Her name was Fiona, and she was the most popular girl in school.
The first day she set foot on campus, every single person - girl or boy - fell in love with her.
On the second day, everyone's grades reached an all-time high.
On the third day, everyone wanted to always be around her.
On the fourth day, everyone missed her when she didn't come to class.
On the fifth day, everyone went all out looking for her - in every nearby house, mall, arcade, nook and cranny.
On the sixth day, everyone called the open-book exam difficult.
On the seventh, everyone hated Fiona.
The following week, she came back. She had gotten thin and bedraggled - so unlike the girl they had first met.
But no one noticed. They were too busy hating her to care.
Saddened, Fiona left and transferred to another school.
Friday, October 3, 2008
29: I Hate Vegetables
Teary-eyed. That was how I was when Andi left.
I didn't cry because I swore not to, and I didn't ask her to stay because I knew she didn't want to.
What else could I do but to shove everything down my throat and clamp my mouth shut so I don't throw it all up on her feet?
It was like back when I was being taught to eat my vegetables - broccoli, for one. My mother, who had gotten exasperated over my staunch refusal to open my mouth wide and let the choo-choo train or the whee-whee airplane in, forced-open my jaw and packed the stems of smooshy, furry green things in. The WHOLE plate of it. Which was a LOT.
I was going to throw it all up after, but she kept her hands around my face, keeping my mouth shut and forcing me to get it ALL down.
I remember the tears that welled up in my eyes.
I wanted to get it all OUT, not IN. But my mother had other ideas.
When she finally let go, I wailed like the three-year old that I was. Something I want to do so badly right now.
Then again, I'm no three-year old anymore. And emotions - I just found out now - are easier to get down than those hell-sent broccoli ever were.
This actually brings me back to that inane cliche of a quote I read at a stationery once - When you love someone, set them free. If you're really meant to be, you'll still get back together in the end.
I used to think it was a silly quote, but right now - when all that's left of Andi is our photo sticker stuck at the back of my cellphone - that ridiculous saying is the only thing I can grasp onto for hope.
A ceaseless hope that I know is just stupid and illogical, but nevertheless continues to exist - and I cringe at this - in my heart.
Fuck love for making me this cheesy.
And fuck that guy for whisking her away to Never Never Land where all things are warm and fuzzy and cute and... normal.
"You'll always be my bestfriend," She said with a smile as she waved and boarded the train.
The hellspawn Bestfriend Card. Couldn't blame her though. I used it a hundred times before too. Why I have a lot of male friends, no one really thought so hard to figure out.
If I told her I loved her more than just a friend, she would have laughed out loud, I'm sure. Would've told me, "Of course! We're like sisters, right?"
Stupid broccoli. Why won't it just stay in my stomach? Where it's safe. Where I'm safe. Where we're safe.
I watch nth train come into the station today; the way I've been doing these past few weeks. And as the doors slide open, I scan each and every alighting passenger's face with bated breath; hoping against hope that it's her, all smiles and ready to jump at me with a hug, screeching in her high-pitched voice, "I changed my mind! Fuck that guy, I'm staying here with you!"
Ah, a girl could dream.
I shove my hands into my pockets and try to ignore the coldness of the air creeping into every inch of my being.
I turn my back from the now-closing up train and join the horde that just got out. I really don't mind the pushing and shoving.
After all, this is the closest thing I have to not feeling alone.
I didn't cry because I swore not to, and I didn't ask her to stay because I knew she didn't want to.
What else could I do but to shove everything down my throat and clamp my mouth shut so I don't throw it all up on her feet?
It was like back when I was being taught to eat my vegetables - broccoli, for one. My mother, who had gotten exasperated over my staunch refusal to open my mouth wide and let the choo-choo train or the whee-whee airplane in, forced-open my jaw and packed the stems of smooshy, furry green things in. The WHOLE plate of it. Which was a LOT.
I was going to throw it all up after, but she kept her hands around my face, keeping my mouth shut and forcing me to get it ALL down.
I remember the tears that welled up in my eyes.
I wanted to get it all OUT, not IN. But my mother had other ideas.
When she finally let go, I wailed like the three-year old that I was. Something I want to do so badly right now.
Then again, I'm no three-year old anymore. And emotions - I just found out now - are easier to get down than those hell-sent broccoli ever were.
This actually brings me back to that inane cliche of a quote I read at a stationery once - When you love someone, set them free. If you're really meant to be, you'll still get back together in the end.
I used to think it was a silly quote, but right now - when all that's left of Andi is our photo sticker stuck at the back of my cellphone - that ridiculous saying is the only thing I can grasp onto for hope.
A ceaseless hope that I know is just stupid and illogical, but nevertheless continues to exist - and I cringe at this - in my heart.
Fuck love for making me this cheesy.
And fuck that guy for whisking her away to Never Never Land where all things are warm and fuzzy and cute and... normal.
"You'll always be my bestfriend," She said with a smile as she waved and boarded the train.
The hellspawn Bestfriend Card. Couldn't blame her though. I used it a hundred times before too. Why I have a lot of male friends, no one really thought so hard to figure out.
If I told her I loved her more than just a friend, she would have laughed out loud, I'm sure. Would've told me, "Of course! We're like sisters, right?"
Stupid broccoli. Why won't it just stay in my stomach? Where it's safe. Where I'm safe. Where we're safe.
I watch nth train come into the station today; the way I've been doing these past few weeks. And as the doors slide open, I scan each and every alighting passenger's face with bated breath; hoping against hope that it's her, all smiles and ready to jump at me with a hug, screeching in her high-pitched voice, "I changed my mind! Fuck that guy, I'm staying here with you!"
Ah, a girl could dream.
I shove my hands into my pockets and try to ignore the coldness of the air creeping into every inch of my being.
I turn my back from the now-closing up train and join the horde that just got out. I really don't mind the pushing and shoving.
After all, this is the closest thing I have to not feeling alone.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
30: My Sun
"He's coming."
The raspy whisper held such fear in it that Alden froze in his place.
Everything had been such a blur. Looking back, his memory could only provide him with hazy bits and pieces of the beginning - the raspy-voiced woman pulling him by the hand, the dark figure advancing towards them from behind, the bruising force by which the woman shoved him with, and the stuffy heat of the closet.
"WHERE IS HE?!"
He remembered hugging his knees inside the closet.
"I don't know."
"I SAW HIM! WHERE DID YOU HIDE HIM?"
"If I knew," The woman began, strength slowly rising from her quivering voice, "Do you really think I'd tell you where he is?"
There was a strained pause...
...and then a loud, resounding slap.
He remembered trying to fit his little head into the cracks of his tightly conjoined knees and shivering uncontrollably as he vainly tried to drown out the sounds of violence with his voiceless crying.
"TELL ME WHERE HE IS!" Slap, slap, slap. And then POUND. "TELL ME!"
Mouth thankfully pressed on his legs stifled the scared sob, and the gift of memory chose to remember only what was necessary.
He remembered her whimpering, sobbing... but not wailing.
There had been wailing, but it had not been hers. That much he knew.
He remembered slick liquid finding its way inside his little sanctuary, but he didn't realize then what, or whose it was.
The door of the closet burst open, and for the first time, he remembered seeing the light of day.
Alden raised his hand to shield his eyes from the searing sun rays and kneeled down to the headstone on the grassy mound. Lovingly, he brushed the stray grass the wind had blown in, and read the inscription for the nth time in fifteen years.
For the life you gave and let live.
He patted the headstone for the last time and lay down the bouquet of sunflowers.
He stood up and walked away; with a sad smile and a silent thanks to the woman who had once saved his life.
The raspy whisper held such fear in it that Alden froze in his place.
Everything had been such a blur. Looking back, his memory could only provide him with hazy bits and pieces of the beginning - the raspy-voiced woman pulling him by the hand, the dark figure advancing towards them from behind, the bruising force by which the woman shoved him with, and the stuffy heat of the closet.
"WHERE IS HE?!"
He remembered hugging his knees inside the closet.
"I don't know."
"I SAW HIM! WHERE DID YOU HIDE HIM?"
"If I knew," The woman began, strength slowly rising from her quivering voice, "Do you really think I'd tell you where he is?"
There was a strained pause...
...and then a loud, resounding slap.
He remembered trying to fit his little head into the cracks of his tightly conjoined knees and shivering uncontrollably as he vainly tried to drown out the sounds of violence with his voiceless crying.
"TELL ME WHERE HE IS!" Slap, slap, slap. And then POUND. "TELL ME!"
Mouth thankfully pressed on his legs stifled the scared sob, and the gift of memory chose to remember only what was necessary.
He remembered her whimpering, sobbing... but not wailing.
There had been wailing, but it had not been hers. That much he knew.
He remembered slick liquid finding its way inside his little sanctuary, but he didn't realize then what, or whose it was.
The door of the closet burst open, and for the first time, he remembered seeing the light of day.
Alden raised his hand to shield his eyes from the searing sun rays and kneeled down to the headstone on the grassy mound. Lovingly, he brushed the stray grass the wind had blown in, and read the inscription for the nth time in fifteen years.
For the life you gave and let live.
He patted the headstone for the last time and lay down the bouquet of sunflowers.
He stood up and walked away; with a sad smile and a silent thanks to the woman who had once saved his life.
Monday, September 1, 2008
There's an Eheads fan in all of us.
Warning: Really, really long. And drabblish. I'm an extremely affected fan, what can I say?
One word. Overwhelming.
With all the words I have learned in this life, I can't begin to express the feeling that came over me when the first two percussion notes for Alapaap pealed across the venue, and the four of them appeared onstage.
I seriously wanted to cry.
Out of sheer joy, excitement or whatever. It was really just... overwhelming.
