tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-370677112024-03-13T23:33:16.429-07:00La Casa de Quatro GatosDizzy with light, we dipped into that enormous book of holidays, its pages blazing with sunshine and scented with the sweet melting pulp of golden pears...The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.comBlogger86125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-18247448195553578642012-05-22T23:32:00.001-07:002012-05-23T00:22:41.048-07:00Some days are just too overwhelming for me. There is this tremor within that makes me uneasy. I can't put my finger on it; it is a fearful offing that makes my mind reel and apprehensive of the unknown.The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-80946954603060846262012-05-20T23:36:00.002-07:002012-05-20T23:55:35.974-07:00Can I help myself? I am passionately driven by my work. I want to spend much of my time trying to accomplish the best possible results as a history researcher and curator. People think that this passion is actually an unhealthy form of obsession. But can anyone really quell a desire to create beauty and provide knowledge for others? At my age, it is necessary for me to leave some kind of mark that I have achieved something of lasting value; of importance that would make me proud of what I have become, and see the journey that I had to undertake to get to that point of success.<br /><br />The young could not really understand this need to leave one's mark. Maybe age is a contributing factor to all of this. I think that I have but little time left and the only thing that is certain is the uncertainty of where life is headed. We are like on a rushing train, and every minute counts as you pass by each scenario, and it feels such a waste that you never tried to leave something that would make people look up and see, and of course, admire you for your daring.<br /><br />Maybe, there are several sacrifices that have to be made to get from point A to point B. A loss of friendship; unreasonable actions that lead to rage; coldness that could never be overcome. Is it worth it? Only time could tell if such loss is worth all the trouble.The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-57167303609946310942012-05-20T03:43:00.002-07:002012-05-20T03:55:00.113-07:00People have always suspected that I have a knock on the head. How judgmental, really! I may not be the regular normal guy, but like anybody else on this world of ours, I have my own personality and it may not always be acceptable to everyone, however, I am proud to be different. People, like to talk a lot, or they talk so little, but they never try to listen or even try to look closely at the individuals they are judging.<br /><br />What are the common rants that I hear? For starters: "<span style="font-style: italic;">That guy has no girlfriend, so he must be a fuckwit gay, or he wants to be friends with this other guy, so he must be seriously crushing on him.</span>" Wow, just because I'm looking for friendships does that instantly qualify me as a homosexual? Does that mean I have some perverse desire? Why can't people start being sane and accept that hey, people never want to be alone all the time and all they seek is some form of camaraderie? That's how the shoe fits these days.The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-42872534276349861632012-05-20T02:42:00.002-07:002012-05-20T03:42:29.874-07:00It has been over two years since I wrote on this blog. I don't know why I stopped all of a sudden and moved over to Facebook. Maybe because there was a ready audience to hear me rant and rave, or even appreciate my thoughts instead of the anonymity of this blog. Much as I like to be read, I somehow lost the privacy I have always cherished. Well, at least in this blog. Nobody has to read about it or judge me for my stupidities and idiosyncrasies.<br /><br />Like some fortress of solitude. No one dares to enter. I am safe and secure, and probably happy to have a bit of sanity. Isn't that what everybody wants? To be sane somewhere, even in some remote corner of the world wide web? Maybe it's better to keep on writing on this blog. To finally find a repository for my thoughts, even the darkest ones.<br /><br />Here's to the re-opening of this blog!The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-35051034689322101992011-01-10T05:33:00.000-08:002011-01-10T05:52:47.512-08:00It's the start of a new year. After almost a year, I'm resurrecting this blog. I need some space to write out my thoughts. This blog is my fortress of solitude--no one to judge my thoughts. To be quite frank, I really feel this intense sadness. It all started with Hobee refusing my books, and everything seems to go downhill from there. How long would this depression last?The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-74301260144192196682009-07-31T01:28:00.000-07:002009-07-31T01:35:24.128-07:00Viendo me cargo,<br />los orbes en los zócalos…<br />De la luz que penetra cada partición.