Whom Do You Serve?

One night while swimming in coffee and drowning in pages and pages of borrowed, though a little wrinkled (of which I was irritated for this is my fantasy bible), LOTR books, I was struck in the head by a ramming, speeding bulldozer: precious inspiration. Little I have of late, and buti na lang, it went all out. If it didn't, baka I would have this tendency na naman to sleep and sleep, even if I'm not really sleepy, and I wouldn't finish naman talaga anything for pamatay na fiction class. (Hayyy... buti na lang. Thank you, Gollum. Don't worry I'm gonna post this in your cave.)

***
Nothing. Darkness. Sweet unconsciousness. Then a pinprick—a tiny spark of awareness. I am alive.

My mind stirs. Like a flower’s seed the pinprick grows and spreads its warmth, and by degrees I begin to feel. Memory follows, and happiness bleeds into my thoughts as visions play before me, visions of green plains and of stars like watchful eyes and of glowing twilight over mountain peaks dusted with snow—but it is not to last. I see war. I remember anger. I feel hate, and then only sadness is left. I am trapped. I am alone.

I long to return to the black of the not-knowing, but polygons of orange light begin to seep through the murk that surrounds me. Murmurs and rumblings filter down from above. I cannot see. My mouth is clotted with foulness; a bitter-tasting slime gags my throat; instinctively I try to spit, but I cannot. Nor can I breathe. Fear grips me like a demon as I realize I am trapped, bound by a slippery film so thick that even the panicked thrashing of my limbs does not damage it. I open my mouth to roar but the sound is choked.

More light. I turn my face towards it. The murk is clearing, and shadows move beyond my prison, their silhouettes outlined in a golden gleam. Something pokes at me. And again. I growl. It hurts. I do not wish to be disturbed; I only wish to return to the place I remember, the place of beauty that my mind sees as clearly as though it still existed, as though it had not been torn and rent and ruined by darkness and war. Or else I wish to die. I wish for the not-knowing. I wish for the comfort of darkness and forgetfulness and eternal sleep.

Again the thing jabs at me, and again I growl—and now it is pawing at me too, or rather at the film that cocoons me. It is trying to free me—but I do not wish to be freed. I struggle but I am still held by the slime. My helplessness angers me; I feel resentment coursing through my blood and building in my chest like an army massing for war. I see him now, my tormentor; the film is thinning and weakening as life calls me upwards. He is small, shriveled and pitifully thin. Insolent cretin! I rear up and roar, no longer choked, and I feel a heady rush of pride at the sound that erupts from me. Ah, it is well that I did not die! I am powerful! I am strong! I am of the fighting Uruk-hai!

I know not what impulse guides my hand to my tormentor’s neck. I could not say why I tighten my grip so that his airway is crushed, nor why it pleases me to see the sickly green pigment of his face fade to a grayish pallor. When he is dead I discard him and examine my hand in awe—and then I am aware that others are watching me. There is another verminous wretch like the one I just killed, and a man. No. Not a man. Something more—far more.

I straighten and face him. He is tall, as tall as I. Silver hair frames a hard face with eyes of metallic grey. I look into those eyes for an instant, yet even I, one of the fighting Uruk-hai, strong and fearless, cannot hold his gaze. There was wisdom there once, I perceive, but it has given way to something darker and more deadly. Yet, still his terrible power lingers.

He speaks.

“Whom do you serve?”

Somehow I know what I must say, but I cannot yet utter it. Part of me rebels, the same part of me that remembers the beautiful world before the war came. Once again the visions torment me, and this time I hear a song, a voice keening in lament for the loss of a land so fair. He hears it too. I feel him, exploring my mind by means I cannot hope to understand, and then comes an awful wrenching and I remember no more. I almost buckle with the pain of it, but I must not show weakness. I am of the fighting Uruk-hai.

A sense of loss creeps through my body. I stumble around my own mind, searching, though for what I do not know. I find only blackness. Anger suffuses me. I have been robbed! My hand throbs with its longing to crush my enemy in the way I crushed his pet, but I find that I cannot move against him. He is inside me once more. I feel him connect with my anger, caress it, re-direct it.

Halflings. Elves. Men. They will suffer.

Yes. Yes.

Whom do you serve?

Still an aching sadness pervades my mind. I wish I knew what I had lost.

WHOM DO YOU SERVE?

I know what I must say. I do not have a choice.

“Saruman.”

***
I'll have my tequila now, waiter.

Weee...

Vandalism: Here and There

Hi, guys.