Towards Ligaya
All roads lead to The Fort that night. Traffic slowed down on the way there, but it was bearable. (I only racked up P120 cabfare+tip coming in from Mandaluyong.) The venue was packed to the last square inch, the air was humid and the clusters of clouds loomed overhead, threatening to rain on this once-in-a-lifetime parade. The stage was set too low for everyone (even us at the VIP area) to be able to see the quartet properly. The ginormous video walls did help, but much as they did it defeated the purpose of seeing all four of them together live.
Then again, the fact that this was THE Eraserheads Reunion Concert, and it was music the Eraserheads were loved, adored, worshipped for, everything else was negligible when the first few notes of Alapaap cut through the thick air, and the lights came to life to reveal The Four in all their shining glory.
They didn't really shine-shine, but everyone screamed so loud that they might as well have.
Ely was old-school preppied up in white long-sleeved shirt, white vest and blue tie. Buddy a tad japorms in his red shirt and white jacket (which he peeled off during the third song) combo. Markus was in casual disarray as always) in a red checkered shirt and worn-out jeans. And Rayms... was so dressed down he looked as if he simply got out of bed, put on the nearest available clothing and walked off to the venue. Oh, and right. The eyeliner. (Oh, hail Raymond M.: Rock Lord of All-That-Is-Emo.) He made up for it with his charged-up performance though, so t'was all good.
The First (and Last) Set
The beginning of it all was so magical that it didn't even seem real until they appeared and played onstage.
I kept track of the songs and number of songs... until the fourth. After the fourth, I just let myself get intoxicated with their songs. I can still remember the songs they performed, not in order, and may be missing a song or two:
Alapaap - There were fireworks. Literally and figuratively.
Sembreak - With which Rayms stood up and raised his arms at the crowd. Nubi tells me that he did so because it was him who composed the song.
Hey Jay
Fruitcake - Ely went, "Merry Christmas" prior to the first note, and I just knew. He sang the first line, and let the crowd sing the next lines. Everyone sang along, but most people stumbled with "There's some brandy and star margarine to make it right." part. At this point, Ely began to supply the lyrics.
Kaliwete
Ligaya
Shake Yer Head
Toyang - With the intro "This song... is all about love.", the crowd already went wild. Ely played with the lyrics, "They tried to tells us we're too old / Too old to really be bold." To which the crowd hooted at.
Kailan - I imagined if there were lovers (There were A LOT.) in the crowd at this moment, they would have started slow-dancing.
With A Smile - The song I screamed the loudest for. Favoritest song! I really liked the Southborder version, but nothing - and I mean NOTHING - really beats the original. And LIVE at that.
Kasama Mo Naman Ako
Huwag Mo Na Itanong
I was only in grade school when they rose to stardom, so I really still wasn't the sort of stalkish fan that I am now with the JRock artists I adore. But right then, at that moment when Buddy waved and bowed to the crowd, Markus standing and nodding nonchalantly, Ely and Rayms raising their hands at the millions of us there... It was really an image, a moment, a feeling - an experience - that I will remember for the rest of my life.
Seriously surreal.
The Experience
I've heard their music in my playlist for close to a thousand times before, and a couple hundred more in my elementary years, and cliche as it sounds: nothing REALLY beats hearing it live. Especially after what seemed like an eternity. And most especially for the first time.
I had screamed then, until there was that pesky ringing on my forehead. I waved my hands along with the rest of the adrenaline-high crowd, and bopped my head and the rest of my body to the beat of their music.
Never mind the cute guys that were right beside me at that time, nor the celebrities that were at the same area as I was. When the lights shone on them, every single one of us cared for nothing more than the four of them, and the music that connected the four of them together.
I said that if Ely (or anyone of them) had expressed their intention to run at the 2010 presidential elections at that very moment, he would've won in a landslide.
The band was as cool as ever. Buddy plucked at his guitar ever so casually, as though it was the easiest thing to do in the world. Markus seemed so detached from the fame apparent in the millions of people packed before them. Rayms seemed to have just rolled out of bed and into the venue to play... like a madman.
Only on this night did I come to understand what Sharif meant with good drum-playing. Rayms hit every note HARD, never missed a bit even if often stood up to get the crowd going. Something I think he had to do either because there *was* a lack of interaction, or because old frontman habits are hard to break. Or both. It wasn't distracting though, nor did it take the spotlight from Ely. In my opinion, at least. I actually found it amusing, and representative of how they have grown as people, musicians and performers.
The surreality of it all, however, crash-landed to reality when, after the 20-minute intermission, the band came out sans Ely, and instead with a girl.
Tragedy Strikes
When this gets posted, we would all have known who the girl was and what had happened next.
And by that time, all the miniscule things that seemed wrong and/or pretty trivial at the moment they happened all formed and fit into one big, dark picture.
Ely had come out wearing sunglasses, and I personally thought it was a rockstar-in-concert thing. (I distinctly remembered Ebe in similar fashion when he performed in my Dagupan event at 12 in the morning.) He shook them off (as in SHOOK them of) around about the fifth song; revealing his tired, joyless eyes.
Everyone had also wondered why Ely wasn't interacting with the crowd as frontmen are expected to do. He also wasn't interacting with the rest of the band; something that prompted the crowd to chant "Group hug, group hug!" over and over again. There was also noticeable cracking in his voice whenever he sang, and that frozen smile he gave us in the middle of his performance.
I figured he really didn't want to be there at the moment, but never really thought of why.
Shame on me and the rest of the fan populace that night who momentarily forgot the fact that his mom had just passed away a couple days back, and that despite this and the history of heart failure looming over his head like the clouds in that night's sky; he still chose to push through with the concert to do what he had been doing since the beginning: make everyone happy.
Ely was rushed to the hospital, and his bandmates, his sister, the promotors and the millions of fans gathered there that night bowed their hands in silent prayer, wishing for his speedy recovery.
Buddy continued on apologizing and wishing everyone a safe drive home. I heard him, but I didn't see him 'coz my eyes were pinned on Raymond. Right after they had come out onstage and Buddy introduced themselves (to which the crowd laughed at), Rayms had chosen to sit at the drumset platform corner, with his face buried onto the palm of his hand.
If it were in disbelief, sorrow or regret, I really couldn't tell.
Exodus Home
The VO soon ordered everyone to leave the venue, and when we walked out of the place, we chanced upon the members of Cueshe and Ebe of Sugarfree with his girlfriend leaving along with us. Earlier that evening, the camera had spotted Jay of Kamikazee, and scattered around us in the VIP area then were the likes of Ramon Bautista, Janus del Prado, Earl Ignacio and Yeng Constantino.
It's rather amusing to think that all it takes to even the ground for the likes of celebrities, rockstars, socialites, working people and the common emo tao is the reunion of this quartet and their music.
On the way home, I thought that what had just happened was prolly a nudge from the cosmos for them to go that way and take a cue from Filipino movies.
Tragedy always brings broken people together, remember?
And so hopefully, this would be the best time for the four of them to REALLY reunite, and get back together as the friends they had started out as.
Our fingers will remain crossed for that.
One word. Overwhelming.
With all the words I have learned in this life, I can't begin to express the feeling that came over me when the first two percussion notes for Alapaap pealed across the venue, and the four of them appeared onstage.
I seriously wanted to cry.
Out of sheer joy, excitement or whatever. It was really just... overwhelming.
Towards Ligaya
All roads lead to The Fort that night. Traffic slowed down on the way there, but it was bearable. (I only racked up P120 cabfare+tip coming in from Mandaluyong.) The venue was packed to the last square inch, the air was humid and the clusters of clouds loomed overhead, threatening to rain on this once-in-a-lifetime parade. The stage was set too low for everyone (even us at the VIP area) to be able to see the quartet properly. The ginormous video walls did help, but much as they did it defeated the purpose of seeing all four of them together live.
Then again, the fact that this was THE Eraserheads Reunion Concert, and it was music the Eraserheads were loved, adored, worshipped for, everything else was negligible when the first few notes of Alapaap cut through the thick air, and the lights came to life to reveal The Four in all their shining glory.
They didn't really shine-shine, but everyone screamed so loud that they might as well have.
Ely was old-school preppied up in white long-sleeved shirt, white vest and blue tie. Buddy a tad japorms in his red shirt and white jacket (which he peeled off during the third song) combo. Markus was in casual disarray as always) in a red checkered shirt and worn-out jeans. And Rayms... was so dressed down he looked as if he simply got out of bed, put on the nearest available clothing and walked off to the venue. Oh, and right. The eyeliner. (Oh, hail Raymond M.: Rock Lord of All-That-Is-Emo.) He made up for it with his charged-up performance though, so t'was all good.
The First (and Last) Set
The beginning of it all was so magical that it didn't even seem real until they appeared and played onstage.
I kept track of the songs and number of songs... until the fourth. After the fourth, I just let myself get intoxicated with their songs. I can still remember the songs they performed, not in order, and may be missing a song or two:
Alapaap - There were fireworks. Literally and figuratively.
Sembreak - With which Rayms stood up and raised his arms at the crowd. Nubi tells me that he did so because it was him who composed the song.
Hey Jay
Fruitcake - Ely went, "Merry Christmas" prior to the first note, and I just knew. He sang the first line, and let the crowd sing the next lines. Everyone sang along, but most people stumbled with "There's some brandy and star margarine to make it right." part. At this point, Ely began to supply the lyrics.
Kaliwete
Ligaya
Shake Yer Head
Toyang - With the intro "This song... is all about love.", the crowd already went wild. Ely played with the lyrics, "They tried to tells us we're too old / Too old to really be bold." To which the crowd hooted at.
Kailan - I imagined if there were lovers (There were A LOT.) in the crowd at this moment, they would have started slow-dancing.
With A Smile - The song I screamed the loudest for. Favoritest song! I really liked the Southborder version, but nothing - and I mean NOTHING - really beats the original. And LIVE at that.
