Edo Ot Alinam
- A. Ramirez, 26 March 2010, Manila, Philippines
With the extinct song of dawn she wakes
Those who never fall asleep
She breathes the lilts and troughs
The poisons and perfumes
Of those who walk, purpose with or without
She is in the fresh metal and the dusty mirror
She lives in the gravel beneath the slow train
Her hair is the gray smoke that hangs
Over the million four-wheels and four-footeds
It is the heavy fog that sets over roads
That radiates the quivering heat of her eyes
Her gentle face is pitted and plastered now
She hides your obvious secrets
In the sinuous curves of her nose and cheeks
She speaks the thousand languages
Of the world's thousand slices
While her neck is adorned and strangled
With the collar of her patchwork dress
She wears stolen satin and well-earned silk
Stretch polyester and workaday denim
With endless bare threads underneath
And the seams are heedlessly unravelling
Barely covering insect-ridden shoulders
Revealing paper-brown skin
Perspiring from weather born of fledgling gods
Bedecked with tattoos in olden languages
Curved and dotted letters that stop
At fifty-one bracelets she brandishes
While tottering on small feet
Knees shaking from the impossible weight
Of the potential she never lived
She is on unsolid ground
She has fallen in love with too many ideas
She has forgotten the significant
Remembered the banal and benign
She fights fleetingly and suffers for long
And with the extinct song of dawn she wakes
Those who never fall asleep
She breathes the lilts and troughs
The poisons and perfumes
Of those who walk, purpose with or without.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Are We There Yet?
The summer vacation hasn't officially begun, but the summer vibe is getting to my head. Must be my aunt and cousin's insistence that we go to the vacation house this weekend. I am definitely ready to say goodbye to sophomore year, and to say hello to a new summer job, a long overdue welcome-home party, and books, books, and more books that have nothing to do with Political Science. But before I can have F-U-N, there are still final exams to get through, projects to turn in, and organization matters to settle.
Speaking of which. Yesterday, I signed the org application form for Filipino Freethinkers. I have been waiting for something like this since I became agnostic in junior year of highschool. (This may confuse those who knew me in highschool, since I was a part of the choir, but yes, I was agnostic even then. Note: I have been using freethinker0028@yahoo.com as my email address for five years.) Then I stayed in Cine Adarna for the first Filipino Freethinkers Film Showing, which was amazing to say the least. An old friend and I sat through around four hours of documentaries, short films, and clips of comedy acts about agnosticism and atheism.
I'll stop here to explain, for the benefit of those who gasped at those two words.
Agnosticism and atheism are not synonymous. Agnostics, well, we don't really have everything in common, but we share a questioning attitude towards all religions. Personally, I pray, but I'm never sure to whom or even for whom. We are not afraid to question God's/Goddess' existence. Personally, I believe in the divine creator, but my notions are far from what I was taught in Catholic School. Plus, I don't think there are two Agnostics who share the exact same beliefs. We don't like it when someone else dictates who we should pray to, what we should say, or even where we should go to worship. Atheists, on the other hand, share the premise that God does not exist. Let me emphasize that Atheists are not Satanists, precisely because they don't believe in Satan either. And I will defend Atheists to the death, just like I defend Agnostics, because they are some of the most tolerant, understanding, and genuinely nice people you will ever meet. If you don't know any Atheists then I probably can't convince you, but trust me when I say that when a clash of religious beliefs take place, it is less likely for the Atheist to become violent. Because they, as well as we the agnostics, understand that fighting over God/dess is futile.
The thing about us Freethinkers is we don't try to convert anyone to join our group. Because we can't. One has to arrive at those beliefs alone, and it is a gruelling process riddled with fear and uncertainty. When the first realizations take place, there is often no one to talk to, or if there is, it is only to shoot you down. It requires the courage to question everything you were ever taught, chipping away at years and years of bible studies and memorized prayers, and self-assurance, because you're not going to get it from anyone else. It takes defiance and a certain sense of non-conformity. And the process of "coming out" is just as difficult. It took me around two years of practicing it in my head before I was able to say it out loud. I'm not saying we're better than anyone else. I'm just saying that we go through something that followers of traditional religions never will. We as Freethinkers are required (and when we meet peers later on, encouraged) to come up with our own assumptions about our existence. No guide book, no rule book, no teachers. Except maybe essays by Robert Ingersoll and other prominent freethinkers.
Back to the film showing.
An old friend and I arrived at around 2 p.m., and caught the latter part of "Enemies of Reason," Richard Dawkins' documentary. After that, "fear of being ignored" became a punchline. You may have to watch it to get it. Then there was the Jervais clip on the creation, and his take on the snake's punishment was hilarious. There were other Dawkins segments, but the standout for me was the Mr. Deity series, short comedy clips starring the Holy Trinity. They discussed the problem of evil, where prayers go, the trinity identity crisis, and a lot more. Then there was the short clip, "My Spirituality as an Atheist," which sufficiently described being one with the universe without believing in a divine creator. To a montage of calming scenes and a musical score reminiscent of relaxation videos, the narrator said, "What made the Grand Canyon... Has a name... Plate Tectonics." We thought it was so funny. Unfortunately we had to leave twenty minutes after the feature film "Letting Go of God: Breaking Up is Hard to do," footage of Julia Sweeney's broadway show. Trust me, walking out of Cine Adarna was a struggle. Oh, and I should mention: there was an American businessman and atheist who went to the film showing to talk to us. And there was free popcorn and drinks (too much popcorn, I should say, I don't think I'm going to eat popcorn again anytime soon).
I was surprised at how many of us there were, including professors and alumnae. And on of my favorite UP professors, Ma'am Bea Torre, was one of the members who organized the film showing. I also saw a lot of people I knew who I had no idea were agnostics or atheists.
I still have a lot of stuff to do, and I am weeks behind on my IR readings. Gasp, IR. Ma'am Layador's exams are murder. And Comparative Politics is no laughing matter either. Bye for now.
P.S.: American Idol this year is kind of disappointing. So You Think You Can Dance is way more entertaining.
Speaking of which. Yesterday, I signed the org application form for Filipino Freethinkers. I have been waiting for something like this since I became agnostic in junior year of highschool. (This may confuse those who knew me in highschool, since I was a part of the choir, but yes, I was agnostic even then. Note: I have been using freethinker0028@yahoo.com as my email address for five years.) Then I stayed in Cine Adarna for the first Filipino Freethinkers Film Showing, which was amazing to say the least. An old friend and I sat through around four hours of documentaries, short films, and clips of comedy acts about agnosticism and atheism.
I'll stop here to explain, for the benefit of those who gasped at those two words.
Agnosticism and atheism are not synonymous. Agnostics, well, we don't really have everything in common, but we share a questioning attitude towards all religions. Personally, I pray, but I'm never sure to whom or even for whom. We are not afraid to question God's/Goddess' existence. Personally, I believe in the divine creator, but my notions are far from what I was taught in Catholic School. Plus, I don't think there are two Agnostics who share the exact same beliefs. We don't like it when someone else dictates who we should pray to, what we should say, or even where we should go to worship. Atheists, on the other hand, share the premise that God does not exist. Let me emphasize that Atheists are not Satanists, precisely because they don't believe in Satan either. And I will defend Atheists to the death, just like I defend Agnostics, because they are some of the most tolerant, understanding, and genuinely nice people you will ever meet. If you don't know any Atheists then I probably can't convince you, but trust me when I say that when a clash of religious beliefs take place, it is less likely for the Atheist to become violent. Because they, as well as we the agnostics, understand that fighting over God/dess is futile.
The thing about us Freethinkers is we don't try to convert anyone to join our group. Because we can't. One has to arrive at those beliefs alone, and it is a gruelling process riddled with fear and uncertainty. When the first realizations take place, there is often no one to talk to, or if there is, it is only to shoot you down. It requires the courage to question everything you were ever taught, chipping away at years and years of bible studies and memorized prayers, and self-assurance, because you're not going to get it from anyone else. It takes defiance and a certain sense of non-conformity. And the process of "coming out" is just as difficult. It took me around two years of practicing it in my head before I was able to say it out loud. I'm not saying we're better than anyone else. I'm just saying that we go through something that followers of traditional religions never will. We as Freethinkers are required (and when we meet peers later on, encouraged) to come up with our own assumptions about our existence. No guide book, no rule book, no teachers. Except maybe essays by Robert Ingersoll and other prominent freethinkers.
Back to the film showing.
An old friend and I arrived at around 2 p.m., and caught the latter part of "Enemies of Reason," Richard Dawkins' documentary. After that, "fear of being ignored" became a punchline. You may have to watch it to get it. Then there was the Jervais clip on the creation, and his take on the snake's punishment was hilarious. There were other Dawkins segments, but the standout for me was the Mr. Deity series, short comedy clips starring the Holy Trinity. They discussed the problem of evil, where prayers go, the trinity identity crisis, and a lot more. Then there was the short clip, "My Spirituality as an Atheist," which sufficiently described being one with the universe without believing in a divine creator. To a montage of calming scenes and a musical score reminiscent of relaxation videos, the narrator said, "What made the Grand Canyon... Has a name... Plate Tectonics." We thought it was so funny. Unfortunately we had to leave twenty minutes after the feature film "Letting Go of God: Breaking Up is Hard to do," footage of Julia Sweeney's broadway show. Trust me, walking out of Cine Adarna was a struggle. Oh, and I should mention: there was an American businessman and atheist who went to the film showing to talk to us. And there was free popcorn and drinks (too much popcorn, I should say, I don't think I'm going to eat popcorn again anytime soon).
I was surprised at how many of us there were, including professors and alumnae. And on of my favorite UP professors, Ma'am Bea Torre, was one of the members who organized the film showing. I also saw a lot of people I knew who I had no idea were agnostics or atheists.
I still have a lot of stuff to do, and I am weeks behind on my IR readings. Gasp, IR. Ma'am Layador's exams are murder. And Comparative Politics is no laughing matter either. Bye for now.
P.S.: American Idol this year is kind of disappointing. So You Think You Can Dance is way more entertaining.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
UPD Election Results: USC and CSSP
A personal account written in my personal capacity. Nothing I write should be taken as the stand of any organizations or publications I belong to :)
It was definitely worth the wait. If you're a UP student, waiting for the announcement of the University Student Council results at Vinzon's Hall should be on your list of things to do before you graduate. Granted, I couldn't cheer like most of the people there because I was too busy taking down notes and sending data to the staff in the publication office. Nevertheless, it was a uniquely UP experience. At around 7:00 PM I secured a spot behind the HALALAN Technical Team, and willed God/dess to lend me superhero vision because I was just as anxious as everyone else to see the results. I mean, the monitor was just there! At 7:06 the Tech Team announced that all voting precints were officially closed, except for the College of Law. The STAND UP supporters were singing a rather catchy song, but I didn't get the opportunity to ask what it was called. At 7:31, the Law precint closed and the votes were in. (Save for 7 manual votes-- 3 from Econ, 3 from Engineering, 1 from Bio-- that wouldn't change the turnout.) They began the announcements with the College Representatives.
Architecture: Alexander Mayoralgo (ALYANSA)
Library and Information Studies: John Ronald Almonita (STAND-UP)
CMC: Nigel Cornel (Independent)
AIT: Juan Carlo Danganan (START AIT)
NCPAG: Desiree Ico (KAISA) 91
Law: Chingkay Martinez (ALYANSA) 280
CHK: Angelo Flores (KAISA)
Statistics: Heverly Bravo (STAND UP) 214
CSSP: Juan Carlo Tejano (ALYANSA) 496
Economics: Carlo Go (STAND UP) 348
Education: Montana Dominguez (STAND UP)
Home Economics: Pamela Abesamis (KAISA) 253
CAL: Kriselda Sebastian (STAND UP) 324
Business Ad: Engelbert Chua (ALYANSA) 700
Music ALYANSA
CS: Jackie Canlas (ALYANSA) 401
Engg: Cyrus Cruz (KAISA) 1287; Michael Bien (ALYANSA) 1065
CSWCD: Marie Villar (STAND UP 67)
***The Fine Arts Representative backed out a day before the election, or so I hear.
Then came the councilors.
Marvee Resma KAISA 2642
Simoun Salinas ALYANSA 2739
Richard Etsrella ALYANSA 2790
Ezie Mariazeta STAND UP 2896
Jeanine Duran STAND UP 2910
Dan Ramos STAND UP 2922
Gem Garcia STAND UP 3080
Sarah Elago STAND UP 3263
Nico Ibaviosa ALYANSA 3587
K Karingal KAISA 3633
Tin Borja ALYANSA 3827
Chorva David KAISA 4159
Then the two highest positions.
Vice-chairperson: Amme Agudo STAND UP 4046; Bevs: 2659, Tonton: 2038
Chairperson: Rain Sindayen STAND UP 3091; Beng: 2972, Mario: 2923
The reaction from the STAND UP supporters was defeaning,and I don't blame them. They secured the two highest positions, plus five of twelve councilors. Afterward, Jane (News Department) appeared, apparently she ran from the CSSP precint she was covering, and said we had to interview people from each party. We found ALYANSA immediately, hello people in blue, and STAND UP, who were a sea of red in the middle of the Vinzon's Hall lobby, celebrating. One got the feeling that the celebration would last past dawn. But we could not find KAISA supporters, who seemed to have left right after the announcements were made. Jane told me the shocking news that BUKLOD CSSP won Chairperson, Vice-Chairperson, and ALL twelve councilor positions. The only positions SALIGAN won were department representatives (Anthropology, Sociology, Linguistics, and one of the two Psychology rep positions). Take note, there were no BUKLOD candidates for Anthropology, Sociology and Linguistics. I was stunned for quite a bit: nobody predicted that it would happen. EVER. Personally, I'd like a council that has an equal number of reds, blues, and yellows, but in CSSP, no. KAISA did not win any positions, although they weren't exactly running as KAISA but as independents. Maybe next year they'll gain party status and have more impact on the voters? The councilor with the lowest number of votes came from KAISA, after all. That said, I have not gotten over the BUKLOD domination. I have nothing against them, but the win simply defied all expectations. Here are the CSSP results, taken from http://sinag.co.nr :
Chairperson
Javelosa 670
Garcia 357
Abstain 81
Vice Chairperson
Mabel Ogoshi 681
Abstain 434
CSSP Representative to the USC
JC Tejano 496
Codi Rivera 426
Reinna Bermudez 150
Abstain 43
Councilors
Dan Ramos 521
Adrian Baccay 500
Paula Parungao 478
Ron Reyes 466
Mickey Eva 447
Anna Isaguirre 447
Daisy Ducepec 411
MM Merilo 393
Sam King 380
Casey Giron 352
Denesse Handumon 326
Chabi Tuando 318
Shin Ocampo 310
Paulo Caparas 294
Riz Lorenzo 282
Mahon Andaca 275
BJ Costales 246
Ralph Gascon 232
Jadd Dealino 205
Abstain 46
Anthropology Dept Rep
Vince Escarcha 26
Abstain 4
Geography Dept Rep
Ehjay Pasagui 65
Igi Toda 61
Abstain 3
History Dept Rep
Leslie dela Cruz 37
Jio Guiang 20
Abstain 0
Linguistics Dept Rep
Mhawi Rosero 83
Lester Oliver 1
Abstain 3
Philosophy Dept Rep
Mara Favis 46
Raya Manalo 43
Abstain 7
Political Science Dept Rep
Jolly Padilla 126
Jit Sohal 71
Geri Cerillo 19
Abstain 8
Psychology Dept Rep
Pia Vizcarra 312
Jay-Ar Alejandro 104
Richmae Gillera 84
Abstain 19
Sociology Dept Rep
J Peralta 44
Honeylet Santos 10
Abstain 28
Note: there are still 10 uncounted ballots
ON THE USC ELECTION RESULTS:
Jane: Ano po yung masasabi niyo sa results?
