How ‘I Love You’ becomes complicated
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
What if one day someone told you; “Alas, my sagacity has comprehended the convolution of the physiological progressions relentlessly functioning medial to the membranes of my pericardial cavities. Indeed, the continual projection of acetylcholine escalating the throbbing of my cardiac muscles has been an observable phenomenon that has persistently dwelled upon my cranial region seemingly encroaching the hemispheres of my intellect.” Could you hang on for a minute, blood’s rushing out of my nose. Seriously, what he simply want to say is, I love you. If someone would propose to me blubbering those apparently nose-bleeding words, I’d rather grow old unwed. I have nothing against the use words that will force you to buy the latest dictionaries, I know a lot of people who are so fond of using them, even I myself am guilty of muttering some words alien to the average society. But, to recite a thesis report during the night you’ll be waiting for her sweet yes and I do, I say forget it.
Making simple things complicated, here’s a talent almost all of us had practiced to perfection. Situations that can be solve with a frank yet peaceful conversation usually leads to a legal yet chaotic session in the courtroom. A few weeks ago, nothing but private owned vehicles roamed the streets of Iloilo city and province. The two-day transport strike painted the overwhelming smiles on the faces of students who had been spared from the hassle of waking up early. Yet, sketched the distress on the weary faces of some families who for two days will have to tighten their belts because their father joined the cry of his fellow drivers. The roads were paralyzed for a single reason, to ask for a roll back on the price of gasoline.
If only I took up a major in Economics then I’d be able to react more vividly. Yet, with my frail understanding, I see this to be quite simple and making it complicated would get us nowhere. I don’t consider this a petty matter but, some case simple enough to have some doable alternatives rather than paralyzing both the streets, as well as the lives of commuters. As I understand we don’t have much control on the regulation of oil prices or anything that we import to our country, so sacrificing two days of not routing the streets for a seemingly hopeless objective would soon turned out to be, unfortunately, immobile. We tend to complicate instances that could actually be done in a simple way, avoiding the negative blobs to both yourself and the larger group.
Let the simple things remain simple. Look at the traffic flow in the highways of Iloilo, for such a small and barely urbanized locality, the commotion is darker than the filthy soot. I see a lot of public utility jeepneys paying no attention to road signs, loading in places that are prone to slow traffic. Every one wants to get some meters ahead, overtaking three consecutive cars in a row, worse, in a rascal manner. Both sprinkle the sundae of a sluggish-decongesting vehicle flow. Let’s pretend I’m some guy those PUJ’s follow and eventually made them obey those simple traffic rules what would become of them? A driver’s six roundtrips for his whole day may be raised to some nine or ten roundtrips, adding up to his minimum profit. An increase in profit to equalize the steady increase of gasoline purchase won’t be a bad thing right? Simple problems have simple solutions. Although, it may not be a solution but it’s a start, compared to wasting away in the deserted roads a two-day’s profit.
A lot of articles other than mine may provide the best of the best theoretical solutions and mature viewpoints. I can’t argue, since I can’t give what I don’t have. Yet, I think more people would appreciate and to the extent, understand a simple I love you rather than a cluster of utterances clogged in an abandoned lexicon that only scribes of astonishing mental power have convened to employ and utilize in the daily existence of a struggling homo sapien sapien.
When you talk about stuff that is beyond the tangible reality, you’ll appear delusional and psychotic nowadays. Try murmuring simple, practical and lay terminologies; you’ll be surprise that the average Juan de la Cruz will appreciate you more. As everyone had concluded, the world is complicated, why make it more complicated? Remember, priceless pieces of jewelry that’ll rip off millionaire’s pockets, are stored inside simple and small boxes. Great things show up for simple yet real and feasible strivings.
The next time someone asks you if saying “I love you” could get anymore complicated, you know the drill.
And thus, my phalangeal region owe much gratitude to the invariable function of contractile proteins following such unvarying typing that—who am I kidding? In non-nosebleed terms I mean, my fingers are tired of typing.
Keep it simple.
Flying Reindeers (January 7, 2008)
Flying Reindeers
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
There I was running in circles around our front lawn. The newly trimmed carabao grass brushed my five year old feet with dewdrops on a Christmas night. My eyes were peeled for a bright spark amidst the twinkling stars in the sky. My ears were keen for a sleigh bell jingle amidst the carols of children in the streets. My five year old self was determined to meet that legendary man with poinsettia red clothes, snow white beard and a tummy rounder than his laugh. Those look-a-likes in department stores can’t fool me, I know the real thing. I know he doesn’t need a five hundred peso worth of purchase for me to sit on his lap. Yet, when I found out Santa Claus had long been dead and can’t possibly exist in a toy factory below zero degree, never again did I addressed a single wish list to North Pole.
When I was younger, I thought Christmas was just about that jolly chubby man who likes reindeers. Then the humbug Scrooge came together with his friend the Grinch, both made me realize that it’s about giving and sharing. But, just this Christmas someone told me otherwise. He said, Christmas is a time when shopping malls are flooded, a time when people aimlessly spend their money on costly gifts and glossy wrappers, a time when business seekers rule the streets each having their own gimmick. Consumerism told me that Christmas revolved around him and his best friend Materialism. They crept like thieves into homes of both the rich and the poor increasing the economic gap between them. They slid into every commercial establishment, forcing them to mislabel their packaging of goods, pirate original merchandise, and implore additives to lengthen their product’s shelf life; fooling consumers just to get ahead of one another. Consumerism wasn’t finished, he blurted out how the world is now deafened of children’s carols and would rather watch some television shows starring him. He bragged about how the lanterns gradually lose their shimmer as neighbors compete unto who has the larger or more expensive parol.
