To love and be loved for all that you are and are not, to grasp the truth that lets you live and die and fight. To withstand the causes of everything that crushes. A life cherished to the brim, its sweetness infallible, its intentions pure, its consequences, inevitable. A painful thing to behold, yet glorious in its reaches. An exploration of the unseen, an introspection of the trivial, a longing for immortality, a sense of being, to be more than existing. But how? How to look for it when your heart longs for it? How to raise the banner, to surrender in the name of your emotions, respecting passion, respecting that one thing that makes you you, yet you who pique at the height of your egotism, you are strangled by self-will that is loosely based on conceit. And when you finally stake that dagger into your consciousness, the plot darkens luring you into a clutch that cannot be saved, into the dungeons where chains become your arms, all too resonant of the mighty tragedies of Shakespeare. No cries can redeem it, no will can reforge the pieces of shards that come crashing into ones history of bleakness. Why am I crawling in pain, why do I kiss the mud when I can step on it, what becomes of the weight I willingly want to throw away. To lighten my being and go back to my innocence when my slate has not been tarnished, when I have not known anything, when knowing if I have really known something is a thing to be guarded. 

Izy's Letter

I thank Iz for her heartfelt letter. After ko yun nabasa, I fell into a trance and I felt numb and weightless. And all of my feelings floated within me, into my consciousness, altogether affirming my own frustrations. After reading it, I lay back thinking in retrospect, until I closed my eyes with a lot of questions unanswered. 

My sort-of depression was necessary, I believe, to even propel me to realize that the life I am living, if continually lived, will be a repetition of lives that have lived it. My mind has to stray at a slighter angle to see what convention has blinded. I am seeking a finer purpose and am still seeking it. And yes, I have also turned my sights to business. But it is dough with the poorest gluten, a fanaticism that must be watered to mature. We need capital, investors, great ideas. But I do not know how to arrange them in the proper order. Childish. I thought at first, that everybody's happy with how things are turning up for their lives, why am I the only one left to be tread upon in the mud, but then hearing that life challenges her as well gave me strength that ultimately, it is what we want, and not the place that roots us, that burns our will, and defines the perspectives we wish to interpret things.  

Bread-Making Day 1

Bread is a prized, glorious thing! It is a palette of an Edward Burne-Jones pre-Raphaelite painting that runs deeper than the colors, and the images, and themes, and its undertones, and moralities in question.  For all its simplicity, it allures the senses, then plays the upper hand, until your soul succumbs to a taste immortal. It is a classic, respectable piece of history with a ferocious character that has fed a history of heroism, cowardice, convention, and innovation.

Two weeks ago, I decided to be that one thing about food that I have truly loved in the course of my life, a bread-maker! With the meager allowance that I have earned from my auxiliary assignment (not to mention my latest resignation), I grappled with saving for the most staple ingredients (that I intended to buy wholesale, but I must be thinking wishfully since I am almost broke) and the gas (to disallow interference from papa from cooking the more important, time-tested and never-ascribed to failing meals). In the unfortunate circumstance that my bread will not turn out to be bread, at least I have paved a course that will still keep my dignity afloat by redeeming myself from too tight economic strings.  My affinity with bread stemmed from my stingy personality. My societal predisposition has defaulted an inability to afford the finer tastes that life has to offer and if given a chance, I am bound to falter and ponder on more sensible practices, and hence, abstain with steadfast resiliency, half-knowing that a great portion of the exchange of commodities goes straight to rental fees or fancy bank loans that unjustly and deceivingly favors ambiance and less of the bread spirit.

An unruly character of an artisan would be sacrificing quality in favor of profit in the name of consumer ignorance. We tend to interpret taste in terms of the overpowering taste and less of the base. 

And so here I am cleaning the recesses of our underground kitchen, scrubbing rusty tile-ends with sodium hypochlorite, damping the conventional oven and finding pieces of dead cockroaches and spiders and their eggs. It is a forest of abandonment from a family that has pledged to desist baking. My hands puckered at the repeated rinsing. My face shone brightly and with all of the oil in it, if I can squeeze it further to maximize its production, and once and for all, give me the liberty to become a presentable woman with no need of a powder, can collect up to 10 mL worth. Since I will not pay for newer airtight containers I saw on Paul Hollywood’s studio kitchen, my Nissin and Rebisco biscuit containers will do.

I reviewed the Bloomer recipe I got from Paul Hollywood’s classic bread episode and obsessively-compulsively trained my senses to never forget a single practice, and which by the way, turned out disastrously. Here are so far my challenges!

1.  Paul Hollywood made it look like kneading the dough is easy. He talks and smiles and looks at the camera as if nothing can ever go wrong. But boy, oh boy, I am really in big trouble. When he talked about the activity doubling as way to tone your arms, I wish he’d exaggerate so that I would know the level of difficulty this activity really portrays. My fingers were becoming the webbed limbs of a duck, and too much dough is sticking into the kneading surface. When I grasped for the oil to decrease the surface tension, the bottle went all gooey and I hated the possibility of overturning and messing things up. In the end, my dough was not all smooth and shiny. And I proved it before it can even passed an artisan’s test. I am so impatient and I shall pay for it after it turns out in the oven. For kneading, I might have to use flour next time.