Toff Lumag (ALYANSA Spokesperson): Ano po to, uhm, masasabi ko as ALYANSA member? Well, we got 12 seats sa USC, 8 college reps and 4 councilors. Uhm, I think that with the quality of candidates that we have, yung mga nanalo, uh, we are confident, we are still confident, that, uh, that the programs of ALYANSA will be carried on in the USC. Kahit na, siguro, mas kulang tayo sa numbers ngayon, naniniwala tayo na mapapasa pa rin. And I'm actually very proud of the kind of campaign that ALYANSA brought this year, yun nga, yung "Kasama ka," I think we were able to put the message across, and that's the most important to us.
We also have an interview with STAND UP College of Arts and Letters Chair Krisha Sanihon, but I really need to get some sleep so I'll update this post and add a conclusion tomorrow.
It was definitely worth the wait. If you're a UP student, waiting for the announcement of the University Student Council results at Vinzon's Hall should be on your list of things to do before you graduate. Granted, I couldn't cheer like most of the people there because I was too busy taking down notes and sending data to the staff in the publication office. Nevertheless, it was a uniquely UP experience. At around 7:00 PM I secured a spot behind the HALALAN Technical Team, and willed God/dess to lend me superhero vision because I was just as anxious as everyone else to see the results. I mean, the monitor was just there! At 7:06 the Tech Team announced that all voting precints were officially closed, except for the College of Law. The STAND UP supporters were singing a rather catchy song, but I didn't get the opportunity to ask what it was called. At 7:31, the Law precint closed and the votes were in. (Save for 7 manual votes-- 3 from Econ, 3 from Engineering, 1 from Bio-- that wouldn't change the turnout.) They began the announcements with the College Representatives.
Architecture: Alexander Mayoralgo (ALYANSA)
Library and Information Studies: John Ronald Almonita (STAND-UP)
CMC: Nigel Cornel (Independent)
AIT: Juan Carlo Danganan (START AIT)
NCPAG: Desiree Ico (KAISA) 91
Law: Chingkay Martinez (ALYANSA) 280
CHK: Angelo Flores (KAISA)
Statistics: Heverly Bravo (STAND UP) 214
CSSP: Juan Carlo Tejano (ALYANSA) 496
Economics: Carlo Go (STAND UP) 348
Education: Montana Dominguez (STAND UP)
Home Economics: Pamela Abesamis (KAISA) 253
CAL: Kriselda Sebastian (STAND UP) 324
Business Ad: Engelbert Chua (ALYANSA) 700
Music ALYANSA
CS: Jackie Canlas (ALYANSA) 401
Engg: Cyrus Cruz (KAISA) 1287; Michael Bien (ALYANSA) 1065
CSWCD: Marie Villar (STAND UP 67)
***The Fine Arts Representative backed out a day before the election, or so I hear.
Then came the councilors.
Marvee Resma KAISA 2642
Simoun Salinas ALYANSA 2739
Richard Etsrella ALYANSA 2790
Ezie Mariazeta STAND UP 2896
Jeanine Duran STAND UP 2910
Dan Ramos STAND UP 2922
Gem Garcia STAND UP 3080
Sarah Elago STAND UP 3263
Nico Ibaviosa ALYANSA 3587
K Karingal KAISA 3633
Tin Borja ALYANSA 3827
Chorva David KAISA 4159
Then the two highest positions.
Vice-chairperson: Amme Agudo STAND UP 4046; Bevs: 2659, Tonton: 2038
Chairperson: Rain Sindayen STAND UP 3091; Beng: 2972, Mario: 2923
The reaction from the STAND UP supporters was defeaning,and I don't blame them. They secured the two highest positions, plus five of twelve councilors. Afterward, Jane (News Department) appeared, apparently she ran from the CSSP precint she was covering, and said we had to interview people from each party. We found ALYANSA immediately, hello people in blue, and STAND UP, who were a sea of red in the middle of the Vinzon's Hall lobby, celebrating. One got the feeling that the celebration would last past dawn. But we could not find KAISA supporters, who seemed to have left right after the announcements were made. Jane told me the shocking news that BUKLOD CSSP won Chairperson, Vice-Chairperson, and ALL twelve councilor positions. The only positions SALIGAN won were department representatives (Anthropology, Sociology, Linguistics, and one of the two Psychology rep positions). Take note, there were no BUKLOD candidates for Anthropology, Sociology and Linguistics. I was stunned for quite a bit: nobody predicted that it would happen. EVER. Personally, I'd like a council that has an equal number of reds, blues, and yellows, but in CSSP, no. KAISA did not win any positions, although they weren't exactly running as KAISA but as independents. Maybe next year they'll gain party status and have more impact on the voters? The councilor with the lowest number of votes came from KAISA, after all. That said, I have not gotten over the BUKLOD domination. I have nothing against them, but the win simply defied all expectations. Here are the CSSP results, taken from http://sinag.co.nr :
Chairperson
Javelosa 670
Garcia 357
Abstain 81
Vice Chairperson
Mabel Ogoshi 681
Abstain 434
CSSP Representative to the USC
JC Tejano 496
Codi Rivera 426
Reinna Bermudez 150
Abstain 43
Councilors
Dan Ramos 521
Adrian Baccay 500
Paula Parungao 478
Ron Reyes 466
Mickey Eva 447
Anna Isaguirre 447
Daisy Ducepec 411
MM Merilo 393
Sam King 380
Casey Giron 352
Denesse Handumon 326
Chabi Tuando 318
Shin Ocampo 310
Paulo Caparas 294
Riz Lorenzo 282
Mahon Andaca 275
BJ Costales 246
Ralph Gascon 232
Jadd Dealino 205
Abstain 46
Anthropology Dept Rep
Vince Escarcha 26
Abstain 4
Geography Dept Rep
Ehjay Pasagui 65
Igi Toda 61
Abstain 3
History Dept Rep
Leslie dela Cruz 37
Jio Guiang 20
Abstain 0
Linguistics Dept Rep
Mhawi Rosero 83
Lester Oliver 1
Abstain 3
Philosophy Dept Rep
Mara Favis 46
Raya Manalo 43
Abstain 7
Political Science Dept Rep
Jolly Padilla 126
Jit Sohal 71
Geri Cerillo 19
Abstain 8
Psychology Dept Rep
Pia Vizcarra 312
Jay-Ar Alejandro 104
Richmae Gillera 84
Abstain 19
Sociology Dept Rep
J Peralta 44
Honeylet Santos 10
Abstain 28
Note: there are still 10 uncounted ballots
ON THE USC ELECTION RESULTS:
Jane: Ano po yung masasabi niyo sa results?
Toff Lumag (ALYANSA Spokesperson): Ano po to, uhm, masasabi ko as ALYANSA member? Well, we got 12 seats sa USC, 8 college reps and 4 councilors. Uhm, I think that with the quality of candidates that we have, yung mga nanalo, uh, we are confident, we are still confident, that, uh, that the programs of ALYANSA will be carried on in the USC. Kahit na, siguro, mas kulang tayo sa numbers ngayon, naniniwala tayo na mapapasa pa rin. And I'm actually very proud of the kind of campaign that ALYANSA brought this year, yun nga, yung "Kasama ka," I think we were able to put the message across, and that's the most important to us.
We also have an interview with STAND UP College of Arts and Letters Chair Krisha Sanihon, but I really need to get some sleep so I'll update this post and add a conclusion tomorrow.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
IR Practice Essay
Disclaimer: The Art Studies Essays below this are far, far more interesting. This is an International Relations practice essay and is posted for the sake of posting... And because I like it. :))
Cameron G. Thies' article, "Are Two Theories Better than One? A Constructivist Model of the Neorealist-Neoliberal Debate," uses the Survival Model to suggest that the Neoliberal school of thought has more external validity and is more internally coherent than Neorealism. That is not to say, however, that Neorealism is invalid, as the author emphasizes on the need for empirical testing to arrive at a true judgment. The Survival Model concentrates on logical consistency, and he cites Bueno de Mesquita and Morrow (1999) as proponents of the idea that logical consistency is the key to evaluating theories, in disagreement with Stephen Walt who lists it as the lowest criteria, behind degree of originality and empirical validity. Thies believes that it is possible and desirable to explain conflict and cooperation with the same theory, and this can be achieved if both Neorealism and Neoliberalism establish that process, structure and environment are parts of the same whole. Will his suggestion truly eliminate the debate, or create a new one? And if the two theories are consolidated, will the Survival Model remain valid?
The Survival Model is derived from McPhee's Survival Model, that "demonstrates how art artifacts survive and become part of culture while others are eliminated from the cultural canon." An art and culture Survival of the Species, if you will. It elaborates on how cultural artifacts are subject to a screening process, and it is this screening process that is central to its application to the Neorealist-Neoliberal debate.
Using the analogy that a screening process is like separating the wheat and the chaff, the perennial problem is finding just the right screen because as one removes to much chaff, wheat is removed as well. Likewise, when one tries to retain too much wheat, chaff is retained as well. Wheat here represents cooperation, and chaff represents conflict. Here we note that there is always a normative bias towards cooperation in both sides. Thies argues that Neorealism is a single-screening process, as it approximates Neorealist ideas like arguing that states are always preparing for conflict, and the billiard-ball model of state interaction. Neoliberalism, on the other hand, is a repetitive-screening process as found in traditional material that stands the test of time.
The Survival Model makes several assumptions in order to arrive at its predictions, but let us define the terms it used. A is the proportion of new cooperative interstate relationships initiated or renewed in each period, while B is the proportion of new competitive ones, and C is the proportion of conflictual ones. It is important to note that "cooperation" is when states adjust incompatible policies, "conflict" is when they make no attempt to do so, and "competition" is when they adjust policies but not necessarily make them compatible with others'. Furthermore, a is the probability that A relationships will survive, b is the probability that B relationships will survive, and so on for C. The model assumes that Ab>c in favor of the Neoliberal approach. Thus the model takes both schools of thought into account, assumes hypothetical values for state interactions based on their respective stands, and assumes a bias towards peace.
After a single screening as expounded in the article, the results are consistent with Neorealism: there is more chaff in the system. The majority of interactions that remain is conflictual and competitive. After a repetitive screening, however, the results resemble Neoliberal thought: we have more wheat, the system has more cooperative and competitive interactions. But as repetition continues, we lose more wheat--after a critical point, we lose cooperative and competitive relationships.
Neorealism and Neoliberalism are both rational-choice theories which believe that states are egoist and self-interested. Alexander Wendt implies that both of them are of the Lockean form of anarchy, although Neorealism's proponents believe it as Hobbesian, and Neorealist's proponents are leaning toward the Kantian. Their main differences lie in their view of international cooperation, absolute versus relative gains, and their favoring of either process or environment.
Thies believes, and explains through the Survival Model, that the Neoliberal approach is more able to reflect the world system as of today, for two reasons. First, that the nature of international interaction itself is repetitive and continuous. Second, that in today's world, cooperation, conflict, and competition are all present. Neoliberals cite the "democratic peace" as proof that international cooperation is ultimately possible, while the Survival Model suggests that after several screenings, conflictual relationships will inevitably arise. Huntington's "Reverse Wave" is a manifestation of this.
I believe that while the Neorealists and the Neoliberals have similarities, their differences in their basic assumptions will hinder them from being consolidated. They have the same ends but different means of getting there. Consolidation will require a compromise from both sides, and it will essentially create a new debate of whether or not the new version (a post-neorealist-neoliberalism perhaps) is better equipped to explain the international stage than its successors. And since the Survival Model is premised on their difference in the descriptive view of the world, the consolidation would invalidate the model. The arbitrariness of the data is also a problem since from the beginning it has a bias towards cooperation and leans either toward the Neorealist perspective or the Neoliberal perspective at any point. Furthermore, the model is inconclusive, since it is only a test of logical consistency. However, it does provide valuable insights on how Neoliberalist and Neorealist thought can be harnessed to further understand the subtleties of today's global political landscape.
Cameron G. Thies' article, "Are Two Theories Better than One? A Constructivist Model of the Neorealist-Neoliberal Debate," uses the Survival Model to suggest that the Neoliberal school of thought has more external validity and is more internally coherent than Neorealism. That is not to say, however, that Neorealism is invalid, as the author emphasizes on the need for empirical testing to arrive at a true judgment. The Survival Model concentrates on logical consistency, and he cites Bueno de Mesquita and Morrow (1999) as proponents of the idea that logical consistency is the key to evaluating theories, in disagreement with Stephen Walt who lists it as the lowest criteria, behind degree of originality and empirical validity. Thies believes that it is possible and desirable to explain conflict and cooperation with the same theory, and this can be achieved if both Neorealism and Neoliberalism establish that process, structure and environment are parts of the same whole. Will his suggestion truly eliminate the debate, or create a new one? And if the two theories are consolidated, will the Survival Model remain valid?
The Survival Model is derived from McPhee's Survival Model, that "demonstrates how art artifacts survive and become part of culture while others are eliminated from the cultural canon." An art and culture Survival of the Species, if you will. It elaborates on how cultural artifacts are subject to a screening process, and it is this screening process that is central to its application to the Neorealist-Neoliberal debate.
Using the analogy that a screening process is like separating the wheat and the chaff, the perennial problem is finding just the right screen because as one removes to much chaff, wheat is removed as well. Likewise, when one tries to retain too much wheat, chaff is retained as well. Wheat here represents cooperation, and chaff represents conflict. Here we note that there is always a normative bias towards cooperation in both sides. Thies argues that Neorealism is a single-screening process, as it approximates Neorealist ideas like arguing that states are always preparing for conflict, and the billiard-ball model of state interaction. Neoliberalism, on the other hand, is a repetitive-screening process as found in traditional material that stands the test of time.
The Survival Model makes several assumptions in order to arrive at its predictions, but let us define the terms it used. A is the proportion of new cooperative interstate relationships initiated or renewed in each period, while B is the proportion of new competitive ones, and C is the proportion of conflictual ones. It is important to note that "cooperation" is when states adjust incompatible policies, "conflict" is when they make no attempt to do so, and "competition" is when they adjust policies but not necessarily make them compatible with others'. Furthermore, a is the probability that A relationships will survive, b is the probability that B relationships will survive, and so on for C. The model assumes that A
After a single screening as expounded in the article, the results are consistent with Neorealism: there is more chaff in the system. The majority of interactions that remain is conflictual and competitive. After a repetitive screening, however, the results resemble Neoliberal thought: we have more wheat, the system has more cooperative and competitive interactions. But as repetition continues, we lose more wheat--after a critical point, we lose cooperative and competitive relationships.
Neorealism and Neoliberalism are both rational-choice theories which believe that states are egoist and self-interested. Alexander Wendt implies that both of them are of the Lockean form of anarchy, although Neorealism's proponents believe it as Hobbesian, and Neorealist's proponents are leaning toward the Kantian. Their main differences lie in their view of international cooperation, absolute versus relative gains, and their favoring of either process or environment.
Thies believes, and explains through the Survival Model, that the Neoliberal approach is more able to reflect the world system as of today, for two reasons. First, that the nature of international interaction itself is repetitive and continuous. Second, that in today's world, cooperation, conflict, and competition are all present. Neoliberals cite the "democratic peace" as proof that international cooperation is ultimately possible, while the Survival Model suggests that after several screenings, conflictual relationships will inevitably arise. Huntington's "Reverse Wave" is a manifestation of this.