<br />¿Por qué continúe existiendo?<br />La oscuridad interminable debe dominar.The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-55609511279814867342009-07-28T01:10:00.000-07:002009-07-28T01:15:28.933-07:00<div> </div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/Sm6zQhhXkvI/AAAAAAAAAWA/XGRMeeihZTs/s1600-h/born.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363421302702445298" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 122px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/Sm6zQhhXkvI/AAAAAAAAAWA/XGRMeeihZTs/s400/born.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div> </div><div>I just feel so horribly depressed today. I should be happy but somehow things are not going my way. I have been waiting for the minutes to tick on by, and the ennui is just enervating. Have I lost my interest in the job? It seems that many opportunities have passed me, and everything is too late. <a class="STR_StripImage" title="The Born Loser - May 23, 2001" href="http://comics.com/the_born_loser/2001-05-23/"></a></div>The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-9445457870659829272009-07-21T21:05:00.000-07:002009-07-21T21:18:44.087-07:00<strong>Have I Truly Seen the Landscape...</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />Or maybe I have been too short-sighted to look at the bigger picture? These days, I can't deny the truth, I have been feeling a bit sluggish about how my life is progresing. Is this how things are supposed to be--everything crawling at a snail's pace that I feel that I'm losing my cool? I believe that the future can never be bleak unless I picture it to be--yet it seems that opportunities are not commonplace, or am I just too impatient?<br /><br />I have been trying to calm down my jitters through books, but I have this gnawing feeling of emptiness. The fight is still on...The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-62012551095759812082009-07-10T00:07:00.000-07:002009-07-10T00:42:43.994-07:00<div><div><div><div><div><div><strong>My Own Strange Tale on Rizal</strong><br /><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SlbsdphlGFI/AAAAAAAAAU0/mA6qa6uTLFE/s1600-h/Page1.jpg"></a>Finally, I was able to post this comic...</div><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SlbuibvkspI/AAAAAAAAAVE/qXt_9R87uMY/s1600-h/Page1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356731082134041234" style="WIDTH: 304px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SlbuibvkspI/AAAAAAAAAVE/qXt_9R87uMY/s400/Page1.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/Slbu4rAMEeI/AAAAAAAAAVM/95hIYAdKQtM/s1600-h/Page2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356731464187384290" style="WIDTH: 304px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/Slbu4rAMEeI/AAAAAAAAAVM/95hIYAdKQtM/s400/Page2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SlbvNYOGVyI/AAAAAAAAAVU/ST3YS0RvQjs/s1600-h/Page3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356731819922708258" style="WIDTH: 304px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SlbvNYOGVyI/AAAAAAAAAVU/ST3YS0RvQjs/s400/Page3.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/Slbvic2PMFI/AAAAAAAAAVc/xOV9doz_WV8/s1600-h/Page4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356732181942054994" style="WIDTH: 304px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/Slbvic2PMFI/AAAAAAAAAVc/xOV9doz_WV8/s400/Page4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SlbwBEM1-mI/AAAAAAAAAVk/u0O58_Z44Uk/s1600-h/Page5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356732707901930082" style="WIDTH: 304px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SlbwBEM1-mI/AAAAAAAAAVk/u0O58_Z44Uk/s400/Page5.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SlbwiP4_wCI/AAAAAAAAAVs/lBVTaha3oBo/s1600-h/Page6.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356733277975592994" style="WIDTH: 304px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SlbwiP4_wCI/AAAAAAAAAVs/lBVTaha3oBo/s400/Page6.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-21894701474517659352008-05-22T22:41:00.000-07:002008-05-22T23:14:41.467-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Las Puertas Azules de la Calle de San Lazaro</span></strong><br /><br />Las puertas azules de la calle de San Lazaro<br />sonríen a menudo en mí siempre que pase cerca.<br />Pienso que detrás de esas puertas del azul de cielo,<br />las vidas festivas son llevadas por la gente arriba.<br />La enfermedad y la muerte nunca son agradables en el umbral.<br />Todos se beben con la alegría y prodigan<br />con sus alabanzas sobre las vidas gloriosas que llevan.