Flowers of the Sun

November 21, 2009 at 9:47 am · Filed under Fatima Marla ·Tagged , ,

a sunflower looking up the sun

Classes have resumed and this semester’s first week is nothing less than delightful. Exuding confidence with my long straight hair and more or less formal get-up matched with proper shoes (I challenge myself  to only wear slippers once  a week), backed up with my superb class schedule with enough library time, and sleep time, I’m definitely looking forward for a great well-balanced semester. And to end the weekdays, I rode the bus, home-bound. And this holds what this blog is  really about…

Staring blankly through the partly open window on my right with the breeze gently blowing my hair, I started softly singing along with the music playing in the radio (I never thought that I could love someone as much as I love you, I know it’s crazy but it’s true... then I love you, please say you love me too. These three words they can change our lives forever. And I promise you that we will always be together… Then, Just when I thought I was over you. Just when I thought I can stand on my own, hey —- these memories comes crashing through… And so on, that kind of music. And NO, I am not going to delve in any romance melodrama here, I have my own notebook journal for that! ^^ Going back…) and was about to doze off when this delightful scenery surprised my sleepy eyes and made me smile.

Sunflowers wildly grown and all in full bloom are scattered all over the mountainside creating such beautiful sights of yellow atop the usual greens. It’s again the time of year when flowers start to dominate Baguio’s every nook and cranny (0r sort of,  hehe). I sit up and let my eyes explore the yellow-ful mountain side with much lightness and glee. The sight simply makes me happy.

Sunflowers. They are profoundly uplifting. They conjure happiness from the mere sight of them… Brings about much feelings of liveliness, fun… and bright-eyes.  For someone who delights in the color yellow, and embraces the sun’s warmth (and hates the rain!) surely it is expected of me to fancy such beauty. The sunflower is indeed one of my favorite flowers, the other being yellow rose – for its ethereal, mystic, romantic essence.

Although it is not solely the sunflower which is getting much attention these days but also the alluring red Christmas flower, poinsettia, being sold everywhere and all that, I don’t mind. I like poinsettias too, but for now, I prefer to put the sunflowers in the limelight. Surely poinsettias will have there turn when Christmas comes nearer. And I haven’t saved enough money yet to buy one to bring home, hehe .Besides, sunflowers are generally free, just pick one randomly, for they do grow on random places, unlike poinsettias which cost 150 pesos at minimum.

I remember back when I was in my fifth and sixth grade in my beloved town’s public school, the caretaker (i refuse to call them janitor) always plants sunflowers, the big tall ones, infront the main building. Everytime I come around the office to see my grandmother there, the sunflowers always leave me wondering. Sometimes I just sit in a near bench, dazed, all afternoon, not minding my classes at all, just to observe how the faces of the sunflowers slowly follow where the sun is.

I’d like to do that again. Maybe I will. I’ve got lots of time this semester, havent I? ^^

Leave a Comment

reader as told by writer

November 13, 2009 at 10:05 am · Filed under Fatima Marla

(…It looks fairly positive that reader is minding other’s, in this case MY, business.

reader: But you were gone for so long and…

Yes… and now I’m back.

reader: So you are. (pause) Now what?

Nothing… (breathes deeply) Hey… (silence) Thank you.

reader: Woah! I thought so! niyahaha… I know you’ll like what I wrote. I know you wont be mad.

Yah… Sure. So I have this idea, since you’ve written something for me, I’ll be writing something for you too!

reader: Will it be as good?

Excuse me? I’m the writer here, right? It’s about time I do what I do. So why don’t you just do your thing and…

reader: READ. I get it.

Good. Well reader, this is for you.)

reader (by writer)

reader is an avid, well, reader. But unlike stereotypical bookworms, reader doesn’t wear eyeglasses, because reader lost the last one three years ago, and slept on the one previous that, and dropped the one previous that one on the highway while riding a jeepney, and reader doesn’t remember what happened to the first eyeglass reader owned. Besides, reader believes that things afar are better seen blurry anyway. And tired eyes mean sleep time.

Like most, reader learned the alphabet first before venturing in reading (perhaps at a young age reader already knew the impossibility of going the other way). And like most, reader’s first books are colorful picture books which more or less attempt to tell a story through fancy drawings and minimal, or non-use of words (Similar to what university professors ask their students to ‘give a reading’ on exams, especially in theory classes, except in less fancy colors). reader didn’t like those much, and still doesn’t.

reader’s mom bought sets of encyclopedias for kids (“I Wonder Why…?” among others) because mom doesn’t like to be bothered with reader’s questions on random things. So reader poured on those for atleast a year, finished them all, and grew tired of books on general information. reader wanted to read books she wold like, except she has no idea what those maybe. So reader approached anyone who would listen to buy her books she would like. reader mostly was unheard, or was told go play outside, or with barbies, or buy a candy, or watch Sesame Street on TV.

reader did all these and found out that – grown-ups become deaf  toward children ages3 to 7; playing outside means acquiring bruises and being left unsought in hide -and-seek; and playing with barbies means taking more time setting up the pieces than going on the pretend game itself; that candies are insanely sweet, reader doesn’t like them at all until now; and Sesame Street is a show with furry, high-pitched, gibberish-talking, nonsensical, ungendered, foolish puppet monsters. reader is annoyed with that show.