Kasama Mo Naman Ako
Huwag Mo Na Itanong
I was only in grade school when they rose to stardom, so I really still wasn't the sort of stalkish fan that I am now with the JRock artists I adore. But right then, at that moment when Buddy waved and bowed to the crowd, Markus standing and nodding nonchalantly, Ely and Rayms raising their hands at the millions of us there... It was really an image, a moment, a feeling - an experience - that I will remember for the rest of my life.
Seriously surreal.
The Experience
I've heard their music in my playlist for close to a thousand times before, and a couple hundred more in my elementary years, and cliche as it sounds: nothing REALLY beats hearing it live. Especially after what seemed like an eternity. And most especially for the first time.
I had screamed then, until there was that pesky ringing on my forehead. I waved my hands along with the rest of the adrenaline-high crowd, and bopped my head and the rest of my body to the beat of their music.
Never mind the cute guys that were right beside me at that time, nor the celebrities that were at the same area as I was. When the lights shone on them, every single one of us cared for nothing more than the four of them, and the music that connected the four of them together.
I said that if Ely (or anyone of them) had expressed their intention to run at the 2010 presidential elections at that very moment, he would've won in a landslide.
The band was as cool as ever. Buddy plucked at his guitar ever so casually, as though it was the easiest thing to do in the world. Markus seemed so detached from the fame apparent in the millions of people packed before them. Rayms seemed to have just rolled out of bed and into the venue to play... like a madman.
Only on this night did I come to understand what Sharif meant with good drum-playing. Rayms hit every note HARD, never missed a bit even if often stood up to get the crowd going. Something I think he had to do either because there *was* a lack of interaction, or because old frontman habits are hard to break. Or both. It wasn't distracting though, nor did it take the spotlight from Ely. In my opinion, at least. I actually found it amusing, and representative of how they have grown as people, musicians and performers.
The surreality of it all, however, crash-landed to reality when, after the 20-minute intermission, the band came out sans Ely, and instead with a girl.
Tragedy Strikes
When this gets posted, we would all have known who the girl was and what had happened next.
And by that time, all the miniscule things that seemed wrong and/or pretty trivial at the moment they happened all formed and fit into one big, dark picture.
Ely had come out wearing sunglasses, and I personally thought it was a rockstar-in-concert thing. (I distinctly remembered Ebe in similar fashion when he performed in my Dagupan event at 12 in the morning.) He shook them off (as in SHOOK them of) around about the fifth song; revealing his tired, joyless eyes.
Everyone had also wondered why Ely wasn't interacting with the crowd as frontmen are expected to do. He also wasn't interacting with the rest of the band; something that prompted the crowd to chant "Group hug, group hug!" over and over again. There was also noticeable cracking in his voice whenever he sang, and that frozen smile he gave us in the middle of his performance.
I figured he really didn't want to be there at the moment, but never really thought of why.
Shame on me and the rest of the fan populace that night who momentarily forgot the fact that his mom had just passed away a couple days back, and that despite this and the history of heart failure looming over his head like the clouds in that night's sky; he still chose to push through with the concert to do what he had been doing since the beginning: make everyone happy.
Ely was rushed to the hospital, and his bandmates, his sister, the promotors and the millions of fans gathered there that night bowed their hands in silent prayer, wishing for his speedy recovery.
Buddy continued on apologizing and wishing everyone a safe drive home. I heard him, but I didn't see him 'coz my eyes were pinned on Raymond. Right after they had come out onstage and Buddy introduced themselves (to which the crowd laughed at), Rayms had chosen to sit at the drumset platform corner, with his face buried onto the palm of his hand.
If it were in disbelief, sorrow or regret, I really couldn't tell.
Exodus Home
The VO soon ordered everyone to leave the venue, and when we walked out of the place, we chanced upon the members of Cueshe and Ebe of Sugarfree with his girlfriend leaving along with us. Earlier that evening, the camera had spotted Jay of Kamikazee, and scattered around us in the VIP area then were the likes of Ramon Bautista, Janus del Prado, Earl Ignacio and Yeng Constantino.
It's rather amusing to think that all it takes to even the ground for the likes of celebrities, rockstars, socialites, working people and the common emo tao is the reunion of this quartet and their music.
On the way home, I thought that what had just happened was prolly a nudge from the cosmos for them to go that way and take a cue from Filipino movies.
Tragedy always brings broken people together, remember?
And so hopefully, this would be the best time for the four of them to REALLY reunite, and get back together as the friends they had started out as.
Our fingers will remain crossed for that.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The Eraserheads Reunion Concert conspiracy churee
I'M GOING TO THE E-HEADS CONCERT!
Haha. Wala lang. Nagyayabang lang. :P
Natuwa naman ako at makaka-experience na ako ng BIG concert in front of the stage for the FIRST time! Haha. I LOVE YOU MEL! As IN. Mahal na kita foreveeeeer. <3
I actually still don't feel as giddy and/or excited as I should be, just... mayabang. Haha. At least aminado. XD Seriously though, maybe it's 'coz I'm groggy pa/na, or simply because my anti-uso blood has kicked in a few days back despite the sheer kaastigan of the event.
Or maybe I just got carried away with Raymond (Marasigan)'s words from when the whole hullabaloo started. The Eraserheads was just a college band for him; it wasn't their 'true' music. They were a college band who just couldn't stop rising to fame. Napa-"Ay." naman ako dun. Na-sad na din kase hindi na talaga sila nagkaayos-ayos even after aallll this time. (Apektado?! Haha.) Sayang naman din kase. Kahit na ba 'college band' lang sila noon, I think they made better songs and music than the so-called hardcore rock bands of today. Tsaka 'yung samahan nilang yun noon, tapos the fact na they won't even be jamming like old times (on their own accord) anytime soon.
I guess being in the company of Flicker Fusion has made me a lot more sympathetic to a few more band-related stuff than just music and, well, lyrics.
Anyway, while on the topic of eHeads. The conspiracy bug bit me yesterday, and seeing as I was still recovering from the last bug that bit me (the lazy bug), I'm posting this now.
Kase di ba, Sony-BMG took over the concert stuff after Philip Morris (PM) dropped their sponsorship? I was thinking, what if that was the plan from the very beginning? As in:
Philip/Marlboro came out and announced to the world that they're getting the boys together again for one BIG concert in the name of fandom. They say it's free, but it's by invitation so head over to the red nation site to sign-up.
Now, while they're collecting hits at the Marlboro site, the anti-smoking peeps start throwing stones at them and causing their own ruckus. PM denies allegations that they're advertising against the law, because, really. They're just sponsoring an event. I mean, they're right. Where's the advertising there?
*rolleyes*
Anyway. Should we seriously believe that the PM people didn't know the law, and the semantics thereof? They couldn't have been *that* stupid, could they? Unless they really had balls the size of China, they should've known (and cared) that there was no way in hell they would be cut slack for what they were planning to accomplish.
My personal conspiracy theory is that: PM had struck a deal with Sony-BMG from the very beginning. PM came out first so everyone would look at them and recognize them as an almost-Messiah for being able to bridge humongous gaps in the much-revered disbanded quartet. While Sony-BMG waited in the shadows for the signal to come out and save the day.
What's in it for them?
Publicity. For both parties.
I mean, bad publicity *is* still publicity. And PM's got a LOT of that now, yes? Even The Savior, Sony-BMG.
The cost of that rumored 10M/band member talent fee (amounting to a whooping 40M?!) could've been split between the two parties, and their plan of action to recover the lost gold would have been what's happening now.
Charge 1-2K for every hungry fan who wants a piece of their idol.
(Coz seriously. Kung gusto nyo magpasaya lang talaga ng fans, kelangan ba talagang ganun kamahal? Eh ni hindi nga din yan fundraiser eh, di ba?)
HOWEVER.
One reason why this churee CAN'T work is in one person. Rayms Marasigan.
Based on the emails he sent to the Sandwich mailing list, he seems too transparent a person, and too respectful of his fans to be engaged in deceptive activities as this.
BUT
What if the band wasn't in on it either?
What do you think?
Might it be plausible? Or have I just been reading too many Ninoy Aquino conspiracy featurettes from INQ.net? *snickers* Lemme know.
Also, for more eHeads-related snippets, head on over to The Merryland. Kasama 'ko sa list na yan! Ahaha. Thanks ulet, Mel~
In the meantime, I shall go back dealing with my own two-faced Hydra here at the office. I promise to write about the concert (and whatever bonding that may happen with officemates) when I get back from THE event.
Haha.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Wanted: Storytellers
Strong on visual effects, weak on story.Wanted is an almost-two-hour movie about a loserly guy who finds out one day that he, apparently, hails from a long line of uber-cool (and cold-blooded) assassins. He is taken under the wing of his recently-assassinated, previously-unknown father's friends, and is then tasked with avenging his father's untimely death and the betrayal made upon The Fraternity. As he is geared up for the final battle, he is shown the inner workings of the secret group formed by Weavers, and discovers how this group acts as agents of Fate. In the end, he comes face-to-face with the assassin; whose dying breath causes the life that he has finally learned to embrace to, once again, unravel like torn silk before his very eyes.
In the world of myths, this is an ugly duckling story made cool, contemporary and testosterone-loaded with lots of guns, bruised-and-bloodied faces, guns, and more guns. (The highest point the protagonist (James McAvoy) needs to reach, after all, is to be able to curve a bullet around an obstacle to hit the target spot-on.)
While the movie started off with a visual feast and adrenaline-pumping stunts, it failed to maintain that amount of excitement and energy to the very end.
It *is* remniscient of The Matrix and Fight Club; but more of the former than the latter, since this was less mindfuck, more visual grandiosity.
Not that this one's effects would give The Matrix a run for its multi-million money, but it did a good job in making James McAvoy look cool in a shooting spree, and Angelina Jolie become the Goddess of All-That-is-Cool-and-Spiffy in her crazy-hot-chick-driving-the-speeding-red-car moment. (Then again, saying that 'Angelina Jolie is cool' is a redundancy.)