<br /><br />Ocultan detrás de las máscaras de la marfil,<br />incapaces de recordar cómo él es sentir humano,<br />para sentir el rubor rojo de sus mejillas,<br />y el calor blando de rasgones y la sangría<br />de los corazones que queman con amor.<br /><br />El dolor nunca ha sido su sino en este curso de la vida;<br />comerán y beberán su terraplén detrás<br />de las puertas cerradas del azul de cielo.<br />Quizás, morirán solamente en todas sus galas,<br />no querido y desgraciado.<br />Pero, continuaré caminando mi manera,<br />entre las trayectorias para los ricos y los pobres.<br />Nunca yo se preocupan de donde mi cosecha vendrá,<br />porque sé que llegará.<br /><br /><br /><em>The blue doors of San Lazaro Street<br />often smile at me whenever I pass by.<br />I think that behind those sky blue doors,<br />festive lives are led by the people upstairs.<br />Sickness and death are never welcome on the threshold.<br />All are drunk with merriment<br />And lavish with their praises about the glorious lives they lead.<br /><br />They hide behind masks of ivory,<br />unable to remember how it is to feel human,<br />to feel the red flush of their cheeks,<br />and the tender warmth of tears<br />and the bleeding of hearts burning with love.<br /><br />Sorrow has never been their fate in this lifetime;<br />they shall eat and drink their fill behind the closed sky blue doors.<br />Perhaps, they shall die alone in all their finery, unloved and miserable.<br />But, I shall continue to walk my way,<br />between paths for the rich and poor.<br />Never will I worry where my harvest will come from, for I know it will arrive.</em>The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-59266209246857940492008-05-22T20:24:00.000-07:002008-05-22T20:38:16.090-07:00<strong>Fragment</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />Quizá el gusto o la vista de él es de ninguna importancia en absoluto.<br />¿Estas muestras cambiarían la dirección o las trayectorias que tomo?<br />Tropiezo si me cierro los ojos a sus verdades de neón del color.<br />Era probablemente un tonto a comenzar con--<br />ninguna espina dorsal para desafiar qué fue presentada antes de mí.<br /><br />Seguramente, era temeroso de intentos fallidos.<br />¿Por qué me atrevería contradigo que el plan los cielos quisiera que siguiera? No todo es una libertad absoluta--o aún una necesidad;<br />la rebelión es la más lejana de mi mente.<br />Soy seguro en mi jerarquía,<br />feliz de bañarse la cara en el sol,<br />nunca en todo asustado de la bifurcación<br />o de la guadaña de aventamiento cortarme<br />abajo en mi prima.<br /><em></em><br /><em>Maybe the taste or sight of it is of no importance at all. Would these signs change the direction or the paths I take? Would I stumble if I close my eyes to its neon color truths? Probably I was a fool to start out with--no backbone to challenge what was laid out before me.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Surely, I was fearful of false starts. </em><br /><em>Why would I dare contradict that Plan the heavens wanted me to follow? </em><br /><em>Not everything is an absolute freedom--or even a necessity; </em><br /><em>rebellion is the farthest from my mind. </em><br /><em>I am secure in my nest, </em><br /><em>happy to bathe my face in the sun, </em><br /><em>never at all afraid of the winnowing fork or scythe </em><br /><em>to cut me down in my prime.</em>The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-6952057931435738032008-05-19T21:38:00.000-07:002008-05-19T21:40:11.292-07:00<strong>Poema</strong><br /><br />De alguna manera, deseé nunca verdad de mirar<br />las trayectorias adonde caminé,<br />Aunque puedo tropezar, caminé penosamente<br />encendido con mi cabeza llevé a cabo colmo,<br />y casi revestido en duro con la cólera<br />escrita sobre cada grieta y vena.<br /><br />Quizás amé mirar los árboles,<br />con las ramas que adoraban el cielo<br />para su belleza celestial extensa,<br />y odié las hojas, secadas y el chisporroteo<br />bajo mis pies pesados.<br />Quise ser solo, buscar ese silencio que existe verdad,<br />no que el ruido efímero que se fuerza en mis oídos.<br /><br />Debe ser maravilloso funcionar,<br />descalzo en la arena,<br />sintiendo cada grano el empujar en mis dedos del pie.<br />Es repentinamente libertad,<br />acometiendo como olores dulces en mi nariz,<br />del amor que podría probablemente estar,<br />floreciendo como las camelias blancas en un pote del jardín.<br /><br />Pero el sol brilla demasiado,<br />y las plantas verdes marchitan<br />como el amor abrumado por demasiada<br />emoción y sentimentalismo.<br />Quizás es mejor que nos vayamos,<br />con todo nunca cerramos la puerta,<br />que sabe lo que pudo traer el futuro—<br />un amor perdido largo que volvía<br />apartar las cortinas y dejó el resorte venir adentro otra vez.