Now, you don’t expect me to just stare at him and listen to his crappy non sense yakking. Yes, malls may be flooded with people each contributing to consumerism, but see how their trolleys are filled with would-be presents for their significant others, see how materialism was developed into a virtue of sharing. Yes, business seekers rule the streets competing with each other, but see how their profits for that day would provide each of their own families a noche Buena to remember, see how competition was developed into a virtue of concern. Yes, treachery is in every corner where customers flock, but see how authorities perform their duties of maintaining a fair yuletide season to sellers and buyers alike, see how deceit was developed into a virtue of responsibility. Yes, people may have been under his domain, hypnotized, forced or even slaved, but see how the spirit of Christmas remained alive even after how much it was crushed and pounded into pieces.
I may be too big of a baby to still believe in Santa Claus. But, there are still nights when I circle our front lawn, of course not running anymore, constantly looking at the night sky still hoping that I’ll be seeing some flying reindeers. There are still nights when my five year old self pays a visit telling me that the true essence of Christmas had never changed. I can’t say that I still believe in Santa, but I am not giving up hope to hear some sleigh bells jingle.
New Year is coming, louder than any fireworks painted in the canvass of the sky, telling us that Christmas is over. And so, in comes another eleven months for us to define what our Christmas should be the next time around.
Let consumerism and his friends come, anyway we can’t stop them. Let them enslave the shopping malls, terrorize media, linger in every nook and corner. After all, at the end of the day, it’s just between you and your hope of seeing Santa Claus.
If you ask me, we had an awesome Christmas.
Happy New Year Everyone!
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
There I was running in circles around our front lawn. The newly trimmed carabao grass brushed my five year old feet with dewdrops on a Christmas night. My eyes were peeled for a bright spark amidst the twinkling stars in the sky. My ears were keen for a sleigh bell jingle amidst the carols of children in the streets. My five year old self was determined to meet that legendary man with poinsettia red clothes, snow white beard and a tummy rounder than his laugh. Those look-a-likes in department stores can’t fool me, I know the real thing. I know he doesn’t need a five hundred peso worth of purchase for me to sit on his lap. Yet, when I found out Santa Claus had long been dead and can’t possibly exist in a toy factory below zero degree, never again did I addressed a single wish list to North Pole.
When I was younger, I thought Christmas was just about that jolly chubby man who likes reindeers. Then the humbug Scrooge came together with his friend the Grinch, both made me realize that it’s about giving and sharing. But, just this Christmas someone told me otherwise. He said, Christmas is a time when shopping malls are flooded, a time when people aimlessly spend their money on costly gifts and glossy wrappers, a time when business seekers rule the streets each having their own gimmick. Consumerism told me that Christmas revolved around him and his best friend Materialism. They crept like thieves into homes of both the rich and the poor increasing the economic gap between them. They slid into every commercial establishment, forcing them to mislabel their packaging of goods, pirate original merchandise, and implore additives to lengthen their product’s shelf life; fooling consumers just to get ahead of one another. Consumerism wasn’t finished, he blurted out how the world is now deafened of children’s carols and would rather watch some television shows starring him. He bragged about how the lanterns gradually lose their shimmer as neighbors compete unto who has the larger or more expensive parol.
Now, you don’t expect me to just stare at him and listen to his crappy non sense yakking. Yes, malls may be flooded with people each contributing to consumerism, but see how their trolleys are filled with would-be presents for their significant others, see how materialism was developed into a virtue of sharing. Yes, business seekers rule the streets competing with each other, but see how their profits for that day would provide each of their own families a noche Buena to remember, see how competition was developed into a virtue of concern. Yes, treachery is in every corner where customers flock, but see how authorities perform their duties of maintaining a fair yuletide season to sellers and buyers alike, see how deceit was developed into a virtue of responsibility. Yes, people may have been under his domain, hypnotized, forced or even slaved, but see how the spirit of Christmas remained alive even after how much it was crushed and pounded into pieces.
I may be too big of a baby to still believe in Santa Claus. But, there are still nights when I circle our front lawn, of course not running anymore, constantly looking at the night sky still hoping that I’ll be seeing some flying reindeers. There are still nights when my five year old self pays a visit telling me that the true essence of Christmas had never changed. I can’t say that I still believe in Santa, but I am not giving up hope to hear some sleigh bells jingle.
New Year is coming, louder than any fireworks painted in the canvass of the sky, telling us that Christmas is over. And so, in comes another eleven months for us to define what our Christmas should be the next time around.
Let consumerism and his friends come, anyway we can’t stop them. Let them enslave the shopping malls, terrorize media, linger in every nook and corner. After all, at the end of the day, it’s just between you and your hope of seeing Santa Claus.
If you ask me, we had an awesome Christmas.
Happy New Year Everyone!
A weekend without Friendster (December 18, 2007)
A weekend without Friendster
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
The 1200 paged anatomy book crashed with a silent thump against the foam filled bed. I satisfied myself with a lungful of air, a first in four hours. My body purposely slammed into the cotton haven of my pillows, as my back couldn’t get any curved in posture. It’s like the fluid inside of me was dehydrated into a desert of exhaustion and boredom. Yes, for four hours, all I have been doing was chit-chatting with the organelles of the cells and sharing some updated gossips with the ribosome in the endoplasmic reticulum. None of these would have happened if not for the brain diffusing chapter exam next Monday. My weekends are usually spent in front of the computer editing my shout-outs and profile skins on Friendster. But, in laying all the cards on the table, the aces have to be picked, priorities have to be considered. It’s between the joyful keyboard tapping hours or some dull page-flipping moments assigned by your pedantic professor.
Choices and priorities, they may seem so universal, yet only a few succeed in making the right ones. A simple housewife pushing her trolley across the aisles of the grocery, rummaging her coin purse on which brand of detergent to purchase, yes, she has to make a choice. A business tycoon scratching his head for the third time, looking at the pros and con on which proposal to sign, yes, he has to make a choice. The weight of the decision does not determine immediately the significance of the choice. That housewife may pick the better detergent while the business tycoon may sign the proposal he’ll soon regret. Though the housewife’s decision may appear menial compared to the make or break it decision of the business tycoon, it isn’t completely so. What if the housewife made a wrong choice of detergent that might possibly spread dye from a colored shirt to her husband’s white uniform? What if that petty accident may cause a heated babble between wife and husband? What if that heated babble may lure some lawyers to arrange their legal separation? Funny, how a wrong choice of detergent powder can ruin some years of marriage.
