came pouring in and all was bright.

Five grueling nights with this took, but it was worth it. I had made a logician out of Polly; I had taught her to think. My job was done. She was worthy of me, at last. She was a fit wife for me, a proper hostess for my many mansions, a suitable mother for my well-heeled children.

It must not be thought that I was without love for this girl. Quite the contrary. Just as Pygmalion loved the perfect woman he had fashioned, so I loved mine. I decided to acquaint her with my feelings at our very next meeting. The time had come to change our relationship from academic to romantic.

“Polly,” I said when next we sat beneath our oak, “tonight we will not discuss fallacies.”

“Aw, gee,” she said, disappointed.

“My dear,” I said, favoring her with a smile, “we have now spent five evenings together. We have gotten along splendidly. It is clear that we are well matched.”

“Hasty Generalization,” said Polly brightly.

“I beg your pardon,” said I.

“Hasty Generalization,” she repeated. “How can you say that we are well matched on the basis of only five dates?”

I chuckled with amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons well. “My dear,” I said, patting her hand in a tolerant manner, “five dates is plenty. After all, you don’t have to eat a whole cake to know that it’s good.”

“False Analogy,” said Polly promptly. “I’m not a cake. I’m a girl.”

I chuckled with somewhat less amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons perhaps too well. I decided to change tactics. Obviously the best approach was a simple, strong, direct declaration of love. I paused for a moment while my massive brain chose the proper word. Then I began:

“Polly, I love you. You are the whole world to me, the moon and the stars and the constellations of outer space. Please, my darling, say that you will go steady with me, for if you will not, life will be meaningless. I will languish. I will refuse my meals. I will wander the face of the earth, a shambling, hollow-eyed hulk.”

There, I thought, folding my arms, that ought to do it.

“Ad Misericordiam,” said Polly.

I ground my teeth. I was not Pygmalion; I was Frankenstein, and my monster had me by the throat. Frantically I fought back the tide of panic surging through me; at all costs I had to keep cool.

“Well, Polly,” I said, forcing a smile, “you certainly have learned your fallacies.”

“You’re darn right,” she said with a vigorous nod.

“And who taught them to you, Polly?”

“You did.”

“That’s right. So you do owe me something, don’t you, my dear? If I hadn’t come along you never would have learned about fallacies.”

“Hypothesis Contrary to Fact,” she said instantly.

I dashed perspiration from my brow. “Polly,” I croaked, “you mustn’t take all these things so literally. I mean this is just classroom stuff. You know that the things you learn in school don’t have anything to do with life.”

“Dicto Simpliciter,” she said, wagging her finger at me playfully.

That did it. I leaped to my feet, bellowing like a bull. “Will you or will you not go steady with me?”

“I will not,” she replied.

“Why not?” I demanded.

“Because this afternoon I promised Petey Bellows that I would go steady with him.”

I reeled back, overcome with the infamy of it. After he promised, after he made a deal, after he shook my hand! “The rat!” I shrieked, kicking up great chunks of turf. “You can’t go with him, Polly. He’s a liar. He’s a cheat. He’s a rat.”

“Poisoning the Well ,” said Polly, “and stop shouting. I think shouting must be a fallacy too.”

With an immense effort of will, I modulated my voice. “All right,” I said. “You’re a logician. Let’s look at this thing logically. How could you choose Petey Bellows over me? Look at me—a brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future. Look at Petey—a knothead, a jitterbug, a guy who’ll never know where his next meal is coming from. Can you give me one logical reason why you should go steady with Petey Bellows?”

“I certainly can,” declared Polly. “He’s got a raccoon coat.”

My family has a penchant for hating people. For blaming them.

My Mom occasionally blames my Dad for leaving us, leaving with her the burden  of raising her children all alone (yes, we are a burden, to some extent). My mom hates my dad. And she, in my opinion, has the right to do so (yes Dad, you are to blame).

My lola (grandmother) – Nanay is what I call her — hates my mom for not giving her some of her suweldo for the past few months. No, the fact that maybe my mom is having a hard time in the office (she recently quit her old job and just got this new one, still in a travel agency) does not cross her mind. Giving her some slack, because she does have two children to feed  does not cross her mind. All she thinks about is the money we’re spending every night, when my mom leaves the TV on as she sleeps, when I leave the light on in the kitchen as I leave. I think, she thinks money is easy to earn. I think this is because she never had a job as an employee. All she had was an ever-changing negosyo that never endured.

Nanay now hates her sister, who is currently boarding in our house for free. Cecil (that’s her name) has cancer. She does not have a family: she does not have a husband, or kids. (I heard she once had a boyfriend, who already had a wife. I think it’s because of that.) Nanay was the only one she could turn to. But all Nanay sees is the space Cecil’s occupying in our small house, the electricity she spends when she leaves the light on in my bedspace (yes, she sleeps on a mat beside my bed), the amount of time and water she spends in the bathroom when she takes a bath (she takes too long because, incidentally, she also washes her clothes there), and the unending call for someone else to do something for her (she calls for unsuspecting strangers, too, when she’s outside).

***

Sometime along living in this life, I have learned that hating others is useless. It is stupid (much like how praying is stupid). I learned that blaming others is useless and stupid as it is.

So you hate me, blame me for your problems. What are you going to do, emokid? Write a song about it?

It doesn’t matter who was responsible for your problems. Everyone has problems.

Well, maybe they do. But not as much as what you are going to do about them. Because not everyone acts upon their problems (and that’s a shame). And when they do, not everyone who acts, actually knows what to do. 