<br /><br /><br /><em>Somehow, I never truly desired to look at the paths where I walked,<br />Though I may stumble,<br />I trudged on with my head held high,<br />and almost hard-faced with anger written over every crevice and vein.<br /><br />Perhaps I loved to look at the trees,<br />with branches that worshipped the sky for its vast celestial beauty,<br />and hated the leaves, dried up and crackling under my heavy feet.<br />I wanted to be alone, to seek that silence which truly exists,<br />not that ephemeral noise which forces itself in my ears.<br /><br />It must be wonderful to run,<br />barefooted in the sand, feeling every grain pushing into my toes.<br />Suddenly it is freedom, rushing like sweet smells into my nose,<br />of love that could probably be,<br />flowering like white camellias in a garden pot.<br /><br />But the sun does shine too much,<br />and the green plants do wither<br />like love overwhelmed by too much emotion and sentimentality.<br />Perhaps it is better for us to leave,<br />yet never closing the door,<br />who knows what the future might bring—<br />a long lost love coming back<br />to draw away the curtains and let the spring come in again.</em>The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-63275087358148317442008-05-14T22:37:00.000-07:002008-05-14T22:39:02.241-07:00<strong>Poema V</strong><br /><br />Recuerdo caminar abajo de los pasillos largos,<br />donde el abatimiento reinó en perpetuidad.<br />Aunque nunca era asustado,<br />porque yo sentía seguro en la suavidad<br />aterciopelada de la obscuridad.<br />Silbaría, oyendo su eco el perforar del espacio,<br />imaginándose que era un corte agudo<br />de la lanza con el humor melancólico.The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-80548432511052341912008-05-12T01:05:00.000-07:002008-05-12T01:06:43.550-07:00<strong>Poema</strong><br />Crea cuando le digo que usted no sea nada más que un mito.<br />Usted es Nephele, la mujer de la nube,<br />nada más que una sustancia vaporosa<br />que fascine y engañe a hombres a la locura<br />Seguramente, como Clytemnestra,<br />usted pulsa abajo de un hombre indefenso,<br />porque nada es sagrado a usted, amor no uniforme.<br />Para la lujuria traiciona la naturaleza verdadera de su corazón.<br />Una bestia salvaje que espera en las sombras,<br />el quemarse, quemándose, nunca en apagado todo.<br /><br /><br /><em>Believe when I tell you that you are nothing more than a myth.<br />You are Nephele, the cloud woman,<br />nothing more than a vaporous substance<br />that allures and misleads men to madness<br />Surely, like Clytemnestra, you strike down a defenseless man,<br />for nothing is sacred to you, not even love.<br />For lust betrays the true nature of your heart.<br />A wild beast waiting in the shadows,<br />burning, burning, never at all quenched.</em>The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-77979440637322072272008-05-08T01:34:00.000-07:002008-05-08T02:11:37.255-07:00I am in love with a new book. You may call me crazy but that's how enamored I am with the work of the Polish writer Bruno Schulz. He wrote only a few stories, but these narratives were miraculously and beautifully woven that they seem to haul me in to senseless enchantment. The first lines above my seascape were taken from his book Cinnamon Shops (retitled "<em>The Street of Crocodiles</em>" by Penguin Classics) I include in this entry a part of the story:<br /><br /><div align="justify">August 1<br /></div><div align="justify">IN JULY, my father set off to take the waters, and he left me with Mother and my older brother, prey to the glowing white and stunning summer days. We browsed — stupefied by the light — through that great book of the holiday, in which every page was ablaze with splendour and had, deep down, a sweetly dripping pulp of golden pears. Adela returned on those luminous mornings, like <a name="pomona_back"></a>Pomona out of the fire of the enkindled day, tipping the colourful beauty of the sun from her basket — glistening wild cherries, full of water under their transparent skin; mysterious black cherries, whose aroma surpassed what would be realised in their taste; and apricots, in whose golden pulp lay the core of the long afternoons — and alongside that pure poetry of fruits, she unloaded slices of meat, and a keyboard of calf ribs, swollen with strength and goodness, algae of vegetables, calling to mind slaughtered octopus and jellyfish — the raw material of dinner, its flavour still unformed and sterile — dinner’s vegetative and telluric ingredients with their wild and field aroma. Through a dark apartment on the first floor of a tenement on the market square, every day throughout the whole vast summer, there passed the silence of shimmering veins of