I believe that while the Neorealists and the Neoliberals have similarities, their differences in their basic assumptions will hinder them from being consolidated. They have the same ends but different means of getting there. Consolidation will require a compromise from both sides, and it will essentially create a new debate of whether or not the new version (a post-neorealist-neoliberalism perhaps) is better equipped to explain the international stage than its successors. And since the Survival Model is premised on their difference in the descriptive view of the world, the consolidation would invalidate the model. The arbitrariness of the data is also a problem since from the beginning it has a bias towards cooperation and leans either toward the Neorealist perspective or the Neoliberal perspective at any point. Furthermore, the model is inconclusive, since it is only a test of logical consistency. However, it does provide valuable insights on how Neoliberalist and Neorealist thought can be harnessed to further understand the subtleties of today's global political landscape.
Art Stud 2 Midterm Essay 4
At Tour Eiffel, two mimes fall in love and it is literally beyond words. On a long walk along Parc Monceau, a father and a daughter rediscover their relationship in a misleading conversation. In the square at the Place des Fêtes a Nigerian man lies bleeding for coffee. In a print shop in Le Marais a young Frenchman becomes hopelessly attracted to another man who may or may not speak his language. In a small apartment in Faubourg Saint-Denis, a struggling actress finds a friend in a man who will never be able to see the silver screen. And in the Quatrième Arrondissement, a letter carrier from Colorado narrates in rough French how she has fallen in love with the City of Paris.
These are the segments that stand out for me the most from the 2006 film Paris, Je T’aime, my favorite work of art. There are eighteen segments in all, representing the eighteen arrondissements (literally: districts) of the City of Paris. They are each about five to six minutes short, but always akin to flash fiction: just long enough to give meaning to an entire world.
I have never been to Paris. I have seen it in thousands of pictures, I have heard it mentioned countless times, I have yearned to visit it if only to gaze up at the Notre Dame or into the Louvre for a few fleeting moments… And yes, I do tend to become dramatic when I speak of L’île de France. That is why Paris, Je T’aime captivates my imagination. But besides its obvious charms, it is also interesting because despite being the meeting of the minds of more than twenty-one directors, it has a seamless character to it. Each story flows to the next even when they have little but the theme of love and Paris as a backdrop in common.
Also worthy of note, beside the touching storylines, are the cinematic techniques that were employed. The segment for Parc Monceau by Alfonso Cuarón was shot by a single camera on the one side of the street, while the two characters in constant dialogue walked on the other side. There was always a distance, both in the camera angle and the words, that made the twist (the old man and the young woman were father and daughter) impossible to predict. Quartier de la Madeleine by Canadian writer-director Vincenzo Natali, which featured Elijah Wood and Olga Kurylenko, had no dialogue at all. There Wood was a backpacking tourist who fell in love with Kurylenko, a vampire. The segment was intentionally darker than the rest, and the color resolution was such that the blood would always be the center of attention.
One of the most dramatic segments was Place des Fêtes by South African writer-director Oliver Schmitz. It employed the flashback, from the point of view of a Nigerian man. As he lay bleeding from a stab wound, a nurse kneels in front of him, and he recognizes her as the woman who parks her car in the building he cleans. The flashback reveals that he always wanted to ask her out for coffee but he never got the chance—until that moment she arrived with an ambulance. Although perplexed she obliged, but by the time she got back with the coffee and remembered who he was, he had already died. There was barely any dialogue; the segment’s musical score is the Nigerian man’s voice singing a French love song. But as far as the cinematic devices go, I was most impressed by Faubourg Saint-Denis by German writer-director Tom Tykwer. It featured a blind student of languages, played by Melchior Beslon, and his girlfriend, a struggling actress, played by Natalie Portman. Halfway through listening to a call from Portman that sounded like she was breaking up with him, Beslon launches into a narration of how they met, how they fell in love, and how they grew apart, while the images were fast-forwarded montages of the different stages in their relationship. The development of the story was almost overwhelming because of the rhythm and repetition of the words and images. As his words became faster and faster, so did the images, and when it stopped he was sitting alone in front of his computer and there was a high-pitch sound I can only describe as what you hear after the complete confusion in your mind has subsided. Then the twist: Portman calls him again and explains that she has not broken up with him after all.
My top two story-wise are the ones that have to do with language. First, Le Marais by the American writer-director Gus van Sant, of Gaspard Ulliel telling Elias McConnel in endearing French how he believes they are soul mates. Much of the segment is Ulliel’s monologue about destiny and attraction. Before he left he gave him his telephone number, but McConnel did not understand what happened because as it turned out, he knew almost no French at all. When the shop owner explained it to him, he dashed out into the busy Parisian street to find Ulliel, an outsider plunging into an unknown world in pursuit of an idea. And second is the very last segment, set in the Quatrième Arrondissement. It was the one I empathized with most of all. It was also, I think, one of the most artistic because of the idea to make the character narrate a love for Paris in a language beginner’s grammar and accent. The effect was at once humorous and deeply touching. While the other stories dealt with the love of a person towards another person (or non-person, as in the case of the vampire), this is the only segment that explored the possibility of falling in love with a city. Et Paris m’aime aussi, she said in the end.
There are so many ideas, so many images, and so many sentiments in this movie that to watch it once is not enough. There are the obvious things, like ironies and lost love, and then there are those that while comedic convey so much of culture and art, like the story of the mimes who had nothing at first glance but had everything when they chose to make it so. This movie is also about possibilities, how anything can happen, how there may be adventure right where you stand. How there is always a story if you open your heart to it. And to me, what is so great is that Paris, Je T’aime explored both the insider’s and outsider’s perspectives. While each segment can stand on its own, taken together they become more than a movie: they become a statement. They seem to say, “This is Paris. Imperfect, wonderful, bizarre, beautiful Paris.” And they make even those of us who have never been there believe in the magic.
These are the segments that stand out for me the most from the 2006 film Paris, Je T’aime, my favorite work of art. There are eighteen segments in all, representing the eighteen arrondissements (literally: districts) of the City of Paris. They are each about five to six minutes short, but always akin to flash fiction: just long enough to give meaning to an entire world.
I have never been to Paris. I have seen it in thousands of pictures, I have heard it mentioned countless times, I have yearned to visit it if only to gaze up at the Notre Dame or into the Louvre for a few fleeting moments… And yes, I do tend to become dramatic when I speak of L’île de France. That is why Paris, Je T’aime captivates my imagination. But besides its obvious charms, it is also interesting because despite being the meeting of the minds of more than twenty-one directors, it has a seamless character to it. Each story flows to the next even when they have little but the theme of love and Paris as a backdrop in common.
Also worthy of note, beside the touching storylines, are the cinematic techniques that were employed. The segment for Parc Monceau by Alfonso Cuarón was shot by a single camera on the one side of the street, while the two characters in constant dialogue walked on the other side. There was always a distance, both in the camera angle and the words, that made the twist (the old man and the young woman were father and daughter) impossible to predict. Quartier de la Madeleine by Canadian writer-director Vincenzo Natali, which featured Elijah Wood and Olga Kurylenko, had no dialogue at all. There Wood was a backpacking tourist who fell in love with Kurylenko, a vampire. The segment was intentionally darker than the rest, and the color resolution was such that the blood would always be the center of attention.
One of the most dramatic segments was Place des Fêtes by South African writer-director Oliver Schmitz. It employed the flashback, from the point of view of a Nigerian man. As he lay bleeding from a stab wound, a nurse kneels in front of him, and he recognizes her as the woman who parks her car in the building he cleans. The flashback reveals that he always wanted to ask her out for coffee but he never got the chance—until that moment she arrived with an ambulance. Although perplexed she obliged, but by the time she got back with the coffee and remembered who he was, he had already died. There was barely any dialogue; the segment’s musical score is the Nigerian man’s voice singing a French love song. But as far as the cinematic devices go, I was most impressed by Faubourg Saint-Denis by German writer-director Tom Tykwer. It featured a blind student of languages, played by Melchior Beslon, and his girlfriend, a struggling actress, played by Natalie Portman. Halfway through listening to a call from Portman that sounded like she was breaking up with him, Beslon launches into a narration of how they met, how they fell in love, and how they grew apart, while the images were fast-forwarded montages of the different stages in their relationship. The development of the story was almost overwhelming because of the rhythm and repetition of the words and images. As his words became faster and faster, so did the images, and when it stopped he was sitting alone in front of his computer and there was a high-pitch sound I can only describe as what you hear after the complete confusion in your mind has subsided. Then the twist: Portman calls him again and explains that she has not broken up with him after all.
My top two story-wise are the ones that have to do with language. First, Le Marais by the American writer-director Gus van Sant, of Gaspard Ulliel telling Elias McConnel in endearing French how he believes they are soul mates. Much of the segment is Ulliel’s monologue about destiny and attraction. Before he left he gave him his telephone number, but McConnel did not understand what happened because as it turned out, he knew almost no French at all. When the shop owner explained it to him, he dashed out into the busy Parisian street to find Ulliel, an outsider plunging into an unknown world in pursuit of an idea. And second is the very last segment, set in the Quatrième Arrondissement. It was the one I empathized with most of all. It was also, I think, one of the most artistic because of the idea to make the character narrate a love for Paris in a language beginner’s grammar and accent. The effect was at once humorous and deeply touching. While the other stories dealt with the love of a person towards another person (or non-person, as in the case of the vampire), this is the only segment that explored the possibility of falling in love with a city. Et Paris m’aime aussi, she said in the end.
There are so many ideas, so many images, and so many sentiments in this movie that to watch it once is not enough. There are the obvious things, like ironies and lost love, and then there are those that while comedic convey so much of culture and art, like the story of the mimes who had nothing at first glance but had everything when they chose to make it so. This movie is also about possibilities, how anything can happen, how there may be adventure right where you stand. How there is always a story if you open your heart to it. And to me, what is so great is that Paris, Je T’aime explored both the insider’s and outsider’s perspectives. While each segment can stand on its own, taken together they become more than a movie: they become a statement. They seem to say, “This is Paris. Imperfect, wonderful, bizarre, beautiful Paris.” And they make even those of us who have never been there believe in the magic.
Art Stud 2 Midterm Essay 3
I am eight years old. My little feet in their little heeled shoes make tapping sounds against the blindingly white floor. I let go of my mother’s hand and I run to the place I looked forward to visiting after every trip to the bookstore. A purple dinosaur greets me at the entrance, its muffled voice annoys me. “Dinosaurs are extinct,” I always tell my classmates who like him. But I lose those arguments because, “HE IS NOT, I SEE HIM ON TV!” I ignore the fretful dancing mascot and hurry to the dolls. Everything is so bright, there are too many people. Someone is singing “It’s a small world after all” very loudly. I see the Barbies in their little plastic cases with their pretty dresses that could only be worn by dolls. Everyone insists on giving me Barbies; I always liked the little worlds more. Some people call them Polly Pockets. But each one is a different world, you can’t call them all Polly Pockets! Well, except for those that look like where Mommy puts her makeup and do have a Polly doll in them. The best part about them is the dolls are painted and you never have to worry about where their clothes and shoes are. And they come with stories too. I have Snow White and the six dwarves (I lost Sneezy already), I have Pocahontas, Cinderella, Goldilocks and the Three Bears, and Polly and her Giraffe. Today I am going to get a new set, a magnetic one. Of Beauty and the Beast, and I can make Belle dance without touching her, just like magic. My favorite last week was Pocahontas, but John Smith’s lower half decided to run away, so I need this one. I could think of nothing for days. There is a big smile on my face when I see it, the set is larger than any of the ones I have, and I grab it and hand it to Dada, and the little numbers on the tag mean absolutely nothing.
I am eighteen years old. The toy store is a cavernous hall of light, sweet candy smells, and cheerful music piped in through the overhead speakers. Too cheerful, and still much too loud. Whatever is new is displayed where the shoppers cannot miss it. In the summer, inflatable pools and giant rubber ducks in all the colors of the upper spectrum of the rainbow; at Christmas, waving Santas on toy trains, on tracks laden with snow and surrounded by pine trees. Today the wave boards are on display, skateboards with hinges at the middle like my cousin Mike has. And good grief, they’re worth one month’s allowance and then some. Roland Barthes says that the toy store is essentially a microcosm of the adult world, that French toys prefigure the world of adult functions. I look around and see toys that are indeed miniature versions of reality, but which one? In the little girls’ section, quaint little country cottages with robins on top, waffle makers and pasta makers and easy-bake ovens, toy croissants and Caucasian babies with their blonde hair and blue eyes. In the little boys’ section, pretend high-power rifles, miniature remote control- operated 4x4s and helicopters, plastic swords and shields, police badges that declare “NYPD.” Nearby, shelves upon shelves of board games (or bored games as my cousin calls it), and it is always the section with the most silence in it. I walk to the dolls section, where everything is pink and the floor is a runway, and feel a tinge of envy. Barbie has a Jacuzzi, for crying out loud, and I guarantee that if I put it to scale, it would be bigger than our bathroom.
Here I note the difference between me and Barthes: he was a writer in a first world country. I am a writer in a third world one. (For simplicity’s sake I use the term “third world,” although I’ve always thought it was a misnomer: there is, after all, only one world.) As far as microcosms go, this toy store is a microcosm of all wishful thinking, because the miniatures are all we’ll be able to afford. It could also be economics, supply and demand. Western products are what are on demand, so they are what are on display. Or is it the other way around? It probably doesn’t matter as long as it sells.
But in my opinion, Barthes presents two arguments that are valid even in a setting far removed from where it was formulated. They are both present in the paragraph: “There exist, for instance, dolls which urinate; they have an esophagus, one gives them a bottle, they wet their nappies; soon, no doubt, milk will turn to water in their stomachs. This is meant to prepare the little girl for the causality of housekeeping, to "condition" her to her future role as mother.” This is probably also why toys for the XY children have to do with cars and guns, or essentially, speed and violence… and probably why they cancelled Teletubbies on account of “Tinky Winky is gay.” True, the present adult world may have grown more tolerant towards homosexuality, but certainly not up to the point that “gay” or “lesbian” are words uncensored in the extension of the toy store known as Playhouse Disney. And certainly not words used to generate ideas for toys: we are a long way away from “Gays/Lesbians Section” at the local Toy Kingdom—because parents generally don’t want their children to grow up homosexual.
Toys are a form of priming a child’s psychology, and it serves to perpetuate the current order. But this is often unintentional, as their parents, and their parent’s parents, were once children who went through the same thing. It is convention, it is seen as normative, and as is usually the case, the traditional is seen as right.
I think back to that magnetic Beauty and the Beast miniature world, which I played with for hours and hours, sometimes with a flashlight, until I discovered Harry Potter. It has a castle, glittery blue and purple with towers and turrets, a bridge to the lake where the magnet controller is, a little house for Belle’s father, and a yellow brick road. Belle is in the yellow dress, Beast is wearing coattails, Gaston is in the red Frenchman’s coat with a ribbon tying his long hair back. There is a second version of Beast, his transformed version, wearing the same coattails. Is this a microcosm of the world I grew up in? Certainly not on the literal level, because I have neither seen a castle, nor have I met a person in coattails. On the figurative level, there may be a little resemblance. Beast is a nobleman who falls in love with a peasant girl, the classic class transcendence, a storyline common in today’s telenovelas. But the nobleman has become a capitalist’s son, and the peasant girl works at McDonalds. But even that is ultimately wishful thinking.
The importation of goods, as the importation of concepts like Christianity and the State, has determined many of the dynamics in our country. And it is this process, which extends to all areas of human development, that determines many of our ideals and aspirations. If priming children is done with toys, and if all the toys we see are Western ideas and labels, then is it any wonder why we grow up generally holding everything Western as superior to our own? And it does not end with toys: preschool and elementary textbooks, indeed the entire Philippine education system, is based on Western instruction. In a sense, Roland Barthes is right. Toys are a microcosm of reality. It is only always a question of “whose.”
