Hickory, Dickory Dock
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
Hickory Dickory Dock, The mouse ran up the clock. The clock strike one. The mouse ran down, Hickory Dickory Dock. Yes, I can still memorize this nursery rhyme along with several others my preschool teacher taught me. By the way, I’m in First Year College now. As fascinating as to how a college student enjoys singing Hickory Dickory Dock rather than blogging on Friendster or enjoying a fun filled night out with friends, this humble writer is experiencing one of those syndromes psychologists connote as the second childhood. Nevertheless, I have come across a conclusion that will boost up Mother Goose’s market for nursery rhymes. The mouse, in my own opinion, is the epitome of punctuality and has seemed to be born under the ancestry of Father Time himself. When the clock struck one, the mouse immediately went down. Whatever may be his reason of descending, the very essence is that the mouse did something. The mouse did not waste time.
Time is Gold. This phrase appears to be one of the most abused quotes known to man. If given much analysis, time is actually worth more than gold, even more than diamonds or any other wealth the material world can offer. Such illustrates how exceedingly important every second ticks, every minute tocks, how a fraction of a time could change millions of lives. Science had unraveled a lot of mysteries and had theoretically explained almost all brain constricting possibilities. Yet, never did Science acquire total control and absolute knowledge on the paradox of time. I guess time machines remains to be gadgets only available at dream world.
It irritates the bone marrow out of my skeletal system when I come across transacting business with a late comer, a time constraint player, a disorganized nincompoop. To schedule an appointment, includes a chained and tailing side kick called commitment. When Joe wants to date with Anna and sets up their romantic dinner from 7:00 pm to 9:00 pm, this only shows that Joe is free within the two hours and busy before and after those times. If Joe arrives at 7:01 it gives Anna all the grounds and reasons to walk out on him, and if they end at 9:01 it also gives Anna all the grounds and reasons to go home ahead. I may not have experience some diplomatic luncheon meetings, presidential conferences but I am quite aware that this simple logic of time management is something every one should be well aware of.
A lot will be spoiled. A lot will be affected. A lot will change. With a simple negligence of time, a struggling patient may lose his life, an apprentice may lose his dream job, a student may fall behind his classmates, a father might get furious with his daughter. It is not just the one you’ll meet whom you’ve disappointed, along are the people behind her, who depends on her, who waits for her, you have disappointed them all. The land of the rising sun, Japan, I admire their strict compliance for time, how every second for them means thousand of yens. No doubt their country is reaching the height of economic prosperity and human resource development. Their discipline is quite extraordinary. I may have not visited Japan, but I have come across reading books on their lifestyle. Their bullet train, which is the fastest there is, leaves at exactly 7:32 when it is scheduled to leave at 7:32, no a quarter of a second less or an eighth of a second more. Because of their disciplined way of following schedules things follow quite smoothly. Everybody is right on time for work, which creates a domino effect of workers and laborers getting a head start on the day finishing the prospected number of documents to file, dresses to sew or microchips to seal. Students arrive on school on time, giving them a good disposition on their pop quiz, resulting to a perfect 30/30 making the road to a better educational attainment clearer each day. Marketable goods turns up at selling stalls early and on time, making business and trade flowing with intense lubrication creating more profit and a seemingly healthy supply and demand relationship.
But, how about Filipino Time? Who created it in the first place, isn’t it us Filipinos? We are all quite aware how impractical and a major headache this malpractice can get, but we still rely on it as a sort of alibi and false rationalization for our shortcomings. I’ve got one word, Pathetic. Sorry I’m late, I got stuck on traffic. Sorry I’m late I’ve got tons of paper works left in the office. You’re stuck on traffic? Get an early head start in order to avoid traffic, it’s not my fault theirs heavy congestion in our streets. You’ve got office work to do? Finish them all up before your scheduled appointment, that’s why it’s called a schedule to accommodate things not to let me wait.
The mouse did it’s best to go down at exactly one o’clock. Given that the mouse is an irrational being, aren’t we ashamed of our rational selves?
Don’t make excuses.
Be on Time.
That is why they invented watches.
Of Jumbo Sized Crayons and Pancit Canton (October 16,2007)
Of Jumbo Sized Crayons and Pancit Canton
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
I smiled at the simple photograph laid between the pages of my Chemistry book. An exam is scheduled for the next day, but I did not pay too much attention to how chemical reactions were formed or how to calculate the moles of a substance. My thoughts were rushing along the river of cheer; a charming discovery was made just that morning. That simple photograph was taken some ten years ago, I was innocently projecting in a white puffed blouse and blue over alls depicting the school uniform of my kindergarten.
What's more than the pose that could make or break my well-treasured reputation, is but the charming little girl peeking from behind. Her face seems so familiar that intrigue hovered above my thoughts, I deem to use all the benefits a perfect 20-20 vision offers. Then, I realized that, the same little girl in the picture was in fact my classmate and seatmate during English class in college. Christin Hope and I had been classmates before, that it why I felt a sudden rush and a tingling vibe when I first met her in college. How surprising it is that time has aged the long lost childhood memories we once had. Both of us couldn’t even remember much, but fate had drawn us closer, weaving the loom of a deeper friendship.
But, lesser did I know that it wasn’t only the two of us who shared some childish giggles and precious playtimes. BSN Section B is not only a multitude of strangers coming from all routes of life, neither it is only a room filled with unconnected chains. Rather it was a link of unripe friendships that long ago time didn’t permit to grow fonder. Kathryn and Janus shared their first singing of ABC’s together. Rose Anne and Marinel grew in doing some finger paintings together. It had seemed to be a reunion of childhood friends that were playing some several years of hide and seek together. For at long last, it was in college that their game ended. They found each other once more.