Man has not yet perfected the art of choosing. Man has still yet to improve in making his priorities. Evidences are the continually brewing arguments in the senate and congress, each having different priorities that to my own belief should be set aside for the essential ones. Having some controversial government officials impeached is of greater priority to them, than some hundreds of families in the evacuation centers after a recent typhoon. Writing blame all over the backs of fellow lawmakers is of greater priority to them, than some thousands of out of school youth driven to human trafficking and drug addiction. Looking good in front of the television during assemblies with their half an hour speeches is of greater priority than some millions of Filipinos that couldn’t even afford to buy televisions. Indeed, they made “right” choices. Yes, they “did” prioritize. But these weren’t the essential ones.
Abraham Maslow made a hierarchy of human needs which classifies them into seven ranks, each lower level much be satisfied first before proceeding to the higher one. Maslow prioritized human needs, making oxygen and body fluids more important than feeling secured in a social group. He was kind enough to point out the obvious. Truly, you can’t exactly murmur by yourself being out of place in a peer group while grasping for some air and slowly deteriorating because of dehydration. But to some extent, man rebels to this obvious and no-nonsense concept. During fiestas on a densely populated barrio, Mang Juan would utilize all his resources and even seek the intercession of his Indian friends just to prepare a king’s worth of a banquet for his “friends”. In the end making, poor Mang Juan drowned in 5’6 debts and Aling Pacing’s rage because her pieces of jewelry were loaned in the nearby pawnshop. Man could get so stupid at times. Amusing it is that all of these were because of a wrong choice, an error in priorities.
Those four hours of anatomy fever, literally, became nine hours of merciless mental draining. I did not get to change my shout-out in Friendster that weekend nor pushed the on button on the CPU to the very least. Yet, I’m still satisfied with my decision, with my choice, with my priority. I’m equipped with a mind full of anatomical terms that hopefully would lure me to a priority one point zero (1.0) grade in the nearing chapter test. If Hamlet chose between to be and not to be, so did I.
Honestly, I did not regret a single bit of having a weekend without logging in to Friendster. Maybe because I have fooled—err—encouraged my mind unto thinking that the lipid bilayer of the plasma membrane would give me more advantages than some rhythmic tapping of the keyboard.
The world is full of choices.
Make the right one.
Prioritize.
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
The 1200 paged anatomy book crashed with a silent thump against the foam filled bed. I satisfied myself with a lungful of air, a first in four hours. My body purposely slammed into the cotton haven of my pillows, as my back couldn’t get any curved in posture. It’s like the fluid inside of me was dehydrated into a desert of exhaustion and boredom. Yes, for four hours, all I have been doing was chit-chatting with the organelles of the cells and sharing some updated gossips with the ribosome in the endoplasmic reticulum. None of these would have happened if not for the brain diffusing chapter exam next Monday. My weekends are usually spent in front of the computer editing my shout-outs and profile skins on Friendster. But, in laying all the cards on the table, the aces have to be picked, priorities have to be considered. It’s between the joyful keyboard tapping hours or some dull page-flipping moments assigned by your pedantic professor.
Choices and priorities, they may seem so universal, yet only a few succeed in making the right ones. A simple housewife pushing her trolley across the aisles of the grocery, rummaging her coin purse on which brand of detergent to purchase, yes, she has to make a choice. A business tycoon scratching his head for the third time, looking at the pros and con on which proposal to sign, yes, he has to make a choice. The weight of the decision does not determine immediately the significance of the choice. That housewife may pick the better detergent while the business tycoon may sign the proposal he’ll soon regret. Though the housewife’s decision may appear menial compared to the make or break it decision of the business tycoon, it isn’t completely so. What if the housewife made a wrong choice of detergent that might possibly spread dye from a colored shirt to her husband’s white uniform? What if that petty accident may cause a heated babble between wife and husband? What if that heated babble may lure some lawyers to arrange their legal separation? Funny, how a wrong choice of detergent powder can ruin some years of marriage.
Man has not yet perfected the art of choosing. Man has still yet to improve in making his priorities. Evidences are the continually brewing arguments in the senate and congress, each having different priorities that to my own belief should be set aside for the essential ones. Having some controversial government officials impeached is of greater priority to them, than some hundreds of families in the evacuation centers after a recent typhoon. Writing blame all over the backs of fellow lawmakers is of greater priority to them, than some thousands of out of school youth driven to human trafficking and drug addiction. Looking good in front of the television during assemblies with their half an hour speeches is of greater priority than some millions of Filipinos that couldn’t even afford to buy televisions. Indeed, they made “right” choices. Yes, they “did” prioritize. But these weren’t the essential ones.
Abraham Maslow made a hierarchy of human needs which classifies them into seven ranks, each lower level much be satisfied first before proceeding to the higher one. Maslow prioritized human needs, making oxygen and body fluids more important than feeling secured in a social group. He was kind enough to point out the obvious. Truly, you can’t exactly murmur by yourself being out of place in a peer group while grasping for some air and slowly deteriorating because of dehydration. But to some extent, man rebels to this obvious and no-nonsense concept. During fiestas on a densely populated barrio, Mang Juan would utilize all his resources and even seek the intercession of his Indian friends just to prepare a king’s worth of a banquet for his “friends”. In the end making, poor Mang Juan drowned in 5’6 debts and Aling Pacing’s rage because her pieces of jewelry were loaned in the nearby pawnshop. Man could get so stupid at times. Amusing it is that all of these were because of a wrong choice, an error in priorities.
Those four hours of anatomy fever, literally, became nine hours of merciless mental draining. I did not get to change my shout-out in Friendster that weekend nor pushed the on button on the CPU to the very least. Yet, I’m still satisfied with my decision, with my choice, with my priority. I’m equipped with a mind full of anatomical terms that hopefully would lure me to a priority one point zero (1.0) grade in the nearing chapter test. If Hamlet chose between to be and not to be, so did I.