reader forgot when exactly, but finally reader received a parcel of books from her ninang one Christmas. It was a set of Disney Prinsesses color-me story books. reader’s elder sister took it upon tearing the glossy wrapper, and reader smiled before pretending to feel sad. Then reader’s ninang brought reader to the mall to buy her new dresses and shoes. They passed the bookstore and reader said to have a look inside. Ninang bought reader’s first Nancy Drew, and the second, and third… Then reader’s first sweet valley twins,  then so on until reader already knew that those are the books reader likes and got hooked. Then ninang left for abroad and the duty of book-buying was passed to reader’s mom, because reader cried.

reader grew up with Nancy Drew,  the Wakefield twins, the W.I.T.C.H guardians, and Archie and Jughead. Then reader’s mom bought the Harry Potter set and reader finished reading the first five books but had to borrow the sixth and the seventh from a friend because mom won’t buy reader any more books. reader then kept borrowing books from friends such as the works of Nicholas Sparks, Paolo Coehlo, but reader’s friends books are almost all about teenage relationships and other silly stuffs, with an exception on Bob Ong. She settled on the stories discussed in highschool, such as the works of Jose Rizal, the classics Trojan War, Greek Mythology, Oedipus Rex, and others. It was only in college when reader befriended the campus library and got to appreciate the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, Shakespeare, Louisa May Alcott, J.D. Salinger,  Mark Twain, Robert Fulghum, Leo Tolstoy, Joshua Harris, Dan Brown, Henry Barbusse, Douglas Adams, David Pelzer, Lualhati Bautista, and many more authors.

For three years now reader saves money for books. reader is regularly seen at bookstores in Baguio City, whether actually buying one, or privately reading. reader also downloads ebooks now, including Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight saga and The Host. reader thinks Jacob Black is better than Edward Cullen, but Ian O’Shea is better than Jared Howe. However, for reader, Gilbert Blythe is the best. Because Anne Shirley, from the Anne of Green Gables series, remains as reader’s favorite role model for women, and Gilbert Blythe, for men.

reader also reads works, whether books or newspaper columns, by Jessica Zafra, Jose Dalisay, Conrado de Quiros, Patricia Evangelista, Randy David, Ambeth Ocampo, among others. reader reads the newspapers almost everyday during school days at the library, because reader couldn’t afford to spend 20 pesos daily.

reader, is currently, supposedly sad. reader’s books were drowned by the flood which trespassed reader’s home. The only books left are the ones in her boarding house at Baguio.

reader dreams of owning a Kindle…

…and be a ninang to a girl whom reader will shower with gifts of books. #

Leave a Comment

writer as told by reader

November 11, 2009 at 9:27 am · Filed under Fatima Marla ·Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

(reader: It looks fairly positive that writer is in hiatus. She never wrote a single blog for a whole month or so. That’s why I believe I am in the position to take her place, atleast until she hits her head and remembers this blog account, and me. So while she is away, I would gladly take this opportunity to tell you what I know about her. Writer, wherever you are, this is for you. From your alterego, reader.)

Writer (by reader)

Writer is a struggling (developing?), well, writer.

She started writing when her mom taught her the alphabet before her preschool days and got the hang of it. She would imitate the letters down to the most detailed curves. She wanted her penmanship to be exquisitely fine and most readable before she ventured on the real essence of writing.

Her teachers took notice and always appointed her as the class secretary (because back then a class secretary’s duty is to write the names of those who are noisy, in the black board, which is basically green, for everyone to see. And it is such a pity for those noisy pupils to see their names written, more so in bad penmanship.) This may practically be her first writing assignment, from prep to fourth grade.

She embraced her duty as the class secretary so much because  – her teachers liked her and thought what an angel she was;  her name was NEVER on the list; she can bully her classmates, even the most naughty boys don’t mess with her; she gets icecream, or chocolate, or a biscuit during recess or dismissal, (Fatima ‘wag mo ako isulat bigyan kita icecream ‘maya! [Fatima don't write my name I'll give you ice cream later!] ); and finally, she was able to master her handwriting and develop confidence in it.

But it was only in the fifth grade when she started writing what she wants to write, her thoughts. Upon knowing that she would be transferring to the town’s public school, leaving her precious private school behind her, she felt sad. But she knew of the family’s financial turmoil so she couldnt, wouldnt complain. Besides, she wasnt a brat.

“I really wish this is just a nightmare, that tomorrow when I wake up I’ll still have to wear my maroon uniform and  smart necktie and not the ugly plain green skirt my mother let me to try on a week ago. I’ve heard stories about public schools: that the books are so old and soiled and pupils have to share it for not all can get even just one; that the pupils wore tattered clothes and filthy slippers; that the teachers will ask the students to clean the school because of lack of janitors; and that most classes were held on the shades of the trees because there were only few classrooms. Everything is dilapidated there. What did I do wrong? I feel like being punished.”

That was writer’s very first journal entry. She felt so alone in her new school. Yes, some of her classmates would talk to her but they all have their own groups, sort of, and so she gets set aside still. She looked forward on her classes because it was during the class discussion when she can recite and talk, especially in her English class. She loved that class. A month had not passed yet but her teacher in English, Mrs. Ludivine Loresco, already took notice of her. She told writer to have a journal, like a diary, to write anything she wanted, that it will do her good. So writer did, and still does, after eight years or so, writer still keeps a journal.

