Welcome! Perhaps it will set me free to say I like you. I like you so much. (Just guilty about feeling strange, you don't deserve the way I react to it. My piece of sh*t. My apologies). Ahhmm. (winky me to you.. ^_^)
To clip or not to clip. Next to skin, 'am suddenly finding myself wanting to DO my hair, or just maybe. By the way, this Seamus Heaney's contemporary sonnet crisps at the roof of my tongue: A Clip
Harry Boyle's one-room, one-chimney house With its settle bed was our first barber shop. We'd go not for a haircut but "a clip": Cold smooth creeping steel and snicking scissors, The strong-armed chair, the plain mysteriousness Of your sheeted self inside that neck-tied cope — Half sleeveless surplice, half hoodless Ku Klux cape. Harry Boyle's one-roomed, old bog-road house Near enough to home but unfamiliar: What was it happened there? Weeds shoulder-high up to the open door, Harry not shaved, close breathing in your ear, Loose hair in windfalls blown across the floor Under the collie's nose. The collie's stare.
(A poem too brief for a clear story i guess; surely earns my scrumptious nibbling that even if tone changes somewhere, would still lead me where it's headed, making me certain I'm safe beyond struggling. Or I dunno, please give it a shot yourself)
*breaks* sabay...
Could it be? That the Powerpuff Girls are an evolution of Astro Boy's female counterpart, or -parts? Look. Big eyes. The height. The boy flies, so do the girls. But he's one while they're three. He's a robot. They're not. (Or are they by one peculiar chance? guesses...) And except for the sole-blast I must add. Bothered about it just a pinch. A draft of my curiosity, if you want.
At dahil dyan, I'm suddenly impressed to have the shirt with the statement this punk --
Donations accepted, used or brand-new (talo-talo na, hehe..) or if you reserve the care to tell me where it's selling. It may be all over the place, some chicks just don't have the luxury of time to move around.
Teka. I can't get over this barako mode. Tamang-tama, magma-mayo uno na.. so it's time to labor for tons and tons ('kala mo naman) of charm to recover.
Tunay nga ba, na HETO! ang blog ng mga genuine pigs?
It's chickening. Is it having more chickens (in meal) than necessary or chewing on smoke that has rendered my brain try too hard to cope with the going? The gap! Losing bytes and bytes of memory, working piecewise and very seldom continuous. Poor brain..Weird, kasi pa'no ko hindi maaalalang may nakalimutan ako sa bagay o gawaing nasa sistema ko na? Someone just broke my heart with the breaking news kaya nagkakaganito 'ko. Hard to believe it came without the slightest hint. The back of my head must be dinged at least, don't you think?
It's so disappointing to the point, maton na ko ngayon. All charms lost for the moment. Sige na nga. Iisipin ko na lang 'di na naman ako deserving. Ouch. My confidence hurting every time.
So, palamig muna. Let me have some blended ice with the following ingredients:
(you may customize for me if you want)
1. BANANA CON BITTER MELON QUOTES:
*I love you not because of who you are but because of who I am when I am with you.
*Just because I don't love you the way you want me to doesn't mean I don't love you with all I have.
*The worst way to be missing someone, is to be sitting right beside him knowing you can't have him. (melon!)
*Never frown even when you are sad because you never know who is falling in love with your smile.
*To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.
(quite a booster? =])
2. MACAPUNO PARA SA'YO 'SUGARTOP':
AKO'Y LABIS NA NABIBIGHANI NG 'YONG KARIKTAN. Ipagpaumanhin mo kung 'di ko magawang tingnan ka ng tuwid, sa aking pagpipigil na madarang nang tuluyan. Ako'y masasaktan lamang 'pagkat 'di lingid sa 'king SA IBA ANG IYONG PAGTANGI.