I couldn’t help but widen the already stretched grin on my face, when I came to ponder on certain sweet dumplings. We once got to know each other in ways of games and playtime, yet, now we get to know each other once again in ways of buko juice and pancit canton. The course of interactions may be different but the same thought and objective of seeking a friend and a confidant is something common to both our playful kindergarten selves and our confused college beings. We once shared a jumbo sized crayon in ways of drawing our very first stars, yet now, we share key answers in ways of cramming in assignments and beating project deadlines. The journey of symbiosis may be growing mature but the same desire to help and to be helped reigned in both of our four year old selves and the selves twelve years after.
All of us might be in college, all of us might be plainly regarded as mature and adult-like, and all of us might be considered as nowhere near childish anymore. But, people should take a closer look. We all still play chase and hide and seek, when no college instructor is watching. We all still clamor and runt like babies, when we were to study a dozen chapters for the finals. We still tease jokes and put out tongues at each other, when a conversation is starting to get impenetrable. We still remain friends after how many years of not seeing each other, and we don’t need any reason why we shouldn’t. Such is because; we were once friends and will always be.
I was zapped back to reality, my smile is still engraved on my face, my focus gently fading away from the picture me and Hope had. I had to review my notes for tomorrow’s exam. Honestly, I am not certain if I’ll get a decent grade in the test, but one thing remains clear, I’ll still have those friends I had long ago for tomorrow, all together in taking the exam.
We may have missed to see each other for a long while. But, now that destiny had done its part of bringing us together, we’ll hold each other’s hands tight and never letting go.
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
I smiled at the simple photograph laid between the pages of my Chemistry book. An exam is scheduled for the next day, but I did not pay too much attention to how chemical reactions were formed or how to calculate the moles of a substance. My thoughts were rushing along the river of cheer; a charming discovery was made just that morning. That simple photograph was taken some ten years ago, I was innocently projecting in a white puffed blouse and blue over alls depicting the school uniform of my kindergarten.
What's more than the pose that could make or break my well-treasured reputation, is but the charming little girl peeking from behind. Her face seems so familiar that intrigue hovered above my thoughts, I deem to use all the benefits a perfect 20-20 vision offers. Then, I realized that, the same little girl in the picture was in fact my classmate and seatmate during English class in college. Christin Hope and I had been classmates before, that it why I felt a sudden rush and a tingling vibe when I first met her in college. How surprising it is that time has aged the long lost childhood memories we once had. Both of us couldn’t even remember much, but fate had drawn us closer, weaving the loom of a deeper friendship.
But, lesser did I know that it wasn’t only the two of us who shared some childish giggles and precious playtimes. BSN Section B is not only a multitude of strangers coming from all routes of life, neither it is only a room filled with unconnected chains. Rather it was a link of unripe friendships that long ago time didn’t permit to grow fonder. Kathryn and Janus shared their first singing of ABC’s together. Rose Anne and Marinel grew in doing some finger paintings together. It had seemed to be a reunion of childhood friends that were playing some several years of hide and seek together. For at long last, it was in college that their game ended. They found each other once more.
I couldn’t help but widen the already stretched grin on my face, when I came to ponder on certain sweet dumplings. We once got to know each other in ways of games and playtime, yet, now we get to know each other once again in ways of buko juice and pancit canton. The course of interactions may be different but the same thought and objective of seeking a friend and a confidant is something common to both our playful kindergarten selves and our confused college beings. We once shared a jumbo sized crayon in ways of drawing our very first stars, yet now, we share key answers in ways of cramming in assignments and beating project deadlines. The journey of symbiosis may be growing mature but the same desire to help and to be helped reigned in both of our four year old selves and the selves twelve years after.
All of us might be in college, all of us might be plainly regarded as mature and adult-like, and all of us might be considered as nowhere near childish anymore. But, people should take a closer look. We all still play chase and hide and seek, when no college instructor is watching. We all still clamor and runt like babies, when we were to study a dozen chapters for the finals. We still tease jokes and put out tongues at each other, when a conversation is starting to get impenetrable. We still remain friends after how many years of not seeing each other, and we don’t need any reason why we shouldn’t. Such is because; we were once friends and will always be.
I was zapped back to reality, my smile is still engraved on my face, my focus gently fading away from the picture me and Hope had. I had to review my notes for tomorrow’s exam. Honestly, I am not certain if I’ll get a decent grade in the test, but one thing remains clear, I’ll still have those friends I had long ago for tomorrow, all together in taking the exam.
We may have missed to see each other for a long while. But, now that destiny had done its part of bringing us together, we’ll hold each other’s hands tight and never letting go.
Diary of an Unfortunate Fetus (October 9,2007)
Diary of an Unfortunate Fetus
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
I happen to come across reading a diary of a fetus, yes you are not hallucinating, a diary of a fetus. Although this isn’t exactly written by the fetus, otherwise that miniscule creature would be even more popular than Albert Einstein; the diary is a manifestation of how a baby would have wrote it if he only could. That was a diary of an aborted fetus. That helpless little creature was a victim of this loathsome act, an innocent victim of a merciless murder. The first few entries to his diary was touching and uplifting. I couldn’t forget how the baby described how his first gentle touch would feel like, he’s dreaming to feel his mother’s warm caress. He even saw himself gradually forming to an actual human being, abounding in dreams and visions the sweet experience called life has to offer. But his tiny and fragile dreams were shattered with an irresponsible decision made by the people he wishes to have called his family.
Abortion is simply killing a weak and feeble creature; this act uses the helplessness of a little child to cover up for a frivolity committed. In my own opinion, it is worse than murder. What has the child got to do with a grave mistake? The irresponsible would-be parent, in my own perception, is the one who even owes much to the baby. The child supposedly would have grown with an immoral history of deception, being born illegitimate and unwanted, and to not let him grow by ending his very existence will smash the brittle integrity he never even knew.
“I could just imagine myself inside a warm womb, the resounding unfamiliar sounds echoes in my delicate ears, if I could just only come out and hear more closely. I could just imagine myself seeing nothing but a dim chamber, if I could just only come out and see what’s outside. I could just imagine the silent woman bearing me, I think she is my mother, if I could only come out and meet her.” This I presume will be the words that juvenile infant will be muttering if given the chance to do so. You may think that I went berserk, but I can hear the painful yet tender, the unaided yet frail cries.