This teacher also asked her to come to her house on weekends at 8am for spelling lessons. She said she never had a grand daughter, or any grand child, and she was smiling at writer when she said this. Writer smiled back. And this teacher also commended her to the school paper adviser, Mrs. Minerva Serafica, to be one of the campus writers. Still in fifth grade and a transferee, writer became the school’s feature writer. Thus came writer’s journalism awakening.  Indeed, writer’s fifth grade teacher in English is her first writing mentor. She is very much grateful.

Come sixth grade, writer began focusing on campus journalism. Her sixth grade teacher in English and school paper adviser entrusted her to be the Copyreader and Headline writer, which meant she should know all areas of journalism writing, be it news, sports, feature, editorial, (and obituary? haha). Her school paper adviser taught her most things about journalism, setting her foundation and grasping her interest further. She told writer to avoid long words and express her thoughts simply but concisely, among a myriad of other lessons. She challenged writer to try to memorize a page of the dictionary weekly, which indeed expanded writer’s vocabulary enough before she quit it for something better and easier.

Upon her elementary graduation, writer realized that being transferred to a public school did her well. She found what she want, her interest. She knew she could write. And so she began dreaming.

She joyously enrolled in the town’s public highschool.

Her highschool years hold most of her major accomplishments as a campus journalist. She was the only freshman to pass the school paper screening,  the only freshman to publish articles in the school papers, the only freshman to be included in the editorial staff, as the Copyreader and Headline writer. Second year came and writer had her first airplane ride, and her first national. She made it to the national schools press conference (NSPC) held at Surigao City, Surigao del Norte! Third year came and she again made it in the NSPC, this time in Kalibo, Aklan. And mind you, she won 3rd place!!! She regards this as her best achievement yet in journalism. Despite having many schoolpaper advisers in high school, she only regards two of them as her mentors. Sir Jaime Molina, whose thesaurus writer now possesses, always tell writer, remind her, to do good (Apiger mo! ) in every competition until they left for US before the NSPC in Surigao City. And Ms. Marliza Landicho, who gave writer loads of exercises in headline writing, made her cut out news clippings separating the articles from the headlines, who excuses her from classes to cover news stories outside school, who brought writer to the printing press to oversee the process, who was with her in Kalibo, touring places like Boracay. (“Amazing Aklan…” http://fatima-marla.livejournal.com/1662.html).

Her fourth year was not a blast, and all writer take pride about her final year in highschool is that she was the editor-in-chief in both the English and Filipino school papers, period. The school papers indeed served as her sanctuary back in her elementary and high school yesteryears.

She is currently spending her college years in the cool city of pines, pursuing BA Communication, majoring in JOURNALISM. Aside from her journ subjects, writer takes classes on creative nonfiction and literature. She have met two more mentors – her Humanities1 professor Maam Vicky Costina, who always gave her 15 minutes to discuss her thoughts on the topic infront of the class, and predicted her to be a great teacher someday; and her WritingProcess professor Maam Grace Subido, who taught her that good writing is controlled writing (among a myriad of other lessons), who said writer has ‘it’ but must be pushed more, and who  introduced her to model writers,  authors, and columnists, through their works.

Writer’s current frustration is to be published in Youngblood. She won’t give up on it. She doesnt think her college campus paper is a work of journalism, rather she sees it as plainly prejudiced with leftist, activist ideologies, so she didnt bother to join it. She plans to be an intern in the Philippine Daily Inquirer next year. She is still considering her Journ professor, Sir Jawo Abano, to be another mentor.

She said she is not worried about her future as a journalist because she believes she will be successful.

She knows she will make it. And make it, she will. #

*Note: Writer is always written italicized. Perhaps because she always tend to lean on the right side. (being a journalist and all…)


Comments (2)

On Bus Notes: Whuwaat?!

September 13, 2009 at 5:37 pm · Filed under Fatima Marla ·Tagged , ,

Who the hell came up with those notes?!

Who the hell came up with those notes?

Riding on a bus has always been a part of my current life’s routine. I ride one to and from Baguio, for two hours or so each, in a weekly basis. So that probably means you will be reading a lot about my bus life in my blogs. ^-^  But that’s not my point here.

See the picture above? Go ahead, look at it. Read, and I mean ‘READ’ the signs. What? You don’t unde-? Okay, I’ll help you then…

“1791″ -The bus number, of course, not the year or whatsoever, (niyahaha… Sorry, I just think I had to state that. Pardon, I know there’s nothing significant in it.)

“Pls. say PARA to stop” – O-kaay…

Sure, there might be nothing wrong with it grammatically speaking (I think), but I still find it funny. Haha. Sounds hilariously conyo if you know what I mean.

When I read it, I can picture those girls always dressed up, wearing fancy accessories, going girly-girl, and looking at cars’ windows or any reflective plane around routinely cheking themselves, making ayos their hair  and faces super tagal, always making gala to the mall with bffs and making pa-cute to the boys like it’s the core purpose of their existence.