I am eighteen years old. The toy store is a cavernous hall of light, sweet candy smells, and cheerful music piped in through the overhead speakers. Too cheerful, and still much too loud. Whatever is new is displayed where the shoppers cannot miss it. In the summer, inflatable pools and giant rubber ducks in all the colors of the upper spectrum of the rainbow; at Christmas, waving Santas on toy trains, on tracks laden with snow and surrounded by pine trees. Today the wave boards are on display, skateboards with hinges at the middle like my cousin Mike has. And good grief, they’re worth one month’s allowance and then some. Roland Barthes says that the toy store is essentially a microcosm of the adult world, that French toys prefigure the world of adult functions. I look around and see toys that are indeed miniature versions of reality, but which one? In the little girls’ section, quaint little country cottages with robins on top, waffle makers and pasta makers and easy-bake ovens, toy croissants and Caucasian babies with their blonde hair and blue eyes. In the little boys’ section, pretend high-power rifles, miniature remote control- operated 4x4s and helicopters, plastic swords and shields, police badges that declare “NYPD.” Nearby, shelves upon shelves of board games (or bored games as my cousin calls it), and it is always the section with the most silence in it. I walk to the dolls section, where everything is pink and the floor is a runway, and feel a tinge of envy. Barbie has a Jacuzzi, for crying out loud, and I guarantee that if I put it to scale, it would be bigger than our bathroom.
Here I note the difference between me and Barthes: he was a writer in a first world country. I am a writer in a third world one. (For simplicity’s sake I use the term “third world,” although I’ve always thought it was a misnomer: there is, after all, only one world.) As far as microcosms go, this toy store is a microcosm of all wishful thinking, because the miniatures are all we’ll be able to afford. It could also be economics, supply and demand. Western products are what are on demand, so they are what are on display. Or is it the other way around? It probably doesn’t matter as long as it sells.
But in my opinion, Barthes presents two arguments that are valid even in a setting far removed from where it was formulated. They are both present in the paragraph: “There exist, for instance, dolls which urinate; they have an esophagus, one gives them a bottle, they wet their nappies; soon, no doubt, milk will turn to water in their stomachs. This is meant to prepare the little girl for the causality of housekeeping, to "condition" her to her future role as mother.” This is probably also why toys for the XY children have to do with cars and guns, or essentially, speed and violence… and probably why they cancelled Teletubbies on account of “Tinky Winky is gay.” True, the present adult world may have grown more tolerant towards homosexuality, but certainly not up to the point that “gay” or “lesbian” are words uncensored in the extension of the toy store known as Playhouse Disney. And certainly not words used to generate ideas for toys: we are a long way away from “Gays/Lesbians Section” at the local Toy Kingdom—because parents generally don’t want their children to grow up homosexual.
Toys are a form of priming a child’s psychology, and it serves to perpetuate the current order. But this is often unintentional, as their parents, and their parent’s parents, were once children who went through the same thing. It is convention, it is seen as normative, and as is usually the case, the traditional is seen as right.
I think back to that magnetic Beauty and the Beast miniature world, which I played with for hours and hours, sometimes with a flashlight, until I discovered Harry Potter. It has a castle, glittery blue and purple with towers and turrets, a bridge to the lake where the magnet controller is, a little house for Belle’s father, and a yellow brick road. Belle is in the yellow dress, Beast is wearing coattails, Gaston is in the red Frenchman’s coat with a ribbon tying his long hair back. There is a second version of Beast, his transformed version, wearing the same coattails. Is this a microcosm of the world I grew up in? Certainly not on the literal level, because I have neither seen a castle, nor have I met a person in coattails. On the figurative level, there may be a little resemblance. Beast is a nobleman who falls in love with a peasant girl, the classic class transcendence, a storyline common in today’s telenovelas. But the nobleman has become a capitalist’s son, and the peasant girl works at McDonalds. But even that is ultimately wishful thinking.
The importation of goods, as the importation of concepts like Christianity and the State, has determined many of the dynamics in our country. And it is this process, which extends to all areas of human development, that determines many of our ideals and aspirations. If priming children is done with toys, and if all the toys we see are Western ideas and labels, then is it any wonder why we grow up generally holding everything Western as superior to our own? And it does not end with toys: preschool and elementary textbooks, indeed the entire Philippine education system, is based on Western instruction. In a sense, Roland Barthes is right. Toys are a microcosm of reality. It is only always a question of “whose.”
Art Stud 2 Midterm Essay 2
The seashell parol hangs on the windowsill, slowly turning in the rare gust of wind. I stare at it and remember where and when I bought it: Hundred Islands, Alaminos, Pangasinan, during the summer break. It is on the small side, about the size of my open hand, made of little red and white seashells and strung together with twine. It is inexpensive, as far as consumer standards go, sold to tourists at the main car stop. Folk art, as defined by Encarta Encyclopedia, is, “carvings, paintings, needlework, decorated utensils, and other artifacts created by artists and artisans—often anonymous—who have no formal academic training in the arts.” This parol is Folk Art, and I realize I have taken part in one of the main factors that threaten its survival.
Today, more attention is certainly paid to popular, “high,” or even “fine” art. The cultures and traditions that espoused traditional art forms seem to no longer be in fashion, except perhaps as novelty items that hold no intrinsic value to the outsider. And that perhaps is one of the main challenges faced by folk art: it simply wasn’t created to withstand globalization.
Waters (2000) defines globalization as “a process in which the constraints of geography on social and cultural arrangements recede and in which people become increasingly aware that they are receding.” As globalization makes the global society more homogenous, the dominant, or Western culture, becomes more and more prevalent. Some cultures, especially marginalized ones, are perpetually in danger of becoming erased. On the one hand, less and less people will be interested in the traditional, and on the other, given the situation of Philippine indigenous tribes, members of these tribes themselves may find that “joining the tide” is an easier way to live. It is a question of acceptance versus non-conformity, and the opportunity cost is relatively higher when one is non-conformist.
Another threat to Folk Art is commercialization. The fast pace of supply and demand and the Age of the Stock Market attaches a price tag to everything. Even things that were dreamt up by men and women long before money was a word now have a market value. Objects that take a central part in rituals of birth, death and everything in between, like the T’nalak of the T’boli, can now be bought in souvenir shops as pen holders and purses, a far cry from their once sacred purpose, and indeed priceless position, in the society. As mentioned, indigenous tribes are often marginalized, and dire economic conditions often force them to sell their cultures and traditions. In the capitalist setting however, mass production is inevitable, and along with mass production comes a “diluting” of the traditional processes in the name of speed and quantity.
Globalization and commercialization meet in a hybrid of time and space called the World Wide Web, or the Internet. The ultimate torchbearer of the twenty-first century, the Internet has also become a venue for the exploitation of Folk Art. On websites one can see an authentic Igorot bahag for sale alongside the Agung of the Maguindanao, Maranao and Tausug. And not for a very high price either. But the Internet is not all detrimental: various groups advertise their causes to rehabilitate Philippine Folk Art online. Ironically, the largest and most prominent, like Kayamanan ng Lahi Philippine Folk Arts and KULTURA, are based in the United States (Los Angeles and California respectively) because they are headed by Filipino immigrants. According to their official website, Wheatonarts in Millville, New Jersey held a Philippine Folk and Glass Art Workshop. But it is cynicism to see it as a lack of interest of Filipinos in promoting Folk Art. “Interest” in art itself may be seen as a post-materialist concern that immigrants are able to engage in precisely because they have the privilege of economic stability But there are others here in the Philippines, like bloggers, who make travel journals that document Folk Art, and also help in promoting awareness about them. There is also the Ayala Museum that features a Gold of Ancestors exhibition of “Philippine pre-colonial gold artifacts.” But these are luxuries, not venues that the average Filipino can engage in. Lack of information about these art forms is also a vital threat: the average Filipino knows of the Ancient Egyptian mummy but not of the Taka of Paete.
Aside from globalization, commercialization, and exploitation, attempts to industrialize also threaten not only Folk Art but also the multitude of indigenous tribes. Ancestral land is taken away from locals to make way for factories or plantations of raw materials, or even condominiums and subdivisions. Yet other threats are pollution and climate change, because Folk Art utilizes materials taken from the land and the water. Pollution causes destruction of water sources and soil erosion, climate change causes alterations in the overall environment that causes many plants and animals to become extinct.
There are many other threats to Folk Art aside from the ones I mentioned above. The present global landscape is an ever-changing environment that spends little time and attention on cultures, traditions, and the art forms that represent them. Especially in a quintessential post-colonial state like the Philippines, there are far more pressing concerns because of the desire to modernize and become an industrialized society. One can hope that more people and institutions will take part in the preservation of Folk Art, but to hope is not enough. Grounding in history as the Filipino moves into the twenty-first century is vital, lest we run the risk of losing our identity. Information about Folk Art is, I believe, a solid base for its preservation. Proper and extensive documentation, establishment of exhibits and information drives through popular media; eventually, when the cause has become well-known, establishment of laws that will protect not only Folk Art, but also indigenous tribes, to guarantee their security and existence.
Today, more attention is certainly paid to popular, “high,” or even “fine” art. The cultures and traditions that espoused traditional art forms seem to no longer be in fashion, except perhaps as novelty items that hold no intrinsic value to the outsider. And that perhaps is one of the main challenges faced by folk art: it simply wasn’t created to withstand globalization.
Waters (2000) defines globalization as “a process in which the constraints of geography on social and cultural arrangements recede and in which people become increasingly aware that they are receding.” As globalization makes the global society more homogenous, the dominant, or Western culture, becomes more and more prevalent. Some cultures, especially marginalized ones, are perpetually in danger of becoming erased. On the one hand, less and less people will be interested in the traditional, and on the other, given the situation of Philippine indigenous tribes, members of these tribes themselves may find that “joining the tide” is an easier way to live. It is a question of acceptance versus non-conformity, and the opportunity cost is relatively higher when one is non-conformist.
Another threat to Folk Art is commercialization. The fast pace of supply and demand and the Age of the Stock Market attaches a price tag to everything. Even things that were dreamt up by men and women long before money was a word now have a market value. Objects that take a central part in rituals of birth, death and everything in between, like the T’nalak of the T’boli, can now be bought in souvenir shops as pen holders and purses, a far cry from their once sacred purpose, and indeed priceless position, in the society. As mentioned, indigenous tribes are often marginalized, and dire economic conditions often force them to sell their cultures and traditions. In the capitalist setting however, mass production is inevitable, and along with mass production comes a “diluting” of the traditional processes in the name of speed and quantity.
Globalization and commercialization meet in a hybrid of time and space called the World Wide Web, or the Internet. The ultimate torchbearer of the twenty-first century, the Internet has also become a venue for the exploitation of Folk Art. On websites one can see an authentic Igorot bahag for sale alongside the Agung of the Maguindanao, Maranao and Tausug. And not for a very high price either. But the Internet is not all detrimental: various groups advertise their causes to rehabilitate Philippine Folk Art online. Ironically, the largest and most prominent, like Kayamanan ng Lahi Philippine Folk Arts and KULTURA, are based in the United States (Los Angeles and California respectively) because they are headed by Filipino immigrants. According to their official website, Wheatonarts in Millville, New Jersey held a Philippine Folk and Glass Art Workshop. But it is cynicism to see it as a lack of interest of Filipinos in promoting Folk Art. “Interest” in art itself may be seen as a post-materialist concern that immigrants are able to engage in precisely because they have the privilege of economic stability But there are others here in the Philippines, like bloggers, who make travel journals that document Folk Art, and also help in promoting awareness about them. There is also the Ayala Museum that features a Gold of Ancestors exhibition of “Philippine pre-colonial gold artifacts.” But these are luxuries, not venues that the average Filipino can engage in. Lack of information about these art forms is also a vital threat: the average Filipino knows of the Ancient Egyptian mummy but not of the Taka of Paete.
Aside from globalization, commercialization, and exploitation, attempts to industrialize also threaten not only Folk Art but also the multitude of indigenous tribes. Ancestral land is taken away from locals to make way for factories or plantations of raw materials, or even condominiums and subdivisions. Yet other threats are pollution and climate change, because Folk Art utilizes materials taken from the land and the water. Pollution causes destruction of water sources and soil erosion, climate change causes alterations in the overall environment that causes many plants and animals to become extinct.
There are many other threats to Folk Art aside from the ones I mentioned above. The present global landscape is an ever-changing environment that spends little time and attention on cultures, traditions, and the art forms that represent them. Especially in a quintessential post-colonial state like the Philippines, there are far more pressing concerns because of the desire to modernize and become an industrialized society. One can hope that more people and institutions will take part in the preservation of Folk Art, but to hope is not enough. Grounding in history as the Filipino moves into the twenty-first century is vital, lest we run the risk of losing our identity. Information about Folk Art is, I believe, a solid base for its preservation. Proper and extensive documentation, establishment of exhibits and information drives through popular media; eventually, when the cause has become well-known, establishment of laws that will protect not only Folk Art, but also indigenous tribes, to guarantee their security and existence.
Art Stud 2 Midterm Essay 1
Here the red clashes against the white, the white curves and writhes into eight letters that make an empire. Here too stands a man with his eyes to the ground, with a sweet, bubbly dagger to his heart. But there, there is a closed window tells you that a horse is a door, yet a valise is still a valise. These works are fifty-five years apart, but they both rely on established conventions to convey a meaning. One uses predetermined symbols to denote a stand; the other combines symbols with words to unsettle what is known.
Antipas Delotavo’s “Itak sa Puso ni Mang Juan” is fairly easy to understand. At a glance one can see what the artist’s message is: that capitalism has brought more heartache than joy to the Filipino working class. The Filipino image, represented by Mang Juan in his work clothes, conveys sadness and even hopelessness with a downturned face and sullenness to his expression. The figure is walking, and in my imagination, slowly, towards the left, perhaps representing how capitalism is leading the common Filipino farther away from development. It is interesting for me how his arms are drawn, one holding the other back. And up until now, I didn’t notice how the end of the first capital “C” resembled a dagger, or even a demon’s tail as artists draw it. There is a striking difference between this work of art and the Coca-Cola slogan “Open Happiness.” It also contradicts the myriad commercials that claim Coca-Cola fosters unity, friendship, family values and even love, and exposes them for what really they are: bids for more sales. And at the expense of Mang Juan, no less.
On the other hand, Rene Magritte’s “The Key of Dreams” aims to question our association of names with objects. There are four “windows,” the first from the left is the horse labeled as “the door,” the second, the clock labeled “the wind,” third, the jug, labeled “the bird,” and fourth, the valise called, as convention would deem correct, “the valise.”
The first time I saw this painting, I was thoroughly disconcerted. What on earth does the horse have in connection with a door, or the jug with a bird? The time and the wind I can understand, they are both abstract and intangible. And why is it called the “Key to Dreams?” But that was a slide in a PowerPoint presentation, and I soon forgot about it.
Upon further evaluation, I believe this work aims to make people realize how much of the world is socially constructed; how much exists only because we make them so. But the unsettling feeling caused by this is somewhat quelled by the last square: “Hey, maybe you’re right, maybe it is a valise.” Perhaps it is also a foray into the fascination of people with their dreams and interpreting their dreams, and Magritte is also trying to say that dreams are representations of objects that do not make sense at times because our subconscious and unconscious are taking over. But sometimes our conscious selves break through, as is expressed by his fourth square in the painting. I think that the usage of color—shades of brown and white—give a character of warmth and solidity to it that also contradicts the “dream” aspect. A question of color association as well?
Magritte once said, “To be a surrealist... means barring from your mind all remembrance of what you have seen, and being always on the lookout for what has never been.” Surrealism, I think, is very powerful, as anything strange in a sense creates an entire new world of thought that convention would not allow.
To me, both Antipas Delotavo’s Itak sa Puso ni Mang Juan and René Magritte’s Key to Dreams invite us to look closer, and at the same time, beyond, everyday objects. These artists implore us to not take anything for granted, to take a more active interest in the world we have created for ourselves through words and images.