2.  My dough did not rise dramatically! After an hour has passed, it looked like an incompetent lump, still eons from PH’s. But I put in 7 grams of instant dry yeast! I think I must add more next time. It must rise! It must! I believe the temperature is also at fault. The program says proving it in a warm place. Since, Philippines is warm enough, I thought leaving it in the counter is enough. I have entertained the idea of proving my dough outside, but the thought of bird droppings and the relative tensile strength of the generic cling wrap I have bought decided otherwise.

And after everything else is finished:

It tasted like beer, and sourdough-like despite not having had to ferment it for a number of days. It yielded a hollow sound when tapped at the crust but the undersides were burned! It needs more effective kneading prior to initial proving. You can almost smell alcohol and olive oil distinctively. I forgot to coat the proving container and the baking surface, which troubled me a lot. I have to add more flour when kneading and I have to knead forcefully if I am to achieve a shiny, smooth dough. Good Heavens! I proved it for 9 hours, because I think it fell short with the description of rising. I baked my hopeless bread at 220 degrees for 25 minutes, then another 200 degrees at 10 minutes, cheated another 5 minutes before transitioning because I felt the crust is not assuming a fancy color. I added sesame seeds to at least dignify my product, which in the end did not stick and fell into the baking sheet. I scoured my Bloomer, but it did not bloom! Oh well. This is life. When I carried my bloomer upstairs, all the seeds fell into the plate and my heart sank. After pondering long on what I missed, I felt at least redeemed that the upper crust was fine and the dusting was not overboard. The inside was chewy, and had competent gluten formation. Tadashi, it smelled like alcohol. I  failed at an epic unprecedented pace at the base. The Bloomer I made perhaps will never sell. Anyway, I'll just improve next time with a sweeter dough. 

Charge

i am driven by a will that is obscure. never has it plagued my foresight with insurmountable darkness. i want to fight. hard and harder still. nevermind if the chances placed before me seem limited in its breadth to promise redemption. i see my shadow in the vale, charging into the unknown, into a battle i am uncertain of winning. yet with me burns the fire of mortality. who remains with me until that day comes i can no longer raise my sword? who wipes the blood in my wounds after it has been impaled by fate? who cries at my passing, at the moment i can no longer utter the sweetness and bitterness of life, at the moment i can no longer see the beauty of what made everything the I have loved? who raises once more the mighty flag that has stooped by the causes it once stood?

***
once existence is questioned, it cannot be unturned. it haunts the recesses of your consciousness even in the most trifling of moments. wake up! wake up! the power of a few thoughts are potent enough to destroy everything that you have gone for, and grown for, and loved for. do not be a slave to your own prejudices. there are mightier truths waiting to be tapped and these, not ones bickering, will knock your skull open and let you bleed your woes.

***

time is malleable enough to mock ones  thoughts if they idle the keeper for too long. time will wake you in your most vile slumber. it may slow, and it may have to be, for it will pace just right once it acknowledges a real challenge.

Manong Janitor

one of the best lessons i learned came from a simple man, a worker of his own right, with his dignity and masculinity and chivalry and magnanimity intact, his heart unfilled with the evils of attrition, always gaping on hope, on what he gives and hopes to give. it is a sheer slap on our faces for talking and thinking too vainly and losing our hearts in what we thought of as our means of reconciliating with the truth. we find the greater truth when it survives the evils of our small obscure painful worlds. we find it unperturbed, and almost always, hopeful, undeceiving, not expectant of praise, quiet and even time cannot break the ardor of its will.

i pondered long on the nature of his scrubbing, his brooming, his collection, his predisposition to speak in a tone that seeks respect for what he is about to do and i thought no, God, give this man more than what i can ever achieve in my life. good men of good measure that awakes your soul from what you perceived as already dilated but truthfully in stupor, deserve more than any praise i could ever write in this note. the world is so overrated. when you see your kind in perpetual service neither mocking or a even a third of your pinky, shamed from the gross mechanics of his duties, whatever it is you think you deserve more, will be lost along the grains of dust he whiffs like virtuous magic.

and yet, you do not demand a man to work harder any more than you do.

plane thoughts

Fall freely amongst the clouds of purity, cleansing every sin and vulnerability that characterized your humanity. Fall freely amongst the clouds and bath in all the glory of sunshine, and hope that circumstances shall pace slowly. To feed you with numbing cold, to scoop a handful in an act of scientific defiance. It seemed endless and beautiful and romantic and surreal. Lovely for its representation of simplicity. If i am a spirit, i wish to be held captive in its timeless beauty.  


tour thoughts
no second shall i waste retracing other people's footsteps. one should endeavor to break free from the madness of consistency and the evils of arrogance.



boarding thoughts
love. when you think of him in your most vulnerable times.  when he is the only one you see when you close your eyes and feel the emptiness of what could have been. to be liked for everything that all are but you are not and having that unspeakable, that incomparable passion to sustain that love no amount of time can ever bind, is perhaps the best love that no blatant triviality can ever limit.

and again, to be liked for who you are. just as you are.  