You were led here to answer this. This, my semi-formal, semi-informal survey. This won't take long, I swear; the questions are pretty basic. (You are entitled to delve longer on it, though. It's up to you: In a rush to check your Facebook account? Go ahead. Or, you've got nothing to do? Great.) Your answers will be used as data for analysis for my paper in CL 150 (Survey of Philippine Literature) regarding vandalism found in U.P. Diliman, particularly, the men's comfort rooms of the C.A.L. and C.O.E. buildings. I will be so grateful if you do respond (at the comment box).

So, game? Let's doodle.

***
From which college are you, CAL or ENG'G: _______

1.) Did you ever vandalize? (If no, go ahead to question 4.)

2.) Here in U.P.; did you do it in your college, or in other another place? What did you write about?

3.) Why did you do it? - *proceed to question 5 afterward*

4.) Why not?

5.) (In the spectator mode) What are the most interesting lines you've seen in your respective college's comfort rooms (or in the other - CAL students in ENG'G (Meron ba? Ha-ha.), ENG'G students in CAL)? Why so?

***
Very many thanks to you. Have a great day!

Amphitryon's Trickery

AMPHITRYON

A Dulaang UP Production

Cast: Neil Ryan Sese, Lex Marcos, Diana Malahay, George de Jesus, Paolo O’ Hara, Diana Alferez

Direction: José Estrella

Filipino Translation: Jerry Respeto

Amphitryon’s trickery works in two forms. You will see that it also functions specifically, in each form, either well or otherwise.

In its plainest―when you take on the story in itself―the trickery is profound, and yet, perspicuous.

Amphitryon is essentially a tragedy laced with comical elements. The comedy goes as light as jocose antics such as flashing devilishly red panties, hinubad na longganisa and garlic rice, a multi-colored “stick,” and karaoke ditties, while the tragedy goes as deep as engaging in issues like unbridled lust, mistaken identities and something that is related to the idea of “a witty, divine joke.”

It begins in a night, in the course of which is persuaded to give Jupiter more time for his “sport” with Alkmene. Fade, then Sosias enters. Hilarity (the colorful, self-esteemed introduction of himself, Sosias) ensues. Out comes Mercury, but we don’t know that he is Mercury yet; he introduces himself to us and Sosias as Sosias. More hilarity (multi-colored “stick” beatings) follows. Sosias then gives out a monologue in which he says that there is nothing left to reassure him, if this man in front of him says that he is Sosias, looks and acts like Sosias, and knows everything that Sosias did when he was alone, then he must be Sosias, and he (Sosias Sosias) has lost his identity and, with it, his reason for living.

Amphitryon and Alkmene would have their doubts on their reason for living as well―to each others’ fidelity. With that most blissful night, Alkmene thinks it was Amphitryon whom she shared the passion with, but Amphitryon maintains that he is out in military business. “When Amphitryon decides that Alkmene is incapable of lying and must therefore be mentally ill, he is still consistent with the vain mortal Jupiter made him out to be.” When he assumes a new aspect, as his fear of losing her mounts, for she became this “adulteress and liar,” he stakes his life on this oath that Jupiter is indeed Amphitryon to Alkmene. Therefore, he proclaims, she is innocent of any moral or social transgressions. (There we are made witness to the heights of altruistic love.)

We see Alkmene’s take on the situation. She actually really delights in Amphitryon, his prowess, his importance, his fame, his benevolence. She even tells Jupiter, who is in the guise of Amphitryon of course, that she is so sure with her “love and its wholesomeness” that she wants nothing problematic or to disfigure its perfection. So when Amphitryon comes back to her outraged, she tells him sincerely, and is somewhat hurt, at his lack of tact in demanding the recount of the events of that night. She is just so in love with him to feel crushed that she be accused of infidelity. So she hurls angry reproaches at him, thinking that he has found another woman and is looking for an excuse to leave his wife. But then she suddenly discovers the “J” inscribed in the diadem of Labdacus, which she thinks Amphitryon gave to her, but actually Jupiter did (hence the “J”). For the first time in her life, she is unsure of herself.

Jupiter, still Amphitryon, confronts her. “If Amphitryon were to appear now, how would you [she] react?” There is no problem for Alkmene in this. She is totally sure that she is with her dear Amphitryon at this exact moment. Her perception of him is now that of a god’s. She is also now totally restored in the confidence in the infallibility of her love.

Jupiter Amphitryon mentions to her of a mortal who claims that he is the real Amphitryon. Amphitryon Amphitryon comes out to her a second time. What a shock to compare this “ignoble, bad imitation” to her husband (Jupiter, of course) for he falls in every aspect of the man she takes to be her husband. It is for this reason that she abuses him so furiously, and having pronounced Jupiter the real Amphitryon, decides to die.