Antipas Delotavo’s “Itak sa Puso ni Mang Juan” is fairly easy to understand. At a glance one can see what the artist’s message is: that capitalism has brought more heartache than joy to the Filipino working class. The Filipino image, represented by Mang Juan in his work clothes, conveys sadness and even hopelessness with a downturned face and sullenness to his expression. The figure is walking, and in my imagination, slowly, towards the left, perhaps representing how capitalism is leading the common Filipino farther away from development. It is interesting for me how his arms are drawn, one holding the other back. And up until now, I didn’t notice how the end of the first capital “C” resembled a dagger, or even a demon’s tail as artists draw it. There is a striking difference between this work of art and the Coca-Cola slogan “Open Happiness.” It also contradicts the myriad commercials that claim Coca-Cola fosters unity, friendship, family values and even love, and exposes them for what really they are: bids for more sales. And at the expense of Mang Juan, no less.
On the other hand, Rene Magritte’s “The Key of Dreams” aims to question our association of names with objects. There are four “windows,” the first from the left is the horse labeled as “the door,” the second, the clock labeled “the wind,” third, the jug, labeled “the bird,” and fourth, the valise called, as convention would deem correct, “the valise.”
The first time I saw this painting, I was thoroughly disconcerted. What on earth does the horse have in connection with a door, or the jug with a bird? The time and the wind I can understand, they are both abstract and intangible. And why is it called the “Key to Dreams?” But that was a slide in a PowerPoint presentation, and I soon forgot about it.
Upon further evaluation, I believe this work aims to make people realize how much of the world is socially constructed; how much exists only because we make them so. But the unsettling feeling caused by this is somewhat quelled by the last square: “Hey, maybe you’re right, maybe it is a valise.” Perhaps it is also a foray into the fascination of people with their dreams and interpreting their dreams, and Magritte is also trying to say that dreams are representations of objects that do not make sense at times because our subconscious and unconscious are taking over. But sometimes our conscious selves break through, as is expressed by his fourth square in the painting. I think that the usage of color—shades of brown and white—give a character of warmth and solidity to it that also contradicts the “dream” aspect. A question of color association as well?
Magritte once said, “To be a surrealist... means barring from your mind all remembrance of what you have seen, and being always on the lookout for what has never been.” Surrealism, I think, is very powerful, as anything strange in a sense creates an entire new world of thought that convention would not allow.
To me, both Antipas Delotavo’s Itak sa Puso ni Mang Juan and René Magritte’s Key to Dreams invite us to look closer, and at the same time, beyond, everyday objects. These artists implore us to not take anything for granted, to take a more active interest in the world we have created for ourselves through words and images.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Journal Entry: A Note on Vonnegut
In his prologue to "A Novel Slapstick" Kurt Vonnegut writes, "I have had some experiences with love, or think I have, anyway, although the ones I have liked best could easily be described as "common decency". I treated somebody well for a little while, or even for a tremendously long time, and that person treated me well in turn. Love need not have anything to do with it. Also, I cannot distinguish between the love I have for people and the love I have for dogs."
When someone writes it down, a thought is brought out of the abyss of abstraction and legitimized somehow, making the thinker of it feel less alone, especially when the idea is not as common as he or she would like it to be. This is why Kurt Vonnegut is one of my favorite writers. The above paragraph summarizes a lot of my opinions.
Also, to this day, my dead dog is the only creature on earth whose death I mourn every night, and whose memory is capable of bringing me to tears. (Pablo Neruda's "My dog has died," which I read only a few weeks ago, is an especially tear-inducing text.) And Vonnegut makes me feel like there's nothing wrong with that.
When someone writes it down, a thought is brought out of the abyss of abstraction and legitimized somehow, making the thinker of it feel less alone, especially when the idea is not as common as he or she would like it to be. This is why Kurt Vonnegut is one of my favorite writers. The above paragraph summarizes a lot of my opinions.
Also, to this day, my dead dog is the only creature on earth whose death I mourn every night, and whose memory is capable of bringing me to tears. (Pablo Neruda's "My dog has died," which I read only a few weeks ago, is an especially tear-inducing text.) And Vonnegut makes me feel like there's nothing wrong with that.
Journal Entry: A Note on Vonnegut
In his prologue to "A Novel Slapstick" Kurt Vonnegut writes, "I have had some experiences with love, or think I have, anyway, although the ones I have liked best could easily be described as "common decency". I treated somebody well for a little while, or even for a tremendously long time, and that person treated me well in turn. Love need not have anything to do with it. Also, I cannot distinguish between the love I have for people and the love I have for dogs."
When someone writes it down, a thought is brought out of the abyss of abstraction and legitimized somehow, making the thinker of it feel less alone, especially when the idea is not as common as he or she would like it to be. This is why Kurt Vonnegut is one of my favorite writers. The above paragraph summarizes a lot of my opinions.
Also, to this day, my dead dog is the only creature on earth whose death I mourn every night, and whose memory is capable of bringing me to tears. (Pablo Neruda's "My dog has died," which I read only a few weeks ago, is an especially tear-inducing text.) And Vonnegut makes me feel like there's nothing wrong with that.
When someone writes it down, a thought is brought out of the abyss of abstraction and legitimized somehow, making the thinker of it feel less alone, especially when the idea is not as common as he or she would like it to be. This is why Kurt Vonnegut is one of my favorite writers. The above paragraph summarizes a lot of my opinions.
Also, to this day, my dead dog is the only creature on earth whose death I mourn every night, and whose memory is capable of bringing me to tears. (Pablo Neruda's "My dog has died," which I read only a few weeks ago, is an especially tear-inducing text.) And Vonnegut makes me feel like there's nothing wrong with that.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Saturday
The past two weeks have gone by in a blur, a series of runs and jumps punctuated by little silences that barely made up for the breathless hours. But it's not as bad as I make it sound, some of those runs and jumps were fun, including the photo shoot in UPFI, the visit to Malacanang Palace Museum, watching Brillante Mendoza's "Lola," the making of the exhibit in the AS lobby (which very few of you saw, I'm sure), and the Sinag GA for December. I'd rather not talk about the not-so-fun parts. I've been resigned to eating while walking or commuting as well, with Lily Allen, Lenka, Avenue Q, and my beloved Kyo for company-- I apologize, Kyo, I have temporarily put "Je veux vivre chaque seconde" on hold. At least for another week. I realize I've been running for far too long for my own good, but it's almost the holidays; plenty of time to sleep then.
Last night, Kitty and I went to Funeraria Nacional, where Ma'am Valmores' wake is. Even after seeing her in that pale box with the sad flowers, the gravity of the fact has not sunk in, and I still can't imagine her gone. It's one of those moments when I'd rather not believe. Condolences to her family.
It's party week next week, which will put another dent on my already battered wallet. I have half a mind to retreat into a distant cave and only come out after the fireworks have burned themselves out of existence, but social duties call. If you haven't noticed by now this post is nothing but an empty rant, something to justify unnecessarily going online. Other people would be on Facebook, but alas, I have no account. Yes, I am a social networking exile, and I couldn't care less. Frankly, it makes me feel more secure. The less people know about me the less I have to worry about them. I'd delete this account too if it wasn't for the archives of posts.
Segue: There's a Brenda Villanueva Fajardo exhibit in the Vargas Museum until January 10. Go on a Wednesday if you don't want to pay 20 pesos for entrance. Take note of the Ginintuang Serye, the "Marias," and her etchings. And her version of the Tarot Cards too. And while you're there, traipse up to the third floor to the Persistent Visions exhibit-- there's a Juan Luna original there, and a 24-minute video exhibit of British colonizing missions in India, Africa and Malaya. This is my favorite exhibit so far.
Advanced Happy Holidays everyone. :)
Last night, Kitty and I went to Funeraria Nacional, where Ma'am Valmores' wake is. Even after seeing her in that pale box with the sad flowers, the gravity of the fact has not sunk in, and I still can't imagine her gone. It's one of those moments when I'd rather not believe. Condolences to her family.
It's party week next week, which will put another dent on my already battered wallet. I have half a mind to retreat into a distant cave and only come out after the fireworks have burned themselves out of existence, but social duties call. If you haven't noticed by now this post is nothing but an empty rant, something to justify unnecessarily going online. Other people would be on Facebook, but alas, I have no account. Yes, I am a social networking exile, and I couldn't care less. Frankly, it makes me feel more secure. The less people know about me the less I have to worry about them. I'd delete this account too if it wasn't for the archives of posts.
Segue: There's a Brenda Villanueva Fajardo exhibit in the Vargas Museum until January 10. Go on a Wednesday if you don't want to pay 20 pesos for entrance. Take note of the Ginintuang Serye, the "Marias," and her etchings. And her version of the Tarot Cards too. And while you're there, traipse up to the third floor to the Persistent Visions exhibit-- there's a Juan Luna original there, and a 24-minute video exhibit of British colonizing missions in India, Africa and Malaya. This is my favorite exhibit so far.
Advanced Happy Holidays everyone. :)
Monday, November 30, 2009
Cette Semaine
De quio s’agit-il? Aujourd’hui est un dimanche , la dernière dimanche de novembre, vingt-sept jours devant le jour de Noël. J’écoute à Kyo et Noir Desir, mes nouveaux orchestres preferés. Je suis desolée pour les erreurs grammaticales, je ne pratique plus cette langue. (Je pense que je dis meilleur que j’écris.) Alors. J’écoute les chansons Français tous les temps de nos jours. Écoutez “Le Chemin” et “Chaque Seconde” de Kyo. Ils sont très bien. Aussi, “Un jour en France” de Noir Desir… Mais je comprends le refrain seulement. C’est trop vite pour moi. Ici les paroles de Chaque Seconde:
J'ai cherché l'erreur
Au coeur des systèmes,
Ce qui brille est un leurre
Ce qui brille peut fondre au soleil
J'ai cherché l'erreur
Qui trouble mon sommeil,
J'ai cherché pendant des heures
Pour voir que tout est à refaire,
Enfin tout est clair, je relève la tête...
Je veux vivre chaque seconde
Comme si demain était la fin du monde,
Etre libre pour de bon,
A trop vouloir se lever on tombe...
J’aime Kyo! Et aussi “Quelqu’un m’a dit” de Carla Bruni. Oui, j’ai déjà regardé “Les Cinq Cent Jours de l’Été,” merci Pola! Dieu, c’est déjà midi et je ne prends pas mon petit déjeuner! “ Alors, qu’est-ce qui se passe avec vous? Hier, nous (mes camarades d’ensemble et moi ) sommes allé à Le Cercle de la Ville de Quezon pour CWTS. Donc nous avons appris que un de les enfants vient de mourir: un homicide. C’est très triste parce que “Saddam” a été seize ans seulement mais il a un enfant. Les volontaires pensent que un “Jacob” est le meurtrier. Je prie que son âme est en paix.
Un message personnel (pour un trou de cul): Merci pour les leçons, maintenant je sais quio tu es. Tu ne mérites pas mon attention.
Je vais étudier pour mes examens maintenant. Plus tard!
J'ai cherché l'erreur
Au coeur des systèmes,
Ce qui brille est un leurre
Ce qui brille peut fondre au soleil
J'ai cherché l'erreur
Qui trouble mon sommeil,
J'ai cherché pendant des heures
Pour voir que tout est à refaire,
Enfin tout est clair, je relève la tête...
Je veux vivre chaque seconde
Comme si demain était la fin du monde,
Etre libre pour de bon,
A trop vouloir se lever on tombe...
J’aime Kyo! Et aussi “Quelqu’un m’a dit” de Carla Bruni. Oui, j’ai déjà regardé “Les Cinq Cent Jours de l’Été,” merci Pola! Dieu, c’est déjà midi et je ne prends pas mon petit déjeuner! “ Alors, qu’est-ce qui se passe avec vous? Hier, nous (mes camarades d’ensemble et moi ) sommes allé à Le Cercle de la Ville de Quezon pour CWTS. Donc nous avons appris que un de les enfants vient de mourir: un homicide. C’est très triste parce que “Saddam” a été seize ans seulement mais il a un enfant. Les volontaires pensent que un “Jacob” est le meurtrier. Je prie que son âme est en paix.
Un message personnel (pour un trou de cul): Merci pour les leçons, maintenant je sais quio tu es. Tu ne mérites pas mon attention.
Je vais étudier pour mes examens maintenant. Plus tard!
Friday, October 30, 2009
I Promise
When I get out of this house-- and I will-- I will never again put myself in something that even resembles it at the slightest. I cannot wait to live alone for the rest of my life. It's the only thought that's keeping me sane.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Oh, Sembreak
Morning of day four, semestral break.
The first two days were spent outside, pretty much, including a visit to my old high school. After, oh, around eight months of not seeing the place, it was a pleasant surprise. There's a new principal, and a lot of new teachers I didn't recognize. But the teachers I did recognize: whoa. It was like seeing long lost friends. The familiarity was overwhelming. The sections are different now, and so are the names of some of the rooms, but the ambiance is still there.
When I got there it hit me how different things are now from what they were before. I haven't worn a uniform in two years, and the days of random games during break have long been over. I'm a very different person now, too. I have learned to edit myself, to restrain myself from, in a nutshell, blowing up in everybody's face like I so often did back then. Am I growing up? Now, now. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Segue: They are going to teach French in Mandaluyong Science. Tres bien! Finally catching up to MakSci. My former trainor in journalism is going to handle the classes, and I'm going to help her review for the teacher's exam. Yey, yey! Mico, if you're reading this, Ma'am F needs French help so, allons-y!
Anyway. Yesterday, I read Michael Crichton's "Airframe." Again, Crichton is entertainment, not literary appreciation. (God/dess bless his soul wherever he is.) Airframe was pretty good, I liked the treatment of the characters and the imagery of the plane accidents. I think I even dreamt about it. Plus, I learned A LOT about planes. That's the thing with Crichton: read him and you'll definitely pick up some stuff, without realizing you're close to information overload. My favorite Crichton is still Jurassic Park. If you just watched the movie then you wouldn't understand why. Jurassic Park is genius, questioning genetics and explaining paradigm shifts without getting people bored. And the dinosaurs! (Other Crichton must-reads: Sphere and Andromeda Strain.)
Another book I read recently was Stephen King's "Cell." This is the first King novel I actually finished, as all the other ones I tried reading were rambling pieces that felt aimless around the middle (Hello, The Dark Half). Cell is good, entertainment-wise. It's about a "pulse," a kind of signal that the human brain receives when a cell phone is answered. It wipes out the brain except for the most primal instincts (in this case the "state of nature" as defined by philosophers like Hobbes and Rousseau is employed). The result is total chaos, because a lot of people receive the pulse. I mean, who doesn't have a cell phone? It's like watching a more sophisticated Dawn of the Dead for five hours. I LOVED the characters, especially the graphic artist and the teenager Alice Maxwell. The plot relied on a whole lot of luck, though, and it never told the readers why the entire thing happened in the first place. Nevertheless it was a fun read and even induces a little paranoia.
I'm reading Rovin's "Conversations with the Devil" today. So far it's been good, a lot of psychology in the story. Maybe I'll get to read a little more of Vonnegut's "Welcome to the Monkey House." I want to reread "Slaughterhouse Five" but I have a book backlog I need to catch up on, including Hemingway's "Farewell to Arms" and "The Red Badge of Courage." I'm in for a lot of war stories. Oh well. Here goes. I'm going to spend this break wisely before I have to face three PolSci majors and Econ 100.1. :)
The first two days were spent outside, pretty much, including a visit to my old high school. After, oh, around eight months of not seeing the place, it was a pleasant surprise. There's a new principal, and a lot of new teachers I didn't recognize. But the teachers I did recognize: whoa. It was like seeing long lost friends. The familiarity was overwhelming. The sections are different now, and so are the names of some of the rooms, but the ambiance is still there.