Cinephile

To Download!

footnote (when honor is @ stake)

monsieur lazhar 

once upon a time in Anatolia (oooohhh)

le havre (another aki, cold finnish icy dampness)

salmon fishing in the yemen (because i miss obi-wan)

the song of sparrows

the Syrian bride

baran (majid majidi from children of heaven directs, yipee)

the color of paradise (maji majidi, again)

Foreign Movies I Recommend!

Please see Rotten Tomatoes for complete reviews!

The Raid: Redemption (indo - action)

4Bia (yeah, i know, im still listing it anyway)

5 centimeters per second (jap - love)

13 Assassins (jap - historical drama)

A Very Long Engagement

Amelie

An Education

Atonement

Battle Royale

Children of Heaven

City of God

Coraline

Eat Drink Man Woman

Fantastic Mr. Fox

Ghost World

Gone With The Wind

Goodbye Lenin!

Heavenly Forest

Iron Monkey

Jiro Dreams of Sushi

Let the Right One In

Looper

Mary and Max

Ninja Scroll

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Pan's Labyrinth

Paprika

Pelle The Conqueror

Persepolis

Persuasion

Run Lola Run

Scott Pilgrim vs. the World

Sophie Scholl: The Final Days

The Counterfeiters

The Devil's Backbone

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo

The Lives of Others

The Road Home

The Secret In their Eyes

The Story of Qiu Ju

The Wedding Banquet

The Baader Meinhoff Complex

To Live

The Miracle of Bern

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

Zelary

Flipped

Crows-0

Salaam Bombay

and all movies by Zhang Yimou and Hayao Miyazaki (except Porco Rosso!)

Where Do I Stand?

Those are but lofty dreams a person like me needs more than a life to pay for. Too much to die and too
less to live. And what happens after I proclaim my self worthy? Or maybe it is the answer, but it is one of those many things that you have to reasonably reconsider. I do not have the privileges of the mighty. I am only the majority, feeding into what a can can contain, counting my change very carefully, fighting perspectives with my life and silencing things pleasurable to sustain the curse betrothed in exchange
for a lifetime membership into the disillusioned exclusivity of middle-class living. I am a member of the
working class, a revolutionary on the brink of madness, angry, but nevertheless and because there remains no other choice, fighting for a freedom I myself cannot fathom. But maybe, the freedom for a life filled with integrity, that no matter how small you are reduced, every minute this materially-driven world defines you, you remain unchanged, neither becoming evil or frail. Just sturdy like a banyan tree, incognizant of people's distorted classification of what life or success or being a total failure is all about. Sometimes you see yourself in a vision, time slowed, with arms outstretched, reaching for the inaccessible and the faster you run after it, the farther the images retreat  into the oblivion. Is it a thing to be pitied? But pity and being pitied remain a relative state ascribing  to the strength of what truly defines your thoughts. The pain of not feeling the joy that their eyes speak of while you are slowly diminished by the curse of preservation - the demarcation blurs between what is accepted just or unjust - and you realize that in the end, out of all the damned things you have strived to understand, there lies a dissolving mystery that marks the true quality of reality.
 

30 minutes to feed

I am an acorn, buried beneath the oldest of the mountains of the East, crushed by the mighty ground, stomping every nook of my helpless flesh. and another weight above it that beautifully flourished, is one more pain that i have to endure. one after the other, another after an endless count. to conjure some foxy notions of deceit, overbearing, employing what I must but am not, seeping life from the others who have battled their demons. no! i dare not engrave my freedom by means of devilry. perseverance that never ends. ordeals you thought will never end. and the clock whose hands dictate the value of what you've gained and lost and preserved, is and will and perhaps the only thing in this world that remains objective. neither laughing or mocking. and there you are, brimming with hope and filling your heart with gladness, but the truth is never hid and when you're pained, you know that some feelings fill it too. a drowning uncertainty. every wave of it consumes you, and when you raise one hand in an attempt to elevate your vulnerability,only the cackles of soaring seagulls remain immutable among wide-ranging frequencies. as if this 'conspiration' is the antonym of evasion, binding your will, resisting utmost defense, absorbing your trinity into the widest plain.

Proving Nothing

Greatness is defined by the company, through the affirmation of deeds, and separation from mediocrity, the perfunctory and meaningless. It is never masked by garish fashion in all the glory of chiffon and silk and all the proclaimed chocolates of the clothing kingdom or how well the colors are painted on skin as canvass or how our mane fall back and suggest drama. But, the painfully existing thought is, nobody acknowledges the true sense of shallowness or the gravity of what should be upheld. Few would want to fix their gaze at an uncomfortable angle to see so much, so much insofar as the dimensions seem limitless in the reign to explore further the recesses of our morality. Like some bitter spell, wanting, engaging, fooling yet masked by all things wonderful to behold, all are drawn too easily, never questioning whether these are meritorious or temporary, whether important or unjust. We think highly of awe, and underrate familiarity without critic further tipping the most unfortunate scale of keeping our convictions at bay. In so much as we want to pattern our lives in pretense, to fill that need to affirm what we are made, we lose track of who we really are.