3. NOSTALGIC NATA&KAONG OF THE PAST
Sabi ko raw sa journal nung January '07: I sadly remembered my old times with ******* and like how I could have had a dream come true if he felt the same way. I wish I were his rose. For if it were I whom he spent his time with.. if it were I whom he had learned to love, then I would be unique, set apart from all the other roses after his sight. But I guess I was just so naive at being capable of such an imagination. I had less of knowing how to acknowledge my heart's own weakness. Whatever thorns I got for defense wouldn't do any good against the hurt..of the truth that lay in ambush and was about to eat me alive. And it just did, after my prince left me. Torn to pieces by the imaginary monster that was truth..that we weren't meant to be. He knew so little about it because his own world is made of huge concerns everyone rarely minds having.
And so I'm not his rose, the one who is (goodness knows who), must be unique not only among the roses of the earth but the flowers of all the universe.. for it is she that my prince had tamed. For that, I've become just like all the other roses who may be beautiful but empty, because I'm not unique. Because I'm not his rose. -- inspired by 'The Little Prince' by Antoine de Saint Exupery
(Baloney! Wala lang. Just checking how much I've pulled myself back from here. Winks.)
4. UBE POEM BY ANNE SEXTON:
THE NUDE SWIM
On the southwest side of Capri we found a little unknown grotto where no people were and we entered it completely and let our bodies lose all their loneliness.
All the fish in us had escaped for a minute. The real fish did not mind. We did not disturb their personal life. We calmly trailed over them and under them, shedding air bubbles, little white balloons that drifted up into the sun by the boat where the Italian boatman slept with his hat over his face.
Water so clear you could read a book through it. Water so buoyant you could float on your elbow. I lay on it as on a divan. I lay on it just like Matisse's Red Odalisque. Water was my strange flower, one must picture a woman without a toga or a scarf on a couch as deep as a tomb.
The walls of that grotto were everycolor blue and you said, "Look! Your eyes are seacolor. Look! Your eyes are skycolor." And my eyes shut down as if they were suddenly ashamed.
(both classic and dynamic; very timely for my summer mood)
So, breaking free I was (or have been). Problem is (or hopefully not), I've got random details in mind I need to put up with.
My goal: TANSO! -- still far from its finishing touches. Well, I have the sun to blame for not being generous enough for grabs. Like 'oh c'mon sun, I don't need you to shine, your job's beating.' I can feel my suntan lotion screaming: Cooperate! Pleayazz...
Uhmm.. A-ha! I remember, the roof has me buried by the work-home-work-home cycle. Oh yes, we've rare times together then. 'Haven't been thoroughly acquainted, yeah? Suffice to say I've got you. Sun. End of your boring story there.
Another thing: knitting bikini.. KNITTING BI-KINI?!! What the..really is that necessary? Hate it. Hate it. [gavel pounding]. I'll admit it anyway. Knitting bikini, so. And yes, I've got one site 'for the dummies' ready for it. 'Am actually feeling less pretty in most cases but it's gotten rhetoric. There's just nooo stopping it now. For which getaway? Dunno yet, will definitely keep myself posted.
K, I understand. Now, keep your cool. Next..
(With an intro: long sigh)--This is some verdict. The catalytic girl's proven guilty beyond reasonable doubt NOT HAVING DATED (ANYONE YET?! Whoa.. with popping eyes right there). Since when? OMG, You hell sure she's from this age? (Sshhh... a secret too dark for the telling). 'Swear dude, I'll bet my next paycheck to slap-wake you, it's real.
Settle down guys. Of course, she's got deal to accept, oath to take--that, ok (pause) before June-09's over, she will have been asked out (or vise versa, whichever comes first) by a 'qualified bachelor'. 'Mean, well.. at least. Mmmm.. sounds yummy.
Consequence if not? To be constricted by the world's deadliest boa. Nahh..scum! She'll simply be depressed, that's all. Nothing inflicts more suffering quite like it. Yeah, the hell with it.
Haay... Enough of the hopeless romantics (101) PLEAZZE.. Let's (for a break) have some shot of a gin (take note), one made suave by a dead snake preserved in it (having sweet aroma). WOW! I just saw my mom tried it unhesitatingly, as if it were an elixir to make immortal. As if in a scene from 'Survivor Series.' Let me tell you I'm curious, but drinking it for real? A-a. No way. It's rattling weird I could picture IT come to life. (Shivers). More weird than that? It's sitting on the countertop sink of our house.