Jupiter then begins to explain the events that fateful night. Alkmene begs him to spare her from this enlightenment, for the “thought that this creature is her husband” is now highly insufferable to her.

It all ends with the image of her swooning in Amphitryon’s arms at the sight of Jupiter in his divine form. She will have Hercules, the fruit of that most blissful night, but she will also have him as a constant reminder that a night such as that will never be as innocent, serene, and happy again.

The material that the producers had to work with is as classic as it gets. Although straightforward may it seems, the general intention of having this philosophical message―”What is identity, after all, but the knowledge of self?”―has never, until now, been illustrated in such a transparency. It should be treated as groundbreaking in Philippine theater, especially with all our problems, as a nation, of our true identity.

As with the staging itself, Amphitryon is tricky, yes, but in a not-so-palatable way.

OK, maybe I am not that acquainted with German comedy, but the slapstick aspect of the production is mind-numbing. Others may find this “slapstickness” as a justified relief from the underlying material, but (come on) it is too much. No one can deal with this much verbal profanity. The laughter that came afterward them must be out of the immobilization of the mind, the resistance of the brain to take in questions, to cogitate the profundity of it all. (I read a review online: “darating sa point na masakit na siya sa ulo” [referring to the humor employed]. I laughed like a hyena, after reading it.) I mean, I am not a killjoy, but this is UP, where different forms of knowledge converge, where even comedy can be viewed as highly intellectual, but where is the knowledge in the comical aspect of this?! If I want to see mind-numbing farce, I may as well go to drag shows or to comedy bars.

OK, good set design, though. I believe this is where Lex Marcos compensates himself with. Because the portrayal of Jupiter, rather bland, if you ask me. Mono-toned at best (although I have got to say, he fits the “amorous” prerequisites of the role), line missteps at worst. As for the other actors, they did what they had to do; they are OK. Others are kind of new to this foray to comical territory (like Marcos and Sese), but the timing and effort are there.

OK, so maybe I was a bit too harsh with the comedy. I have to admit, I buy myself to the Sosias scenes. They are acted with improvisations, reminded me a lot of Groucho Marx episodes―comic punches in the right time, in the right hitting zones. So therefore, the problem lies, actually, when they are juxtaposed to the subdued parts, not in themselves, not in their own explosion of humor. The Sosias scenes very much lifted the audience to comical (almost cathartic-level) heaven that the melodramatic bits had become excruciatingly slow and dragging. And I have to stick with my disdain with its expletives still; I really am not getting the point of all that excessive utilization for effect exhibition.

I fear that the intended message, the bringing forth of this problem of identity, didn’t stay long: the audience asked for more Groucho Marx, more fireworks, more tricks―and less stupidity and less drag.

Taguro and Baraks Obama

PICTURE: The abnormally emaciated form of the family dog, Taguro. You just feel for the hapless creature. Pets are also people, in a way. If only they were granted of speech, they could make us realize that they are capable of strong feelings, of rationality. Taguro died yesterday from complications of food deprivation, a few weeks shy of being a decade-old.

***
On a lighter note, Obama finally had granted G.M.A. her Wish-Upon-A-Star. He even made it a point to come into the country himself for the presidential visit. But what's this!

Empacho!

What in-god's-name book are you reading?!

PICTURE: Lip Gloss does New Moon.

For this Christmas I received the following: a comprehensive how-to-speak-French set (6 CDs, a course book, and a free offer for a private tutorial session … abroad. How convenient.), a best-of-Larry-King-Live-interviews DVD, 2 fountain pens, and an entire collection of Bob Ong tomes. For some obvious reason, everyone thinks I’m a complete nerd.

Being the “complete” nerd they say I am, I am happy to announce that I just finished reading Macarthur in under an hour. A personal best among those books less than a 100 pages thick that I’d endured. Yeah, I know, I’m a slow reader. Like I finished Twilight for almost a month, when almost everyone sped read it for what seemed like hours.

Macarthur is a very compelling, gut-wrenching, visceral tale of a group of friends under the influence of their illegal vices … and before this becomes a review, I should stop here. (But I’m just going to say this: When stuck with a 100-pesos budget I suggest purchasing Macarthur than indulging a Starbucks frap. Why? Because I did. And, I guess, you more likely won’t feel betrayed in the same situation.)

Rejoicing like some medieval jester, I mentioned this great accomplishment of mine to Lip Gloss, my sister, and she replied, with a smirk crossing her lip glossed lips, “I am also done with my New Moon.”

Just between you and me, right before I started Bob Ong’s Macarthur, I saw her flipping through page 1 of that book. With the TV on.

Oh how Edward Cullen mystify and entrance his readers!

***
“I promise that I won’t read, or even touch, that New Moon.”

That’s the vow that I made to myself after cringing my way through the first book.