I can’t bear to be with, much less TALK to someone who speaks like that! No way! Of course it’s impossible to be rid of them always, but whenever their kind is around, I just flee to a conyo-free location. Or if I cant, for some reason, go away from them, I just try to amuse myself. They are a funny kind afterall, if not annoying most of the time. Just hear them speak like they’re up in the social ladder, like I care. Pretentious losers.

Too, observe how they keep flipping their hair, or touching their side-swept bangs. Over and over! Urggh. It’s easy to conclude that how they look is what matters most to them. And they think speaking that way, the conyo way, is actually good. So not! Where did they get that anyway? Unthinking flow-goers.

Not only are they degrading our national language by not incorporating it fully, but they also make a fool of themselves by not being able to speak in either Filipino or English fluently and eloquently!  Why mix them up that way?  For me it’s even worse to hear than the usual broken (carabao) english or just plain Taglish. But noooo, they think they’re cool when they speak that way. Dumb.

And worse, you don’t just find them scattered in malls, oh no. They’re also in campus,  parading around, chitchatting loudly in the cafeteria, and I so hate it when they infiltrate the library,where I most often read the newspapers. And they’re only there anyway to photocopy readings I doubt they’ll read (doubt they know how anyway).

But enough about those conyos now, and how they talk. The sign just reminded me of it. No more fuss on such existence. Amusingly annoying.

Proceeding to the next…

“Ang sumitsit, PANGIT!” – Haha! Ni-ice.

Now why the hell did the bus personnel put this sign up? Oh I know why. I told you I have plenty of bus experiences making me an active part of the bus culture.

One time a bunch of middle-aged sabungeros (those who gamble in cockfighting) were in the bus, going to what they referred to as a university (of that town). Since the bus seats were full, they were standing, clutching the metal bars atop, with their prized chicken fighters cooing vociferously in boxes with holes all over in their hands.  I was still able to hear the noise of those birds even with my earphones on, listening to the 90s rock music.

Then after a while they started making sitsit (oh my, I sound so conyo!). All of them. But the bus driver were’nt showing any signs of hitting the break. Their sitsits became louder, and you can just imagine them doing so with spit flying out their mouths. The driver still didnt budge. Since their supposed destination was already passed at and behind, one of the sabungeros finally shouted “Ano ba!? Para sabi eh” (“What!? I said para!”) .  You can guess that that’s when the driver stepped on the break. I wouldn’t wish to write what happenned next. I’ll just assure you the confrontation wasnt pretty.

My point in that narrative is that sitsit is not tolerated in buses anymore. And I’m glad about such. I find sitsit very disrespectful. Besides, the driver might not hear your sitsit properly. Saying ‘para’ isn’t a big task at all anyway. Four letters. Two syllables. Is that hard to say? Speak! Always say ‘para’ to stop the bus, or whatever vehicle you’re riding on.

Another thing about sitsits as a very disrespectful act. I don’t tolerate it when people, even friends, call me or get my attention by way of such. I don’t, I never face them.

Call me by my name, I have two given ones, plus a nickname, or call me friend, or miss, or ate, or dave, or madamme, or by my last name, or dear’s last name, whatever.  Just don’t make sitsit. Got that? Good.

Buses. They’re a part of my life as a college student.

Buses. I trust I will always find something interesting in the rides I take.

Buses. I’m off to ride one again tomorrow, or tuesday morning.

Comments (3)

Guyitos on the loose!

September 5, 2009 at 7:00 pm · Filed under Fatima Marla ·Tagged ,

Two runaway carabaos sprint along Marcos highway tunnel

Two runaway carabaos sprint along Marcos highway tunnel

Get that? Let me tell you about it… but you have to know some context first. From the beginning then…

I slept early last night. Dreamed good dreams too. Then my alarm woke me up earlier than I remember scheduling it so. But that doesn’t mean I let my alarm clock rule me. I stayed in bed.  Ha! I didn’t have enough will to get up and pick up any reading from my stack of photocopied texts of various scholars about Rizal. I only wish to burn them, the texts, not the scholars (but, oh well).

“Must get up for my P.I. 100 exam at 8:30 to 11am. Must get up.” I repeated until I finally convinced myself come 6:45 . I had coffee, threw the loaf bread gone sour and took a shower. Too lazy to wet my hair, I tied it up in an untidy way. I chose to wear black, to signify and express my mood (or lack of mood that is). I got all my readings and threw them atop my unfolded blanket. I left for school, unworried, and not caring at all.

It must be odd to even think positively about passing the exam when I haven’ t even skimmed any of the exam’s scope. But I felt so. I sort of knew I was going to pass. That was why I didn’t bother my classmates who keep asking each other, sharing notes and opinions and insignificant details. Didn’t mind the instructor’s effectual cues that seem to promote nervousness. I knew I would make it.

And make it I did. From maam’s  paper bag, I have picked a question I gladly answered. “Bigyang katuturan ang pamagat na Rizal Without the Overcoat ni A. Ocampo.“  It wasn’t even a question, mind you. But I’ve read this book about two years back and remember it well too. I told you I was positive about the exam. Premonition? Ha ha!

So when I went back to where I boarded, I prepared all my things I was taking down with me, and took off to the bus station. It was 11am. I didn’t feel like eating lunch. I was just eager to go home.