We come across discussing this topic in our Sociology Class. I remember my professor asking us, knowing that we’ll be future nurses soon, who will eventually follow the bandwagon occurrence of going abroad, and the country to which we’re employed permits abortion, will our conscience not bother us if we were to assist the abortion process? I was raised in a morally oriented family and brought up in a Catholic school, I may be biased but it is against my principle to kill, especially someone who’s defenseless. Why would you work in that country in the first place if your conscience couldn’t take the gravity of such crime? My professor added, what if they’d offer you multiple times more your average salary just to assist in such process? I still remained and will forever be glued on to my stand. I’d rather be contented to a mediocre’s salary than risk my moral principle and integrity. I am not a murderer.
Our country is primarily a Christian dominated one; a lot of doctrines taught by this religion negates and refuses to accept the legitimate reason for abortion. Even our Muslim countrymen strongly believe in the same course of stand. But we can’t deny there are still some others whose conscience doesn’t bug them at all, they’d rather seek for prestige and honor than preserve their morale and integrity. I don’t deem to campaign for a lot of causes, but somehow I pity the little voices I continue to hear crying in extreme longing for a life they deserve to have.
This is but a little reminder, if a friend of yours would be left with no recourse but to abort her “burden” remember the moment you don’t stop her, you just denied your moral responsibility and let alone an innocent creature die in his would-be mother’s hands.
Young unmarried pregnant women would usually say, “I have to abort this child or else my future is ruined” or “I don’t want this child, I never wished to have one, so I have to abort it”. Well, pardon me, you don’t have enough grounds to do so, your own rationale doesn’t give you the power to control the life of others including the one you’re carrying.
I dream to be a nurse. Not only a mere nurse who’ll accept any function a health institution will bombard me, but a nurse with principles and moral values.
In the right time, I wanted to have a family, some kids that will call me Nanay. I will save them from a fate those unfortunate young angels had, I will not abort them. I wanted my future children to feel my warming touch, to see my joyful eyes, to hear my caring voice, to live as I had.
Let’s not waste the future of a little one, in his tiny hands the succeeding generations shall rise and will go on.
Let that baby finish his diary.
He has a lot to say.
Stop Abortion.
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
I happen to come across reading a diary of a fetus, yes you are not hallucinating, a diary of a fetus. Although this isn’t exactly written by the fetus, otherwise that miniscule creature would be even more popular than Albert Einstein; the diary is a manifestation of how a baby would have wrote it if he only could. That was a diary of an aborted fetus. That helpless little creature was a victim of this loathsome act, an innocent victim of a merciless murder. The first few entries to his diary was touching and uplifting. I couldn’t forget how the baby described how his first gentle touch would feel like, he’s dreaming to feel his mother’s warm caress. He even saw himself gradually forming to an actual human being, abounding in dreams and visions the sweet experience called life has to offer. But his tiny and fragile dreams were shattered with an irresponsible decision made by the people he wishes to have called his family.
Abortion is simply killing a weak and feeble creature; this act uses the helplessness of a little child to cover up for a frivolity committed. In my own opinion, it is worse than murder. What has the child got to do with a grave mistake? The irresponsible would-be parent, in my own perception, is the one who even owes much to the baby. The child supposedly would have grown with an immoral history of deception, being born illegitimate and unwanted, and to not let him grow by ending his very existence will smash the brittle integrity he never even knew.
“I could just imagine myself inside a warm womb, the resounding unfamiliar sounds echoes in my delicate ears, if I could just only come out and hear more closely. I could just imagine myself seeing nothing but a dim chamber, if I could just only come out and see what’s outside. I could just imagine the silent woman bearing me, I think she is my mother, if I could only come out and meet her.” This I presume will be the words that juvenile infant will be muttering if given the chance to do so. You may think that I went berserk, but I can hear the painful yet tender, the unaided yet frail cries.
We come across discussing this topic in our Sociology Class. I remember my professor asking us, knowing that we’ll be future nurses soon, who will eventually follow the bandwagon occurrence of going abroad, and the country to which we’re employed permits abortion, will our conscience not bother us if we were to assist the abortion process? I was raised in a morally oriented family and brought up in a Catholic school, I may be biased but it is against my principle to kill, especially someone who’s defenseless. Why would you work in that country in the first place if your conscience couldn’t take the gravity of such crime? My professor added, what if they’d offer you multiple times more your average salary just to assist in such process? I still remained and will forever be glued on to my stand. I’d rather be contented to a mediocre’s salary than risk my moral principle and integrity. I am not a murderer.
Our country is primarily a Christian dominated one; a lot of doctrines taught by this religion negates and refuses to accept the legitimate reason for abortion. Even our Muslim countrymen strongly believe in the same course of stand. But we can’t deny there are still some others whose conscience doesn’t bug them at all, they’d rather seek for prestige and honor than preserve their morale and integrity. I don’t deem to campaign for a lot of causes, but somehow I pity the little voices I continue to hear crying in extreme longing for a life they deserve to have.
This is but a little reminder, if a friend of yours would be left with no recourse but to abort her “burden” remember the moment you don’t stop her, you just denied your moral responsibility and let alone an innocent creature die in his would-be mother’s hands.
Young unmarried pregnant women would usually say, “I have to abort this child or else my future is ruined” or “I don’t want this child, I never wished to have one, so I have to abort it”. Well, pardon me, you don’t have enough grounds to do so, your own rationale doesn’t give you the power to control the life of others including the one you’re carrying.
I dream to be a nurse. Not only a mere nurse who’ll accept any function a health institution will bombard me, but a nurse with principles and moral values.
In the right time, I wanted to have a family, some kids that will call me Nanay. I will save them from a fate those unfortunate young angels had, I will not abort them. I wanted my future children to feel my warming touch, to see my joyful eyes, to hear my caring voice, to live as I had.
Let’s not waste the future of a little one, in his tiny hands the succeeding generations shall rise and will go on.
Let that baby finish his diary.