Honestly, I did not regret a single bit of having a weekend without logging in to Friendster. Maybe because I have fooled—err—encouraged my mind unto thinking that the lipid bilayer of the plasma membrane would give me more advantages than some rhythmic tapping of the keyboard.
The world is full of choices.
Make the right one.
Prioritize.
Eight Paragraphs (December 11,2007)
Eight Paragraphs
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
She was scribbling down her fifth paragraph, yet I was trembling with my first, and we were asked to make eight. She had a bucketful of self confidence, yet I had a teaspoonful of bitter self blame, and we were just given an hour to finish. She clipped her pen close and was the first to pass, yet I rubbed off the ink markings on my palm and was the last to submit, and we were both writing for the same issue. Human Struggle Against Poverty, that was the topic and we were to ferment a feature article out of it. Ink refused to flow smoothly as it touches the stubborn newsprint paper while my ideas ended up in disarray. The eight paragraphs were no less than mere empty words forcibly patched up to meet the austere guidelines.
That tension filled hour denied me to explore more, to see more than just slum areas or murky rainwater dripping from ceilings. I was too visual, that what I see is what I also write. The survivor’s story of an unfortunate fate skipped past my thoughts, and was blinded by obvious scenarios seen by almost any bystander. As I tapped every letter on the keyboard, I realized that my dilemma on such a petty feature article was comparable to the everyday struggle of the deprived against poverty.
To be poor is not a destiny, rather it is a choice. Proofs are the stories of wealthy upper class men who once laundered with rags and ended up bubbling with riches. It was my choice to be unaware of time, it was my choice of being foolish enough to construct paragraph number one for almost half an hour, and it even was my choice to join the competition. I can blame no one but myself. Time element was no factor; every contestant has the same hour glass to beat. Psychological influences were no reason; every contestant has the same anxiety to relieve. So does the poor who can blame no one but themselves. Heredity was no factor; every person has the same volume of opportunities to conquer. Political anomalies were no reason; every person is under the same governance, may it be fair or rotten.
As I handed in my feature article, I dropped my head down hopelessly aware that I had no chance of laying my hands on the shiny trophy. Even before the critics judged my work, I gave in to pessimism; I gave up looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The fear and uncertainty is always there, it only takes confidence to precede over them and soon feel the sweet pleasure of gut-feel, of hope. So do poverty, it is always there, unless economics would cease to exist. The poor continues to be poor because, after they realize they have dripping ceilings, their hopes seem to leak as well. Even before they try going to school and finish a course, they concluded they are illiterate. Even before they tasted the grapes they already proclaimed them to be sour.
I enrolled in Sociology 101 last semester, and though I may not be very well versed in demographics, I can vie to this simple theory on poverty drowned individuals. They clamor much on their situation yet, not a single twist of ankle did they spare to change their fate. Just like what I did, I clashed with my mind as the inevitable situation called the writer’s block visited me on the hour of my competition. I clamored, I panicked, I reacted but did not resort to any alternatives, did not even try to heave a deep breath and clear my mind. Silly me.
Poverty is an enemy, it is not a reason that one can use so as to be spared from the responsibilities of life. People use poverty to rationalize their condition, to euphemize their instability, to hide their wrong choices. I used the cousin of poverty, tension, to somehow wipe off the waste of ink I etched on that sheet of paper. I used tension to elevate my self esteem; I used tension as the reason why I lost in the competition.
I may have not written eight paragraphs as of now, but every word counts, as the key board seems to be more giving. She eminently shows off her shiny trophy to her friends, I apparently smile accepting the fate that I myself chose. She sleeps tonight with sweet dreams of triumph, I sleep tonight with a feature—err column article done, a cozy pillow to hug, and a belief that, between two of us, I was the survivor.
Be a survivor.
Stop Poverty.
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
She was scribbling down her fifth paragraph, yet I was trembling with my first, and we were asked to make eight. She had a bucketful of self confidence, yet I had a teaspoonful of bitter self blame, and we were just given an hour to finish. She clipped her pen close and was the first to pass, yet I rubbed off the ink markings on my palm and was the last to submit, and we were both writing for the same issue. Human Struggle Against Poverty, that was the topic and we were to ferment a feature article out of it. Ink refused to flow smoothly as it touches the stubborn newsprint paper while my ideas ended up in disarray. The eight paragraphs were no less than mere empty words forcibly patched up to meet the austere guidelines.
That tension filled hour denied me to explore more, to see more than just slum areas or murky rainwater dripping from ceilings. I was too visual, that what I see is what I also write. The survivor’s story of an unfortunate fate skipped past my thoughts, and was blinded by obvious scenarios seen by almost any bystander. As I tapped every letter on the keyboard, I realized that my dilemma on such a petty feature article was comparable to the everyday struggle of the deprived against poverty.
To be poor is not a destiny, rather it is a choice. Proofs are the stories of wealthy upper class men who once laundered with rags and ended up bubbling with riches. It was my choice to be unaware of time, it was my choice of being foolish enough to construct paragraph number one for almost half an hour, and it even was my choice to join the competition. I can blame no one but myself. Time element was no factor; every contestant has the same hour glass to beat. Psychological influences were no reason; every contestant has the same anxiety to relieve. So does the poor who can blame no one but themselves. Heredity was no factor; every person has the same volume of opportunities to conquer. Political anomalies were no reason; every person is under the same governance, may it be fair or rotten.
As I handed in my feature article, I dropped my head down hopelessly aware that I had no chance of laying my hands on the shiny trophy. Even before the critics judged my work, I gave in to pessimism; I gave up looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The fear and uncertainty is always there, it only takes confidence to precede over them and soon feel the sweet pleasure of gut-feel, of hope. So do poverty, it is always there, unless economics would cease to exist. The poor continues to be poor because, after they realize they have dripping ceilings, their hopes seem to leak as well. Even before they try going to school and finish a course, they concluded they are illiterate. Even before they tasted the grapes they already proclaimed them to be sour.