The movie started to become dragging towards the middle, making it the epitome of anti-climactic. Think racecar zooming off at incredulously high-speed only to end up crawling to the finish line with a coughing engine.
Unfortunately, at the same point where the movie is supposed to be shining its brightest did it begin its downward spiral to obscurity.
The ridiculously befuddled ending makes you think that the filmmakers expended all their creative energy to keep their viewers' attention during the first 15 minutes of the film, and then either got too confident that they've manage to fully entrance the audience or ran out of enough mojo to keep the action coming.
I wish they spent more time on establishing characters and forming an actual plot than in stitching together montages of training, assassinations and the like.
The actors were so-so in this. Don't expect any Oscar nominations headed your way, kiddies. James McAvoy either looked stressed or full of teenage angst. Angelina Jolie was of her usual stoicism, peppered with coyness and some cream-puffish-mushy personality. Morgan Freeman was, well, Morgan Freeman.
The only utterly brilliant aspect in all this that I cannot find fault in was the editing. With the story freely moving from the present to the past in pseudo-montages, it didn't become a confusing jumble of images and events. Instead, it provided the audience with a sort of stream-of-consciousness viewing experience wherein the audience was seeing/experiencing/re-experiencing whatever it is that is running through his head during these moments.
In conclusion, I would recommend this movie to people into mouth-agaping stunts and effects and/or Angelina Jolie. But if you want to be over-the-top wowed-out, then this movie is not for you.
Monday, July 21, 2008
sweep me off my feet, why don't you?
THE DARK KNIGHT IS AWE.FRIGGIN.INSPIRING.I was thinking of criteria by which I could judge the films I'll be reviewing in the future, and even though I've managed to think stuff up, using them for TDK might come out farce-ish.
Coz, really. The Dark Knight is THE BEST film to come out (so far) this year.
As in.
Do you feel me frothing at the mouth? Because, really. I am.
To save your monitors from getting flooded with my gushiness, I'll just list down my notes in parts:
The Villain
The Joker was disturbia personified. Heath Ledger was PERFECT for the role. How sad is it that he had to pass away so soon? No more sequels for his freakishly sane Joker, THAT sad! His performance was nothing short of phenomenal. It was so far-off from Jack Nicholson's version, that the earlier version, despite its merits, pales in comparison.
Heath Ledger's The Joker isn't your garden-variety demented villain because he's simply not demented. He's a genius who reads a lot of Thomas Hobbes/Xun Zi/Freud, and his apparent dementia is really just a nasty side-effect of his starkly different worldview and opinion of mankind.
He's not someone you should pity or hate. He's actually someone to admire and look up to. In a somewhat sick and twisted way.
I love the person who provided for the The Joker's new-and-improved personality, and Heath Ledger for doing an unparalleled job in breathing life into the character. It's really unfortunate that he had to exchange *his* life for The Joker's.
The Hero
Christian Bale as The Batman managed to stand up to Heath Ledger's stellar performance. He put up a very, very good fight on two levels: as the hero of the story and as the actor playing the title role. He managed to steal his equal share of the limelight even if the movie started with Heath/The Joker. The Batman's deep, gruffy voice was something that the other Batmans didn't have. It was unsettling at first, but it grows on you, so that was fine.
Also notable here is this Batman is one of the most humanified. I haven't seen Batman Begins (I know, I suck. Not a fan of Katie Holmes kase eh.) so I'm not sure how it compares, but from the ones I've seen before (Val Kilmer's, Michael Keaton's and George Clooney's) his is the least stiff. It might have something to do with the fact that his Bruce Wayne is also the most human. (Gotta credit the well-developed plot and great characterization.) This Bruce Wayne wasn't just all angst and snobby riches; he actually has a pretty wide array of emotions: jealousy, envy, kindness, generosity, helplessness and all other stuff from the spectrum of feelings. There was Bruce Wayne's characteristic dry wit and maangas persona, but his humanity shone through very clearly.
[On a more girly note, Christian Bale is one of the hottest Batmans EVER. Even without tons of fanservice moments (i.e. moments of half-nakedness), Christian Bale was oooooozeeeeng with sexiness. Haha.]
Others
Harvey Dent/Harvey Two-Face to me as a viewer was a sad happening, but as a writer/filmmaker, was a giddy development. This is where that wonderfully-run plot comes in to receive its trophy.
Alfred took his share of the limelight, and shone not just as the perennial sidekick, but as one very talented and experienced PERSON.
Lucius Fox was as maangas as you could imagine Morgan Freeman becoming. Problem is that I kept forgetting who he was in the movie, and kept thinking of him as Morgan Freeman. (There was a point where Bruce Wayne mentioned Lucius, and I was like, "Who? Oh. Morgan Freeman.") It's not really good if you see the actor instead of the part he's playing. I'm beginning to think that he's getting typecast unto these sorts of caretaker-ish roles. This is remniscient of that part he played in 1408, albeit less scare-inducing.
Technicals
Visual effects were THE BOMB. I was literally clapping joyfully at every carchase, building explosion and gun firing. Especially astig moments for the next Batman movies to top are:
*The kidnap of Lao in Hongkong (Love that return-to-airplane move!)
*The transfer of Harvey Dent to County Jail (I clapped when he flew out with a trike.)
*The tracking room/monitors
*The final showdown of Batman and The Joker
I should also say that my hat's off to whoever is in the idea pool who thought of Lucius Fox's designs and The Joker's explosive schemes.
Plot Runs
The movie ran for about 2 hours and a half. On paper, it might seem very LOTR-ish long, but really. The two hours were well worth it. If you're depressed, stressed or just simply bored, this is one of the best escape movies out right now. I was so into it that I didn't even call out what had happened to Commissioner Gordon (How could I have NOT seen THAT coming?!), and the two hours were more than enough to establish the relationships among all the characters, do some foreshadowings (A lot, actually. Anton Chekov would be so proud.) and provide basis for all other events that would follow. Script wasn't really riveting, but it fit just right. I ended up liking that "You either become the hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain." line in-movie even if it seemed really long and awkward in the trailer. The best script came at the end, when Gordon was explaining what Batman is to Gotham. It came out so nicely that I cried at the end of the movie because of it. (Such a girl.)
Sooo there. Gushing over. Do I really still need to make a wrap-up? I'll just end up being redundant here. Anyway.
Go pick your ass up and watch The Dark Knight. I promise to give you a refund if you leave the theater disappointed after.
Yes. It's THAT good.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Vignette#1
"'Ma, hindi dapat mamatay si Manong."
I opened my eyes, turned to the direction of the voice, and found a little girl. She was probably around six or seven years old with smooth, dark skin, long hair, and pretty little lips that always seemed to be pouting. She looked up at a woman who was the spitting image of herself, only older, and frowned.
A look of worry crossed the older woman's face, as if unsure how to respond to the girl's last statement.
I stood up, watched as the older woman kneeled down to the girl's eye level, smoothed the girl's hair, and heaved a deep breath as she opened her mouth to explain.
An explanation I didn't get to hear because of a group of youngsters that brushed past me.
I turned to the direction they were heading - behind me, and studied their pretty faces from afar. I know I've seen them somewhere before even if I couldn't place them at the moment. Artistas, probably? I thought to myself. They look harried, worried - one of them was even close to tears - as they walked briskly along the white halls, and met with another cluster of people at the end of it. A man wearing a white lab coat - a doctor, obviously - was speaking before the cluster, and everyone in the cluster was listening to him in rapt attention.
Interest piqued, I sauntered over to the cluster. Surely, they won't mind, or even notice, an usi like myself, hovering nearby, hoping to catch some juicy chismis.
"We tried. For 45 minutes."
And the rest was drowned by hiccupping and sobbing. I saw one of the older guys - the one with salt-and-pepper hair - clench his fist, even as his face remained impassive. I felt sad for him, knowing somehow, that it were the poker-faced people who felt the most heart-wrenching emotions.
If only I were one of the people in that cluster, it would have been him I hugged first. If I knew him better, I'd say that in the cluster, he was the person most burdened.
...if I knew him.
I blinked. Something had caught my eye, and I rubbed at it furiously. I heard the doctor excusing himself from the (drama) sadness, and brushed past me, leaving a trail of cold wind in his wake.
I looked up, and saw the cluster huddling even tighter and tighter. Salt-and-pepper guy unclenched his fist and pushed the door that was right behind where the doctor once was. The door slammed right back into place, almost as if it were angry itself.
I glanced at the cluster of people that he had left, at the door that was still slightly swiveling back and forth, back at the group, and then at the door that was now slowly quieting down.
I shrugged to myself, and decided to take full advantage of my being an usi and followed salt-and-pepper guy into the room.
The little girl had prepared me for it, of course. I knew someone had died. But who Manong was...
One of the nurses was holding a white sheet by its edges and pulling it up and over the body that lay there. Salt-and-pepper guy motioned for the nurse to stop, and she set the sheet down and excused herself from the room. Like the doctor, she brushed past me and left a trail of cold wind in her wake.
But, unlike the doctor, she had given me the benefit of a hasty glance.
Salt-and-pepper guy was blocking my view of the dead person's face, and for all the usi in me, I didn't think it proper to intrude his space during his moment of grief.
Especially now that I could see his shoulders visibly shaking.
And then I heard the door slam shut behind me.
Someone had entered.
"Fancy seeing you here."
I ignored the speaker, thinking that the statement was for the salt-and-pepper guy.
The speaker cleared his throat.
Salt-and-pepper guy didn't even seem to hear it, so I turned around to see who it was.
"Hi."
It was young man, his face unlined, his smile reaching only until his cheeks because his eyes were the saddest pair I've ever laid *my* eyes on.