He has a lot to say.
Stop Abortion.
Hear Ye! Hear Me! (October 2,2007)
Hear YE! Hear ME!
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
The process of audition, of hearing is one amazing perceptual process. Just think of how two unusually shaped cartilages called the auricles can collect a mixture of pitches, frequencies and timbres of sounds all at the same time. How a 3 centimeter long canal can encompass the importance to that of Panama’s. How a simple drum shaped membrane can lead a whole band of bodily processes. The three miniscule bones called the ossicles, the incus, malleus, and stapes who ironically amplify twenty times of the sound. The nail shaped coiled tube named cochlea that secretes fluid not for defense mechanism but to continue the process of hearing. To sum things up, the auditory nerve sends the information to the command center, the brain, for the sound to be interpreted. All of these parts seem so simple and not so salable if placed on the stock market, who would bet on ear parts anyway? But each of them, along with their specific roles, integrates to a simple mission, for us to hear.
Call me berserk, I happen to see a connection between the hearing process and nation building. Hats off to the ear, how a simple organ sticking out on the sides of our face can regularly, minute by minute, second by second, finish up the process without any malfunctions, except perhaps on bad earwax days.
The auricle is the most exterior part of the ear, the one most exposed, most seen and most abused with dangling pieces of jewelry. But in what extreme deformity may the auricle unfortunately have been developed into, it still remains faithful to its mission and that is to be aware of the sounds around it and gather them to begin the audition process. Everyday people, average Joes, you and I, we should be working like the auricle. Nation building won’t start even a single step without us not knowing what to begin with, not knowing where we should start. We tend to ignore and forcibly deafen ourselves to escape from responsibility, what we don’t know is that the worst thing a person may do to his fellow men is not to do anything. The same goes with the auricle, the worst it can do the ear is not to collect the sounds, paralyzing the whole process.
Lets do some conversion, having a 3 centimeter long canal would mean around a third of my forefinger in length. Deceiving as it may appear, people may think it has no use but a simple channel or passageway, a simple inch-long tube where cotton buds would usually mop its floors. The canal makes cerumen, or what we fondly call as ear wax. Cleaning the earwax may be a healthy habit, but too much clean should ease up the entrance of dirt inside our inner ear that may cause the contamination of our eardrum. It’s the wax that glues up all the dirt, saving the eardrum from the terrible fate. Society should be too down with all the dirt, with all the downfalls and disintegration. These negative phenomenon are the reasons keeping us glued intact to our hopes and dreams as a nation. We have to clean our gutters and trash away our rubbish, but we have to understand we can’t sweep them all away because they have a purpose.
Imagine a marching band without some drum accompaniments. A total wipe-off would it be. Imagine an ear without its drum. A total wipe-off would a person be. The primary function of the eardrum is to vibrate and shift the impulse from the outer ear to the inner parts. Since I was young, my teachers used to tell me that the nation is building the youth up to be responsible citizens. I seek to know what a responsible citizen is. Let’s follow the eardrum that vibrates to the other parts what it hears. Let us remind each other our duties and obligations, even just simple ones we tend to deny and fail to perform. Vibrate to the person in front of you in a cashier at a grocery store to claim his receipt before leaving. Vibrate to your father driving that a yellow light means to slow down, not speed up. Vibrate to your neighbor to treat their house helper well and give due wage for her services. Be a drum, let others hear what they ought to hear, you ought to.
Our body is composed of 206 bones and the tiniest three of which can be found none other than our ear. The incus or the anvil, the malleus or the hammer, the stapes or the stirrup, they volume up and intensify the sound vibrating from the eardrum. Though how little they may appear, as they click on each other, they maximize the quality of the latest love song we’re drooling for. Let us be heard even though how tiny our voices are. Vote during elections, write an article about corruption, report a petty crime; some tiny things we thought that wouldn’t make a difference. The other 203 bones may make our whole body move, but all 203 of them can’t let you enjoy an RNB tune with much gusto as that of the little three. We have to let the higher authority hear our voices, they need to hear, and our voices should be also their own RNBs in the first place.
Cochlea comes from the Greek word of the same name meaning, snail, it shape would tell you why. This patriotic snail secretes fluid, called endolymph for the hearing process to reach its goal. The fluid that supposedly would bring our nation to the top are simple our potentials, we simply need to extract them out for the benefit of ourselves and everyone in domino effect. Cultivate that endolymph young ones, my friends. Study well and earn a degree in college. Work hard not just for the amateurs, not just for mediocrity, go for the best. Make the best endolymph you can to hear better, to make our nation better in the hopeful future.
The auditory nerve, without which the brain may cease to receive the sounds and we may grow old not recognizing the tune of twinkle, twinkle little star. The mediator is the role of this useful nerve, just like our government. Our system of government is called a Representative Democracy, meaning we elect officials to represent us, the people, in the decisions concerning the whole nation. They indeed are the bridges that connect our selves to our possible future. The auditory nerve when damaged will be useless, thus the magnanimous work of every part of the ear will be useless, the hearing process will not be complete. The same through with the government, even how much the people would strive for a better nation, if she is the one with the malfunction, then surely we’ll reach age ninety-nine not knowing who had a little lamb as fleece as white as snow.
The ear and our nation seem to be connected by my bizarre logic. But they are not that different after all.
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
The process of audition, of hearing is one amazing perceptual process. Just think of how two unusually shaped cartilages called the auricles can collect a mixture of pitches, frequencies and timbres of sounds all at the same time. How a 3 centimeter long canal can encompass the importance to that of Panama’s. How a simple drum shaped membrane can lead a whole band of bodily processes. The three miniscule bones called the ossicles, the incus, malleus, and stapes who ironically amplify twenty times of the sound. The nail shaped coiled tube named cochlea that secretes fluid not for defense mechanism but to continue the process of hearing. To sum things up, the auditory nerve sends the information to the command center, the brain, for the sound to be interpreted. All of these parts seem so simple and not so salable if placed on the stock market, who would bet on ear parts anyway? But each of them, along with their specific roles, integrates to a simple mission, for us to hear.