Devaluing the self we took our whole life to build, ripping it strand per strand, slowly, until all that's left is a code of shame, undue shame for our substandard understanding of our respective characters, of what should not be shame but pride, of what should not be ranked but individually tailored and again, great pride in things small and smaller

Notes 07-08/2012

Its funny how feelings proceed from overwhelming desire to conquer to distaste and angst which moves you to conclude (in all your naive tendencies) that love is the greatest form of pain. Tired of allegories, of words best heard, best pondered, but unripe to define what ought to serve. I am fueled by that spark I cannot fathom, nearly deadened, missing its supposed destiny by a sly, swift swerve. And others speak of it loftily as     passioned engine, poised to stand erect amidst tests of resiliency. But I never surrendered to the conventional dictum at how everything begins. Time is a pain in the ass. How much more depth I might have to reach to subscribe to its antithesis, i'd never know. but the greatest pain must be endured and only when we move past such formidable obstacle, can we feel again.

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you tried to be green, but it came of red. and yet, he laughed. laughed as if its the acme of the ends of comedy. as if its the last laugh he will have to have for his whole life. half sincere, yet passionate. rooted beyond words. unforced in its masked brashness. as if its the crude version of that one thing he can never say.

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how and why do they not interlock even if our hearts and soul desire! oh, how cruel fate is! how agonizing it is to feel every bit of misery, because you can't, just can't, express your feelings to people who specially mattered. on how well you speak of ideals, courage and ones stand on wars, but can't even finish your own battles. for the one you hold dear, you insatiably desire to excel even more, as if you can almost see fire from your tail-end brewing gases of prime heat to propel you to paths never before tread. to actualize dreams wherein commencing is hard, to shape a quarter of your being resonant of some societal dictum, to accommodate his schema of what is an what is not. why can some appear deliberate yet end up achieving it? how deliberate is deliberate and when can we say we have achieved what ought to be measured in the objectives we set. when can we affirm the realities of impossibilities if we run out of alternatives. every bit of you wanted to express every bit of love, which in turn, is everything that makes you, you. how often do we love? how often do we stumble on someone we think addresses our vulnerabilities? how often does this chance of cultivating the seeds of something we might become, pass? it is a silent love. repressed into the subconscious. and yet the desire to communicate this secrecy, what words can i ever describe it?! if the mouth could not muster strength to speak, and our motors shudder at the very thought and the slightest bit of attempt to translate the nonverbal, what ways can we embark, that exclaims the importance of your personhood to my existence.

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love is transcendent in its capacity, its full breadth unfathomable even by time, distance, and resist the corporal temptations. no matter how much he's changed, you'll revel at the prospect of who he is and what he is to himself, to others, and to his dreams. it shares the core of who you are, and who will you become. it is unbased on what the common notion proposes and thrives in the unexplainable, yet unbreakable.

A Separation

Our distance multiplies the thread of time
our feelings wrought
from what is perceived as forsaken
tearing
leftovers from memories
that when trembly, and hurriedly, and unhesitatingly,
picked, desirous to re-establish
can never be easily put again
what seemed a momentary fragility
becomes an eternity of feeling
the limitless pain of true love lost
do you feel it?
when ones heart crushes in itself, stoned, lifeless
falsely beating
ceasing to function beyond physiology
lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub
slowly, lowly, weakened
until only the harsh blowing cold is felt
resigning to almighty familiarity
until nothing contributes to revelry
to feel the every bit of meaninglessness
chained in the creepy dungeons of worthlessness
eating away the core of what makes us want to live
i then ask for any price in exchange
that i am almost, always, forever
willing to pay

Ones Right Not to be Downgraded

It appears that, the things we hope to achieve, are those we think will redeem us. A careful, nonprejudiced deeper look would however, expose that somewhere, sometime, it is reduced and repeated by those who have began at an earlier pace, yet we fail to see where these things have truly placed them, and may place us. We are bound to be repeaters of a vicious cycle of a relationship limited by the dictates of false bureaucracy and constrained by monetary capacity relative of returns. And so I thought to myself, what is the essence of my academic training? Does it justify ones end to keep abreast of existence. Was my immersion indulgent to address vacancies; hence, strap myself with uniformity, breathe their air, adopt the easily favored, systematize like programmed dictation, and smirk at their respective impatience. As if we cannot think and had to repress what we've been trained for because novelty is a risk, and a system, rigid enough to stand alone in all respects, is always the best direction to heed. One submits therefore to an authority they deny, but authority nonetheless. Every second you live, you half-live at their mercy. One is eagerly fed into the pit of the unknown where security is a false, pretentious commodity hidden behind fleeting awe, that no amount of dermal engagement could ever overturn.