DISCI-PLAN! Boy you've got to. If the work's light (like mine, like it isn't at all), better put some useful add-ons in between. Couple of days back, my plan to change template had been interrupted by XML (chenelin) error. Whatever that means.. has me going for stuffs not-so-my, oh my (html, css, javascript). But believing what it's worth? That used to be Bel's lil push there. Thanks shorty! Though I know you don't find my own application hip.. Ugh!
And I'm stuck. Humid stuck. Figure that? ..soaking must be terrible!
WAA-TTERR!! Here I come. That's terrific in the end I know. K, settle down now.
Down.. Cut it. Now, that's better. Not usually the way I come off eh. Just sticky all over I guess. And it can't be helped.
Besides, my sweat gland's become active again. So, 'am an excessive sweater, OK. Happy to realize at least that beauty soap just won't do here. Wise budgeting? piece o' cake! So!! 'Doesn't come as a surprise at all to have pores leaking. Mine, yes. Care to lick its leak? Ewe..
Hu! hu! hu! (sobs).. can't even shoot that 'lovely guy' a nice stare. Shame on you untidy pores! By the way, hey.. cut that out for a moment.
I chose to be sporty, right? Oh yes! Then, how's summer heat to be taken care of? Lots of water to plunge in, free-styling from end to end. Wait. I have significant report to make. What, a confession? For the record, I had the PSC's 50m-pool length covered six times, wearing a t-back one-piece (behind shorts, of course what do you expect?). Haha..the pool had eyes (bunch of kids 'round, for the censoring board, *that sake alone* who would have helped it?). Everyone's busy anyway, so was I.
As aforementioned (bore word again..), TANNING.. one ultimate goal to consider (for the lovers of darker, deeper complexion, excuse me). Well, that's just drop-dead HOT, right? Bronze dark's as RAVISHING as it gets, but not as gay to feel stereotype-trash about when almost everybody seems to be signing up for it.
(Well, well.. Thanks for those who ignore. Haha.. for giving away better odds, just like that)
WHOA! Finally, I have decided.. to pull out this blog (or is it really one?! in the first place) out of the gloom, and into the L-I-G-H-T. As if from a cave of no return. Yes, I've just realized I wasn't being fair to the general audience who needs normal breathing. Hehehe ^_^..^_^
But I do appreciate the genius it was. No wonder what with the 'TOLSTOJAN' -- ok, let me take a little opportunity to explain that. Leo Tolstoy, being my inspiration. I had both 'pride' and 'shame' in keeping that. 'Pride' in the sense that I very much look up to the person's spirituality.. like no one's ever done this kind. You're gonna have to really dig man, to see that. 'Shame' because for some reason, I couldn't make such a definite stand.. like who cares, it's weird and stuff. We're so INTO THE WORLD! And I just can't be so detached. K, fair enough? Clear am I?
K..k.. nowadays, there's a lot to explore. BUT!!!! Worrying about IT is my first hate (h-e-y-t-!!) so there's no way (HIGH-WAY!) i'll allow it DO me. Why? I've had it scream the hertz off my good neurons so brain coordination gets screwed, if you can picture as such (nasty!). It's been summerrr..
What I'm obsessed about? TANNING.
And like, I'm one hell of a dummy all about it. If you can please, to the best you could, leave a comment with your due advice, that'll be GRREAT!
Where do chicks, or at least a chick, a babe.. hang(s) out nawadis ? Spot 'one' at the PhilSports (PSC), or Ultra however it's called. Yes, 'been there twice a week and would like to keep that routine, because I've come to LOVE WATER.. so this one-hell-of-a-babe won't be missed, well at least by the sun's beat, the WATAAAHH.. no one else comes close.. ^_^
The picture may not be worth what Ian McEwan’s novel was given credit for, but it surely deserved critical attention. Firstly, the truth was clear with the manifestation of a thirteen-year old psyche of the imaginative Briony Tallis (Saoirse Ronan) who, in that stage, was aspiring to become a playwright. On a conventional British estate of the 40’s, she lived with an older sister Cecilia (Keira Knightley) whose sexual maturity largely bothered the world she supposed ought to be filled with chaste fantasies.