air; squares of radiance dreaming their fervid dream on the floor; a barrel organ melody struck from the deepest golden vein of the day; and two or three measures of a refrain, played over and over again on a grand piano somewhere, swooning in the sunshine on the white pavements and lost in the fire of the deep day. Her housework done, Adela spread a shadow over the rooms, drawing closed the linen blinds. Then the colours sank an octave deeper; the sitting room filled up with darkness as if plunged into the luminosity of the deep sea, although even now it was dimly reflected in mirrors of green, while all the torrid heat of the day breathed on the blinds, gently swaying to the reveries of the midday hour. I would go out on Saturday afternoons for a stroll with Mother. From the duskiness of the hallway we stepped straight out into the sunbath of the day. Passers-by, wading in gold, squinted in the glare as if their eyes were glued with honey, while their drawn back upper lips bared their teeth and gums. And everyone wading through that golden day had the same sweltered grimace, as if the sun had bestowed the same mask upon all of its disciples — the golden mask of a solar cult; and everyone walking along the streets that day, who met or passed each other by — young or old, every man, woman and child — hailed each other with that mask as they went, with gold paint daubed thickly on their faces; they grinned to one another that bacchanalian grimace — that barbarian mask of pagan worship. The market square was empty and yellowed by the heat, swept clean by hot winds, like a biblical desert. Thorny acacias, sprung up from the emptiness of the yellow square, frothed above it with their shining foliage, their bouquets of graciously gesturing green filigrees, like trees on old tapestries. Those trees seemed to be affecting a gale, theatrically twirling their crowns in order to demonstrate by their pompous gesticulations the courtliness of the leafy fans of their silvered abdomens, like noblemen’s fox-fur pelts. The old houses, burnished by the winds of many days, were tinged with reflections of the vast atmosphere, echoes and reminiscences of hues diffused deep within the coloured weather. It seemed that whole generations of summer days (like patient stucco workers scrubbing the mouldy plaster from old façades) had worn away a fallacious varnish, eliciting more distinctly from day to day the true aspects of the houses, a physiognomy of the fortunes and life which formed them from within. Blinded by the radiance of the empty square, the windows now fell asleep; the balconies confessed their emptiness to the sky; the open hallways exuded a scent of coolness and wine. A few ragamuffins, sheltering in a corner of the market square from the fiery broom of the heat, were beleaguering a stretch of wall, testing it over and over again with throws of buttons and coins, as if the true mystery of the wall, inscribed with hieroglyphs of scratches and cracks, might be divined in the horoscope of those metal discs. Otherwise, the market square was empty. At any moment, the good Samaritan’s donkey might arrive, led on by the bridle in the shade of the swaying acacias, at a vaulted entrance with wine barrels before it, and two attendants would carefully lift a stricken man down from its burning saddle, to carry him gently inside and up the cool stairway, to the storey that exuded the aromas of a Sabbath meal. Mother and I strolled on, along the two sunlit edges of the market square, casting our broken shadows over all the houses as if along a keyboard. The paving stones fell steadily past under our weightless, flat footsteps, some of them pale pink like human skin, others golden or greenish-blue — all of them level, warm and velvety in the sunshine, like various kinds of sundial trodden underfoot beyond all recognition, to blessed nothingness. And finally, at the corner of <a name="stryjska_back"></a>ulica Stryjska, we stepped into the shadow of the chemist’s shop. An enormous jar of raspberry juice in the chemist’s spacious window symbolised the coolness of the balsams there, by which any suffering might be assuaged. And after a few houses more, the street could no longer uphold municipal decorum, like a peasant returning to his native village who casts off his stylish town attire on the road, slowly turning into a country vagabond again the nearer he approaches home. The suburban cottages were sinking, windows and all, subsided within the lush and tangled efflorescence of their little gardens. Overlooked by the magnificent day, all kinds of herb, flower and weed proliferated luxuriantly and quietly, delighting in that pause in which they could dream beyond the margin of time, on the outskirts of the unending day. The suburban cottages were sinking, windows and all, subsided within the lush and tangled efflorescence of their little gardens. Overlooked by the magnificent day, every kind of herb, flower and weed luxuriantly and quietly proliferated, delighting in that pause in which they could dream beyond the margin of time, on the outskirts of the unending day. An enormous sunflower, hoisted aloft on its huge stem and stricken with elephantiasis, stooping under the hypertrophy of its monstrous corpulence, awaited in yellow mourning its sad, final days of life. But the naïve suburban campanulas and unfastidious calico-print flowerlets stood helplessly by in their starched little pink and white camisoles, without sympathy for the sunflower’s great tragedy.