When I got there it hit me how different things are now from what they were before. I haven't worn a uniform in two years, and the days of random games during break have long been over. I'm a very different person now, too. I have learned to edit myself, to restrain myself from, in a nutshell, blowing up in everybody's face like I so often did back then. Am I growing up? Now, now. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Segue: They are going to teach French in Mandaluyong Science. Tres bien! Finally catching up to MakSci. My former trainor in journalism is going to handle the classes, and I'm going to help her review for the teacher's exam. Yey, yey! Mico, if you're reading this, Ma'am F needs French help so, allons-y!
Anyway. Yesterday, I read Michael Crichton's "Airframe." Again, Crichton is entertainment, not literary appreciation. (God/dess bless his soul wherever he is.) Airframe was pretty good, I liked the treatment of the characters and the imagery of the plane accidents. I think I even dreamt about it. Plus, I learned A LOT about planes. That's the thing with Crichton: read him and you'll definitely pick up some stuff, without realizing you're close to information overload. My favorite Crichton is still Jurassic Park. If you just watched the movie then you wouldn't understand why. Jurassic Park is genius, questioning genetics and explaining paradigm shifts without getting people bored. And the dinosaurs! (Other Crichton must-reads: Sphere and Andromeda Strain.)
Another book I read recently was Stephen King's "Cell." This is the first King novel I actually finished, as all the other ones I tried reading were rambling pieces that felt aimless around the middle (Hello, The Dark Half). Cell is good, entertainment-wise. It's about a "pulse," a kind of signal that the human brain receives when a cell phone is answered. It wipes out the brain except for the most primal instincts (in this case the "state of nature" as defined by philosophers like Hobbes and Rousseau is employed). The result is total chaos, because a lot of people receive the pulse. I mean, who doesn't have a cell phone? It's like watching a more sophisticated Dawn of the Dead for five hours. I LOVED the characters, especially the graphic artist and the teenager Alice Maxwell. The plot relied on a whole lot of luck, though, and it never told the readers why the entire thing happened in the first place. Nevertheless it was a fun read and even induces a little paranoia.
I'm reading Rovin's "Conversations with the Devil" today. So far it's been good, a lot of psychology in the story. Maybe I'll get to read a little more of Vonnegut's "Welcome to the Monkey House." I want to reread "Slaughterhouse Five" but I have a book backlog I need to catch up on, including Hemingway's "Farewell to Arms" and "The Red Badge of Courage." I'm in for a lot of war stories. Oh well. Here goes. I'm going to spend this break wisely before I have to face three PolSci majors and Econ 100.1. :)
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Alternate Perspective: Roxas' Speechwriter
| http://abo-sa-dila.blogspot.com/2009/09/on-failure-and-sacrifice-and-sad-task.html on failure, and sacrifice, and the sad task of a speechwriter |
| Wednesday, September 02, 2009 By Mikael Co |
| I am Mar Roxas' speechwriter, and let me be the first to say that I failed my country. I failed my country by not working hard enough; by not being a better speechwriter; by failing to show the people how good a person my boss was. Is. My friends laughed at me for being too much of a believer. And I failed my country by believing that it would believe along with me. I am Mar Roxas' speechwriter. All throughout my year and half in the organization, I denied that title; I played it down. Not really wrote the speeches, not per se, I said. I wrote down what I was told to write down, I said. Others thought of it, and all I had to do was type it down. I drafted the speeches, but never really wrote them. I shied away from that name: Speechwriter. In the same manner that I shy away from being called a poet. The least I could do now is to show the same courage that my boss did. I am Mar Roxas' speechwriter. I am a poet. As speechwriter, one of my tasks is tell you how good a person my boss is. As poet, my only task is to say to you the truest thing I can. My boss is one of the smartest people I have ever known. My boss has one of the purest hearts I have ever been in touch with. All my boss ever wanted was to serve the people in the best way he can. I failed my country by not saying these things well enough. Yesterday evening my boss declared his support for the candidacy of Senator Noynoy Aquino for President in 2010. He said: It is within my power to preside over a potentially divisive process or to make the party a bridge for the forces of change. He said: I choose to lead unity, not division. He said: Country above self. And I typed it down. This country I failed is the same country that my boss puts above himself. My country was smart enough to see what was wrong with the campaign. But it was also too cynical to not see through it. The same people who dismissed the ads as mere gimmicks were the same people who lauded how brilliant this opponent's ad campaign was, or how good a rhetorician this other opponent was. I used to ask, if you're so smart as to see through everything as posturing, as political play, then doesn't the question boil down to who you think can best move this country forward? I failed my country by not asking that well enough, or often enough. When I was nine years old, my parents voted for Jovito Salonga. He became known as the best president my country never had. When I was fifteen, they voted, along with my siblings, for Raul Roco. When I was twenty-one, they voted again for Roco, and I voted with them. Roco, too, became known as the best president my country never had. Now I am twenty-six, and I tell you now, in the truest way I can: Mar Roxas is the best president this country never had. I have failed my country, and all I hope for now is that the people realize what it has lost, and what it has gained. The country asked for sacrifice, and he gave them sacrifice. The country asked for unity. He has given them the door to unity; all that is left is for them to step through. The country asked for someone to believe in; in Noynoy they have found someone to believe in. And Mar has offered himself as someone to believe with. In tears, I ask this country that I have failed: Is there anything more you would like to ask of my boss? He has given everything, and he will continue to give. And I will type everything down for him. Because I am Mar Roxas' speechwriter. And he is my boss. He is my president. The best president this country never had. |
Sunday, August 16, 2009
New Moon (Meyer) Book Review
Reposted from last year.
“A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.” –G,K. Chesterton
DISCLAIMER: Twitards, this review may hurt your feelings. You have been warned, so don’t you dare flame me.
SUMMARY AND CRITICISM
New moon, the second installment of the Garb-- Twilight Series, began where the first book left off, with Mary Sue Meyer and Edward Cullen in the throes of chaste passion. What's that? Who’s Bella Swan? Nah, believe me, that was Mary Sue. And they were mostly still just staring googly-eyed at each other.
On Mary Sue's 18th birthday, the sparkling vampire family threw her a sparkling party—literally. Due to Meyerrific creativity, the conflict begins when Mary Sue gets a paper cut (yes, it bled), thus causing Jasper Hale to attempt to suck her dry. Edward prevents this from happening via really fast footwork and snarling.
Moments afterward, Edward and the other sparkling vampires left Spoons-- I mean Forks-- to avoid any further mishaps. The exhausted "I must leave to protect you" excuse.
Yes, Edward broke up with dear Mary Sue, and she ended up unconscious with disbelief on the forest floor, after wandering aimlessly chanting "Edward, Edward, Edward..."
Not exactly, but close.
It's true, when your boyfriend breaks up with you, you must lose your sanity.
Then Stepheni-- I mean Bell-- I mean, Mary Sue launched into what has got to be The Longest post-breakup drama in the history of mankind. She became a self-declared zombie; withdrawn, not able to think about anything else but Edward's hair, Edward's voice, Edward's eyes, Edward's hands, Edward's skin, Edward's... you get the idea. She also had nightmares and screamed herself awake for the next, oh, 6 months, because of the "gaping hole" in her heart. I kid you not.
At the mere mention of the name "Edward," she went all diva like this:
"I shook my head, recoiling. The sound of his name unleashed the thing that was clawing inside of me—a pain that knocked me breathless, astonished me with its force."
and this:
"His name sent another wave of torture through me."
Boring, the "I am depressed, hear me whine" lament. She seriously did not say anything else.
By the hundredth page of this "I miiisssss Edwaaard sooo muchhh, boo hoo hoo," Mary Sue discovered that when she placed herself in danger, she could hear Edwardo's voice telling her to, well, get herself out of danger. So she gets herself into more danger. Brilliant ploy, yes.
So she turned to the most dangerous, most death-defying thing she could think of: motorcycles. I know right. So she took two motorcycles from the scrap heap and brought them to Jacob Black in La Push. Jacob was previously known as “only non-cardboard character in Twilight,” but is now known as “excuse to have a topless Indian in the movie.”
Mary Sue: College, schmollege, I thought to myself. It wasn't like I'd saved up enough to go anywhere special—and besides, I had no desire to leave Forks anyway. What difference would it make if I skimmed a little bit off the top?
This was the part where she was getting the motorcycles fixed so she could slam herself into a tree with it, and needed money for parts. And the "no desire to leave Forks" thing? She could not bear to leave Forks for it had all her memories of Edward. Nothing, repeat, NOTHING is worth living for except Edward. Without Edward, the sun does not shine and the rivers do not flow... Life is not life without Edward, oh you dazzling, wonderfully sparkling vampire you (excuse me while I laugh my head off at this idiocy).
Mary Sue (On motorcycles): Many of the words they used were unfamiliar to me, and I figured I'd have to have a Y chromosome to really understand the excitement.
I don't even want to ponder upon the implications of that statement.
So anyway, when she started hanging out with Jacob, she stopped thinking about Edward. And what did she think of? Jacob!!! Meyerrific logic.
Mary Sue: I enjoyed myself. I was beginning to think it was mostly Jacob. It wasn't just that he was always so happy to see me, or that he didn't watch me out of the corner of his eye, waiting for me to do something that would mark me as crazy or depressed. It was nothing that related to me at all. It was Jacob himself. Jacob was simply a perpetually happy person, and he carried that happiness with him like an aura, sharing it with whoever was near him. Like an earthbound sun, whenever someone was within his gravitational pull, Jacob warmed them. It was natural, a part of who he was. No wonder I was so eager to see him.
Oh, look, an earthbound sun and its gravitational pull. Just... wow.
Mary Sue (on Leah Clearwater): She was beautiful in an exotic way—perfect copper skin, glistening black hair, eyelashes like feather dusters...
Eh?
Mary Sue: I was beginning to get annoyed with myself.
Good for you, you're catching on. I was annoyed with you a book and a half ago.
Alors. Must fast-forward, I'm getting bored. So Mary Sue, now somewhat out of depression, went to La Push and got on the reaaally dangerous motorcycle and made this comment:
"I tried to tell myself that the fear [of riding the motorcycle] was pointless. I'd already lived through the worst thing possible [breakup]. In comparison with that, why should anything frighten me now? [Yes, why?] I should be able to look death in the face and laugh."
She’s just so deep.
Then when she got on the reaaally dangerous motorcycle, she heard Edward's voice telling her to stop. But she wanted to hear the sparkly vampire's voice again so she didn't.
She went reaaally fast, heard the sparkly vampire in her head saying "stop, stupid!" (fine, not exactly) and, surprise surprise, hit a tree. Her head split open.
Gas wafted out instead of brain matter.
The End.
Okay, not the end. I just wish it was.
Jacob took her to the hospital. On the way, she said:
"I just hadn't realized before. Did you know, you're sort of beautiful?"
Er, yeah. And Edwardo...? Never mind. Ew.
She got stitched up and went home. Then...
Mary Sue: I panicked, worried that Charlie [dad] was about to lay down some kind of edict that would prohibit La Push, and consequently my motorcycle. And I wasn't giving it up—I'd had the most amazing hallucination today. My velvet-voiced delusion had yelled at me for almost five minutes before I'd hit the brake too abruptly and launched myself into the tree. I'd take whatever pain that would cause me tonight without complaint.
Even now I'm still not sure if this series isn't just a joke.
A bad joke.
Or satire. But Meyer's not that deep, so no.
This would be much, much more tolerable if this were satire.
Mary Sue (ranting, again): There had to be a place where he seemed more real than among all the familiar landmarks that were crowded with other human memories I could think of one place where that might hold true. One place that would always belong to him and no one else. A magic place, full of light. The beautiful meadow I'd seen only once in my life, lit by sunshine and the sparkle of his skin.
Gag.
Eventually, Jacob professed his love for Mary Sue, right before (or was it after?) he found out he was a werewolf. Yeah, yeah, Mary Sue's life is, like, so exciting. He left Mary Sue to figure out that he was a werewolf, which unsurprisingly took forever given her lack of a proper brain. But of course, her heart was still with Edwardo.
Jacob distanced himself, and Bella-Stephenie-Mary Sue went:
"Jacob was better, but not well enough to call me. He was out with friends. I was sitting home, missing him more every hour. I was lonely, worried, bored… perforated—and now also desolate as I realized that the week apart had not had the same effect on him."
Desolate? Perforated?
Sigh.
That paragraph takes the Nobel for Literature, no question.
The Feminist Book of the Year Award too.
And makes me want to hit Meyer over the head with her own thesaurus.
Mary Sue then revisited the meadow. The one that was lit with... The sparkle... Of Edward’s... Skin...
Gag.
There, she found Laurent, the other vampire who was with James (main antagonist, book 1) and Victoria (main antagonist's girlfriend). He also wants to kill her, I wonder why. Long story short, Jacob and the other werewolves saved Mary Sue and killed Laurent.
Wait, I just can't not mention this: "Charlie's eyes grew round with horror. He strode quickly to me and grabbed the tops of my arms."
Hmmm. Anatomy, Mary Sue style.
So, it turned out that the other vampire, Victoria, was hunting Mary Sue down. The werewolves, who wanted to protect Mary Sue, hunted Victoria. They didn't find her. They also welcomed Mary Sue into the "pack."
This is the part where Meyer totally plagiarized her other cra-- book, Twilight. She replaced every "vampire" with "werewolf"; every "Edward" with "Jacob"; every "James" with "Victoria"; every "Carlisle" with "Sam"; every "Esme" with "Emily," and so on.
It was such Meyerrific creativity. It takes astounding skill to plagiarize yourself.
Moments later, Mary Sue decided, in a fit of "I want to hear Edward's voice," to ditch motorcycling and go cliff-diving. So she went to La Push, la pushed herself off the cliff, and plunged straight into the riptide. She would've (should've) drowned, but Jacob rescued her.
Meanwhile, in Sparklyland, Alice saw that Mary Sue jumped off. She didn't see that Jacob rescued her though. So Alice went back to Spoons to check on Charlie, Stephenie's dad. I meant Bella's dad. Oh wait, that's Mary Sue's dad. Never mind they're one and the same.
Edward, the sparkliest of them all, called Sue's house, looking for Charlie. Jacob, who answered the phone, said that he was "at the funeral," and Sparkly assumed that he meant it was Mary Sue's funeral. How I wish.
Anyway, Edward goes, "Oh no, I cannot live without Bella/ Stephenie Meyer/ Mary Sue!!! I must kill myself!!!" Idiocy goes both ways, people.
So he flew off to Italy to find the Jonas Brothers-- I mean, the Volturi-- the only vampires who can kill other vampires. (As opposed to the only boy band who can kill other boy bands...)
I know, OMG! That is like, sooo sinister.
By the way, the Volturi realm is called VOLTERRA. Bet you didn't see that coming.
Alice quickly realized that Mary Sue Meyer, unfortunately, wasn't actually dead and decided to fly to Italy with Mary Sue to stop Edward from making fish food out of himself. Why fish would want to eat him, I have no idea.
Apparently, the Volturi kill vampires who want to expose their secret. So Edwardo decided on walking out into the sunlight and "glowing, shimmering like his skin was made of a million diamond facets" so that people would know he's supernatural. Again, gag.
Mary Sue got to Italy just in time, and threw herself at Edward. Wait, she's been doing that forever, what's new. The Volturi foot soldiers, relieved that Edward did not get to, you know, sparkle, invited Edward back to The Lair and told him to bring Mary Sue along.