I enrolled in Sociology 101 last semester, and though I may not be very well versed in demographics, I can vie to this simple theory on poverty drowned individuals. They clamor much on their situation yet, not a single twist of ankle did they spare to change their fate. Just like what I did, I clashed with my mind as the inevitable situation called the writer’s block visited me on the hour of my competition. I clamored, I panicked, I reacted but did not resort to any alternatives, did not even try to heave a deep breath and clear my mind. Silly me.
Poverty is an enemy, it is not a reason that one can use so as to be spared from the responsibilities of life. People use poverty to rationalize their condition, to euphemize their instability, to hide their wrong choices. I used the cousin of poverty, tension, to somehow wipe off the waste of ink I etched on that sheet of paper. I used tension to elevate my self esteem; I used tension as the reason why I lost in the competition.
I may have not written eight paragraphs as of now, but every word counts, as the key board seems to be more giving. She eminently shows off her shiny trophy to her friends, I apparently smile accepting the fate that I myself chose. She sleeps tonight with sweet dreams of triumph, I sleep tonight with a feature—err column article done, a cozy pillow to hug, and a belief that, between two of us, I was the survivor.
Be a survivor.
Stop Poverty.
Super-Cheaters: The Injustice League (December 4,2007)
Super-Cheaters: The Injustice League
By Maria Reylan M. Garcia
“By the end of this exam, three of you shall have a grade of zero”. The college instructor adjusted his glasses and moved past the aisles of the classroom, his watchful eyes caught hold of juvenile heinous crimes ripening within the four walls. I felt a sudden flow of rushing current within my veins. I know I was not guilty; it’s against my principle to cheat, to take advantage of people in my own accord. But as my penmanship couldn’t get any worse than of a five year old, a scream of injustice within me would just like to approach those three nincompoops and do the honors to place a big 0 on their test papers. Pathetic, they would sink that low just to ensure their fate in a fifty item examination? This is where it all starts. Believe me, the next thing that will possibly happen, are those same three people who’ll be denying their tax duties, laying extra unmerited charges on their services, or selling some scam of gadgets unregistered in the Bureau of Customs. This is where it all starts, earlier perhaps. Just like how he took his best friend’s pokemon cards without permission.
I would often lose interest and due respect to persons who cheat their way out of messy situations. How unfair it is, that you stayed up late memorizing all the dates and hard to pronounce surnames of significant people ending up with an insensitive fool copying off you. How unfair it is, that you wasted a cup of coffee just to extend the night ending up with a tactless freak extending his neck just to get a glimpse of your 1.0-worthy answers. How unfair it is, that you got 1.0 in the exams but with due course of sagging eye bags ending up with an inconsiderate dupe getting 1.0 as well but with a tightly detoxified face. These people have some nerves of pure steel, willing to literally do everything for the sake of achieving what they desire. In fact besides having a nervous system made up of metals, they have some unique qualities or what I call super-cheating powers. An X-ray vision that could see past any blockages you’ll be defending your exam paper with. An elastic neck that could tantamount the stretching capabilities of a flamingo, ostrich, giraffe and lastikman joined together, that could extend to a maximum length just to nose around your answers. A supersonic hearing that could detect some few minute hushes of information within a thirty kilometer radius. See how extraordinary these people are, they deserve a round of applause and a bucket of rotten tomatoes.
Cheating is a form of dishonesty, which in any angle is against the moral principles of any society there is. Soon I’ll be a full-fledged nurse, and in my hands depend the different fragile fates from a pediatric (child-care) to a geriatric (elderly-care) setting. I couldn’t afford to make any mistakes; I couldn’t even dare to cheat, because I’m dealing with lives. One wrong diagnosis, one error in assessment, one misled injection of a syringe would mean also one thing, loss. I value my life more than anything I own, I guess the other billions of people, the other billions of my would-be patients think the same way. It would be unfair if I cheated with their lives.
Take a look around you, cheating is everywhere. From a simple 5th grade girl changing her answers during the checking of their test papers to a statesman pocketing the funds for a road construction in a remote barrio, these are acts of dishonesty, they are cheaters. There are times when I’m already in panic, sweating hard like a pig in his pen, facing a difficult question in an exam and would be tempted to take a few degrees to the left and peep in my seatmate’s answers. But you know what? I couldn’t bear to do so; I wouldn’t risk a point, a single point in an exam in exchange for my principles. Yes, I may get a low score. Yes, someone might end up being higher than mine. Still, I have more examinations to which I can uplift myself without the cost of others, without the cost of dishonesty.
Now before you would dig your hands inside your mom’s purse for some extra allowance without telling her, remember what you’re doing is maybe the same act you’re persecuting and telling off alleged politicians gobbling up the nation’s funds.
Soon, in around six semester’s time, I’ll be a registered nurse working in a local hospital here or attending to Bill Gates as his personal nurse. But one thing remains true and always true, I’ll be able to reach it without cheating my way out.
I smiled at my score after receiving my test paper.
I got 46/50, second highest.
Still happy.
It’s better than getting zero, right?
By Maria Reylan M. Garcia
“By the end of this exam, three of you shall have a grade of zero”. The college instructor adjusted his glasses and moved past the aisles of the classroom, his watchful eyes caught hold of juvenile heinous crimes ripening within the four walls. I felt a sudden flow of rushing current within my veins. I know I was not guilty; it’s against my principle to cheat, to take advantage of people in my own accord. But as my penmanship couldn’t get any worse than of a five year old, a scream of injustice within me would just like to approach those three nincompoops and do the honors to place a big 0 on their test papers. Pathetic, they would sink that low just to ensure their fate in a fifty item examination? This is where it all starts. Believe me, the next thing that will possibly happen, are those same three people who’ll be denying their tax duties, laying extra unmerited charges on their services, or selling some scam of gadgets unregistered in the Bureau of Customs. This is where it all starts, earlier perhaps. Just like how he took his best friend’s pokemon cards without permission.