</div>The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-62664077733925946622008-05-08T01:09:00.000-07:002008-12-09T18:47:02.316-08:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SCK386Zal9I/AAAAAAAAAOI/dW7yWHt4hCo/s1600-h/monastery01-flowers-P4170016.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197919177034864594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SCK386Zal9I/AAAAAAAAAOI/dW7yWHt4hCo/s400/monastery01-flowers-P4170016.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>There are times I just wished that I took the road less traveled. Before I entered PHSA, I was actually contemplating taking holy orders and becoming a priest, or a Benedictine monk. In grade school, I spent a great deal of time in the Chapel of DLSZ; I remember kneeling in front of the altar, looking intently at the crucifix with the image of the resurrected Christ, imagining that it was beckoning me to lead a contemplative life, or maybe He was...I always felt secure and loved in that calm environment. I remember earnestly praying the rosary and looking at the stained glass windoes depicting St La Salle and the other La Sallite brothers. But then I also wanted to become an artist, and I got that government scholarship to PHSA. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Things happen for a purpose. I just miss my religious fervor and the faith I had as a child. I sometimes wished that I could somehow enter the Benedictine Monastery in Malaybalay, Bukidnon because of its peacefulness and pristine beauty. Only time will tell.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-22091204767565618312008-05-05T23:06:00.000-07:002009-07-09T22:13:02.814-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:130%;">The Queer Tongue</span></strong><br /><br />A few years back, when my elder sister Aileen still resided in the Philippines, trying to make a name for herself in the fashion industry, she would often invite some of her queer friends to our house. Queers have a world of their own making, with colorful expressions and lingo that would make you burst out in laughter and fill any tete-a-tete with gaiety. With the queer's penchant for gossip, you cannot help but assimilate their language into everyday vocabulary, albeit the vulgarity in meaning:<br /><br />QUEER TONGUE<br />1. 10,000—sobrang tagal, sobrang bagal (too slow)<br />2. anda/andalucia/anju/Anjo Yllaña— pera, datung (money/cash)<br />3. anik—ano (what, which)<br />4. balaj—balahura (shameless), dautero, bakla<br />5. Bitter Ocampo—malungkot (bitter, sad)<br />6. borlog—tulog (asleep)<br />7. carry, keri, cash & carry—sige (OK, alright)<br />8. Cathy Santillan/Kate Gomez/Cathy Mora—“makati” (frisky)<br />9. chaka (from <a href="http://www.ljfind.com/post/50694891/" target="_new"><span style="color:#000000;">Chaka Khan</span></a>)—pangit (ugly), kasi parang concert nya rito 10.char/charot/charing/charbroiled— kabaligtaran ng keri (opposite of “keri”) 11.chova/chovaline kyle—chika lang (small talk)<br />12.Cookie Chua/<a href="http://www.ljfind.com/post/50694891/" target="_new"><span style="color:#000000;">Cookie Monster</span></a>— magluto (cook, in the imperative form) 13.clasmarurut/klasmarurut—classmate<br />14.cornball/cornstarch—korni (tasteless)<br />15.Crayola Khomeni—iyak (cry)<br />16.Cynthia—hindi kilalang babae, pwede ring lalaki, as in “sino sha? (who is she/he?)