Like an epiphany that consumes your senses. Like opium that controls the mechanisms of imaginings, giving you every reason to be overjoyed. Such a realization transcends physical routinary work and yet, despite the definiteness of this transforming circumstance, the smallest void blots bliss reducing it into a singularity we can never discern. Uncertainty is a painful curse. Certainty is to some measurable extent, pride in its devilish intention. If it overpowers our capability to cement our feet further to where it should be rooted, it sneers, jeers and diminishes ones character more than its indirect (or direct) effect to downgrade whatever credibility is left of others.

To My Beloved Sisters

(I wrote it for my youngest sister's retreat in her last year of college. But I also hope it will be read by my younger sister)


well in my 23 years of experience, i will share what i have learned (and am still striving to uphold):

live honorably. strive to become a person of integrity. 

1. people will study your personhood. but the ultimate judge is yourself. if you want to be not just a merely existing agent of someone else's life, then inspire people to follow what you perceive is honorable. the real you is tested in the hardest, plainest, simplest, and mundane of all times, not in the best times. it means, rich or poor or poorest of predisposition, respect is inviolable. let your actions and words be not bounded by conditions that the weakest of hearts find so obvious the demarcation. your attitude behind the face of stress is worth a thousand picture. if you take it a habit to be genuinely hopeful, and kind, and respectful in all things ugly and uglier, you will acquire wisdom, not of the verbose pretentious type, but the one that people can really see, one so powerful it need not words to describe the potency of how it affects outlooks. every word you speak becomes you. and so with action. it is important not to be swayed by the most trivial of all circumstances. establish a stand on life and support it with conviction. only then, will you find meaning in your own existence. 

2. read and know what to read. if someone cannot make you read what needs to be read, then discover what is it that will make you bite your nails in the name of passion. they say the heart beats because automaticity and excitability initiate its intention. so is passion. reading gives you a power not destined to inflict inferiority, but to effect change in your interpretation of things, and life in general.

3. have fun. always. but have fun, securely. not all are granted so eagerly, for the wise always foresee what others cannot. restrain oneself, discipline is a pervading subject, we all should keep in mind, and that in time, we all shall reap.

4. do not do things you will later regret. in everything, the future is always a part. live in the moment, but also understand how "the moment" inspires/expires the future. think of how your children will perceive you. 

5. cherish your friends. and in time, you will talk about serious things, not just what you see now or think matters now. soon enough you will understand what life is really about. 

6. as of now, plan for your life. if you do not know what to do yet, that's fine. but the answers do not come easily, so it helps to be patient. you have to grasp experience, and reading, and discovering things synonyms i find hard to pen, only then will it lead you to answers you strive to find. 

do not just sit upright and coerce yourself to find meaning when you cannot. let the answers flow through spontaneously, like unedited music. and if you have found it indeed, first, congratulate yourself, and then and still, strive every bit to realize it. perseverance did not exist in our vocabulary for nothing. 

7. understand people. never bite them in the back. if you can understand how demented you really are, their faults are no different from ours. but if justice is not served and your rights are trampled, there is a process we can always follow. 

8. be street smart. be practical within acceptable limits, but do not stretch it further if it compromises your worth. 

9. keep a journal. and write what you think about anything and although you may not initially appreciate it, the proof of the deed's purpose come in time, sometimes unnoticed. 

10. if you plan to do something very big, remember to take one small step at a time. and over time, it will just happen, if and only if the path you chose and the work you have done leads you there.

11. and speaking about destiny, create your own. the lives of others are their own business. do not pattern your happiness at their distorted perceptions.
     
12. patience is the trying of all virtues. sometimes transcending. it says a lot about the truth you wish to conceal and reveal. it is the judge of character. so be patient with faults, with ignorance, with arrogance, with repetition, with failure, with companions, with boredom, with reading, and with time. 

where is the horse i was meant to mount?

it appears that, whatever predilection i have to eagerly pen thoughts have vanished. suddenly. but my head is aching thoughts of wanting to be this, and exceeding these and those. of losing the will of pretense because you perceived it ample. i dug and dug but i see that the root of wanting is buried deep not in what we used to think, but in the deep recesses of our past and of the little ways we shape our personhood. it cannot be easily unturned, slapped to consciousness, overpower in all its weakness, and scratched where it is most superficial. the core, all sacred, must be deconstructed and only then can it let go of some hurtful repression. if it is to be freed along with our longing for the sincerest peace, then it is a must not to give in easily to the dictates of our prejudiced perspectives.

Submitted Late

The science of nursing can be read and felt through our senses. The circumstances can be tested, changed, results can be observed and measured, and conclusions can be drawn from the phenomena. The science of nursing cannot veer from rote memorization of cold, hard facts for it is indispensible in the dispensing of competent service. It is procedural, structured, and proven, otherwise, experimental ways that do not benefit at all costs, however small, have no means of entry into a practice sanctioned by the heaviest of all, life. And yet, nursing is also an art – subjective, elusive, unique, crafted by those taking the great effort to develop ones skill, beautiful and uplifting. Like a canvas of definite charcoal-sketched images or landscapes brought to life through oil painting with rivers glistening, it is subject to an observer’s interpretation. Like any fine art, it can conquer feelings, subdue hope, or provide it. Sometimes, it is light at the end of the tunnel, while others can criticize it for lack of depth, a mere replica of some outstanding work. Where do we stand in all of these? In a profession wherein in our country, more than half a million are registered, how do we differ from the stereotyped image of caring lesser and lesser as excuses predominate the papers and are falsely attributed to their causes. The beginning is a promise for all of us, and yet when we hang in the middle phases, our patience also hangs in the balance. Where has compassion gone? Where were those things that characterize our humanity, our capacity to understand and practice beyond the scope of what we see? Where is the grit of patience in all that we hear? Where do our virtues stand when tested by the most trivial of all situations?