That aspect of the film accounted for how the adolescence of Briony was caught between her unfolding inventive exertion and the underlying malice of a transformative puberty. There was enough intricacy in her role, seeing that her innocent command had been staked to pursue moral standards in her own conservative discernment while she maintained prudence with an ensconced regard for Robbie Turner (James McAvoy), the housekeeper’s son privileged to study medicine. Robbie’s passion about Cecilia drew over for them a surreptitious affair which nobody had the least idea was bound to be rifted by a single, heedless act.
Playfully, Briony meant to satisfy her curiosity as she yearned attention from her sister’s lover. Convicted that something was going improper between Robbie and Cecilia, Briony intercepted every letter which she was assigned to bridge them with, perusing it firsthand. It surely was disquieting how her imagination would read Robbie in print: “In my dreams, I kiss your cunt. Your wet, sweet cunt,” as a price for intruding their unsolicited privacy. The lovers couldn’t care less yet they were also chasing moments from a general gathering to have any room for a child’s concern, which apparently was a huge one.
In the library, in the middle of aiming to witness depths of love without witness but them save the books neat at shelves closed behind, Robbie and Cecilia shook across borders just like openly, and wildly. At the height of sensations, an unexpected visitor came along beyond notice. The setting quite implied a perfect irony of books, a symbolism of the much as against too little a knowledge of the more real, consequences that were to originate from something neither learned, nor (slightly) anticipated. At least not from Briony but which only used to be impossible, as she’d never understand. Then the monster of deed ensued almost at no time when, that same night of family reunion, sensations dropped to regret.
“It was him, I saw it”—few words enough to startle a moment, likened temperature-shift that could break a glass. Briony saw him indeed, though not to mention whom her cloudless vision did look on while the other girl out in the bushy dark, she thought, was assaulted. Without due trial, the innocent’s claim of a sighting bore false accusation, on Robbie Turner. At the spate of World War II, at the battlefield he was found paying the cost of someone else’s lie much authoritative than was merely even-getting. So was Cecilia fated to confinement in her nursing career as vastly a drifter than a lover in the following scenes that doomed their history at its most tragic.
“I saw it” –in full emphatic admission was, perhaps, in no way meaning to be disavowed as Briony moved on, very unhappily consumed by the truth bound to inexistence for miles of time until she willed to expend for redemption.
The horrifying sight of casualties warred the 18-yearold Tallis (Romola Garai) within—a relevant analogy to the view of the appalling damage, which cost the lovers not only reputation but also their happiness and lives at the very end, recollected with the culpability that made it, the one solely hers, and waiting atonement. Through conscientious servitude as a nurse just like Cecilia, she had tried to find solace or something that would at least lessen such haunting flashes, because nothing but empty solitude kept her company. Nothing worse than being noosed by self-reproach from a fabrication which cannot ever be uncommitted. Feeling just like a 20th century suicidal Judas was anything but peace specially to have Briony’s sight born at the supposed victim in deliberate engagement to the erring party, at the face of truth effaced by her constant denial.
The film was art, and a stabbing one. As Briony Tallis became full-fledged novelist, she knew the past had twinned her destiny and wouldn’t exonerate her one-time misconduct. So the old lady (Vanessa Redgrave), this time with dementia, made a life-worth of investment and wrote her last which finally opened her door to freedom. In that creation, she’d furnished the most remarkable of settlements Robbie and Cecilia had for very long justifiably deserved, or equivalently, the writer’s most accountable confession with which to finally, be atoned.
Getting to know both sides now deepened as Bella spent nights away from Charlie to avoid the newborn trackers of unknown coven, on the loose. Unpleasant mystery behind Rosalie’s dour attitude was brought to light of understanding upon a startling revelation of her hapless human destiny with confession that she was pettily grim her vain splendor couldn’t draw on Edward’s interest. With the same degree of enlightenment, Bella had better discerned Jake’s identity when the pack’s assembly threw a welcome party in the mountain, inviting her to meet the new members. Under Old Quil and Billy’s supervision of the event, ancestral legends had Bella and everyone else deliberating solemnly as Billy took charge in chronicling the trace to werewolf origins. Jacob nursed Bella’s rest with warming comfort of his arms where she drifted off insightfully, absorbing the quaint narrative of the leader until it faded.