Like the earlier group that had brushed past me, it felt like I knew who he was.
Something deep, deep inside me knew who he was.
"Hello."
It was like meeting an old friend after a very, very long time of not seeing each other.
"You were talking to me?"
He nodded.
"Oh."
Though, like an old friend you've just seen again, you can't be sure that he really is *your* old friend...
He reached out his hand. "We need to go now."
...until of course, he introduces himself.
I glanced at his outstretched hand,
And paused.
He must have noticed the hesitation. "I never get why you people want to hang around watching all these happening. Actually, I never get it why you people have to go on like this."
"...what?"
"Crying."
"Oh." I tried to process what he was getting at. "It's only natural, I guess."
"I don't think you people really understand what 'natural' is."
"...well."
I didn't know what to say.
"You can't stay here, y'know." He continued. "It's not... natural."
I sighed.
"Let's go."
"Now?"
He nodded, and I sighed again.
I took his hand, and he lead me towards the door.
He pushed the door open, and for the last time, I closed my eyes.
I opened my eyes, turned to the direction of the voice, and found a little girl. She was probably around six or seven years old with smooth, dark skin, long hair, and pretty little lips that always seemed to be pouting. She looked up at a woman who was the spitting image of herself, only older, and frowned.
A look of worry crossed the older woman's face, as if unsure how to respond to the girl's last statement.
I stood up, watched as the older woman kneeled down to the girl's eye level, smoothed the girl's hair, and heaved a deep breath as she opened her mouth to explain.
An explanation I didn't get to hear because of a group of youngsters that brushed past me.
I turned to the direction they were heading - behind me, and studied their pretty faces from afar. I know I've seen them somewhere before even if I couldn't place them at the moment. Artistas, probably? I thought to myself. They look harried, worried - one of them was even close to tears - as they walked briskly along the white halls, and met with another cluster of people at the end of it. A man wearing a white lab coat - a doctor, obviously - was speaking before the cluster, and everyone in the cluster was listening to him in rapt attention.
Interest piqued, I sauntered over to the cluster. Surely, they won't mind, or even notice, an usi like myself, hovering nearby, hoping to catch some juicy chismis.
"We tried. For 45 minutes."
And the rest was drowned by hiccupping and sobbing. I saw one of the older guys - the one with salt-and-pepper hair - clench his fist, even as his face remained impassive. I felt sad for him, knowing somehow, that it were the poker-faced people who felt the most heart-wrenching emotions.
If only I were one of the people in that cluster, it would have been him I hugged first. If I knew him better, I'd say that in the cluster, he was the person most burdened.
...if I knew him.
I blinked. Something had caught my eye, and I rubbed at it furiously. I heard the doctor excusing himself from the (drama) sadness, and brushed past me, leaving a trail of cold wind in his wake.
I looked up, and saw the cluster huddling even tighter and tighter. Salt-and-pepper guy unclenched his fist and pushed the door that was right behind where the doctor once was. The door slammed right back into place, almost as if it were angry itself.
I glanced at the cluster of people that he had left, at the door that was still slightly swiveling back and forth, back at the group, and then at the door that was now slowly quieting down.
I shrugged to myself, and decided to take full advantage of my being an usi and followed salt-and-pepper guy into the room.
The little girl had prepared me for it, of course. I knew someone had died. But who Manong was...
One of the nurses was holding a white sheet by its edges and pulling it up and over the body that lay there. Salt-and-pepper guy motioned for the nurse to stop, and she set the sheet down and excused herself from the room. Like the doctor, she brushed past me and left a trail of cold wind in her wake.
But, unlike the doctor, she had given me the benefit of a hasty glance.
Salt-and-pepper guy was blocking my view of the dead person's face, and for all the usi in me, I didn't think it proper to intrude his space during his moment of grief.
Especially now that I could see his shoulders visibly shaking.
And then I heard the door slam shut behind me.
Someone had entered.
"Fancy seeing you here."
I ignored the speaker, thinking that the statement was for the salt-and-pepper guy.
The speaker cleared his throat.
Salt-and-pepper guy didn't even seem to hear it, so I turned around to see who it was.
"Hi."
It was young man, his face unlined, his smile reaching only until his cheeks because his eyes were the saddest pair I've ever laid *my* eyes on.
Like the earlier group that had brushed past me, it felt like I knew who he was.
Something deep, deep inside me knew who he was.
"Hello."
It was like meeting an old friend after a very, very long time of not seeing each other.
"You were talking to me?"
He nodded.
"Oh."
Though, like an old friend you've just seen again, you can't be sure that he really is *your* old friend...
He reached out his hand. "We need to go now."
...until of course, he introduces himself.
I glanced at his outstretched hand,
And paused.
He must have noticed the hesitation. "I never get why you people want to hang around watching all these happening. Actually, I never get it why you people have to go on like this."
"...what?"
"Crying."
"Oh." I tried to process what he was getting at. "It's only natural, I guess."
"I don't think you people really understand what 'natural' is."
"...well."
I didn't know what to say.
"You can't stay here, y'know." He continued. "It's not... natural."
I sighed.
"Let's go."
"Now?"
He nodded, and I sighed again.
I took his hand, and he lead me towards the door.
He pushed the door open, and for the last time, I closed my eyes.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Freud Rocks
He stands there, smiling from under his umbrella, as though unwary of the sky weeping from above him.
He beckons, and you contemplate whether you should join him, or stay under the fast-disappearing safety that the store awning is providing you.
No contest, really.
You convince yourself (in under three seconds) that this is the fastest way to get home in this sordid weather.
You step out of your not-very-shielding-shelter, into a puddle (The streets are quickly disappearing under sewer water.), and then finally, under the protection of his umbrella. He laughs at you for getting queasy over walking in sewer water, and you say your thanks. Part in sarcasm, part in gratitude. Thank God he thinks the queasiness is because of the rat-pissed water.
And now the challenge begins.
How do you actually navigate through the flooded streets under one, small umbrella without maintaining a *friendly* distance?
You don't.
Gathering all your Freudian defense mechanisms to the surface (with Repression and Rationalization leading the pack), you let yourself wade closer to him. Close to the point where one of your hands is resting on the messenger bag slung behind him, and your shoulder is touching his left arm. So close that even if he shifted hands in holding his umbrella, part of your upper body is still very, very close to his.
You draw your breath.
(And you're glad the thunderstorm manages to mask the sound.)
He suggests you hold the umbrella. And you do.
He says he'll just let you have it, and he'll just walk with his jacket hood on.
You refuse, and insist on holding the umbrella up for the both of you. You tell him you refuse to get guilted over him getting sick.
He obliges. A tad reluctantly, you note.
But he obliges, and the two of you are huddled under one umbrella, so you really can’t complain.
(You could imagine your Freudian defense mechanisms having a party inside you. With Repression and Rationalization hosting it.)
A few steps and a couple of curses dedicated to haphazard drivers, the two of you reach the other side of the street.
He puts his arm around you, and your heart... miraculously stays still.
(How wonderful that your Freudian defense mechanisms remain sober despite their party.)
You tell yourself his hand is there just so he could lead you away from cracks, potholes and the like.
And he does that exactly.
(Repression and Rationalization do excellent work, really.)
He removes his arm the moment the two of you get over the obstacle course that is the sidewalk, and you start wondering why - as cliché fiction goes - your heart didn't skip a beat.
Then comes the epiphany. You aren't in a fairy tale, and he isn't The Prince.
(Or at least, that's what the pack leaders tell you to believe.)
You wonder what his girlfriend would say to this.
Then again, his girlfriend never seemed to be the jealous type. At least, not in the three times that you've actually crossed paths with her.
He tells you trivial stuff as you walk through Underwater Streets. You nod in all the right places, encouraging him to talk. He does. He's just so easy to read sometimes. He continues with his mini-stories, and you continue with your mini-reactions.
And then he says, I had you hold the umbrella 'coz you'd get drenched more if I held it for both of us.
And you wish you could feel a lot more than you're feeling now.
Why can't you ever just enjoy the moment when you're *in* the moment? Why must you always feel... nothing?
You're pretty sure you'll feel everything only after the moment has passed, and all your Freudian defense mechanisms have gone to bed.
Which is the worst, really. Having to deal with all that in one instant.
You reach the end of the street, under yet another store awning. He stops to take his umbrella from you, pauses to assess your situation, and then smiles.
You'll be okay here, won't you? He asks.
You smile your best smile, and nod.
You really can't have him stay, anyway.
He nods back, and walks off to the train station. You purposefully look the other way.
He's not yours to have to stay.
He beckons, and you contemplate whether you should join him, or stay under the fast-disappearing safety that the store awning is providing you.
No contest, really.
You convince yourself (in under three seconds) that this is the fastest way to get home in this sordid weather.
You step out of your not-very-shielding-shelter, into a puddle (The streets are quickly disappearing under sewer water.), and then finally, under the protection of his umbrella. He laughs at you for getting queasy over walking in sewer water, and you say your thanks. Part in sarcasm, part in gratitude. Thank God he thinks the queasiness is because of the rat-pissed water.
And now the challenge begins.
How do you actually navigate through the flooded streets under one, small umbrella without maintaining a *friendly* distance?
You don't.
Gathering all your Freudian defense mechanisms to the surface (with Repression and Rationalization leading the pack), you let yourself wade closer to him. Close to the point where one of your hands is resting on the messenger bag slung behind him, and your shoulder is touching his left arm. So close that even if he shifted hands in holding his umbrella, part of your upper body is still very, very close to his.
You draw your breath.
(And you're glad the thunderstorm manages to mask the sound.)
He suggests you hold the umbrella. And you do.
He says he'll just let you have it, and he'll just walk with his jacket hood on.
You refuse, and insist on holding the umbrella up for the both of you. You tell him you refuse to get guilted over him getting sick.
He obliges. A tad reluctantly, you note.