In the bus, I sat at the front three-seater, at the back of the driver. I went down the bus shortly to buy a doughnut, then plugged in my earphones. I waited until I have paid for my fare ticket before closing my eyes, and dozing off. I was just about to fall asleep, really getting there, then suddenly the bus halts quite forcibly almost throwing me out of my seat.

Guyitos! I told myself as my eyes try to register the amusing sight. It’s not usual to see animals acting their nature in a tunnel along a national highway. But these two carabaos come, running free along the tunnel,  showing their backs as as they get away from their pityful owner. For a short moment there everything seemed to go in a slow motion. The carabaos were sprinting like they have never sprinted before, infront of our bus. I heard from a fellow passenger that the carabaos might have known that they are to be butchered soon. With that I smiled, “Run guyitos! Run! Like the wind!”

I knew there’s a significant reason why I always get the front seat everytime I ride a bus. And I was glad about such circumstance. Premonition again? (Oh you’ll get tired of so many things happening in my life.)

I got my phone outside my bag and took  shots of the scene. (What you see above)

Life is full of surprises. Whoever thought that carabaos could liven up my dull morning? Carabaos are not even new to me. Always carabaos pass in our street at home. But I’ve never seen them sprinting before. Never heard of them sprinting like marathon race runners before. And never imagined them doing so in a tunnel, along a national highway.  But they did. Amusing.

#

Leave a Comment

Student

September 2, 2009 at 10:11 am · Filed under Fatima Marla ·Tagged , , , ,

Blatantly tired, sleepless, and no doubt stressed, oblivious of the noisy chatter of fellow students, suddenly my uneasy eyes find something interesting, shunning everything else out of the picture. Like a bird finally eyeing a prey, or a camera on focus, I pondered on the round red-and-white thing fixed on my sight.

“UPian Ako, Ikaw?”

I thought of how to properly react upon first seeing that badge on a schoolmate’s knitted-wool backpack two years ago, while seated cross-legged at the cold tiled floor of the University of the Philippines Baguio’s main lobby.

I remember that I just went on staring, like I did when faced with an equation on my past math classes. I kept repeating the words to myself, trying to make proper sense of what it’s supposed to say. A meaning I can’t seem to grasp. Stationary and unblinking, I was waiting for some bulb in my head to light up. An epiphany or close to that perhaps. For some complexity of rush thoughts, I just don’t get it. I’m disturbed.

It took a few more moments before my vision blurred and my ears were unmuted. And the badge I was supposed to be staring at was already away with the owner walking at the parking lot. I spanked my head lightly.

As to ‘Why it caught my attention?’ or ‘How come I didn’t notice it moving away?’ or ‘Why I couldn’t think of its context?’ or ‘Why I couldn’t give a proper reaction?’ or ‘Why I was bewildered with all these?’ I am lost. I told myself I’ll sleep on it.

That was two years ago. Not that I slept for the whole time, of course not, and also not that I am finally awake with the answers. Not quite there yet. But two years of being a part of the UP culture I believe has made me more equipped with understanding (I am still not confident enough to use the word ‘wisdom’) that I wish to attempt to answer my long-hanging queries.

For someone who looked forward on being an Iskolar ng Bayan since birth (maybe not that early, but near), and have that dream realized, of course I feel much pride, sometimes to the extent of plain boastfulness and what Professor Randy David called ‘UP chauvinism’ (We are the best and the others are not good enough for us) on his centennial lecture “UP from the Inside”. And no doubt I share this feeling with many others.

True enough, we UPians have enough reasons to be proud. Through a whole centennial of struggle for justice, freedom, and service, the UP studentry never ceased to speak up, stand out, and set the standards, whether on academic excellence, societal actions, educating public sentiment, being guard dogs, among other socially significant causes. (And didn’t we just beat the two basketball giants in the UAAP causing a dramatic shift in the norm of the much popular championship game? Oh yeah!)

But why was I, bothered with such expression initially depicting air-headedness and soaring high pride?

“UPian Ako, Ikaw?”

Was it because I am naturally humble (likely?) and doesn’t wish to degrade other schools? Was I being cynical, then? Someone wise advised me that one could be his/her best only if he/she becomes his/her our own severest critic. Or was it pressure to live up to what being a UPian entails? A challenge one must conquer.

For some students, they may view education as a mere requirement, something one couldn’t do without.  Education is seen as simply adhering to societal imposition. Others too, see it as a tool, a pathway to success, a preparation for the future professions.

But for Iskas and Iskos, the UP culture instills in each the rationale of personhood as the ultimate aim of education. Where learning draws out the best in each, armed with the understanding and confidence to answer life’s constant questions, mostly circling on what is right and wrong. Education aims beyond academic excellence. It aims practice. Action.

Being a student entails learning not for the sake of earning a living and not simply conforming, but doing so to live a worthy, useful life, and live it well too.

Being a student does not end with us holding our college diploma, or even our postgraduate degree. It is a lifelong status. For everyone. Learning is a lifelong process. For each of us is a student trying to find our place and forge our own path in the world, doing our best to fulfill our purposeful existence.

Being a student at UP, being a UPian, an Iska or Isko, is indeed a fulfillment of education’s real essence, and profound standard. Ideal.