In all fairness it started off fine, in a Cinderella, Someday My Prince Will Come, way. I was even waving the book in the face of Lip Gloss, in a manner as to say she would totally dig it, but expressed no interest whatsoever.

Eddie Cullen’s confession that “(she) is exactly (his) brand of heroin” definitely added cheese, but still I trudged on. I guess those moments of “I won’t leave you forever” did it. Because after that, I had to drink coffee more than I used to in order to make it, crawling, to the finish line.

Then came the buzz for the movie, then the movie premiere, and then everyone watched it (even those who haven’t read the book, which includes Lip Gloss).

Suddenly the household couldn’t get enough of Eddie Cullen (or Bellie Swan, for boys tortured by their girlfriends to also appreciate the “essence” of the book). Barf. Lip Gloss, as I had told, just finished New Moon, and was begging mom to buy the third one for her. Richard XXX, who happens to be my brother and who turns to ashes when you offer him something to read, was actually holding – and reading! – the Twilight book. Shock of the year.

Now unless if I see my mom getting in the act of indulging this stuff of vampires falling madly in love with humans, I am going to stick with what I had promised. Oh wait, I think she just did.

The Arsonist's Carol

Just a while ago one of my classmates in French 11 texted me this. (I tinkered the first part a bit because it wasn't set to the right rhythm.)

Deck the halls
With gas and timber
Falalalala-la-la-la-la
Strike a match
And watch it glimmer
Falalalala-la-la-la-la
Watch the school
Burn down to ashes
Falala-lalala-la-la-la
That's the way
We play with matches
Falalalala-lalalala

***
Everyone, for the incoming New Year celebrations, be safe. I know some of you are already storing up boxes of firecrackers, so just a word of advice, handle them with the least care, please. And to those who plan in having a "quiet" merriment, like me (ay, sus!), let's just save up (and recharge) for next year.

Jeez, January

PICTURE: She's Paula Goodspeed, one of the biggest fans of Paula Abdul. One of the millions who believe that through American Idol they can be someone. When she auditioned, she was rejected, also by Abdul. Later she would commit suicide in front of the home of her idol.

***
And before you know it, 2008 and the last of the chicken wings just disappeared before your very eyes.

Here comes January with its promises of great changes for the year ahead.

I don’t know about you, but for me, January is the month … when television resurrects itself. December is always the “recap” month. Nothing fresh. And like all Decembers, this past month nothing good was on. Unless you dig 1,000 hours of reruns. Or perhaps some Luna Mystika or Eva Fonda for a change.

Two things which I am certainly looking forward to:
1.) Being a huge tennis fan, the new year means an immediate start of play. Just as November is to the NBA, July is to the EPL (English Premier League – Duh, football), and, uh – golf never seems to end – January is a pretty logical starting point for tennis. The talking point of tennis right now – the heated rivalry between the top-ranked male players, Nadal and Federer – will be placed under the test right after all the firecrackers in the world have been used up. That which will be held in Abu Dhabi. But unfortunately may not be televised here. So onto mid-January with the first grand slam of the season, the Australian Open. With the live telecasts just being appropriate for my schedule. (When I get home, Nadal, Federer, Ivanovic, Sharapova or the Williams sisters will most likely be playing. Cool.)
2.) The return of the guilty pleasure of all guilty pleasures – American Idol, one of the insane reality shows that tries hard to be sane. New format, new judge, new David Cook-level contestants (demigods), and new stupid weirdos which we expect will once again hound our brain cells for their fifteen minutes of shame. But, let’s admit it, lunches are going to be propelled out of our nostrils. Tsk, tsk, tsk.

***
While typing this I looked toward the corner where all of my mandatory reading materials were stacked. Quite the tall tower already.

The Of Which I Prefer Absolutely Anything Else, Even A Day Of Luna Mystika Torture, Than To Worry Of Them list:
1.) Listening exams
2.) How am I supposed to run to UST from UP and back in a span of just three hours … that considering the traffic that has no end.
3.) Three required attendance to concerts: where, when, who will perform, and how much!
4.) Poetry interpretations (just when you think reciting The Lord’s Prayer in Old English is already difficult, wait until you get to witness T.S. Eliot in his prime)
5.) And <*TANA-NANAN-TANAN*> Longinus’ tackling "on the sublime" (“Purposiveness without purpose” – Yeah, baby, yeah! “Excessive concision of expression” – Ha, ha … ano daw? “Speaking in the way of precept …” – OK, Keri pa. “Asyndeton, anaphora, diatyposis” – (*epileptic seizures*))

The realization has just set in. I think my retinas have stopped functioning.