Why, do we have a grand encompassing picture of our true obligations? Do we just nurse what bleeds, or what is pained, or what has been ablated? I dare not think our capacities can be reduced to these trivialities! We nurse, for others to live, and it is the most difficult of all tasks set forth before us. It is the equivalent of conquering a person’s resignation for life and falsely equating its purpose to what one can physically accomplish. Medicine cannot cure all the pains of disability, and that is the realm we can extend our help. It is no great leap at first. Nothing outstanding of measure rightfully presents itself in the first day of trying. But the significance cannot be understated. A story has to begin somewhere, sometime. Its middle, denouement, and end relates with the foundation it has been established. If we began with sincerity, with unquestionable desire to help, with unfailing techniques that do not prematurely crouch at the instance of being shamed or of remarks that border rudeness that is all but a façade of a deeper hurt, then we are in for a longer haul. The promise of nursing is not dying. We can help generate what is lost, and we can help them appreciate the meaning of an experience well lived that is resonant beyond what one can see, and therefore, encompassing in its breadth to effect change. 

Of Radiohead's High and Dry

it has reached an almost grievous nature, that at some point remembrance is a weakness, from its lush air of sweetness and humanity, it has become a curse of some convoluted spell, driving you to trails with marks that do not imitate what is worn, and that you've long repressed, and at the mere rekindling, jolts you unevenly, like thunder of irreconcilable noise, and a  feeling so ferocious, it moves you to thoughts both pleasurable and hurtful. for it is memory wrapped in a box of elegant satin embroidered with every bit of innocence, devoid of doubts or questions of relevance and pride. what of now? consciousness has stained which side will you keep. and the atrocity of generalizing the subjective and reducing its every attempt to conquer against what you sincerely loathe becomes an effort of a great endless sigh, a labyrinth that do not confuse but seduce you to paths all deemed straight, and it leads to an end marred by a pit of longing. what of then?

Headache

pounding every nook of my skull
blows of might
irresolute, irreverent
debilitating like lobotomy
sectioned to respect silence
bit by bit and bit of bits
stretches beyond truth
resisting the divine
ones sensory deadens
vulnerable
to the noxious world of pretense
what remains then
only thoughts of pleasures lost
and I
I stoop to the nothingness of the void
along with the ebb of time
singularity at its core

A Weak Flesh

confusions arising
gnashing from a distance
beating like a demonic flame
derailing to coherence
what ends must we conjure

trolls. drolls.
for whom one should call
or heed
or bleed
or weep
feeble and raw
demented. afoot but lifeless.

important as fire
such convictions
yet from whom do we hide
to win over
for a battle long lost
obscurity forever

Only Questions

I have arrived at the downest moment in my 23rd year and in all the years I have existed. As if, there is no longer something to be aspired. As if, all the energy has been exhausted by premature hyperactivity. As if life itself has lost the vibrancy it once exuded. As if, one can foretell the future that was once elusive. As if the experiences of the people I have met will reflect the kind of life I was meant to live. Never have I asked so many questions. Yet, there is a preponderance of thoughtless, meaningless, sophomoric answers that seemingly coaxed you to believe there is indeed a path. The structure I once praised myself for creating, is slowly disintegrating like giant steel bars against the most fragile of the crates and I, the creator of these ideas and fantasies, am crushed by the weight of what is real. I see people but I do not see purpose. I cannot see existence. I fail to share their thrill of anticipation. Questions keep barraging you from all directions your soul could pry open, yet when you devote your fullest desire to answer every single mark, abstraction replays as if analysis has been clouded by the phoniness of concretization. There is so much pain, for wanting to be somebody. Pain, for wanting to live up to. How can one wake up knowing no path to tread? Fears of discontentment spring forth and the cries are overwhelmingly loud, you lose track of coherent thoughts. I lack answers. I have none to process. As if my life has been enveloped by the strongest membrane of uncertainty. You know it. You feel it. My mind needs resuscitation, and whatever I feed it, it doesn't respond. 

I am exhausted, yet I have done nothing. And it is the most potent of all for neither can it be remedied by convention. And I will be in this defenseless limbo until my heart takes courage and fight its way through answers I must gain. I figured I have long answered this pending need. But when you're not fulfilled, it will keep coming back, like some ghost of the distant past. And only when you truly find the most genuine of all wanting, can it finally let go. I need to be directed before I can direct the lives of others. 