The best part of being a student, you get to fill in the blanks you yourself have created not so long ago. You get to answer your questions as you go along and gain knowledge, experience and understanding, even without explicitly expressing so.

You just know it’s answered. You are not disturbed anymore. You understand. And you never can tell when you started to know. One day you subconsciously take a quick trip across memory lane and there you saw the bulb lighted, many other bulbs are lighted! Yet you never remember ever finding the switch.

So, “UPian Ako, Ikaw?”

#

(Submitted for BLL104 under Prof. Subido. September 3,2009)

Leave a Comment

Sisterly Sweet…?

August 24, 2009 at 1:03 pm · Filed under Fatima Marla ·Tagged

I never hated anyone in my life. Never felt the need to do so. I simply avoid people who bother me. Why waste time letting myself be annoyed by others’ distasteful attitudes anyway?  Ramble all they want, they don’t interest me.  My life is at peace.

Or so I thought.

There is someone who regularly succeeds to get on my nerves. And this someone, inconveniently, I cannot possibly avoid.

My sister is a lot of things – beautiful (she wins pageants), smart (cum laude!), determined. But she is also a terrible nuisance. Moody. Impractical. Brat. These all point to my sister’s attitude and I have more than enough proofs to back me up too.

On the record, I don’t hate her. No. Not to that extent. Not when I was six and she pushed me on the slide so hard my chin got wounded big time. Not when she blew my 7th birthday candle while I was wishing with my eyes closed (and so my wish never came true). Not when she slapped my right leg with much force that through the years it has turned into a sort-of birth mark. Not even when she threw a rubber snake at me while I was biking and I got out of control ultimately making me lunge into the river. And definitely not when she accused me infront of our family last month of cigarette-smoking because I was seen talking to a friend who smokes. Again, I don’t hate her.

But she is the only one who manages to bring me regular doses of annoyance. Two years older than me and now done with college, Ate never fails to stress her superiority over me and our younger brother. Yes, she loves being the eldest child, especially that part of bossing us around.

People never noted any similarity between Ate and me. She got mommy’s looks and attitudes and I got daddy’s. She wears her hair short and highlighted, mine is long and black. She is girly and preppy, I go for comfort and sporty. She dances and sings, I don’t (I just don’t).

But it was only when I started getting disturbed with her ranting that the inevitable schism between us became achingly obvious. I am annoyed with my sister because…

She gets mood swings, all the time! Sometimes she’s fine to talk to, friendly even. Then after a breeze barely passes she suddenly yells for no other reason at all but her plain unpredictable nature. Whether I call her for dinner, ask her the time, or try to converse with her, if she feels like shouting at me, she would do so! She would get mad at me, for merely being there, leaving me blank-faced. “What?”

She takes over our entire room and leaves only my bed excluded in her self-imposed territory. And she throws all my things in my bed, claiming that they are scattered all over. I can’t even leave the things I’m working on in the table. She got her meticulousness from my mother. But I can say she’s overdoing it.

She has this girly pink fetish that always makes my eyebrows meet. Ok, I may sound biased with this so let me admit my own fetish for yellow things. To clear the distinction, I only buy those I actually use, like a yellow wristwatch, a yellow handkerchief, a yellow file folder, yellow bags and shirts. You get the idea. As for my impractical sister, she buys pink of those things too PLUS anything pink and cute that catches her attention, whether a figurine, stickers, mini stuff toys, key chains, clips she don’t use and other petty stuffs that one can live without. It annoys me to know how much she spent on those useless stuffs (and how much our room is filled with such).

She is irrationally figure-conscious. She looks well, yet still buys those slimming drinks (which I believe are more or less commercial lies) and insists on not eating rice at dinner, or any dinner at all. Mommy says Ate is just acting like any normal young lady. (So what does that make me, mom?)

Also, Ate eyes me and throws negative remarks on the amount of food I eat, and on how I eat. She disapproves of my eating with my legs up the chair, of using my hands, of drinking two glasses of either pineapple juice or coke always, of my fondness for sea foods (I barely eat other meats), to name a few.

I tell her, REMIND her that I play lawn tennis regularly every weekend, that’s why I don’t fret on my weight, or my figure. I told her to do so too. It’s healthy. But no (rolls eyes), she would rather starve and deprive herself of delicious food than to venture into sports or even exercise. She says she doesn’t like to sweat! Rationality justified? No.

She speaks of my hobbies like they are bad. I grew up with much fondness for books. She calls me a nerd, a boring bookworm who delves in fantasy and needs to get in touch with reality. I keep journals, since fifth grade, writing my experiences, thoughts and dreams. She tells me to “get a life.” I love gardening. I have a green thumb. She says she loves plants too, so she waters them. But when it comes to planting and actually touching the soil, she suddenly wears a disgusted look. Dirty work, she says. I love coffee. I drink floods of such substance. She says I’m a 60-year-old trapped in a 19-year-old body, and added “No wonder you don’t have a social life.”

She keeps minding my hair. I remember when I was in highschool, I suddenly woke up and screamed as looked at my pillow. She cut my hair while I was asleep. It was one of those rare moments when mommy got mad at her that I forced myself to hide a grin despite my tears. I love my long hair. And I believe I look best with its simplicity. I do not feel that layering it, dying it, or cutting it short would fit me. She says it’s “BORING” (uppercase hers). So? Look around! Everyone else has got styled hair. I don’t know about you, but if the general teenage population is doing the same thing, I want to be doing something else. In my case, keeping it naturally.