Call me berserk, I happen to see a connection between the hearing process and nation building. Hats off to the ear, how a simple organ sticking out on the sides of our face can regularly, minute by minute, second by second, finish up the process without any malfunctions, except perhaps on bad earwax days.
The auricle is the most exterior part of the ear, the one most exposed, most seen and most abused with dangling pieces of jewelry. But in what extreme deformity may the auricle unfortunately have been developed into, it still remains faithful to its mission and that is to be aware of the sounds around it and gather them to begin the audition process. Everyday people, average Joes, you and I, we should be working like the auricle. Nation building won’t start even a single step without us not knowing what to begin with, not knowing where we should start. We tend to ignore and forcibly deafen ourselves to escape from responsibility, what we don’t know is that the worst thing a person may do to his fellow men is not to do anything. The same goes with the auricle, the worst it can do the ear is not to collect the sounds, paralyzing the whole process.
Lets do some conversion, having a 3 centimeter long canal would mean around a third of my forefinger in length. Deceiving as it may appear, people may think it has no use but a simple channel or passageway, a simple inch-long tube where cotton buds would usually mop its floors. The canal makes cerumen, or what we fondly call as ear wax. Cleaning the earwax may be a healthy habit, but too much clean should ease up the entrance of dirt inside our inner ear that may cause the contamination of our eardrum. It’s the wax that glues up all the dirt, saving the eardrum from the terrible fate. Society should be too down with all the dirt, with all the downfalls and disintegration. These negative phenomenon are the reasons keeping us glued intact to our hopes and dreams as a nation. We have to clean our gutters and trash away our rubbish, but we have to understand we can’t sweep them all away because they have a purpose.
Imagine a marching band without some drum accompaniments. A total wipe-off would it be. Imagine an ear without its drum. A total wipe-off would a person be. The primary function of the eardrum is to vibrate and shift the impulse from the outer ear to the inner parts. Since I was young, my teachers used to tell me that the nation is building the youth up to be responsible citizens. I seek to know what a responsible citizen is. Let’s follow the eardrum that vibrates to the other parts what it hears. Let us remind each other our duties and obligations, even just simple ones we tend to deny and fail to perform. Vibrate to the person in front of you in a cashier at a grocery store to claim his receipt before leaving. Vibrate to your father driving that a yellow light means to slow down, not speed up. Vibrate to your neighbor to treat their house helper well and give due wage for her services. Be a drum, let others hear what they ought to hear, you ought to.
Our body is composed of 206 bones and the tiniest three of which can be found none other than our ear. The incus or the anvil, the malleus or the hammer, the stapes or the stirrup, they volume up and intensify the sound vibrating from the eardrum. Though how little they may appear, as they click on each other, they maximize the quality of the latest love song we’re drooling for. Let us be heard even though how tiny our voices are. Vote during elections, write an article about corruption, report a petty crime; some tiny things we thought that wouldn’t make a difference. The other 203 bones may make our whole body move, but all 203 of them can’t let you enjoy an RNB tune with much gusto as that of the little three. We have to let the higher authority hear our voices, they need to hear, and our voices should be also their own RNBs in the first place.
Cochlea comes from the Greek word of the same name meaning, snail, it shape would tell you why. This patriotic snail secretes fluid, called endolymph for the hearing process to reach its goal. The fluid that supposedly would bring our nation to the top are simple our potentials, we simply need to extract them out for the benefit of ourselves and everyone in domino effect. Cultivate that endolymph young ones, my friends. Study well and earn a degree in college. Work hard not just for the amateurs, not just for mediocrity, go for the best. Make the best endolymph you can to hear better, to make our nation better in the hopeful future.
The auditory nerve, without which the brain may cease to receive the sounds and we may grow old not recognizing the tune of twinkle, twinkle little star. The mediator is the role of this useful nerve, just like our government. Our system of government is called a Representative Democracy, meaning we elect officials to represent us, the people, in the decisions concerning the whole nation. They indeed are the bridges that connect our selves to our possible future. The auditory nerve when damaged will be useless, thus the magnanimous work of every part of the ear will be useless, the hearing process will not be complete. The same through with the government, even how much the people would strive for a better nation, if she is the one with the malfunction, then surely we’ll reach age ninety-nine not knowing who had a little lamb as fleece as white as snow.
The ear and our nation seem to be connected by my bizarre logic. But they are not that different after all.
So What? (Spetember 18,2007)
So What?
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
I stared at the mirror. I pity its unfortunate fate of coming across reflecting an image that only a mother could love. I was pulled into a vacuum of blank thoughts, that when reality zapped me back, I was thankful enough that the mirror hadn’t broken into pieces. I guess I don’t need seven years of bad luck, I already have a full lifetime of it to enjoy. A habit, or seems to be just part of my unique personality to always go against the wave. But after every bold venture, here we are, still stuck with barrels of despair and depression both getting worse with age. While each of my completely normal and non-deviant peer group are getting their hair ironed or curled, here I am again still stuck with a hairstyle only the 1950’s could appreciate. While each of those cool crowd are gathering every night in their super cool clubs partying and getting in touch with their social life, here I am, it’s just me and my computer. Sometimes, I’d like to just crack open my nutshell. I know that I want to and could be what I desire to become, but something is holding me back.
Consider me guilty as accused, I envy those pretty girls, whom every head turns back, whom every eye would take a second look. I always would wonder why they could fashion themselves with attitude and grandeur. Those teen fashion magazines would carelessly tell a desperate dork like me, how easy it is to slip on a doll shoes with style, or how simple it is to ramp around with an above the knee bohemian skirt. But, no, it isn’t that simple. I’d rather take on deriving thousands of theoretical formulas for the almost impossible chemical reactions. The sine and tangent function of a geometric circle can’t help in my completely wandering questions.