But he obliges, and the two of you are huddled under one umbrella, so you really can’t complain.
(You could imagine your Freudian defense mechanisms having a party inside you. With Repression and Rationalization hosting it.)
A few steps and a couple of curses dedicated to haphazard drivers, the two of you reach the other side of the street.
He puts his arm around you, and your heart... miraculously stays still.
(How wonderful that your Freudian defense mechanisms remain sober despite their party.)
You tell yourself his hand is there just so he could lead you away from cracks, potholes and the like.
And he does that exactly.
(Repression and Rationalization do excellent work, really.)
He removes his arm the moment the two of you get over the obstacle course that is the sidewalk, and you start wondering why - as cliché fiction goes - your heart didn't skip a beat.
Then comes the epiphany. You aren't in a fairy tale, and he isn't The Prince.
(Or at least, that's what the pack leaders tell you to believe.)
You wonder what his girlfriend would say to this.
Then again, his girlfriend never seemed to be the jealous type. At least, not in the three times that you've actually crossed paths with her.
He tells you trivial stuff as you walk through Underwater Streets. You nod in all the right places, encouraging him to talk. He does. He's just so easy to read sometimes. He continues with his mini-stories, and you continue with your mini-reactions.
And then he says, I had you hold the umbrella 'coz you'd get drenched more if I held it for both of us.
And you wish you could feel a lot more than you're feeling now.
Why can't you ever just enjoy the moment when you're *in* the moment? Why must you always feel... nothing?
You're pretty sure you'll feel everything only after the moment has passed, and all your Freudian defense mechanisms have gone to bed.
Which is the worst, really. Having to deal with all that in one instant.
You reach the end of the street, under yet another store awning. He stops to take his umbrella from you, pauses to assess your situation, and then smiles.
You'll be okay here, won't you? He asks.
You smile your best smile, and nod.
You really can't have him stay, anyway.
He nods back, and walks off to the train station. You purposefully look the other way.
He's not yours to have to stay.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
racing OUT.
Speed Racer is a live action movie trying to pass itself off as an anime.Granted, that the basis for the movie IS a 60's anime. But couldn't the Wachowski Brothers handled it a lot more along the lines of say, The Matrix? (They used 'the makers of The Matrix Trilogy' as a marketing tool, anyway. They could've at least lived up to it.)
Not to say that Speed Racer is a bad watch, but it wasn't awfully good either. If you go in there expecting to be wowed by effects, mise-en-scene, or God forbid adrenalin-pumping car chases, then you're pretty much in for disappointment.
If, however, you just want to see real people (like Rain *squee*) roleplaying anime characters, then you're pretty much set.
Unfortunately, I went in there with the first mindset, and so the rest is history.
...
Well, okay. A bit more detail then.
Production design was a cross between Dr. Seuss' The Grinch and Spy Kids in 3D. Colors were exaggerated to the point that you'd think pastels were banned in their world, and primary colors were oh-so-in. The houses in the neighborhood looked like cutouts, and the cars looked cartoony when taken out of the race circuits and into the streets. The Royalton lab looked painstakingly like it was a wing in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.
90% of it was shot in chroma. Chroma keying was nothing out of the ordinary for the Wachowskis - clean, fuzz-free an' all that. The chroma shots had the Wachowski stamp on it; one of the few that actually had it. Scenes in montages (which composed like, 50% of the movie) weaved into each other beautifully. The rate of change in scenes per frame sometimes got a tad overwhelming, but it was still a pretty good attempt at something cool and innovative. (I haven't seen anything like it before.)
The race circuit scenes was also handled well enough, though it was nothing extraordinary. Having been shot on chroma, and looking obviously CG'd, there wasn't much to be exhilirated from.
Gotta give them credit for trying to stay loyal to the genre of anime though.
I do wish they took a page out of Quentin Tarantino's book and transmuted the anime version the way Kill Bill was done. Or a page out of their own, and created something close to their crowning glory, The Matrix. (Oh, wait. There *was* a Matrix moment there - in one of the fight scenes where everyone was frozen in the air for a couple of beats while the camera dollied around them. Hello, bullet speed. I wish it wasn't just *that* that they took from earlier work.) Or, at least had the race circuit scenes similar (in concept) to the way the Initial D live action was done.
Then again, this is a PG movie. It's supposed to be for kids. (Christina Ricci, poster girl of Eternal Childism, is there, for crying out loud.) Maybe the only reason why I'm not awed by it is because *I'm* not part of their target audience.
(Actually, the movie's target audience is also a bit confusing. Sure, it's for kids. Sure, it has morals. But Christina Ricci in plunging necklines and short leather skirts, getting all sexually wound up, and a kid upping his middle finger at a grown adult? Mixed signals, baby.)
Hmmm. Yeah.
I just hope Dragon Ball's live action (with Buffy's Spike as Piccolo?!) turns out better.
My Sunshine
for my writing comm Writer's Block, with this as the writing prompt:
I watch her from across the street.
She is a ray of sunshine, as always. She smiles at the guard as she exits the coffee shop after getting her cup of coffee, at the girl who waits at the bus stop the same time every day with her (The other girl smiles back. Who wouldn't? I know I would.), and then at the bus driver as she boards his bus.
Once her bus has rolled along safely, I fold up my newspaper prop, stand up from my waiting shed bench, and walk off to my own office. Tomorrow again, I console myself as that hungry, longing feeling starts welling up inside me. It's only five minutes since she left my sight and yet I already miss her.
Not to say that I stalk her, I don't. Oh God, I don't. I'm not a stalker. It just so happens that we're within the same area at the same time. If I was a neurotic idiot, I'd think that *she* was the one who was stalking *me*. (But she only glanced at my direction maybe once or twice. So I highly doubt it.) I mean, for the past half-year or so, I've always stopped by at that bench to read the morning paper every day since Paula left. It was my way of coping. My bench moments gave me a sense of calm and peace, a place and time to retreat from the chaos of the world.
And then, three weeks ago, she moved into town. If she had not tripped over at the coffee shop door and spilled her steaming cup of coffee all over the shoes of the matronly lady at the sidewalk, I wouldn't have noticed her.
Who wouldn't, anyway? Half the streets' eyes were on them at that moment when the matronly lady screeched at her. I could see her veins throbbing, bulging in her neck, threatening to burst any moment. (I half-expected them to.) I could hear her screams from across the street, calling the other all Godforsaken names from Adam. I understood the matron lady's wrath. I mean, like she said, coffee stains *are* murder to Italian leather.
And then I turned my attention to the 'clumsy girl'. She was biting her lip, and looking down at the matron lady's brown-and-white shoes. I thought she would cry, but she didn't. Instead, she looked up at the matron lady and smiled. She smiled. Her cheekbones went up, her eyes twinkled as they crinkled. She started to speak, had begun to talk animatedly and then laughed. I couldn't hear what she was saying, and I so wanted to. Especially when I looked back at the matron lady and saw that she, the erstwhile screaming banshee, had also began to titter with laughter. The younger, perkier one then rummaged through her huge, white bag and handed out a card to the matron lady. Her business card, I presumed. The matron lady took it, chuckled, and simply walked away. At one point, even looked back to wave back at her. The younger girl smiled, and waved back. And then she went back into the coffee shop. When she came out, she took careful measure of her steps, minded the cup in her hand, and managed to step safely into the sidewalk without harming anyone. The guard behind her had said something, and she looked back at him and smiled.
She smiled.
And I couldn't help but smile myself.
She smiled at the people who stood there with her, and then turned to look across the street. But even before she could turn her smile to me, the bus had arrived to block our view of each other.
And so from that moment on, she and her smile became my early morning ritual. I still bought the morning paper, but I neglected reading it now. Buying it now had a different purpose in my life. Now, it wasn't just to alienate me from the otherwise chaotic world, but to actually aid me in connecting to it.
In other words, I needed something to make it look like I wasn't just looking at her.
It's been like this the past three weeks.
I arrive at my office and greet the building guard with a wave and a smile. He does the same. I hear a comment from behind me, saying that I was in a pretty chipper mood today. As always. It's one of my officemates. I laugh. I know what he meant. I wasn't ever the one to be nominated for Mr. Congeniality.
Officemate asks who is it that's making me this happy lately. And my mind immediately goes to her. Which in turn, makes me feel sheepish. That's just crazy. I mean, I don't even know her name.
Which is weird, I think to myself. I've been watching her for almost a month now, and yet I don't even know the most basic thing about her.
By the time we get to our 15th floor office, my mind was set in finding out her name for myself.
The next day, I forego the bench and I go up to the coffee shop barista to ask for her name.
What, it wasn't like I would go up to her and actually ask *her* for *her* name. What would I say, anyway? "Hi, I've been watching you the past three weeks, and I was wondering. Can I have your name?"
Paula would rise from her ashes to kill me if I did such a thing.
("I left you specific instructions on how to pick girls up, and you come up to her with this?!" She'd say, no doubt.)
Anyway, her name is Clara.
Pretty name. Clara. Cla-ra. I let my tongue roll out the 'r' in her name slowly, savoring every rattling sound it makes. Cla-rrra.
Wait, that's just plain freaky.
I stop myself from saying her name out loud for the nth time that day. But that didn't mean her name stopped running through my mind the whole day, and that a smile made its way to my face at every single moment.
I'm going crazy, I think. Going about my day like this with Clara occupying every single space in my head when she doesn't even know I exist in this world. Talk about unrequited love.
Wait, love?
I'm in love with Clara?
That can't be, I tell myself. How can you fall in love with someone you only see from ten feet away, and whose interaction with you exists and happens only in your mind? That can't be love.
But, I tell myself, if it makes me actually go up to her and talk to her, then probably, it *is* love?