Joe, Kevin and Nick then made their grand entrance. Wait, no. That's Aro, Caius and Marcus. Really. With Miley Cyrus and the cast of Hannah Montana! Uh, I mean, Jane and the other vampires of Volterra.
Anyway. They said that Mary Sue Meyer, who has knowledge of vampires, must be killed or must be turned into a vampire herself. Mary Sue, who wanted to change species for the love of her life all along, was pleased. Mr. Sparkly wasn't, because he didn't want her to be eternally damned. Alice, who was with them kind of promised to turn Mary Sue into a vampire if they let all of them get back safely home.
They did get home. Awww. Yeah, right. Back in Spoons, the Cullens decided to vote on whether Mary Sue should really be turned sparkly. Edward and Rosalie said no. Carlisle was the one who would do it after graduation.
Edward: "If you don't mind, I'd much rather you didn't hide your face. I've lived without it for as long as I can stand. Now… tell me something."
Mary Sue: "What?"
Edward: "If you could have anything in the world, anything at all, what would it be?"
Mary Sue: "You."
Edward: "Something you don't already have."
Excuse me, again, while I laugh my head off. Good lord this book is just hilarious. And then, Edward asks Mary Sue to marry him. She was saying no, but just when I thought she had a brain... No, no. The reason she was saying no was that her mother wouldn't like it... Or so she says. But we know better. If she already said yes, there would only be room for one more book. A boxed set of four sells for more than a boxed set of three. Smart Meyer, smart.
When Edward got back into the scene it was just cheese. And cheese. And cheese. I couldn't stop laughing. But I won't paste those lines here, you need to see it for yourself. Coupled with the bad writing, well, I can't ask for more.
"Epilogue Treaty."
Everything is back to normal in Spoons, with Edward in all of Mary Sue's classes and them spending every waking and sleeping moment together, literally. College is still Plan B, congratulations. In her words, "The fairy tale was back on. Prince returned, bad spell broken."
Wait, wait. It's not over yet. I need to put this here, for all my fellow feminists.
"Thank you," Edward said, and his voice throbbed with the depth of his sincerity. "I will never be able to tell you how grateful I am. I will owe you for the rest of my… existence."
Jacob stared at him blankly, his shudders stilled by surprise. He exchanged a quick glance with me, but my face was just as mystified.
"For keeping Bella alive," Edward clarified, his voice rough and fervent. "When I… didn't."
Fabulous statement, I know. Edward and Jacob: Mary Sue Life-support Machines. Because she can't survive without a guy telling her to "inhale, exhale... inhale, exhale." What? You thought she could? How could you?!
So, how did it end? For all those fortunate creatures who didn't read this, here:
Edward squeezed me gently. "I'm here."
I drew in a deep breath.
That was true.
Edward was here, with his arms around me.
I could face anything as long as that was true.
I squared my shoulders and walked forward to meet my fate, with my destiny solidly at my side.
Awww... NOT.
RANDOM BITS:
---"He sighed a heavy sigh."
(And later)
---"I sighed a heavy sigh."
(Alright then. Let’s all sigh a heavy sigh.)
---"Emily," he said, and so much love saturated his voice that I felt embarrassed...
(Romantic AND scientific.)
--- "...promptly at nine by a grimly gleeful Charlie..."
(How's that for masterful writing skill?)
---"...I have lost the truest of true loves, as if that wasn't enough to kill anyone..."
(Just priceless.)
But I don't want to be that unfair. (Really?) Here's a part I liked:
"It's not a trick. It's Carlisle. Take me back!"
A shudder rippled through his wide shoulders, but his eyes were flat and emotionless. "No."
"Jake, it's okay—"
"No. Take yourself back, Bella." His voice was a slap—I flinched as the sound of it struck me. His jaw clenched and unclenched."Look, Bella," he said in the same hard voice. "I can't go back. Treaty or no treaty, that's my enemy in there."
"It's not like that—"
"I have to tell Sam right away. This changes things. We can't be caught on their territory."
"Jake, it's not a war!"
He didn't listen. He put the truck in neutral and jumped out the door, leaving it running.
"Bye, Bella," he called back over his shoulder. "I really hope you don't die."
(Bye, Bella. I really hope you do.)
VERDICT:
Hahaha. Yeah, like you don't know yet. Just when I thought Twilight couldn't get any worse. But I was amused... In a perforated, saturated, desolate sort of way. Of course, I only read part two. You never know. But, really, can it get any worse than "truest of true loves"?!
PS:
Me: Twilight sucks. F*** Edward.
Fangirl: Yes!
Oh.
“A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.” –G,K. Chesterton
DISCLAIMER: Twitards, this review may hurt your feelings. You have been warned, so don’t you dare flame me.
SUMMARY AND CRITICISM
New moon, the second installment of the Garb-- Twilight Series, began where the first book left off, with Mary Sue Meyer and Edward Cullen in the throes of chaste passion. What's that? Who’s Bella Swan? Nah, believe me, that was Mary Sue. And they were mostly still just staring googly-eyed at each other.
On Mary Sue's 18th birthday, the sparkling vampire family threw her a sparkling party—literally. Due to Meyerrific creativity, the conflict begins when Mary Sue gets a paper cut (yes, it bled), thus causing Jasper Hale to attempt to suck her dry. Edward prevents this from happening via really fast footwork and snarling.
Moments afterward, Edward and the other sparkling vampires left Spoons-- I mean Forks-- to avoid any further mishaps. The exhausted "I must leave to protect you" excuse.
Yes, Edward broke up with dear Mary Sue, and she ended up unconscious with disbelief on the forest floor, after wandering aimlessly chanting "Edward, Edward, Edward..."
Not exactly, but close.
It's true, when your boyfriend breaks up with you, you must lose your sanity.
Then Stepheni-- I mean Bell-- I mean, Mary Sue launched into what has got to be The Longest post-breakup drama in the history of mankind. She became a self-declared zombie; withdrawn, not able to think about anything else but Edward's hair, Edward's voice, Edward's eyes, Edward's hands, Edward's skin, Edward's... you get the idea. She also had nightmares and screamed herself awake for the next, oh, 6 months, because of the "gaping hole" in her heart. I kid you not.
At the mere mention of the name "Edward," she went all diva like this:
"I shook my head, recoiling. The sound of his name unleashed the thing that was clawing inside of me—a pain that knocked me breathless, astonished me with its force."
and this:
"His name sent another wave of torture through me."
Boring, the "I am depressed, hear me whine" lament. She seriously did not say anything else.
By the hundredth page of this "I miiisssss Edwaaard sooo muchhh, boo hoo hoo," Mary Sue discovered that when she placed herself in danger, she could hear Edwardo's voice telling her to, well, get herself out of danger. So she gets herself into more danger. Brilliant ploy, yes.
So she turned to the most dangerous, most death-defying thing she could think of: motorcycles. I know right. So she took two motorcycles from the scrap heap and brought them to Jacob Black in La Push. Jacob was previously known as “only non-cardboard character in Twilight,” but is now known as “excuse to have a topless Indian in the movie.”
Mary Sue: College, schmollege, I thought to myself. It wasn't like I'd saved up enough to go anywhere special—and besides, I had no desire to leave Forks anyway. What difference would it make if I skimmed a little bit off the top?
This was the part where she was getting the motorcycles fixed so she could slam herself into a tree with it, and needed money for parts. And the "no desire to leave Forks" thing? She could not bear to leave Forks for it had all her memories of Edward. Nothing, repeat, NOTHING is worth living for except Edward. Without Edward, the sun does not shine and the rivers do not flow... Life is not life without Edward, oh you dazzling, wonderfully sparkling vampire you (excuse me while I laugh my head off at this idiocy).
Mary Sue (On motorcycles): Many of the words they used were unfamiliar to me, and I figured I'd have to have a Y chromosome to really understand the excitement.
I don't even want to ponder upon the implications of that statement.
So anyway, when she started hanging out with Jacob, she stopped thinking about Edward. And what did she think of? Jacob!!! Meyerrific logic.
Mary Sue: I enjoyed myself. I was beginning to think it was mostly Jacob. It wasn't just that he was always so happy to see me, or that he didn't watch me out of the corner of his eye, waiting for me to do something that would mark me as crazy or depressed. It was nothing that related to me at all. It was Jacob himself. Jacob was simply a perpetually happy person, and he carried that happiness with him like an aura, sharing it with whoever was near him. Like an earthbound sun, whenever someone was within his gravitational pull, Jacob warmed them. It was natural, a part of who he was. No wonder I was so eager to see him.
Oh, look, an earthbound sun and its gravitational pull. Just... wow.
Mary Sue (on Leah Clearwater): She was beautiful in an exotic way—perfect copper skin, glistening black hair, eyelashes like feather dusters...
Eh?
Mary Sue: I was beginning to get annoyed with myself.
Good for you, you're catching on. I was annoyed with you a book and a half ago.
Alors. Must fast-forward, I'm getting bored. So Mary Sue, now somewhat out of depression, went to La Push and got on the reaaally dangerous motorcycle and made this comment:
"I tried to tell myself that the fear [of riding the motorcycle] was pointless. I'd already lived through the worst thing possible [breakup]. In comparison with that, why should anything frighten me now? [Yes, why?] I should be able to look death in the face and laugh."
She’s just so deep.
Then when she got on the reaaally dangerous motorcycle, she heard Edward's voice telling her to stop. But she wanted to hear the sparkly vampire's voice again so she didn't.
She went reaaally fast, heard the sparkly vampire in her head saying "stop, stupid!" (fine, not exactly) and, surprise surprise, hit a tree. Her head split open.
Gas wafted out instead of brain matter.
The End.
Okay, not the end. I just wish it was.
Jacob took her to the hospital. On the way, she said:
"I just hadn't realized before. Did you know, you're sort of beautiful?"
Er, yeah. And Edwardo...? Never mind. Ew.
She got stitched up and went home. Then...
Mary Sue: I panicked, worried that Charlie [dad] was about to lay down some kind of edict that would prohibit La Push, and consequently my motorcycle. And I wasn't giving it up—I'd had the most amazing hallucination today. My velvet-voiced delusion had yelled at me for almost five minutes before I'd hit the brake too abruptly and launched myself into the tree. I'd take whatever pain that would cause me tonight without complaint.
Even now I'm still not sure if this series isn't just a joke.
A bad joke.
Or satire. But Meyer's not that deep, so no.
This would be much, much more tolerable if this were satire.
Mary Sue (ranting, again): There had to be a place where he seemed more real than among all the familiar landmarks that were crowded with other human memories I could think of one place where that might hold true. One place that would always belong to him and no one else. A magic place, full of light. The beautiful meadow I'd seen only once in my life, lit by sunshine and the sparkle of his skin.
Gag.
Eventually, Jacob professed his love for Mary Sue, right before (or was it after?) he found out he was a werewolf. Yeah, yeah, Mary Sue's life is, like, so exciting. He left Mary Sue to figure out that he was a werewolf, which unsurprisingly took forever given her lack of a proper brain. But of course, her heart was still with Edwardo.
Jacob distanced himself, and Bella-Stephenie-Mary Sue went:
"Jacob was better, but not well enough to call me. He was out with friends. I was sitting home, missing him more every hour. I was lonely, worried, bored… perforated—and now also desolate as I realized that the week apart had not had the same effect on him."
Desolate? Perforated?
Sigh.
That paragraph takes the Nobel for Literature, no question.
The Feminist Book of the Year Award too.
And makes me want to hit Meyer over the head with her own thesaurus.
Mary Sue then revisited the meadow. The one that was lit with... The sparkle... Of Edward’s... Skin...
Gag.
There, she found Laurent, the other vampire who was with James (main antagonist, book 1) and Victoria (main antagonist's girlfriend). He also wants to kill her, I wonder why. Long story short, Jacob and the other werewolves saved Mary Sue and killed Laurent.
Wait, I just can't not mention this: "Charlie's eyes grew round with horror. He strode quickly to me and grabbed the tops of my arms."
Hmmm. Anatomy, Mary Sue style.
So, it turned out that the other vampire, Victoria, was hunting Mary Sue down. The werewolves, who wanted to protect Mary Sue, hunted Victoria. They didn't find her. They also welcomed Mary Sue into the "pack."
This is the part where Meyer totally plagiarized her other cra-- book, Twilight. She replaced every "vampire" with "werewolf"; every "Edward" with "Jacob"; every "James" with "Victoria"; every "Carlisle" with "Sam"; every "Esme" with "Emily," and so on.
It was such Meyerrific creativity. It takes astounding skill to plagiarize yourself.
Moments later, Mary Sue decided, in a fit of "I want to hear Edward's voice," to ditch motorcycling and go cliff-diving. So she went to La Push, la pushed herself off the cliff, and plunged straight into the riptide. She would've (should've) drowned, but Jacob rescued her.
Meanwhile, in Sparklyland, Alice saw that Mary Sue jumped off. She didn't see that Jacob rescued her though. So Alice went back to Spoons to check on Charlie, Stephenie's dad. I meant Bella's dad. Oh wait, that's Mary Sue's dad. Never mind they're one and the same.
Edward, the sparkliest of them all, called Sue's house, looking for Charlie. Jacob, who answered the phone, said that he was "at the funeral," and Sparkly assumed that he meant it was Mary Sue's funeral. How I wish.
Anyway, Edward goes, "Oh no, I cannot live without Bella/ Stephenie Meyer/ Mary Sue!!! I must kill myself!!!" Idiocy goes both ways, people.
So he flew off to Italy to find the Jonas Brothers-- I mean, the Volturi-- the only vampires who can kill other vampires. (As opposed to the only boy band who can kill other boy bands...)
I know, OMG! That is like, sooo sinister.
By the way, the Volturi realm is called VOLTERRA. Bet you didn't see that coming.
Alice quickly realized that Mary Sue Meyer, unfortunately, wasn't actually dead and decided to fly to Italy with Mary Sue to stop Edward from making fish food out of himself. Why fish would want to eat him, I have no idea.
Apparently, the Volturi kill vampires who want to expose their secret. So Edwardo decided on walking out into the sunlight and "glowing, shimmering like his skin was made of a million diamond facets" so that people would know he's supernatural. Again, gag.
Mary Sue got to Italy just in time, and threw herself at Edward. Wait, she's been doing that forever, what's new. The Volturi foot soldiers, relieved that Edward did not get to, you know, sparkle, invited Edward back to The Lair and told him to bring Mary Sue along.
Joe, Kevin and Nick then made their grand entrance. Wait, no. That's Aro, Caius and Marcus. Really. With Miley Cyrus and the cast of Hannah Montana! Uh, I mean, Jane and the other vampires of Volterra.
Anyway. They said that Mary Sue Meyer, who has knowledge of vampires, must be killed or must be turned into a vampire herself. Mary Sue, who wanted to change species for the love of her life all along, was pleased. Mr. Sparkly wasn't, because he didn't want her to be eternally damned. Alice, who was with them kind of promised to turn Mary Sue into a vampire if they let all of them get back safely home.
They did get home. Awww. Yeah, right. Back in Spoons, the Cullens decided to vote on whether Mary Sue should really be turned sparkly. Edward and Rosalie said no. Carlisle was the one who would do it after graduation.
Edward: "If you don't mind, I'd much rather you didn't hide your face. I've lived without it for as long as I can stand. Now… tell me something."
Mary Sue: "What?"
Edward: "If you could have anything in the world, anything at all, what would it be?"
Mary Sue: "You."
Edward: "Something you don't already have."
Excuse me, again, while I laugh my head off. Good lord this book is just hilarious. And then, Edward asks Mary Sue to marry him. She was saying no, but just when I thought she had a brain... No, no. The reason she was saying no was that her mother wouldn't like it... Or so she says. But we know better. If she already said yes, there would only be room for one more book. A boxed set of four sells for more than a boxed set of three. Smart Meyer, smart.