Keeping Jake’s presence led Bella to escape indecisions about Edward’s marriage proposal and made her play around options as well. Her incompletely explained fondness of his company and apprehension toward the state of their friendship furthered Jacob’s aspiration as qualms evaded off her beleaguered faculty. She had hung out not just with him but with his pack whose concept of imprinting in their tradition she’d later learn was a little more unique than that of soul-mating.
It took Jasper’s reminiscing of his struggling past to hypothesize what may have triggered the sudden outbreak of the newborn vampires which horrified Seattle with massive carnages. The Cullens had agreed that whoever sent them on exposure would assuredly have the Volturi, for reputation’s sake as decreed upon, intercede to cut them down. Both Edward’s and Jacob’s families were specially fretful with the odorous mark left in Bella’s room, evident of a neat intruder who targeted Bella in a way that wouldn’t access Alice’s foresight.
While both parties kept an eye on what lurked in ambush for Bella, the Cullens had been thoughtful of their contacts who they’d hoped would agree to offer help in numbers. With the time outrunning their schemes, nothing occurred much that they got to the bottom of asking the Quileutes to tag their force, a venture with werewolves, instead. Such pact is rare-to-never in motion picture’s history and Stephenie Meyer’s creativity had gone as far as having animal instincts follow rational control to keep up with the facilitating enemy, ensuring a much united front after training. That proved relevant with possibilities for reconcilable convergence of two different warring worlds with a common, solid purpose. Edward understood Jacob’s language in his wolf-form so they took turns at taking Bella round the clearing for entrapment of the suspects who’d trail after her scent.
Since Bella never wanted to lose sight of Edward, anxious for his safety despite word of confidence, he missed out on the fight but discovered just then that she was right all along about Victoria, who sneaked past the battle zone to head off where they two were. Personally, I would suggest this part is equally breathtaking as the scene when they first met with the Voturi in Italy. I couldn’t help wonder whether Victoria’s power would estimate above that of Edward’s or that he may get her over with at Seth’s expense though. Anyhow, it was relieving to have read on how that part wrapped up with the duo (Victoria and Riley) defeat, a sign of ultimate end to Bella’s unremitting threats.
The real climax however wasn’t even in the duration of the fight with the newborns or the confrontation with Jane and cohorts, nor in grave episode for Jake whose healing was expedited by Carlisle’s support. Bella knew that her most personal torment was more than fatal. To come to find out that she’d fallen for Jake in love, even with the kind she had for Edward, was squarely climatic.
Just when we’ve thought to this point that we get all the tenses right for Bella, just when we’ve kept our expectations soaring fixed at an eternal compromise with Edward since the beginning, I am suddenly unsure about how to treat her character (no matter how depleted) when the foundation weakened at Jacob’s appeal. New Moon gave no indication of a tumor which spread the way Bella found herself incurable, as to wish apathy for what she had been dying to hold in denial, not even Alice’s fleeting vision was near contingent to guess.
To Edward’s disadvantage, the tent scene vivified the conflict of his overprotection, of his not being totally sold out for fear of hurting Bella. When Jacob offered himself around, all that Edward could do was glower back at the live space heater since his weather-congruous skin had barely anything to warm Bella who was freezing to death. A real fight for the inner cause at that point, a virtue may be alleged to have stood in the way of the warm and the cold-blooded, or that which already was fiction formed itself another one. In the words of a patient vampire: I cannot live without my life; I cannot live without my soul and of an avid werewolf: the clouds I can handle, but I can’t fight with an eclipse—could we place the better understanding of Bella that whatever choice remained was tearing her, caught between the protective present and what might have been with Jacob. Still, invitations under veto were sent out while Jake chose reclusive distance with a speed to brush down his spine. Why must heart beat both ways at everyone’s risk? Now, she’d be doomed by guilt ‘til the Breaking Dawn.
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear, nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.
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