Tune In

After 3 years of being a faithful jango subscriber, I have gathered memorable tunes that have helped me clear the chaos of my mind, the uncertainties of my life, and the void of what must still be filled. 

Anonymous
1. Greensleeves to a Ground (Harpsichord)
2. Oh Tannenbaum (Professional Yamaha Midi Equipment)

Isaac Albeniz
1. Suite Espanola Op. 47 - Leyenda (Guitar)
2. Iberia*
3. Chants d'Espagne*
4. Catalonia*
5. Spanish Rhapsody*

Tomaso Albinoni
1. Oboe Concerto Op9 No2 (Oboe and Strings)

James Anderson
1. Goldcrest (Brass Band)

Paul Arden Taylor
1. Bach Goes To Sea ((Winds) 

Ludwig van Beethoven
1. Piano Sonata No. 14 

Antonio Vivaldi 
1. Winter (Four Seasons)
2. Vivaldi - Sonata 5 (IV) Allegro: Cello Harpsichord

Johannes Brahms
1. Variations on an original theme Op. 21 no. 3

Felix Mendelssohn
1. Piano Concerto No. 2

Frederic Chopin
1. Nocturne op.9 No.2 - Andante
2. Nocture in D Flat Major, Op. 27, No. 2
3. Nocturne in C-sharp minor, Op. Posth

Johann Sebastian Bach
1. Sonata I in B Minor for Violin and Harpsichord - I. Adagio
2. Sonata I in B Minor for Violin and Harpsichord - III. Andante
3. Air on G String
4. Aria Variata, BVW. 989 - Variation No. 1
5. Air from Orchestral Suite no. 3 (Siloti)

Aaron Copland
1. Piano Sonata (1941) - Vivace (2nd movement)

Wolfgang Mozart
1. Piano Sonata No. 11 in A Major

Danny Wright
1. Hayden's Spirit

Yann Tiersen
1. Esther
2. La Valse d'Amelie

Franz Liszt
1. Hungarian Rhapsody No. 4 in E-flat major
2. La Campanella

bryan adams - if you really loved a woman 
barbra steisand with il divo- evergreen
eric clapton - wonderful tonight
unchained melody - the righteous brothers
blind melon - rain
already gone - kelly clarkson
chris de burgh - the lady in red
kings of leon - use somebody
these words - natasha bedingfield
the proclaimers - im gonna be
train - if you could only see
coldplay - the scientist
the middle - jimmy eat world
oasis -champagne supernova
candlebox - far behind
3 Doors Down - Kryptonite
collective soul - shine
Busy Signal - Busy latino
radiohead - creep

phillip glass - the hours film score
rachel portman - chocolat 
city of prague philharmonic orchestra - the rock
james horner - braveheart
john barry - dances with wolves
danny elfman - black beauty baby beast
howard shore - lord of the rings:  fellowship of the ring
Hans Zimmer - Pirates of the Carribean
danny elfman - alice in wonderland
danny elfman - batman
jon schimdt- pachelbel meets U2
nino rota - the godfather
harry gregson- prince of persia
harry gregson- chronicles of narnia
steve jablonsky - transformers revenge
michele mclaughlin - learning to fly

paul cardall - the hymns
benoit fromanger - lieder ohne worte
erik satie - gymnopedies
sergei rahcmaninov - 10 Preludes, Op.23No, 5 in G Minor Alla Gracia
sergei rahcmaninov - Preludes (13) for Piano Op. 32 
wolfgang amadeus mozart - piano sonata No. 11 in A Major (Alla Turca)
franz liszt - etudes
paul cardall - redeemer
johann sebastian bach - the well tempered clavier
myleene klass - the heart asks pleasure first
jon schimdt- for the beauty of the earth
jon schimdt - love story meets viva la vida
michele mclaughlin - the druid's prayer
scott davis - greensleeves
jennifer thomas - the red aspens
helen jane long - expression
wolfgang amadeus mozart - piano sonata in F major
matthew cook - passage
anne trenning - you and me
michael dulin - serenade
myleene klass - for the love of a princess
john williams - schindler's list theme
hans zimmer - the dark knight
loreeena mckennitt - kecharitomene
danny elfman - edward scissorhands
harry gregson williams - return of the lion (prince caspian)
john powell - the bourne supremacy
christopher gordon - master and commander
dario marianelli - pride and prejudice

misirlou - dick dale
lose yourself - eminem
disco inferno - the trammps
a dream is a wish - mack david, al hoffman, jerry livingston
the lion sleeps tonight - the nylons
adagio - secret garden
yiruma - kiss the rain
over the rainbow - bert kaempfert and his orchestra
remembering the light - kevin kern on imagination's light
the essentials of chet atkins
a taste of honey - chet atkins
kristin amarie - first  light
wonderful tonight - the o'neill brother on someone you love
cool forest rain - dan gibson
cry me a river - michael buble
what a wonderful world - tony bennett on all the best
all i ask of you - tim callicrate on los 30 mejores
adorn - thad fiscella
deanash - gary stadler
what a wonderful world - louis armstrong
but not for me - jackie gleason (The Romantic Moods)
echo - gary stadler
variations on the kanon by pachelbel - george winston on december
love theme from romeo & Juliet - henry mancini on greatest hits
autumn sunrise - ricky leonard