<br />17.Dakota Harrison/Dakila—malaki (big in size, maybe from the visayan language “dako”)<br />18.daot—isang metapisikal na insekto, insulto (insult)<br />19.dugyot—yagit, madumi (dirty)<br />20.eksena/eksenadora—mahilig pumapel, mahilig sumabat (someone who always likes to figure in a scene)<br />21.emote—mag-inarte pa rin (one who is over-acting)<br />22.entourage—pasok (enter)<br />23.epal—pumapel kahit hindi welcome (one who forces herself/himself into the company of other people)<br />24.fatale—sobra, to the max (excessive)<br />25.feel/fillet o’ fish—type, gusto, natipuhan (to like something)<br />26.feelingero, feelingera—mahilig magmaganda (one who is always sympathetic)<br />27.fly—alis (go away)<br />28.forever—palagi, matagal, mabagal (always, slow)<br />29.freestyle—slow makagets (slow in understanding something) 30.ganitriz/ganitrik—ganito (this way)<br />31.girlash—<a href="http://www.ljfind.com/post/50694891/" target="_new"><span style="color:#000000;">babe</span></a><span style="color:#000000;"> </span><br />32.hums—hundred<br />33.imbey/im—imbyerna, irita, inis, banas, asar (irritation)<br />34.itriz/itrik—ito (this)<br />35.jologs/dyologs—basura (trash), iskwaking, iskwakwa (squatter) 36.jowa/jowabelles/jowabella— kare¬lasyon, boyprend o gerlpren<br />37.jubis, juba—taba (fat)<br />38.jutay—maliit (small, from the Visayan, “dyutay”)<br />39.kangkang—niig, talik (sex)<br />40.kape/capuccino/Coffeemate— magising ka sa katotohanan, excuse me (wake up to the truth, please)<br />41.karir/career—lumandi, kumiri (coquettish)<br />42.kiao—thousand<br />43.lafung/lafang/lafesh/lafs/lafez— kain, lamon<br />44.lapel—masyadong malakas ang boses, parang naka-lapel mic (someone with a loud voice, as if one was wearing a lapel microphone)<br />45.Liberty/Statue of Liberty/Liberty Condensada—libre (free)<br />46.Luz Valdez/Lucila Lalu/Luz Clarita—talo (loser)<br />47.Moody Diaz (RIP)—moody<br />48.nenok—nakawin (steal)<br />49.okray—paninirang puri (criticize, mud-sling)<br />50.pantot/pantotero—mahilig umeksenaThe King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-19653089535310428622008-04-25T01:30:00.000-07:002008-12-09T18:47:02.577-08:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SBGanYeOiKI/AAAAAAAAAOA/Q8xnFtd5-IE/s1600-h/zweig.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193101846709700770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SBGanYeOiKI/AAAAAAAAAOA/Q8xnFtd5-IE/s400/zweig.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify"><strong>Stefan Zweig's "Beware of Pity"</strong></div><div align="justify"><br />I have just read "<strong>Beware of Pity</strong>," a full length novel of Stefan Zweig, an Austrian of Jewish descent, who became one of Germany's famous writers. The novel explores the disastrous consequences of sentimental and insincere pity. The setting is pre-World War I, and the main protagonist, Lt. Anton Hofmiller, a handsome young cavalry officer, is posted in a provincial Hungarian town. Bored with provincial life, he is fortunate to be invited to a soiree held in the mansion of the town's richest man. Hofmiller enjoys himself immensely in Herr Kekesfalva's party, but in his desire to show his gratefulness, he commits the ultimate social blunder: inviting the host's crippled daughter Edith for a dance. To correct his error, he befriends Edith but his shallow sympathy for her, arouses hopes for a romantic relationship. Hofmiller does nothing to dispel these false hopes, and Edith's disappointment leads her to suicide.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">To be quite frank, the first parts of the novel were a bit of a drag, but its plot catches on and compels you to read it throughout. In my honest opinion, though Hofmiller did not necessarily develop a romantic attachment to Edith, he did feel a certain closeness to her. Yet, in some respects, I felt that it was Edith's fault--she read too much from Hofmiller's closeness and misinterpreted the situation. It is easy to assume that because of her illness, Edith was desperate to fall in love and experience its joys. Desperation to gain what is unattainable often leads us to do things that would ultimately lead to our own tragical unraveling. </div>The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-11307930108898455692008-04-25T01:27:00.000-07:002008-04-25T01:28:14.495-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Poema</span></strong><br />No recuerdo el gusto del pan.<br />Mi boca no riega más para sus bocados suaves y sabrosos.<br />Su dulzor ha disuelto, embotado e insípido<br />árido como desierto en alto mediodía.<br />Justo como su amor para mí.The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-41317242562788664382008-04-25T01:24:00.000-07:002008-04-25T01:25:34.789-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Poema 2</span></strong><br />el poema que no revela ninguna verdad a mí,<br />va y se mueve por favor lejos.<br />Déjeme en paz, déjeme gozan de mi soledad.<br />Usted nunca volverá.<br />Nunca voluntad usted ve los rasgones que tengo vertiente.<br />Deje a muertos, entierre a sus muertos.The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-84067320138010116342008-04-24T01:33:00.000-07:002008-12-09T18:47:02.603-08:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SBBF3IeOiJI/AAAAAAAAAN4/lnG7WaHzWws/s1600-h/Beatus+Vir.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192727183827568786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SBBF3IeOiJI/AAAAAAAAAN4/lnG7WaHzWws/s400/Beatus+Vir.