Although at times, some people may accuse me of being such a party popper and would sometimes say I’m a thumb close to being a certified nerd, those parties I popped were the same things I would want to have experienced. Then, came those moments of, why is it she has everything while I’m a loser. She’s pretty, rich, sociable, girlfriend material and smart while I’m just a simple amateur scribbler. Regarding that the stage of self belittlement has crossed the street enters the state of self-righteousness bobbing up and down of my rationality. Because I feel so small, I wouldn’t want people to keep me smaller so I’ll find all means to deflate those big people to my size, blowing off the helium out of them. I start to find the negatives in people I feel jealous of, with the hope of pushing myself up to regaining self-worth.
Funny, how I unconsciously would avoid but end up in the same porridge, smelling foul, looking rotten, tasting sour and being crap. I was too far sighted that I missed those things right in front of me. Those things that were popping and yelping for my attention but I refuse to recognize, all because my attention was on mimicking and dreaming of the unknown. That is man’s primary sickness, a fatal disease, which I would name as ignorance. A love desperado would explain the scenario quite remarkably. He goes finding for the perfect her, but the perfect her refuses him and even kicks him off. And, there exists this simple her who loves the desperado as he is as she listens to his every heartache with the perfect her. He ends up shouting to the world how messed up his life is and that nothing came upon his miserable life. The story ends with the simple her telling him, “what about me?”
Yes, what about me? All of the things I left astray and insignificant were silently screaming their lungs out for me to at least consider their purpose. What about me? The people who love me without me loving them back shouts out the very same line. The struggling loser in me who I considered to be just a writer cries out the very same whim. The little things that were stomped by those blinding big ones screech out the very same break. I reached for the stars that I didn’t get to see how beautiful the black sky was. Not knowing that, it was the black sky that made the twinkling stars shine to their brightest.
They may wear the coolest clothes, have all the “it”, walk all the model like walks, all the cutest guys chasing after them, a hair fresh from a salon, a skin fresh from spa, a lunch worth thousands of pesos, for all I care, so what? They don’t have what I have. What I have and what I am is better, now that I know better. I guess they’ll never get to hear corny praises from friends who say how suited a 200-peso worth of blouse is on me. I guess they’ll never get to feel the vibrating echoes of laughter inside the comfort room as I jokingly do a monologue of how a tractor could comb my hair flat. I guess they’ll never get to enjoy a budgeted value meal lunch with my family after a Sunday’s mass. I guess they’ll never get to experience these simple things. For those, I pity them and gone thankful for what I have and had all along.
I looked at my reflection at the mirror; I still wish to be like those pretty girls. But, at the same time I refuse to deny my self and what I have. Insecurity, the condition common to most teenagers the cooler crowd calls as losers. But I presume, this insecurity won’t come out if the so called loser won’t consider himself as one. Take note that even if the audience would applaud for a celebrity, the celebrity is just one puny little figure, and the audience is a bombardment of silhouettes. She’s just one and we’re a hundred. Decipher the austere logic. I can write articles that those several pretty girls would pay millions for. I have a decent set of scores that several cooler dudes would go nuts for.
It’s not just me. It’s not just my own drama. They might be staring at an invisible mirror, having their own insecurities and what ifs. But, the key is to be happy with yourself, and see those things that you already have and treasure them as if it would be stolen away from you for tomorrow.
A thousand-peso hotel lunch?
So what?
I’ve feasted on a 30 pesos lunch and I’m still full.
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
I stared at the mirror. I pity its unfortunate fate of coming across reflecting an image that only a mother could love. I was pulled into a vacuum of blank thoughts, that when reality zapped me back, I was thankful enough that the mirror hadn’t broken into pieces. I guess I don’t need seven years of bad luck, I already have a full lifetime of it to enjoy. A habit, or seems to be just part of my unique personality to always go against the wave. But after every bold venture, here we are, still stuck with barrels of despair and depression both getting worse with age. While each of my completely normal and non-deviant peer group are getting their hair ironed or curled, here I am again still stuck with a hairstyle only the 1950’s could appreciate. While each of those cool crowd are gathering every night in their super cool clubs partying and getting in touch with their social life, here I am, it’s just me and my computer. Sometimes, I’d like to just crack open my nutshell. I know that I want to and could be what I desire to become, but something is holding me back.
Consider me guilty as accused, I envy those pretty girls, whom every head turns back, whom every eye would take a second look. I always would wonder why they could fashion themselves with attitude and grandeur. Those teen fashion magazines would carelessly tell a desperate dork like me, how easy it is to slip on a doll shoes with style, or how simple it is to ramp around with an above the knee bohemian skirt. But, no, it isn’t that simple. I’d rather take on deriving thousands of theoretical formulas for the almost impossible chemical reactions. The sine and tangent function of a geometric circle can’t help in my completely wandering questions.
Although at times, some people may accuse me of being such a party popper and would sometimes say I’m a thumb close to being a certified nerd, those parties I popped were the same things I would want to have experienced. Then, came those moments of, why is it she has everything while I’m a loser. She’s pretty, rich, sociable, girlfriend material and smart while I’m just a simple amateur scribbler. Regarding that the stage of self belittlement has crossed the street enters the state of self-righteousness bobbing up and down of my rationality. Because I feel so small, I wouldn’t want people to keep me smaller so I’ll find all means to deflate those big people to my size, blowing off the helium out of them. I start to find the negatives in people I feel jealous of, with the hope of pushing myself up to regaining self-worth.
Funny, how I unconsciously would avoid but end up in the same porridge, smelling foul, looking rotten, tasting sour and being crap. I was too far sighted that I missed those things right in front of me. Those things that were popping and yelping for my attention but I refuse to recognize, all because my attention was on mimicking and dreaming of the unknown. That is man’s primary sickness, a fatal disease, which I would name as ignorance. A love desperado would explain the scenario quite remarkably. He goes finding for the perfect her, but the perfect her refuses him and even kicks him off. And, there exists this simple her who loves the desperado as he is as she listens to his every heartache with the perfect her. He ends up shouting to the world how messed up his life is and that nothing came upon his miserable life. The story ends with the simple her telling him, “what about me?”