I would often lose interest and due respect to persons who cheat their way out of messy situations. How unfair it is, that you stayed up late memorizing all the dates and hard to pronounce surnames of significant people ending up with an insensitive fool copying off you. How unfair it is, that you wasted a cup of coffee just to extend the night ending up with a tactless freak extending his neck just to get a glimpse of your 1.0-worthy answers. How unfair it is, that you got 1.0 in the exams but with due course of sagging eye bags ending up with an inconsiderate dupe getting 1.0 as well but with a tightly detoxified face. These people have some nerves of pure steel, willing to literally do everything for the sake of achieving what they desire. In fact besides having a nervous system made up of metals, they have some unique qualities or what I call super-cheating powers. An X-ray vision that could see past any blockages you’ll be defending your exam paper with. An elastic neck that could tantamount the stretching capabilities of a flamingo, ostrich, giraffe and lastikman joined together, that could extend to a maximum length just to nose around your answers. A supersonic hearing that could detect some few minute hushes of information within a thirty kilometer radius. See how extraordinary these people are, they deserve a round of applause and a bucket of rotten tomatoes.
Cheating is a form of dishonesty, which in any angle is against the moral principles of any society there is. Soon I’ll be a full-fledged nurse, and in my hands depend the different fragile fates from a pediatric (child-care) to a geriatric (elderly-care) setting. I couldn’t afford to make any mistakes; I couldn’t even dare to cheat, because I’m dealing with lives. One wrong diagnosis, one error in assessment, one misled injection of a syringe would mean also one thing, loss. I value my life more than anything I own, I guess the other billions of people, the other billions of my would-be patients think the same way. It would be unfair if I cheated with their lives.
Take a look around you, cheating is everywhere. From a simple 5th grade girl changing her answers during the checking of their test papers to a statesman pocketing the funds for a road construction in a remote barrio, these are acts of dishonesty, they are cheaters. There are times when I’m already in panic, sweating hard like a pig in his pen, facing a difficult question in an exam and would be tempted to take a few degrees to the left and peep in my seatmate’s answers. But you know what? I couldn’t bear to do so; I wouldn’t risk a point, a single point in an exam in exchange for my principles. Yes, I may get a low score. Yes, someone might end up being higher than mine. Still, I have more examinations to which I can uplift myself without the cost of others, without the cost of dishonesty.
Now before you would dig your hands inside your mom’s purse for some extra allowance without telling her, remember what you’re doing is maybe the same act you’re persecuting and telling off alleged politicians gobbling up the nation’s funds.
Soon, in around six semester’s time, I’ll be a registered nurse working in a local hospital here or attending to Bill Gates as his personal nurse. But one thing remains true and always true, I’ll be able to reach it without cheating my way out.
I smiled at my score after receiving my test paper.
I got 46/50, second highest.
Still happy.
It’s better than getting zero, right?
The Witch called Snow White (November 27,2007)
The Witch Called Snow White
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
And they lived happily ever after, this phrase sounds awfully and redundantly familiar. The moment you hear this cluster of words, figures of princes riding handsome stallions and princesses singing in the enchanted forest with her animal friends, comes to life just as flicking as a wave of a magic wand. After readers put down the magical tales that left them spellbound, their dreams that night would be of pumpkin carriages traveling towards a promising kingdom’s silhouette in the nearing horizon. Less did most of us fairytale aficionados know that there were some supporting roles left in the gloominess of the backstage. As Snow White became a cadaver no more, no news was heard of her stepmother after she fell from the vulture trodden cliff. As Cinderella lost her obsession with glass slippers, the other three party crashers never made headlines after their huge feet can’t fit in a size four. Yes, I’m referring to these villains, to these antagonists, to these characters that made all the princesses look good in the pages of our bedtime stories. True, that we never get to here their side of the story. True, that we never get to hear why they envy red rosy cheeks and hairs black as ebony. True, that we became villains to them.
The explosion at the House of Representatives was not at any extent near to the sugary sweet land of fairy tales. This is real life, most people say. But I see the same villain in the witch who tempted for a poisoned apple as that in the insolent fool who planted the bomb and caused some regretted casualties. Whoever spearheaded this grave of a prank is certainly worth a basket of poisoned apples stuck in the linings of his esophagus. I am in deep sorrow and sympathized the afflicted of the rampant fire show display of violence, and at all angles believe that what was done marquees the word terrorism. Yet as I remembered my younger self scanning the pages of my now dust covered fairy tale classics, I could help but gobble some fist of air and think, should everything be blamed on them? We never heard their side of the story in the first place, although it was law violating but the distribution of the blame seems slightly unfair and one sided.
I rally in the silence of my heart together with the families of those who tasted the venom of terrorism and political revolts. They should be convicted accordingly with due legitimate processes and justice served right. But throughout the course, I hope we can find it in our hearts to take a time out of our quest for justice and not forget to give the same human justice this astray ones deserve. They might carry the greater ton of weight, but let us not get to engrossed in pointing with our fingers, because we are unaware that on our backpacks are the less seen ounces of weight that contributed to an loathsome event. We just heard our stories, let us not get too excited and rush up justice, for the word itself entails balance coming from both sides, fairness to both sides.
Sometimes we are unaware that we’re the ones making our enemies. The government might be unaware that they could be the very factory of these rejected deviants in our society. Could the government may have once forgotten their needs, abused their authority over them, gave them less benefits and incentives; all of these may have triggered the once subtle tigers within this ruthless violent groups. Snow White was portrayed to be all gentle and sublime because it was her story. Her stepmother was rubbished with awful characteristics, not knowing what may have been the very roots of her envy with Snow White. Could Snow White may have selfishly devoured the time of her late father leaving none to the queen, bullied her stepmother as she was still in the defense of his loving father; both of these may have triggered the queen to drink some potion struck by lightning and detoxified herself into an old hag. We spectators may appear innocent, the government may appear victimized but all the televisions, emails, text messages and print media contain our stories. How about those stories left unprinted in the hearts of the leftists, those stories that because we never listened to was storytelled to us in a bloody and violent manner. Mother Goose would certainly get Goosebumps when she finds out.