And so the next day, I forego the bench again and wait *in* the coffeeshop for her. The baristas were giving me strange looks, seeing as I came back and forth from the restroom a good five times before I finally settled in my seat. I look at my watch. 7:30 AM. This is right about the time she comes in to get her coffee.
And she does, like clockwork.
I watch as she smiles at the baristas. (Her smile is even more awe-inspiring at this short distance.) The baristas smile back and immediately work on her order. She orders the same thing everyday, as I had thought.
While she waits for her order, I watch. While she takes her order, I watch. While she turns around to head for the door, I watch.
I clench my fist and resisted the urge to punch myself in the face to wake myself up from the spell of simply watching her.
I watch as she glides past my table, and turn her head to me.
She smiles.
And I... can't help but smile back.
I unclench my fist and watch her sail through the door. (She's an expert at it now. A far cry from her earlier mishap.) She smiled. I thought to myself. She smiled at me.
I can die happy now.
("Die, and I'll kill you, idiot." I can still hear Paula in my head even after all these time.)
The next day, my redrafted plan of introducing myself to Clara failed. Again. This time though, it had nothing to do with *my* shortcomings.
She didn't arrive.
She didn't arrive for the next couple of hours that day. Or days that week. Or weeks that month.
The shadow re-emerged to make its home on my face yet again. The building guard was the first to notice, and then my officemates. Officemate pestered me with details on how and why the light of my life broke up with me. I'm still amazed at myself for not having punched him at that time.
I board the bus three months later, going home. And looking out to the window like I was making an angst-ridden music video, I saw her.
Clara. I called out through the glass window. The whole bus turned to look at me, but I could care less. She was walking towards the direction where my bus had just come from. I continued to call out for her until the bus stopped, a couple meters away from where I last saw her.
I scrambled for the door, shoved a good few people out of the way, unmindful of the hexes they left in my wake. I could still see her back (I know it so well from watching her come into that coffee shop.), and that huge, white bag of hers (Her favorite one. The one where she took her business card out from that episode with the screeching banshee of a matron lady.). It was rush hour, and the crowd was so dense (in all meanings) I couldn't almost breathe.
In what seemed like an eternal shovefest, the crowd finally cleared, and only then did I realize where Clara had taken me.
I looked up and saw the sign. Goosebumps prickled from the nape of my neck as I entered the wrought iron gate. There wasn't anyone around. No one was even guarding the gate. I saw a flash of white in my peripheral vision and instinctively headed in that direction. I stopped where the green Bermuda grass was spotted with white, fluffy things.
I went down on my knees. Dandelions. I thought to myself as I lifted my misting eyes to read the headstone.
Clara Mendez. January 18, 1980 to February 15, 2008.
Let perpetual light shine upon your soul the way yours have shone on ours.
I blinked away the tears, rubbed the gooseflesh behind my neck and heaved a deep breath.
No wonder she didn't arrive.
I looked up to the orangey sky and offered her a silent prayer. Of thanks. Of love. And smiled.
I could feel Paula looking from behind my shoulder. And I could feel Clara too, somewhere, somehow, smiling down at me.
I picked a dandelion up from amid the grass and blew at it.
I watched as its spores flew towards the setting rays of sunshine.
I watch her from across the street.
She is a ray of sunshine, as always. She smiles at the guard as she exits the coffee shop after getting her cup of coffee, at the girl who waits at the bus stop the same time every day with her (The other girl smiles back. Who wouldn't? I know I would.), and then at the bus driver as she boards his bus.
Once her bus has rolled along safely, I fold up my newspaper prop, stand up from my waiting shed bench, and walk off to my own office. Tomorrow again, I console myself as that hungry, longing feeling starts welling up inside me. It's only five minutes since she left my sight and yet I already miss her.
Not to say that I stalk her, I don't. Oh God, I don't. I'm not a stalker. It just so happens that we're within the same area at the same time. If I was a neurotic idiot, I'd think that *she* was the one who was stalking *me*. (But she only glanced at my direction maybe once or twice. So I highly doubt it.) I mean, for the past half-year or so, I've always stopped by at that bench to read the morning paper every day since Paula left. It was my way of coping. My bench moments gave me a sense of calm and peace, a place and time to retreat from the chaos of the world.
And then, three weeks ago, she moved into town. If she had not tripped over at the coffee shop door and spilled her steaming cup of coffee all over the shoes of the matronly lady at the sidewalk, I wouldn't have noticed her.
Who wouldn't, anyway? Half the streets' eyes were on them at that moment when the matronly lady screeched at her. I could see her veins throbbing, bulging in her neck, threatening to burst any moment. (I half-expected them to.) I could hear her screams from across the street, calling the other all Godforsaken names from Adam. I understood the matron lady's wrath. I mean, like she said, coffee stains *are* murder to Italian leather.
And then I turned my attention to the 'clumsy girl'. She was biting her lip, and looking down at the matron lady's brown-and-white shoes. I thought she would cry, but she didn't. Instead, she looked up at the matron lady and smiled. She smiled. Her cheekbones went up, her eyes twinkled as they crinkled. She started to speak, had begun to talk animatedly and then laughed. I couldn't hear what she was saying, and I so wanted to. Especially when I looked back at the matron lady and saw that she, the erstwhile screaming banshee, had also began to titter with laughter. The younger, perkier one then rummaged through her huge, white bag and handed out a card to the matron lady. Her business card, I presumed. The matron lady took it, chuckled, and simply walked away. At one point, even looked back to wave back at her. The younger girl smiled, and waved back. And then she went back into the coffee shop. When she came out, she took careful measure of her steps, minded the cup in her hand, and managed to step safely into the sidewalk without harming anyone. The guard behind her had said something, and she looked back at him and smiled.
She smiled.
And I couldn't help but smile myself.
She smiled at the people who stood there with her, and then turned to look across the street. But even before she could turn her smile to me, the bus had arrived to block our view of each other.
And so from that moment on, she and her smile became my early morning ritual. I still bought the morning paper, but I neglected reading it now. Buying it now had a different purpose in my life. Now, it wasn't just to alienate me from the otherwise chaotic world, but to actually aid me in connecting to it.
In other words, I needed something to make it look like I wasn't just looking at her.
It's been like this the past three weeks.
I arrive at my office and greet the building guard with a wave and a smile. He does the same. I hear a comment from behind me, saying that I was in a pretty chipper mood today. As always. It's one of my officemates. I laugh. I know what he meant. I wasn't ever the one to be nominated for Mr. Congeniality.
Officemate asks who is it that's making me this happy lately. And my mind immediately goes to her. Which in turn, makes me feel sheepish. That's just crazy. I mean, I don't even know her name.
Which is weird, I think to myself. I've been watching her for almost a month now, and yet I don't even know the most basic thing about her.
By the time we get to our 15th floor office, my mind was set in finding out her name for myself.
The next day, I forego the bench and I go up to the coffee shop barista to ask for her name.
What, it wasn't like I would go up to her and actually ask *her* for *her* name. What would I say, anyway? "Hi, I've been watching you the past three weeks, and I was wondering. Can I have your name?"
Paula would rise from her ashes to kill me if I did such a thing.
("I left you specific instructions on how to pick girls up, and you come up to her with this?!" She'd say, no doubt.)
Anyway, her name is Clara.
Pretty name. Clara. Cla-ra. I let my tongue roll out the 'r' in her name slowly, savoring every rattling sound it makes. Cla-rrra.
Wait, that's just plain freaky.
I stop myself from saying her name out loud for the nth time that day. But that didn't mean her name stopped running through my mind the whole day, and that a smile made its way to my face at every single moment.
I'm going crazy, I think. Going about my day like this with Clara occupying every single space in my head when she doesn't even know I exist in this world. Talk about unrequited love.
Wait, love?
I'm in love with Clara?
That can't be, I tell myself. How can you fall in love with someone you only see from ten feet away, and whose interaction with you exists and happens only in your mind? That can't be love.
But, I tell myself, if it makes me actually go up to her and talk to her, then probably, it *is* love?
And so the next day, I forego the bench again and wait *in* the coffeeshop for her. The baristas were giving me strange looks, seeing as I came back and forth from the restroom a good five times before I finally settled in my seat. I look at my watch. 7:30 AM. This is right about the time she comes in to get her coffee.
And she does, like clockwork.
I watch as she smiles at the baristas. (Her smile is even more awe-inspiring at this short distance.) The baristas smile back and immediately work on her order. She orders the same thing everyday, as I had thought.
While she waits for her order, I watch. While she takes her order, I watch. While she turns around to head for the door, I watch.
I clench my fist and resisted the urge to punch myself in the face to wake myself up from the spell of simply watching her.
I watch as she glides past my table, and turn her head to me.
She smiles.
And I... can't help but smile back.
I unclench my fist and watch her sail through the door. (She's an expert at it now. A far cry from her earlier mishap.) She smiled. I thought to myself. She smiled at me.
I can die happy now.
("Die, and I'll kill you, idiot." I can still hear Paula in my head even after all these time.)
The next day, my redrafted plan of introducing myself to Clara failed. Again. This time though, it had nothing to do with *my* shortcomings.
She didn't arrive.
She didn't arrive for the next couple of hours that day. Or days that week. Or weeks that month.
The shadow re-emerged to make its home on my face yet again. The building guard was the first to notice, and then my officemates. Officemate pestered me with details on how and why the light of my life broke up with me. I'm still amazed at myself for not having punched him at that time.
I board the bus three months later, going home. And looking out to the window like I was making an angst-ridden music video, I saw her.
Clara. I called out through the glass window. The whole bus turned to look at me, but I could care less. She was walking towards the direction where my bus had just come from. I continued to call out for her until the bus stopped, a couple meters away from where I last saw her.
I scrambled for the door, shoved a good few people out of the way, unmindful of the hexes they left in my wake. I could still see her back (I know it so well from watching her come into that coffee shop.), and that huge, white bag of hers (Her favorite one. The one where she took her business card out from that episode with the screeching banshee of a matron lady.). It was rush hour, and the crowd was so dense (in all meanings) I couldn't almost breathe.