and.... howard's shore magna opera, and orlando's the maze

Questions of Relevance

Any discipline is best contextualized when viewed in systems that address multi-faceted operations wherein metaparadigms interlock. Too much technicality, too much ideals, an exaggeration of what ought to be depending on urgency are thought processes that are doomed to fail given our universal limitations. In the same wavelength, substandardization, when subjected to critical circumstances, promises and achieves nothing. As we transcend the everyday schemes of nursing practice, the monotony is delirious. Shaken by the feel of stagnation, we are caught in limbo, generalizing the specifics, degrading what ought to be experienced unique by those we care. Truly, to learn the science of what makes us competent is nothing short of trivial when unpaired with something philosophical. The hard facts may settle in our consciousness, however, forces overcoming influential parameters classified unscientific push us to be characters of honor whose powerful stance is to weather tests of circumstance. Philosophy moves us, until someday, the lines of these theories blur. It is our understanding of the truth, the implications of our actions to the reality that may not always seem, and our sincerest passion for altruism that shall unify them all.

  

Veering not only in what must be done, emphasizing what ought to be and paving for an avenue to realize goals set, it is only fitting to laud the foundress of our discipline. Our local status quo bit the nursing craze of the mid to late 2000, and the result saw the mushrooming of tertiary schools offering a formal course. Averaging 40% passing rate every biannual licensure examination, one cannot help but doubt the competitive standards our accrediting bodies mandate for these institutions to operate. The ill-effects of commercialization, an educator’s substandard appraisal of what is considered competent, a student’s lack of resolve, textbook emphasis on research that never gets to immerse in reality contribute to the degradation of the founding ideas of how we should treat our profession. One concrete scenario mirroring Nightingale’s observation is poor assessment skills. We frontline the terrains, and in a similar context, one could lose a battle if we lose sight of a critical factor that determines an upheaval’s fate. Assessment must be emphasized, underlined, and understood. This is the beginning of our familiar cycle, yet we do not upgrade it or categorize signs for judgment to be more precise, more valid. We give up too easily. We patronize the idea of seniority. We act accordingly, but too much reservation is never warranted in a society that sees loopholes in every surface of every corner. Chutzpah is what we lack, which explains our disillusionment about the effects of research, or upgrading important facets of care, or plastering leakage in the connections of our metaparadigms.

Respect and other universal values delineating a person from other organisms need no theory. It is naturally possessed, and its sincere application is not mired by explicit direction. Nowadays however, we find a sense of affirmation if we pattern our actions from the actions of our senior. Compensating for our lack of experience, we hide under the skin of convention, and wrongfully wire our interactions for what we thought are appropriate. We may have a structure, but its effectiveness is questionable. For example, patience is an integral parcel of interaction and if circumstances overwhelm our ability to compose, we shorten what must be individualized. Ignorance of these models encourages our false practice. Therapeutic communication is then built on shaken concrete, hence, therapy is incomplete.

Our country’s scenario is difficult. It is never easy to categorize what affects a client given the overwhelming instances. One can never determine the depth of an issue and whether, ceteris paribus, you have done something to at least deliver a palliative solution. If we must adapt, we do because we are wired for it. Sometimes, I feel, the best interjection is a practical advice, which transcends the usual full disclosure of feelings. The lines of communication are vulnerable, receptive to sound judgment, but breaks down when overwhelmed by qualitative and quantitative constraints. To some extent, one feels, security within the caregiver is elementary before one is tenable to strengthen the lines of enabling others to cope for their misfortunes. It is difficult because we deal with a myriad of defects, and it cannot be helped sometimes that, in order to shield ourselves from the vacuum of misery, we choose to be numbed. For our miseries are enough and the world rests too much on our shoulders, we often doubt our capability to be of a pillar for the wounded.

In our country, it is a pity that one can only hear philosophies underscoring our practice in the academy. Our motivations become distorted, yet valid in our quest for self-preservation. It is rooted in evolution that we are primed to exist, and to arrange the best possible conditions we can sustain our existence. Seemingly, our actions are “frameworked” by the principle of subsistence, which may explain our ignorance, our inability to appreciate, accept, and practice according to a theoretical framework.

Yes, like any other disciplines built on a theoretical framework, ours is still growing. Soon, modern frameworks shall arise from the dictates of a modern society, building on what was earlier built. The ideas of the yesteryears may prove limited in the application of a changing society, so we must grow along with it. I speak for a time also motivated by a need to preserve oneself. How we incorporate what ought to be when challenged by quantitative parameters is yet to be figured. How we respond to the limitations of an undersupplied society must be dealt with. A lot of questions arise, and these theories do not deliver a definitive period by which we stop looking for answers and settle our practice into what is established as true. The essence of growing should be felt, and not just plastered in books. A tree’s purpose is only half-served if its fruits will not be enjoyed by those who partake in it.