Sometimes we have to pull the entire rope outside the box to entirely know its length than just to simply imply. We have to look at the other side of the street. Really, we have to avoid being so one sided. I know someone who was accused of verbal harassment and having an unhealthy growth of envy over a competitor. He was under surveillance and was threatened to accept right there and then all the allegations, not even hearing out what he has to say, not even hearing out why he let the competitor taste some spicy and fierce words. It was because that someone was quite unlucky, everyone was looking on the other side of the box and failed to see his own side that he’s left with a bitter fate.
I hope time will come when we get to settle things. This had been a cliché, I know. But I still hold on to this unsure but relevant hope of collaborative efforts for simple national prosperity. I hope we’ll not only depend on our stories. If we do, we might find our books thrown outside the window the very next day.
There will always be hundreds and thousands of ugly witches and vile stepsisters who’ll let you eat up some rotten apples, gate crash your party and not to mention rip off your vintage dress. Yet, remember it is only in your story where they appear as villains.
In their fairytales you could be the reason why their lives turned astray.
You could be their villain.
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
And they lived happily ever after, this phrase sounds awfully and redundantly familiar. The moment you hear this cluster of words, figures of princes riding handsome stallions and princesses singing in the enchanted forest with her animal friends, comes to life just as flicking as a wave of a magic wand. After readers put down the magical tales that left them spellbound, their dreams that night would be of pumpkin carriages traveling towards a promising kingdom’s silhouette in the nearing horizon. Less did most of us fairytale aficionados know that there were some supporting roles left in the gloominess of the backstage. As Snow White became a cadaver no more, no news was heard of her stepmother after she fell from the vulture trodden cliff. As Cinderella lost her obsession with glass slippers, the other three party crashers never made headlines after their huge feet can’t fit in a size four. Yes, I’m referring to these villains, to these antagonists, to these characters that made all the princesses look good in the pages of our bedtime stories. True, that we never get to here their side of the story. True, that we never get to hear why they envy red rosy cheeks and hairs black as ebony. True, that we became villains to them.
The explosion at the House of Representatives was not at any extent near to the sugary sweet land of fairy tales. This is real life, most people say. But I see the same villain in the witch who tempted for a poisoned apple as that in the insolent fool who planted the bomb and caused some regretted casualties. Whoever spearheaded this grave of a prank is certainly worth a basket of poisoned apples stuck in the linings of his esophagus. I am in deep sorrow and sympathized the afflicted of the rampant fire show display of violence, and at all angles believe that what was done marquees the word terrorism. Yet as I remembered my younger self scanning the pages of my now dust covered fairy tale classics, I could help but gobble some fist of air and think, should everything be blamed on them? We never heard their side of the story in the first place, although it was law violating but the distribution of the blame seems slightly unfair and one sided.
I rally in the silence of my heart together with the families of those who tasted the venom of terrorism and political revolts. They should be convicted accordingly with due legitimate processes and justice served right. But throughout the course, I hope we can find it in our hearts to take a time out of our quest for justice and not forget to give the same human justice this astray ones deserve. They might carry the greater ton of weight, but let us not get to engrossed in pointing with our fingers, because we are unaware that on our backpacks are the less seen ounces of weight that contributed to an loathsome event. We just heard our stories, let us not get too excited and rush up justice, for the word itself entails balance coming from both sides, fairness to both sides.
Sometimes we are unaware that we’re the ones making our enemies. The government might be unaware that they could be the very factory of these rejected deviants in our society. Could the government may have once forgotten their needs, abused their authority over them, gave them less benefits and incentives; all of these may have triggered the once subtle tigers within this ruthless violent groups. Snow White was portrayed to be all gentle and sublime because it was her story. Her stepmother was rubbished with awful characteristics, not knowing what may have been the very roots of her envy with Snow White. Could Snow White may have selfishly devoured the time of her late father leaving none to the queen, bullied her stepmother as she was still in the defense of his loving father; both of these may have triggered the queen to drink some potion struck by lightning and detoxified herself into an old hag. We spectators may appear innocent, the government may appear victimized but all the televisions, emails, text messages and print media contain our stories. How about those stories left unprinted in the hearts of the leftists, those stories that because we never listened to was storytelled to us in a bloody and violent manner. Mother Goose would certainly get Goosebumps when she finds out.
Sometimes we have to pull the entire rope outside the box to entirely know its length than just to simply imply. We have to look at the other side of the street. Really, we have to avoid being so one sided. I know someone who was accused of verbal harassment and having an unhealthy growth of envy over a competitor. He was under surveillance and was threatened to accept right there and then all the allegations, not even hearing out what he has to say, not even hearing out why he let the competitor taste some spicy and fierce words. It was because that someone was quite unlucky, everyone was looking on the other side of the box and failed to see his own side that he’s left with a bitter fate.
I hope time will come when we get to settle things. This had been a cliché, I know. But I still hold on to this unsure but relevant hope of collaborative efforts for simple national prosperity. I hope we’ll not only depend on our stories. If we do, we might find our books thrown outside the window the very next day.
There will always be hundreds and thousands of ugly witches and vile stepsisters who’ll let you eat up some rotten apples, gate crash your party and not to mention rip off your vintage dress. Yet, remember it is only in your story where they appear as villains.
In their fairytales you could be the reason why their lives turned astray.
You could be their villain.
Francis and Ester (November 20,2007)
Francis and Ester
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
Francis was his name, and Ester was hers. They roamed the streets of the cemetery stopping at every grave where living relatives dwell. They handed out pieces of paper holding some words that brought a leap of horror. They muttered phrases of fear that aroused the goose bumps to every inch of the skin. Francis and Ester reminded the still breathing and alive that sooner and later they will be the ones to be visited in the cemetery. Although, Francis and Ester appear to be angels of death, they weren’t. Francis and Ester are just among the many, that flooded the cemeteries last All Souls Day, they were estate agents. Those pieces of paper they gave out weren’t promissory notes of one’s life expectancy, they were just simple brochures of the lots they sell and printed along are their contact numbers. Those phrases of fear weren’t revelations of the end; they were negotiating words gearing towards the selling out of their products.