When Edward got back into the scene it was just cheese. And cheese. And cheese. I couldn't stop laughing. But I won't paste those lines here, you need to see it for yourself. Coupled with the bad writing, well, I can't ask for more.
"Epilogue Treaty."
Everything is back to normal in Spoons, with Edward in all of Mary Sue's classes and them spending every waking and sleeping moment together, literally. College is still Plan B, congratulations. In her words, "The fairy tale was back on. Prince returned, bad spell broken."
Wait, wait. It's not over yet. I need to put this here, for all my fellow feminists.
"Thank you," Edward said, and his voice throbbed with the depth of his sincerity. "I will never be able to tell you how grateful I am. I will owe you for the rest of my… existence."
Jacob stared at him blankly, his shudders stilled by surprise. He exchanged a quick glance with me, but my face was just as mystified.
"For keeping Bella alive," Edward clarified, his voice rough and fervent. "When I… didn't."
Fabulous statement, I know. Edward and Jacob: Mary Sue Life-support Machines. Because she can't survive without a guy telling her to "inhale, exhale... inhale, exhale." What? You thought she could? How could you?!
So, how did it end? For all those fortunate creatures who didn't read this, here:
Edward squeezed me gently. "I'm here."
I drew in a deep breath.
That was true.
Edward was here, with his arms around me.
I could face anything as long as that was true.
I squared my shoulders and walked forward to meet my fate, with my destiny solidly at my side.
Awww... NOT.
RANDOM BITS:
---"He sighed a heavy sigh."
(And later)
---"I sighed a heavy sigh."
(Alright then. Let’s all sigh a heavy sigh.)
---"Emily," he said, and so much love saturated his voice that I felt embarrassed...
(Romantic AND scientific.)
--- "...promptly at nine by a grimly gleeful Charlie..."
(How's that for masterful writing skill?)
---"...I have lost the truest of true loves, as if that wasn't enough to kill anyone..."
(Just priceless.)
But I don't want to be that unfair. (Really?) Here's a part I liked:
"It's not a trick. It's Carlisle. Take me back!"
A shudder rippled through his wide shoulders, but his eyes were flat and emotionless. "No."
"Jake, it's okay—"
"No. Take yourself back, Bella." His voice was a slap—I flinched as the sound of it struck me. His jaw clenched and unclenched."Look, Bella," he said in the same hard voice. "I can't go back. Treaty or no treaty, that's my enemy in there."
"It's not like that—"
"I have to tell Sam right away. This changes things. We can't be caught on their territory."
"Jake, it's not a war!"
He didn't listen. He put the truck in neutral and jumped out the door, leaving it running.
"Bye, Bella," he called back over his shoulder. "I really hope you don't die."
(Bye, Bella. I really hope you do.)
VERDICT:
Hahaha. Yeah, like you don't know yet. Just when I thought Twilight couldn't get any worse. But I was amused... In a perforated, saturated, desolate sort of way. Of course, I only read part two. You never know. But, really, can it get any worse than "truest of true loves"?!
PS:
Me: Twilight sucks. F*** Edward.
Fangirl: Yes!
Oh.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Water Days
Today is delivery day. I cruise along effortlessly along streets of the exact color and quality which King Henry VIII, to name at random, would have ordered the execution of his road builders for. I have about two tons of bottled water in the back compartment, and they thud against each other in the annoying manner of two women talking too loud in the theater. The noise irritates me, I almost run over a yellow-striped cat darting from behind a ratty box. I miss it by a heartbeat. To forget the noise I turn on the stereo, the radio station blares angry metal music. The exact song, in fact, which probably made van Gogh cut off his own ears. It was the furious sort of song that would have made World War Two Prisoners confess to fictional crimes lest be forced to listen further. But I don’t turn it off. Suddenly I feel like the boy in Clockwork Orange listening to his Beethoven while smashing people’s faces. Maybe a little like a French Revolutionary excited at the prospect of putting aristocratic heads on La Guillotine. Now I know all these stories because I used to drive around with someone who swallowed an encyclopedia or two. The singer screeches himself past oblivion even before the second verse, I tilt one wheel and send a trash bin flying into a corner store. I spot an orange something in the distance and gun the engine, it looks up and I see it is another cat before it makes that definitive squelch under the tires. I hit a few mailboxes, send envelopes fluttering like birds escaping from iron cages. More screeching, more noise than I can ever imagine shrieks out from the truck’s radio. A child is crossing the street, but is on the curb before I can do anything, but I catch his trolley and drag it fifty feet before it breaks and clatters back onto the hot pavement. I skid and slip and smoke my way through the streets. I don’t slow down when I see the humps, I go at it with full speed, and I literally fly off and come crashing down with a deafening thud. I figure some of the water bottles finally broke. Finally the song fades; I carve heavy black skid marks when I brake to stop in front of a water station. My driver, a heavyset man in his forties, frantically pushes open my door. He’s been trying to open it for the last four minutes, but I made the point to lock it. Can’t have him flying off at a hundred miles an hour, can I? He jumps down, knees weak and buckling, almost smashes into the store manager. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks, shaking him by the shoulders. Burned rubber stings the air. My driver is pale and sweaty and chokes off his own voice. “Something... Is... Wrong with that goddamned truck!” he drops onto the floor and tries desperately to breathe. He claws at his throat because the smoke is burning it. The store manager coughs, then stares at me and my overheating engine, he doesn’t know what to make of it. I laugh my little truck laugh they mistake for loose gears, shut my engine off and drift to sleep. Tomorrow is another delivery day.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Monty Python's Life of Brian
Background: Monty Python was a highly influential team of British and American television comedians who later branched out into films and other forms of entertainment. The group is best known for the television series Monty Python’s Flying Circus (1969-1974) and the motion picture Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975). [Microsoft Encarta 2007]
Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979) is a biblical satire that is unlikely to tickle the funny bone of the devoutly Catholic. It did cause controversy in religious circles, but it’s one of their most critically acclaimed. I watched this film during freshman year (in an Archaeology class with a German professor, what it has to do with the subject I have no idea) and I watched it again last weekend, and I just want to say without the shadow of a doubt that
THIS IS ONE OF THE FUNNIEST MOVIES EVER.
EVEEER!
Brian is the satirical Jesus, who happens to be born in the stable next to the Messiah’s. He is then thrust into a whirlwind world of Roman-haters, not-so-mute men and Messiah groupies, to name a few. Because of unlikely circumstances that mirror some of the events in Jesus’ life, a cult is built in his name. And you won’t believe how it ends. But I won’t spoil the fun here, you’ll have to watch it for yourself.
I just love Monty Python’s unapologetic humor. Their movies are intelligence and good old fun combined. And they’re not afraid to question the conventions and traditions.
And their scripts are terrific.
Brian: You don’t have to follow me! You are all individuals!
The Crowd: Yes, we are all individuals!
Brian: You have to be different!
The Crowd: Yes, we are all different!
Small lonely voice: I'm not!
Wise Man #1: Ahem!
Brian's mother: Oh!
[falls over in chair]
Brian's mother: Who are you?
Wise Man #2: We are three wise men.
Brian's mother: What?
Wise Man #1: We are three wise men.
Brian's mother: Well, what are you doing creeping around a cow shed at two o'clock in the morning? That doesn't sound very wise to me.
Reg: All right, but apart from the sanitation, medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, the fresh water system and public health, what have the Romans ever done for us?
Attendee: Brought peace?
Reg: Oh, peace - shut up!
Reg: There is not one of us who would not gladly suffer death to rid this country of the Romans once and for all.
Dissenter: Uh, well, one.
Reg: Oh, yeah, yeah, there's one. But otherwise, we're solid.
Ex-Leper: Okay, sir, my final offer: half a shekel for an old ex-leper?
Brian: Did you say "ex-leper"?
Ex-Leper: That's right, sir, 16 years behind a veil and proud of it, sir.
Brian: Well, what happened?
Ex-Leper: Oh, cured, sir.
Brian: Cured?
Ex-Leper: Yes sir, bloody miracle, sir. Bless you!
Brian: Who cured you?
Ex-Leper: Jesus did, sir. I was hopping along, minding my own business, all of a sudden, up he comes, cures me! One minute I'm a leper with a trade, next minute my livelihood's gone. Not so much as a by-your-leave! "You're cured, mate." Bloody do-gooder.
Brian: I'm not the Messiah! Will you please listen? I am not the Messiah, do you understand? Honestly!
Girl: Only the true Messiah denies His divinity.
Brian: What? Well, what sort of chance does that give me? All right! I am the Messiah!
Followers: He is! He is the Messiah!
Brian: Now, fuck off!
[silence]
Arthur: How shall we fuck off, O Lord?
Matthias: Look, I don't think it should be a sin, just for saying "Jehovah".
[Everyone gasps]
Jewish Official: You're only making it worse for yourself!
Matthias: Making it worse? How can it be worse? Jehovah! Jehovah! Jehovah!
Jewish Official: I'm warning you! If you say "Jehovah" one more time (gets hit with rock) RIGHT! Who did that? Come on, who did it?
Stoners: She did! She did! (suddenly speaking as men) He! He did! He!
Jewish Official: Was it you?
Stoner: Yes.
Jewish Official: Right...
Stoner: Well you did say "Jehovah. "
[Crowd throws rocks at the stoner]
Jewish Official: STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! STOP IT! All right, no one is to stone... anyone... until I blow this whistle. Even... and I want to make this absolutely clear... even if they do say, "Jehovah."
[Crowd stones the Jewish Official to death]
The movie was sort of a synthesis of everything I criticized about The Stories—oh hey, I’m agnostic, in case you were wondering.
It’s not for everyone, as it pokes fun at many religious concepts and at religion itself, but it’s something that makes you think. And that’s always a good thing. It’s satire at its best, even Ambrose Bierce would have been proud.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Ten Basic Myths and Truths
Myth: Her name is Roseann.
Truth: Her name is Marie Julianna Eleonore Rosalinde Florence-Guadiela Bashevis.
Myth: She speaks three languages.
Truth: She speaks six languages, namely: Filipino, English, French, Nadsat*, Newspeak**, and Turtle.
Myth: She is 18 years old.
Truth: In 1512 she beat Juan Ponce de Leon to the Fountain of Youth, and is in fact over 497 years old today.
Myth: She is a feminist.
Truth: She is the reincarnation of the Amazon Queen Penthesilea.
Myth: She is a Political Science major in the University of the Philippines.
Truth: She obtained a double major in Archaeology and Forensic Pathology from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 1991.
Myth: She is a Filipino Citizen.
Truth: She is half-Olorian*** and half-Ursa Minor Betan****.
Myth: She is a vegetarian.
Truth: While attending a Toltec ritual in Tula, she got into a heated argument with the soil fertility god Quetzalcoatl and has vowed ever since to solely devour plants for revenge.
Myth: She hates children.
Truth: She has a rare medical condition which makes her allergic to children within a twenty-foot radius, and long term exposure causes severe anaphylactic shock. This has led to 22 of her 31 near-death experiences as of 2009.
Myth: She is strong, independent, mercurial and neurotic.
Truth: She is nice, kind, sweet, forgiving, innocent, fragile and harmless.
Myth: She likes writing about herself in the third person.
Truth: Her alternate identity wrote this while she was talking with her turtles.
__________
*Nadsat: language invented by Anthony Burgess in the novel Clockwork Orange; most of the words are of Russian origin.
**Newspeak: language invented by George Orwell in the novel 1984.
***Oloria: Dimension between Narnia and Mordor, west of Oz. Accessible by tsunamis.
****Ursa Minor Beta: Headquarters of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. “It is a West zone planet which by an inexplicable and somewhat suspicious freak of topography consists almost entirely of subtropical coastline.” (Chapter 5, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, Douglas Adams)
Truth: Her name is Marie Julianna Eleonore Rosalinde Florence-Guadiela Bashevis.
Myth: She speaks three languages.
Truth: She speaks six languages, namely: Filipino, English, French, Nadsat*, Newspeak**, and Turtle.
Myth: She is 18 years old.
Truth: In 1512 she beat Juan Ponce de Leon to the Fountain of Youth, and is in fact over 497 years old today.
Myth: She is a feminist.
Truth: She is the reincarnation of the Amazon Queen Penthesilea.
Myth: She is a Political Science major in the University of the Philippines.
Truth: She obtained a double major in Archaeology and Forensic Pathology from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 1991.
Myth: She is a Filipino Citizen.
Truth: She is half-Olorian*** and half-Ursa Minor Betan****.
Myth: She is a vegetarian.
Truth: While attending a Toltec ritual in Tula, she got into a heated argument with the soil fertility god Quetzalcoatl and has vowed ever since to solely devour plants for revenge.
Myth: She hates children.
Truth: She has a rare medical condition which makes her allergic to children within a twenty-foot radius, and long term exposure causes severe anaphylactic shock. This has led to 22 of her 31 near-death experiences as of 2009.
Myth: She is strong, independent, mercurial and neurotic.
Truth: She is nice, kind, sweet, forgiving, innocent, fragile and harmless.
Myth: She likes writing about herself in the third person.
Truth: Her alternate identity wrote this while she was talking with her turtles.
__________
*Nadsat: language invented by Anthony Burgess in the novel Clockwork Orange; most of the words are of Russian origin.
**Newspeak: language invented by George Orwell in the novel 1984.
***Oloria: Dimension between Narnia and Mordor, west of Oz. Accessible by tsunamis.
****Ursa Minor Beta: Headquarters of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. “It is a West zone planet which by an inexplicable and somewhat suspicious freak of topography consists almost entirely of subtropical coastline.” (Chapter 5, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, Douglas Adams)
This is how it sounds like in my head.
My French homework is about Geography, and we have to make these questions about geographical locations of countries. One question per person, so I have to pick a country. Of course I could be random but it’s nicer to have some sort of significance. So I go thinking about which country is significant, and for some reason Nepal enters my head. I’ve never been to Nepal, but I wrote about it once upon time because of an essay contest about Ramon Magsaysay Awardees. I didn’t win that contest, but I won another when I used the same material, a regional journalism contest, which then sent me to nationals, which made February of 2008 one of the most interesting months ever, but that’s a story for another time. Anyhoot. Nepal. There’s this doctor from Nepal who ended up with the award in 2007 because he cured people with eye diseases for free. I wrote about him because he had such an interesting life story, and also because I distinctly remember having no other freaking idea at the time. For the life of me I can’t remember his name now, which is sad, because I do owe the guy somehow. So this gets me thinking, besides its bordered by India and the Chinese Tibetan region, and its capital is Kathmandu, and that doctor guy, what do I know about Nepal? Zilch. So I look it up and I come across something more interesting than their flag. In 2001, their crown prince Dipendra shot to death the king and the queen. Then he decided to commit suicide and failed, and went into a coma. He died eventually, which made his uncle, of the ridiculously difficult name, king. So I think, there’s a really great story in this tragedy, and then it hits me. Somebody already wrote this! And the title is: Lion King. No, really. They thought Simba killed Mufasa, but it was actually uncle Scar who framed Simba, then Scar became king. So, what if Gyanendra Bir Bikram Shah (that’s the uncle) actually orchestrated this ala Lion King? So this also gets me thinking like, wow, for a kid’s story it actually had heavy material. And also is this one of those life imitates art things, and is there a psychological phenomenon here? Maybe uncle difficult name overdosed on Lion King? Maybe Disney has long term traumatic effects? You know they say Bambi is the most traumatic movie EVER? Maybe it made people convert into poachers, I don’t know. (Tangent: In Political Science there’s this term, “Disneyfication,” which is like McDonaldization, and they’re both what you think they are.) So anyway I figure I have to write a story about this, about the Nepalese Royal Massacre, not Bambi or whatever, just because it’s a brilliant scenario already. But I’ll do that after I actually finish that French homework.
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