Yes, what about me? All of the things I left astray and insignificant were silently screaming their lungs out for me to at least consider their purpose. What about me? The people who love me without me loving them back shouts out the very same line. The struggling loser in me who I considered to be just a writer cries out the very same whim. The little things that were stomped by those blinding big ones screech out the very same break. I reached for the stars that I didn’t get to see how beautiful the black sky was. Not knowing that, it was the black sky that made the twinkling stars shine to their brightest.
They may wear the coolest clothes, have all the “it”, walk all the model like walks, all the cutest guys chasing after them, a hair fresh from a salon, a skin fresh from spa, a lunch worth thousands of pesos, for all I care, so what? They don’t have what I have. What I have and what I am is better, now that I know better. I guess they’ll never get to hear corny praises from friends who say how suited a 200-peso worth of blouse is on me. I guess they’ll never get to feel the vibrating echoes of laughter inside the comfort room as I jokingly do a monologue of how a tractor could comb my hair flat. I guess they’ll never get to enjoy a budgeted value meal lunch with my family after a Sunday’s mass. I guess they’ll never get to experience these simple things. For those, I pity them and gone thankful for what I have and had all along.
I looked at my reflection at the mirror; I still wish to be like those pretty girls. But, at the same time I refuse to deny my self and what I have. Insecurity, the condition common to most teenagers the cooler crowd calls as losers. But I presume, this insecurity won’t come out if the so called loser won’t consider himself as one. Take note that even if the audience would applaud for a celebrity, the celebrity is just one puny little figure, and the audience is a bombardment of silhouettes. She’s just one and we’re a hundred. Decipher the austere logic. I can write articles that those several pretty girls would pay millions for. I have a decent set of scores that several cooler dudes would go nuts for.
It’s not just me. It’s not just my own drama. They might be staring at an invisible mirror, having their own insecurities and what ifs. But, the key is to be happy with yourself, and see those things that you already have and treasure them as if it would be stolen away from you for tomorrow.
A thousand-peso hotel lunch?
So what?
I’ve feasted on a 30 pesos lunch and I’m still full.
Deviants (September 25,2007)
Deviants
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
The wind rushed with an unusual chilly breeze. The horizon was fogged up in a gloomy mist. The golden ball of sunshine failed to appear from the heavens. Passing, along an open corridor, figments and silhouettes silently came barking at me. I raised my flashlight towards the mysterious creatures and was then, left gulp smacked of what I saw. To every shadow I point my flashlight was the same face, the same aura, the same figure that surrounded me with freezing stares. I turned to my left and saw my reflection at a broken mirror, I tightened my grip with the flashlight as I saw my face, and yes, the whole of me was just like them.
Considering I was made to be a scriptwriter of the latest horror flick that’ll creep out the theatres soon, I absolutely think I’m doing such a marvelous job. Then again, this was just one of my spooky nightmares that left me waking up around two in the morning, catching my breath and reprimanding myself that it will be the last time I watch a movie under the scary genre. Since then, I have always wondered, of how will things go if everyone is exactly alike. All people will have the same name; all people will have the same face, and all having the same fate. Two words. Totally Creepy.
Deviances, these make our world different and less common. Some claim that deviants or norm breakers are just some useless pieces of broken fragments abounding in number today. All of us seem to have our own definition of deviance, what may be inappropriate for you, is totally tolerable for me. But there are some people thought to be deviants in any other circumstances. Those girls who shamelessly stand along the sidewalks at night, waiting for luxurious cars to pick them up for a one night stand. Those guys who tactlessly isolate themselves in one room, inhaling the smoke of pleasure, sniffing the aroma of heaven hoping to for at least one night, forget their problems of that day. Those people who breaks not only the norms but the law itself, seems to be more different than anyone else. If they were to be in my dream, surely, they’ll be the faces I’m sure to recognize.
As a project in my Society and Culture class, we were to conduct a case study about these deviants, the prostitutes and the drug addicts. My group decided to tackle the drug addicts, and thus coming to the point in which we actually made an open interview with two of them. Mr. Shades 1 and 2, as we jokingly called them (and no, they don’t have sore eyes), shared the reasons and regrets that befuddled them before, during and after their taboo habit. More than enough, that is their reason of being addicted to drugs. More than enough love from parents, more than enough allowance, more than enough freedom, these all led them to defy from the normality of society. Influences of peer pressure and media tend to add up to their urges of trying the demonic bounties of prohibited drugs. Shades 1 was sixteen when he first tried, Shades two was fifteen, both young and astray. They lacked confidence so they depended on the mischievous power of these drugs to straighten their back and rise their chin up as they walk along the streets and mingle with people. People seem to worship them as they could endure around three long nights without sleeping or finishing a case of beer without dizzying up themselves.
Yet, the after effects were much more extreme, painfully extreme, both physically and psychologically. There were times when they felt they were being chased by someone that they actually were the ones who can see, and so everybody sees them running around foolishly for no particular reason. So noble were the factors to their withdrawals, so chaste were their confessions and reconciliations, still the world won’t see them to be in any extent, normal. No one can blame neither the society nor Mr. Shades 1 and 2. Society has it own rules and mores to be followed in order to be accepted within it. These two has their own reasons why they committed such. But, what made me scratch my head is but a simple question. How come society won’t consider the existence of these deviants?
As I understand, deviances are also the disparities and contrasts that were just stretch to some grave extent. All of us have our own differences and little deviances, without which we’ll all be stuck inside my dream of twins and triplets. They have their function in society, to the most obvious sense, if these deviants shall be exterminated from the world, what will become of the social workers and the policemen? Their worth will not be put into effect if they have no one to catch, put in jail, rehabilitate or simply use their handcuffs for. And, I guess the marijuana industry shall skyrocket towards the black hole of bankruptcy. As we continue to deny them and send them to the realm of normlessness, we just help in perpetuating the cycle of violence. To be against and knowing of the disadvantages of deviance is a noble man’s. But to revive the broken ones and rejuvenate their dignity is the work of a humane man.