That’s why I don’t blame my dad for leaving us. I used it to make meyself stronger, to live through that certain obstacle in my life. I still think it wasn’t the right thing to do. You gave up, Dad. You gave up. I’ll never do that.

I don’t hate my lola for loving money and making her life revolve around it. I (try to) understand her — that, maybe, it’s an old perzns’ thing: Maybe her age is building up her ego, in a I’m-the-fucking-elder-here-so-respect-me-okay kind of way. I still think she’s the one who does not understand.

***

Remember,

Life is not about being fair.

It’s about surpassing the unfair reality

Surpass it, dumbass. Or are you too much of a fag to just whine about it instead?

***

That quote changed my life too much, I think. Whatever. It’s a good thing. Thanks, Mitch.

Jamming, to me, is an escape.

 Last October, I have jammed with friends from the Ateneo Musician’s Pool, or Ateneo’s music org, [aMp]. Specifically, with Martin Cusi, Ralph Deguzman, Happy Alampay and Ralph Aguinaldo. They’re practicing for a concert that they’re having this December, a kind of G3 Experience, and I was invited to fill in as the third G.

I already have a band. Burn Relief. I play in it as a guitarist. We play Alternative, and some Prog. And we haven’t played as a band in a very long time. I haven’t played, or jammed at least, in any band for a long time. And jamming like this is was like seeing a good friend again, after so many years.

It was nice, playing G3 jam songs liek Smoke on the Water, Foxey Lady, etc. It was very nice. Although, I’m too bano (unskilled) to be playing alongside everyone else.

But nevertheless, I had fun. I had so much fun that I realized that in the studio, I was completely happy.

I realized this not after Martin said to me, as we were on the way home,

O diba? Naisip mo ba si [state wimman's name here] kanina sa studio? Hindi!

He was right.

Jamming, to me, is an escape. 

In the studio, there are no wimmen who will break your heart.

There is only myself,

and Rock n Roll.

I don’t like Christmas. It’s not that I hate it. It’s just that I have a hard time enjoying it.

To me, Christmas has evolved to something more than just a religious celebration (because religion is too shallow, or vague, a reason to be celebration about). Christmas has become a sharing of blessings with loved ones. A time to give, and to recieve. A time to spend time with family.

Now why don’t I liek Christmas? I’m not sure. But my atheistic beliefs and principles do not have anything to do with it.

 When I was in third grade, my father uhm, left us. My mom had a hard time supporting my sister and I, ever since.

Because of that, I didn’t have the perks a typical young student like I am usually gets, like the computer, the cellphone, a fetcher, etc. In time, I eventually got a cellphone, but I’ve waited too long for that one.

So, basically, I’m.. financially challenged. Not completely, though.. It’s just..

Hmm. We all have talents (or do we?). I have a talent. It’s the talent for aesthetics. For art, for music. For recognizing beauty with my eyes and my ears. For creating beauty with my hands. Yes, I create beautiful things.

 But so do many other people. I study in the one of the most prestigious art colleges in the Philippines, and damnit, everyone else is good.  It’s not enough that I create beautiful things. I must create the most beautiful ones. The best ones. And everyone else is getting ahead of me too fast. Everyone else has the drive to be better. I do, too.. But there’s this problem.

This world is now being driven by technology. There’s a computer program for everything. There’s a digital side to every profession, and it’s leading this planet.

I want to lead this planet. I want to be the best. I want to do it honestly, without bringing down anyone else.

I could do so much more. But I am limited.

 So why I don’t liek Christmas?

It only shows how little I have.

It only shows how broken my family is.

 ***

But alas, isn’t this what makes me better? I can do all these things without formal training, without actually acquiring the proper tools. I could design good websites, do good CG, and I’ve never even had a computer all my life.

As a friend of mine, Mitch Venegas, has told me,

Life is not about being fair.

It’s about surpassing the unfair reality.

This is my unfair reality. And I’m surpassing it, alright. And I will continue to do so. So watch out.

Nung high school

akala natin, puro chicks sa kolehiyo.

May kaibigan ako sa Ateneo, nagkwento sa akin nang bumisita ako sa Katipunan:

Isang beses, nagrerecruit yung College Babble sa AHS. So, siyempre, kasama yung mga cheerdancers noon. Ang iingay nila o. Sabi nga nun isang kasama ko,

“TANGINA, anto-totoy naman ng mga ito. Parang ngayon lang nakakita ng babae.”

Natawa ako nang ikwento niya iyon. Si Paeng pa naman iyon, ang  payaso ng G2007.

Meron pa tuwing bibisita ako sa high school. Siyempre may mga kaibigan ako dun. Nagtatanungan sila lahat sakin, “Marami ba chiks dun? marami ba chiks dun?”

Sinasagot ko sila. “OO. ANDAMI. MAGSASAWA KA.”

Tangina, nakakaburat.

Nakakaburat naman pala talaga ano?  Lalu na kung iisipin natin na gaun din pala tayo dati..

May ipinakita sa aking blog ang aking kaibigan sa Ateneo.

http://akosiyol.blogspot.com/

at nang mabasa ko siya, lalo na ang entry na pinamagatagang “Mga Kabayo”, naliwanagan ako.

Mula ngayon, nais kong dalasan ang pagsusulat sa wikang Pinoy. Nakaligtaan ko kung gaano kaganda ang ating sariling wika. Ngayon, nagtataka ako kung bakit ko sinubukang iwasan magsulat sa wikang ito noon.

Ito na ako ngayon.

Ako si Lagim.

Ngunit, sa ma mahalaga, mas importanteng aspeto,

Ako si Gab Madrid