In what seemed like an eternal shovefest, the crowd finally cleared, and only then did I realize where Clara had taken me.
I looked up and saw the sign. Goosebumps prickled from the nape of my neck as I entered the wrought iron gate. There wasn't anyone around. No one was even guarding the gate. I saw a flash of white in my peripheral vision and instinctively headed in that direction. I stopped where the green Bermuda grass was spotted with white, fluffy things.
I went down on my knees. Dandelions. I thought to myself as I lifted my misting eyes to read the headstone.
Clara Mendez. January 18, 1980 to February 15, 2008.
Let perpetual light shine upon your soul the way yours have shone on ours.
I blinked away the tears, rubbed the gooseflesh behind my neck and heaved a deep breath.
No wonder she didn't arrive.
I looked up to the orangey sky and offered her a silent prayer. Of thanks. Of love. And smiled.
I could feel Paula looking from behind my shoulder. And I could feel Clara too, somewhere, somehow, smiling down at me.
I picked a dandelion up from amid the grass and blew at it.
I watched as its spores flew towards the setting rays of sunshine.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Racing OUT.
Speed Racer is a live action movie trying to pass itself off as an anime.
Granted, that the basis for the movie IS a 60's anime. But couldn't the Wachowski Brothers handled it a lot more along the lines of say, The Matrix? (They used 'the makers of The Matrix Trilogy' as a marketing tool, anyway. They could've at least lived up to it.)
Not to say that Speed Racer is a bad watch, but it wasn't awfully good either. If you go in there expecting to be wowed by effects, mise-en-scene, or God forbid adrenalin-pumping car chases, then you're pretty much in for disappointment.
If, however, you just want to see real people (like Rain *squee*) roleplaying anime characters, then you're pretty much set.
Unfortunately, I went in there with the first mindset, and so the rest is history.
...
Well, okay. A bit more detail then.
Production design was a cross between Dr. Seuss' The Grinch and Spy Kids in 3D. Colors were exaggerated to the point that you'd think pastels were banned in their world, and primary colors were oh-so-in. The houses in the neighborhood looked like cutouts, and the cars looked cartoony when taken out of the race circuits and into the streets. The Royalton lab looked painstakingly like it was a wing in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.
90% of it was shot in chroma. Chroma keying was nothing out of the ordinary for the Wachowskis - clean, fuzz-free an' all that. The chroma shots had the Wachowski stamp on it; one of the few that actually had it. Scenes in montages (which composed like, 50% of the movie) weaved into each other beautifully. The rate of change in scenes per frame sometimes got a tad overwhelming, but it was still a pretty good attempt at something cool and innovative. (I haven't seen anything like it before.)
The race circuit scenes was also handled well enough, though it was nothing extraordinary. Having been shot on chroma, and looking obviously CG'd, there wasn't much to be exhilirated from.
Gotta give them credit for trying to stay loyal to the genre of anime though.
I do wish they took a page out of Quentin Tarantino's book and transmuted the anime version the way Kill Bill was done. Or a page out of their own, and created something close to their crowning glory, The Matrix. (Oh, wait. There *was* a Matrix moment there - in one of the fight scenes where everyone was frozen in the air for a couple of beats while the camera dollied around them. Hello, bullet speed. I wish it wasn't just *that* that they took from earlier work.) Or, at least had the race circuit scenes similar (in concept) to the way the Initial D live action was done.
Then again, this is a PG movie. It's supposed to be for kids. (Christina Ricci, poster girl of Eternal Childism, is there, for crying out loud.) Maybe the only reason why I'm not awed by it is because *I'm* not part of their target audience.
(Actually, the movie's target audience is also a bit confusing. Sure, it's for kids. Sure, it has morals. But Christina Ricci in plunging necklines and short leather skirts, getting all sexually wound up, and a kid upping his middle finger at a grown adult? Mixed signals, baby.)
Hmmm. Yeah.
I just hope Dragon Ball's live action (with Buffy's Spike as Piccolo?!) turns out better.
Granted, that the basis for the movie IS a 60's anime. But couldn't the Wachowski Brothers handled it a lot more along the lines of say, The Matrix? (They used 'the makers of The Matrix Trilogy' as a marketing tool, anyway. They could've at least lived up to it.)
Not to say that Speed Racer is a bad watch, but it wasn't awfully good either. If you go in there expecting to be wowed by effects, mise-en-scene, or God forbid adrenalin-pumping car chases, then you're pretty much in for disappointment.
If, however, you just want to see real people (like Rain *squee*) roleplaying anime characters, then you're pretty much set.
Unfortunately, I went in there with the first mindset, and so the rest is history.
...
Well, okay. A bit more detail then.
Production design was a cross between Dr. Seuss' The Grinch and Spy Kids in 3D. Colors were exaggerated to the point that you'd think pastels were banned in their world, and primary colors were oh-so-in. The houses in the neighborhood looked like cutouts, and the cars looked cartoony when taken out of the race circuits and into the streets. The Royalton lab looked painstakingly like it was a wing in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.
90% of it was shot in chroma. Chroma keying was nothing out of the ordinary for the Wachowskis - clean, fuzz-free an' all that. The chroma shots had the Wachowski stamp on it; one of the few that actually had it. Scenes in montages (which composed like, 50% of the movie) weaved into each other beautifully. The rate of change in scenes per frame sometimes got a tad overwhelming, but it was still a pretty good attempt at something cool and innovative. (I haven't seen anything like it before.)
The race circuit scenes was also handled well enough, though it was nothing extraordinary. Having been shot on chroma, and looking obviously CG'd, there wasn't much to be exhilirated from.
Gotta give them credit for trying to stay loyal to the genre of anime though.
I do wish they took a page out of Quentin Tarantino's book and transmuted the anime version the way Kill Bill was done. Or a page out of their own, and created something close to their crowning glory, The Matrix. (Oh, wait. There *was* a Matrix moment there - in one of the fight scenes where everyone was frozen in the air for a couple of beats while the camera dollied around them. Hello, bullet speed. I wish it wasn't just *that* that they took from earlier work.) Or, at least had the race circuit scenes similar (in concept) to the way the Initial D live action was done.
Then again, this is a PG movie. It's supposed to be for kids. (Christina Ricci, poster girl of Eternal Childism, is there, for crying out loud.) Maybe the only reason why I'm not awed by it is because *I'm* not part of their target audience.
(Actually, the movie's target audience is also a bit confusing. Sure, it's for kids. Sure, it has morals. But Christina Ricci in plunging necklines and short leather skirts, getting all sexually wound up, and a kid upping his middle finger at a grown adult? Mixed signals, baby.)
Hmmm. Yeah.
I just hope Dragon Ball's live action (with Buffy's Spike as Piccolo?!) turns out better.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Realitales
Once upon a time, there was a Girl who dreamed of a Prince.
To some, he wouldn't really have been a Prince. Some may have even considered him a glorified servant at some point. Her Prince, after all, wasn't one who came from a long line of snotty royals, nor was he someone who would sweep her off her feet from atop his arrogantly neighing white horse.
Her Prince, by all of Fairytalelandia's stereotypes, was not at all a Prince.
But she wanted him. Waited for him. Wondered, if he would even ever come.
A Prince who would suit her as she, his princess, would suit him just the same.
A soulmate, is it? Every now and then someone would ask.
Soulmates are overrated. Says the Girl. And besides, my soul already has a mate. Tons, actually. They who know me better than I know myself.
So, what *do* you want, then?
Him.
Who?
I don't know who He is. I just know that it's Him.
Who?
We can go on with this forever, and I'll tell you the same thing. It's Him.
So you know him, but you don't know him?
Yes.
I don't get it.
Neither do I, but I know that's how it goes.
And the rest of the world shrugs, having given up on the Girl and her foolishness. Well-meaning friends who attempt at being the oracles of her future push her to make herself available in Fairytalelandia's Coupling Classifieds but she continues to refuse. Her well-meaning (though sometimes, she thinks, non-perceptive) friends continue to shake their heads at her -- less for pity and more for exasperation.
And so, she continues to want, wait, and wonder -- not from beside window, but far, far from it.
She waits, but refuses to wither her being away.
Life, after all, means so much more than just one person.
Life, after all, is all that The Girl has while the Prince has yet to come.
To some, he wouldn't really have been a Prince. Some may have even considered him a glorified servant at some point. Her Prince, after all, wasn't one who came from a long line of snotty royals, nor was he someone who would sweep her off her feet from atop his arrogantly neighing white horse.
Her Prince, by all of Fairytalelandia's stereotypes, was not at all a Prince.
But she wanted him. Waited for him. Wondered, if he would even ever come.
A Prince who would suit her as she, his princess, would suit him just the same.
A soulmate, is it? Every now and then someone would ask.
Soulmates are overrated. Says the Girl. And besides, my soul already has a mate. Tons, actually. They who know me better than I know myself.
So, what *do* you want, then?
Him.
Who?
I don't know who He is. I just know that it's Him.
Who?
We can go on with this forever, and I'll tell you the same thing. It's Him.
So you know him, but you don't know him?
Yes.
I don't get it.
Neither do I, but I know that's how it goes.
And the rest of the world shrugs, having given up on the Girl and her foolishness. Well-meaning friends who attempt at being the oracles of her future push her to make herself available in Fairytalelandia's Coupling Classifieds but she continues to refuse. Her well-meaning (though sometimes, she thinks, non-perceptive) friends continue to shake their heads at her -- less for pity and more for exasperation.
And so, she continues to want, wait, and wonder -- not from beside window, but far, far from it.
She waits, but refuses to wither her being away.
Life, after all, means so much more than just one person.
Life, after all, is all that The Girl has while the Prince has yet to come.
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