She disapproves of my “taste” in boys. And I disapprove of hers too. In fact I can’t decipher her preference at all. I think it’s random. Ate disapproves of my two ex-boyfriends, who happen to be campus heartthrobs (you know, cool, popular, athletic, handsome, and from a decent-rich family.)

“Explain to me why this preoccupation with dopey athletes happens to even headstrong young women who score superior on their IQ test?” my sister commented on my Friendster. For some reason, the bare-bones honesty of her statement only fuelled my growing sense of annoyance

And yes, even after each breakup, whatever the reasons, we remain close friends. No bitterness there or whatever you call it. But my sister insists that I should NOT be friends with them “after what they have done.” What? Like ex-lovers can’t be friends or something? She also disapproves of them being two (2) years younger than me. I don’t know about you, but hasn’t it been said overtime that age doesn’t matter? My sister fails to comprehend such notion.

As for her, she has had two boyfriends, both her age. The first one was a math geek. International math quiz champ, tall, thin, curly hair. They lasted three years until the guy broke up with her. Then I heard he attempted to get back with her, but she said she doesn’t recycle trash.  I saluted Ate for that!

After almost two years, she have a new beau who is (well, I don’t wish to be mean, but I’d rather be honest than kind right now) vertically-challenged.  Picture this: my sister is way taller than me, and I’m taller than the guy. I am just bothered because I take pride in my sister’s reputation as a beauty queen in our town. Now why don’t I approve of him? I found him as interesting as a bag of rice.

I remember just last month, I was reading “Boy Meets Girl” by Joshua Harris while Ate keeps glancing at me. Disturbed, I put the book down, “Ano yun?” With a teasing smile, Ate goes “gusto mo hanapan kita ng boyfriend? Yung kapatid ni ano…” “Ayoko ng tipo mo” I cut her off and got the book up again on my face.

What discombobulated me even more was that she was suddenly shouting at me for insulting (get this) not her, but her bf. I was just silent, and the topic of her anger shifted to my scattered things on my cabinet, then back to my alleged insult, then her insulting my own preference, ending the rant by banging the door as she left the room. I continued reading.

My sister is a lot of things – beautiful, smart, determined. But she also has a terrible temper. Yet, despite our oppositional stance, I wouldn’t wish to have any other sister. I feel like I’m the only suitable younger sister for her, not because I have enough patience to stand her, not because I can deal with her, but because I understand her. She may not admit, but I know most of the time she’s is just being sisterly sweet.

I never hated her in my life. Never felt the need to do so. I simply avoid her when she starts bothering me. Why waste time letting myself be annoyed by her distasteful attitudes anyway?  Ramble all she wants, I’m used to it.  My life is at peace. #

(Submitted for BLL104 under Prof. Subido. August 25,2009)

Leave a Comment

joie de vivre?

August 15, 2009 at 10:55 am · Filed under Fatima Marla ·Tagged , , ,

Home from Baguio City, I sit here, not wanting to think about the things I ought to be working on. Then the thesaurus comes falling on my foot. What? Books just don’t fall from the table lest pushed. Now I’m really certain about the uncertainty of things.

What more? Urggh.

I picked it up, and saw a word with a pencil checkmark on its left. “joie de vivre zest, gusto, relish, elation, joy, enthusiasm, gaiety, cheerfulness, pleasure, enjoyment. ant. lifelessness, apathy, weariness, ennui, indifference, jadedness.” O-kkay. I’ll stick with the antonyms.

I’ve been neurosizing the life out of me this past week. Studying. Reviewing. Memorizing. And despite knowing all the lessons completely, I still am not sure with my exams results. I guess one has to first acquire the professors’  brain to get the answers right. The hell of college life.

This weekend I plan to stay in bed longer to make up for the past days’ sleep deprivation. Water and juice will bring back my relatively normal self after floods of coffee.  Yet I am sure that there are more hell weeks to come. I just have to keep up with my present life’s fast-paced culture.

With still much school works due this coming week, tasks to do for my organizations, and much readings (!!!) left, I’ll have to keep struggling with time.  Not that I’m not used to it. And speaking of time, my yellow wrist watch decided to amaze me before its batteries died. It went counterclockwise for a whole 3 minutes! Bizarre? Fantastic!

But despite feeling like I’m on the process of transforming into a zombie, it seems like all those brain activities aren’t enough to make my life more straining. (Trust me, I am not ranting. This is how it is, no complains, and definitely no regrets.)

Distractions. Just one actually. But with him sprouts many. One minute I’m engulfed with my lessons, the next I find myself seeing his image in my head. Then I drink a half-cup of coffee to shake him off. It works well for about half-an hour or so. That’s probably the reason why I drink floods of such substance. It tastes so good too!

But whenever I ran out of my drug, I force myself to sleep. But that doesnt work well. Besides not being able to accomplish more tasks, I usually end up dreaming of him. I wish not to sleep at times. So, more coffee for me!

There you have it, joie de vivre. The opposite of it.