Beside from the truth that we are all going to die, Francis and Ester were reminders that a lot has changed since the previous commemorations of All Souls Day. In the colonial times, the friars or the Spanish priests were the only ones who sold lots in the cemetery. There were still no sign of existence of any ancestral lineage that Francis and Ester might be having. The flower shops and boutiques weren’t flourishing as they do now. People settled for freshly picked flowers along the sides of the kalesa ridden streets. The day for the dead was even strictly observed as a commemoration rather than what we all see now as a celebration. There were no food stalls, concessionaire stands that made the memorial parks a carnival ground. There were no magic shows nor fireworks display during the day for the dead, those days were usually quiet and solemn. But, I believe the respect and worth of such day wasn’t subtracted even a single soul up to this day. The dead were still special from the time of Padre Damaso to the time of Francis and Ester. Though the tribute seem at different ends of the rope, the very thought of remembering the dead still remains as rock hard as the gravestones.
Each family had their own ways of paying tribute to their dead. Some thought they might as well have a family reunion along the way, and a food festival while they’re at it. Tons of plastic wares filled with Pinoy food favorites made the cemeteries similar to a food convention. Some planted their own tents and brought some folding beds, sleeping bags and native mats to transform the cemetery into a camping site. Some let free their little kids running through the large field of the memorial park, with some trinkets of light they wave along side, morphing the place alike to an amusement center. It was a feat for the eyes; it wasn’t a day for the dead after all. Everybody felt the day was a gathering of both our kind and those in the fourth dimension, our departed loved ones. There was a variation of party ideas for every visiting relative, each had their own gig, and each had their own way of letting their dead feel unforgotten. But, there will always be a time when every one kneels down in front of the gravestones and hush a simple prayer; this is in itself the very meaning of the day.
This is life. We were born, we live, and then we die. There will be only just one part of our existence where we get to change what was used to be, where we get to feel the pain necessary to feel the joy, where we get to realize the importance of life earlier than when it is gone. That part, is neither when we were born nor when we die, but when we are living. I am afraid of death, a lot of us are, even how much our faith would promise us a life after our own here on earth, and we still tremble to the very experience of dying. That is why everybody exercises, why everybody takes in medicine, why everybody does everything to slow the gaining of profit for Francis and Ester.
A lot has change in the world since the Adam ate that stupid apple, and it will continue to long after we die. We have to savor the moments; to live like no one has lived before. Because we will never know, the next year, the next All Souls Day, we will be the ones visited.
Continue to live.
Because soon we will be making use of the lots we bought from Francis and Ester.
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia
Francis was his name, and Ester was hers. They roamed the streets of the cemetery stopping at every grave where living relatives dwell. They handed out pieces of paper holding some words that brought a leap of horror. They muttered phrases of fear that aroused the goose bumps to every inch of the skin. Francis and Ester reminded the still breathing and alive that sooner and later they will be the ones to be visited in the cemetery. Although, Francis and Ester appear to be angels of death, they weren’t. Francis and Ester are just among the many, that flooded the cemeteries last All Souls Day, they were estate agents. Those pieces of paper they gave out weren’t promissory notes of one’s life expectancy, they were just simple brochures of the lots they sell and printed along are their contact numbers. Those phrases of fear weren’t revelations of the end; they were negotiating words gearing towards the selling out of their products.
Beside from the truth that we are all going to die, Francis and Ester were reminders that a lot has changed since the previous commemorations of All Souls Day. In the colonial times, the friars or the Spanish priests were the only ones who sold lots in the cemetery. There were still no sign of existence of any ancestral lineage that Francis and Ester might be having. The flower shops and boutiques weren’t flourishing as they do now. People settled for freshly picked flowers along the sides of the kalesa ridden streets. The day for the dead was even strictly observed as a commemoration rather than what we all see now as a celebration. There were no food stalls, concessionaire stands that made the memorial parks a carnival ground. There were no magic shows nor fireworks display during the day for the dead, those days were usually quiet and solemn. But, I believe the respect and worth of such day wasn’t subtracted even a single soul up to this day. The dead were still special from the time of Padre Damaso to the time of Francis and Ester. Though the tribute seem at different ends of the rope, the very thought of remembering the dead still remains as rock hard as the gravestones.
Each family had their own ways of paying tribute to their dead. Some thought they might as well have a family reunion along the way, and a food festival while they’re at it. Tons of plastic wares filled with Pinoy food favorites made the cemeteries similar to a food convention. Some planted their own tents and brought some folding beds, sleeping bags and native mats to transform the cemetery into a camping site. Some let free their little kids running through the large field of the memorial park, with some trinkets of light they wave along side, morphing the place alike to an amusement center. It was a feat for the eyes; it wasn’t a day for the dead after all. Everybody felt the day was a gathering of both our kind and those in the fourth dimension, our departed loved ones. There was a variation of party ideas for every visiting relative, each had their own gig, and each had their own way of letting their dead feel unforgotten. But, there will always be a time when every one kneels down in front of the gravestones and hush a simple prayer; this is in itself the very meaning of the day.
This is life. We were born, we live, and then we die. There will be only just one part of our existence where we get to change what was used to be, where we get to feel the pain necessary to feel the joy, where we get to realize the importance of life earlier than when it is gone. That part, is neither when we were born nor when we die, but when we are living. I am afraid of death, a lot of us are, even how much our faith would promise us a life after our own here on earth, and we still tremble to the very experience of dying. That is why everybody exercises, why everybody takes in medicine, why everybody does everything to slow the gaining of profit for Francis and Ester.
A lot has change in the world since the Adam ate that stupid apple, and it will continue to long after we die. We have to savor the moments; to live like no one has lived before. Because we will never know, the next year, the next All Souls Day, we will be the ones visited.
Continue to live.
Because soon we will be making use of the lots we bought from Francis and Ester.
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