We have our own deviances, each and every one of us. For someone to deny the fact and claim he is so normal, then I’m sorry, you are not human. I actually don’t dream of the utopia, or what sociologists call the perfect society. I don’t want the world to be too perfect, where everything is clean, organized and with the rules. I don’t want my dream to be real, it is first and foremost a nightmare. The society we have today is far from good, but to my analysis is quite balanced and surviving.
No, I’m not saying we shall all be drug addicts and prostitutes. My point all boils down to one thought I don’t want every one to be just like everyone. Because each of us think we’re in our own respect right and correct, we tend to influence others to be our literal clones and double gangers. Differences actually unite and create social solidarity. Because we all have differences, that makes us all common, that in its nature where society evolves.
I blinked again, hoping that what I saw in the reflection will remain to be a hallucination. When I opened my eyes, I just smiled to what I had beholden upon. The gush of wind was warmer as the sun shone brightly through the open corridor. Among the sea of people, each of whom is unique, were two men walking simply. They seem so familiar, except their eyes which I only saw just now.
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
The wind rushed with an unusual chilly breeze. The horizon was fogged up in a gloomy mist. The golden ball of sunshine failed to appear from the heavens. Passing, along an open corridor, figments and silhouettes silently came barking at me. I raised my flashlight towards the mysterious creatures and was then, left gulp smacked of what I saw. To every shadow I point my flashlight was the same face, the same aura, the same figure that surrounded me with freezing stares. I turned to my left and saw my reflection at a broken mirror, I tightened my grip with the flashlight as I saw my face, and yes, the whole of me was just like them.
Considering I was made to be a scriptwriter of the latest horror flick that’ll creep out the theatres soon, I absolutely think I’m doing such a marvelous job. Then again, this was just one of my spooky nightmares that left me waking up around two in the morning, catching my breath and reprimanding myself that it will be the last time I watch a movie under the scary genre. Since then, I have always wondered, of how will things go if everyone is exactly alike. All people will have the same name; all people will have the same face, and all having the same fate. Two words. Totally Creepy.
Deviances, these make our world different and less common. Some claim that deviants or norm breakers are just some useless pieces of broken fragments abounding in number today. All of us seem to have our own definition of deviance, what may be inappropriate for you, is totally tolerable for me. But there are some people thought to be deviants in any other circumstances. Those girls who shamelessly stand along the sidewalks at night, waiting for luxurious cars to pick them up for a one night stand. Those guys who tactlessly isolate themselves in one room, inhaling the smoke of pleasure, sniffing the aroma of heaven hoping to for at least one night, forget their problems of that day. Those people who breaks not only the norms but the law itself, seems to be more different than anyone else. If they were to be in my dream, surely, they’ll be the faces I’m sure to recognize.
As a project in my Society and Culture class, we were to conduct a case study about these deviants, the prostitutes and the drug addicts. My group decided to tackle the drug addicts, and thus coming to the point in which we actually made an open interview with two of them. Mr. Shades 1 and 2, as we jokingly called them (and no, they don’t have sore eyes), shared the reasons and regrets that befuddled them before, during and after their taboo habit. More than enough, that is their reason of being addicted to drugs. More than enough love from parents, more than enough allowance, more than enough freedom, these all led them to defy from the normality of society. Influences of peer pressure and media tend to add up to their urges of trying the demonic bounties of prohibited drugs. Shades 1 was sixteen when he first tried, Shades two was fifteen, both young and astray. They lacked confidence so they depended on the mischievous power of these drugs to straighten their back and rise their chin up as they walk along the streets and mingle with people. People seem to worship them as they could endure around three long nights without sleeping or finishing a case of beer without dizzying up themselves.
Yet, the after effects were much more extreme, painfully extreme, both physically and psychologically. There were times when they felt they were being chased by someone that they actually were the ones who can see, and so everybody sees them running around foolishly for no particular reason. So noble were the factors to their withdrawals, so chaste were their confessions and reconciliations, still the world won’t see them to be in any extent, normal. No one can blame neither the society nor Mr. Shades 1 and 2. Society has it own rules and mores to be followed in order to be accepted within it. These two has their own reasons why they committed such. But, what made me scratch my head is but a simple question. How come society won’t consider the existence of these deviants?
As I understand, deviances are also the disparities and contrasts that were just stretch to some grave extent. All of us have our own differences and little deviances, without which we’ll all be stuck inside my dream of twins and triplets. They have their function in society, to the most obvious sense, if these deviants shall be exterminated from the world, what will become of the social workers and the policemen? Their worth will not be put into effect if they have no one to catch, put in jail, rehabilitate or simply use their handcuffs for. And, I guess the marijuana industry shall skyrocket towards the black hole of bankruptcy. As we continue to deny them and send them to the realm of normlessness, we just help in perpetuating the cycle of violence. To be against and knowing of the disadvantages of deviance is a noble man’s. But to revive the broken ones and rejuvenate their dignity is the work of a humane man.
We have our own deviances, each and every one of us. For someone to deny the fact and claim he is so normal, then I’m sorry, you are not human. I actually don’t dream of the utopia, or what sociologists call the perfect society. I don’t want the world to be too perfect, where everything is clean, organized and with the rules. I don’t want my dream to be real, it is first and foremost a nightmare. The society we have today is far from good, but to my analysis is quite balanced and surviving.
No, I’m not saying we shall all be drug addicts and prostitutes. My point all boils down to one thought I don’t want every one to be just like everyone. Because each of us think we’re in our own respect right and correct, we tend to influence others to be our literal clones and double gangers. Differences actually unite and create social solidarity. Because we all have differences, that makes us all common, that in its nature where society evolves.
I blinked again, hoping that what I saw in the reflection will remain to be a hallucination. When I opened my eyes, I just smiled to what I had beholden upon. The gush of wind was warmer as the sun shone brightly through the open corridor. Among the sea of people, each of whom is unique, were two men walking simply. They seem so familiar, except their eyes which I only saw just now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)