Leave a Comment

Alarming!

July 29, 2009 at 4:49 pm · Filed under Fatima Marla ·Tagged , ,

My trusted alarm clock suddenly decided to rebel this morning, not letting itself be used against its will. No sound was heard from it. Not a single beep. It may have gone to sleep (probably jealous of my slumber). And so I woke up this morning exactly an hour later than intended.

Just great! Thirty minutes to convince myself to get off my bed, take a bath, dress up, eat breakfast, fix the bed and dash off to school. I did manage well, thank you very much. Yes, I wasnt late for my 7am journ class. In fact, I arrived earlier than usual, maybe five to seven minutes.

So, I was able to maximize my time, rushing on everything, moving in an adrenaline-induced speed, accomplishing tasks in a jiffy. Sure. But that is not what this essay is about. I wouldnt think of thanking the alarm clock for that!

It betrayed me afterall. It was supposed to go  beep beep beep until I awoke. But for no other reason but plain stubbornness, it was silent. My alarm clock failed me.

But perhaps it only sensed that I was in very deep sleep and was kind enough to not disturb me, making me dream on.

It was a dream I very much tolerate and even hope for, though it brings out floods of sad thoughts after fleeting joy. I cling to dreams like those, for they conjure images I fancy. Perhaps for that reason, of letting me dream, I can thank my faulty alarm clock.

Whatever got into the mind of my alarm clock, if it has any that is, it better not fail me again. Despite the presence of such good dreams of mine, I should still better not let my reality suffer. For dreams are just dreams. They wont leave you lest you shove them away. It wont do good to dwell on them either, I was told.

But then again, one cant control things out of one’s reach. I’ve checked if its broken, tried it again, and found out it works fine. Tomorrow, I may or may not hear the alarm clock beeping . I may or may not be dreaming.

I am definitely looking forward to an alarming morning. ^-^

Comments (1)

Wide-Eyed Wonder

July 27, 2009 at 5:15 pm · Filed under Fatima Marla ·Tagged , , , ,

There I was blocked and surrounded, eight of them against me and my cup of coffee, looking straight into those yellow-green eyes glowing in the pitch-black darkness of our open backyard kitchen on one of those nights I get my refills.

What are they playing at?

They had me pondering and researching (surely Jessica Zafra had written something about dealing with these “domesticated” monsters…) Past irrational attempts taught me that kicking to get rid of them only works if you’re agile enough to secure your feet from those well-kept sharp claws and/teeth. And I cannot accept myself thinking of pouring coffee on them (such a waste). But I know I had to do something.

Not only do they disturb my peace and get me weirded out, but they also very effectively show questioningly accusatory big-eyed gazes! As if getting coffee from our own kitchen is a crime! So there they always follow me, twisting their necks on whatever degree possible, with their monstrous black-furred alpha walking slowly to face me, making me halt and wonder, every time!

After attempting to deal with them, I realized I haven’t taken up interspecies communication yet. And I doubt it’s offered in my school or in any school anyway. So I decided to defend myself their way and play their game.

I was convinced that they are simply mocking me to venture on a staring challenge. Coffee in hand, I fixed my face to look questioningly, disbelievingly or sometimes innocently, with an eyebrow raised and much exaggeration for stronger impact. I competed with the feline. Roawwwrr!

Sensing the tension going on the connection, I feel the intensity, like the creature was going inside my head, penetrating my mind through my eyes, reading all my thoughts, trespassing in my consciousness. I shuddered.

Whatever expression I paint on my face to compete with the biggest, dirtiest, smelliest and scariest of these neighbourhood scavengers, (I think it had used half or more of its nine lives), I always am the first to blink. Frustrating. But I’m not done attempting.

Besides those gazes, I also get annoyed with their smutty purrs and lewd groans at night which make me want to get up, chase them, put them in a sack and let them their struggling for air, suffocating to their deaths (Am I being too mean?).

Some people delight in these rascals. They take care of them and some even prefer their company than other creatures. (Don’t ask me why.) But I hate these pretentious “pets”. And I used to kick them and pour boiling water to them (oops! Perhaps I’d better stop emulating that particular blogger’s antagonism-eliciting article last summer or I’d be totally shunned in the online world too), to shoo them away. While, for some reason I fail to comprehend, people think they are cute, cuddly, oh-so-adorable creatures! Bleh!

Sure, people generally find them cute, but even their most loving humans can admit they are useless – sleeping and lying around all the time on the floor tripping people; or getting your place in the sofa and blocking your view of the television; or soiling your clothes for laundry even more as they turn it into a make-shift bed; or frightening you as you see it snoring soundly inside the clay pot before you cook. Nuisance.

Ok, they are indeed fluffy and cuddly and so adoring to look at, dress up and take pictures. But I’m telling you, they are really miniature tigers constantly preparing for warfare. Don’t you notice them pouncing here and there, scratching furniture to sharpen their claws, staring critically, wide-eyed as if an interrogator? Eerie.

But whether you share my views or are one of those humans who gladly co-inhabit with those freaks, I only have these more to say: All I want is their riddance in my kitchen, in my house, and in my life. Cats – they bother me, and I hate them.

(Submitted for BLL104 under Prof. Subido. July30,2009)

Comments (1)

Older Posts »