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Blessed is the man who does not walk in the way of the wicked...</span></strong></div>The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-63772876923410774912008-04-23T00:50:00.000-07:002008-12-09T18:47:02.765-08:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SA7rTYeOiII/AAAAAAAAANw/vxfizaz_yAU/s1600-h/By+the+Sea.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192346138624034946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SA7rTYeOiII/AAAAAAAAANw/vxfizaz_yAU/s400/By+the+Sea.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SA7qX4eOiHI/AAAAAAAAANo/yReWZBhxPtY/s1600-h/By+the+Sea.jpg"></a><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">By The Sea (Fate)</span></strong></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">Where is Fate leading me...<br /></div></span>The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-69185847968081168612008-04-22T22:40:00.000-07:002008-12-09T18:47:02.978-08:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SA7NtoeOh_I/AAAAAAAAAMc/abJTt9VnAZw/s1600-h/across_the_universe_new.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192313604246767602" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SA7NtoeOh_I/AAAAAAAAAMc/abJTt9VnAZw/s400/across_the_universe_new.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tQO7lhpsmcc/SA7M1oeOh-I/AAAAAAAAAMU/DNhrDLK8kIM/s1600-h/untitled.bmp"></a><br /><div align="justify"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Across the Universe</span></strong><br /><br />I'm a real sucker for romantic movies--from the usual chick flicks and even, musicals. My attention span for artsy flicks is just so minimal. Well, I decided to watch this movie "Across the Universe" by Julie Taymor (of Frida acclaim) and what's my two cents on it? The plot was a major let down--<em><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">boy from another country meets a girl who recently lost fiancee in Vietnam, boy and girl fall in love in the hippie 60s, boy and girl clash and separate because of politics (or should I say political apathy on the part of the boy), boy and girl realize they were made for each other and marry. <strong><span style="font-size:130%;">The End</span></strong></span><strong>.</strong></span></em> But though the story was typical, the Beatles music saved it from going down the drain entirely--magnificent renditions. I loved Jude singing "I Saw A Face" and "Strawberry Fields"; Lucy singing "If I Fell in Love With You"; and Prudence's " I Want to Hold Your Hand."<br /><br />I think I'm going bonkers over this movie because of the music--Oh well, what the heck.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify"></div>The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-42538105432038533632008-04-22T22:28:00.000-07:002008-04-22T22:37:26.947-07:00<div align="justify"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Poppaea Sabina</span></strong><br /><br />In the past few months, for no apparent reason, I have been captivated by the image and story of the Roman empress, Poppaea Sabina. What led me to this strange preoccupation? Well, I was reading about the life of the Emperor Nero by Tacitus and Suetonius, and listening to one of Monteverdi's operas, <em>L'incoronazione di Poppaea</em>, a romanticized version of how Poppaea schemed against Nero's first wife Octavia to gain the crown. The historian Tacitus reviled her as an ambitious and ruthless woman, marrying Otho to get close to Nero and become his paramour. Further, he says that Poppaea convinced Nero to murder his own mother, Agrippina the Younger, because she opposed their adulterous relationship. Tacitus also claimed that, since she was pregnant, Poppaea enticed Nero to divorce his barren wife Octavia and then arranged for her murder. But in turn, Poppaea was herself murdered by the mad emperor, who kicked her in the belly causing a miscarriage and ultimately her demise. Nero was repentant of his actions, and ordered that Poppaea be deified through the title “Augusta.”<br /><br />The story of the Julio-Claudian dynasty is rife with stories rivaling that of the Greek tragedies. Maybe someday, I should try to mine these histories for a good yarn to retell as fiction. </div>The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37067711.post-31205878821220728182008-04-22T22:26:00.000-07:002008-04-22T22:27:19.716-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Poema 3</span></strong><br /><br />La Noche ha venido a nos otros<br />vistió en su esplendor púrpura que arrastraba una correa<br />plateada de estrellas.<br />solitario, como una mujer privada del amor, disminuyendo y marchitada.The King of Catshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05990382057938184786noreply@blogger.com0