Moving Forward

I remembered very well that the last time we seriously talked I told him that when I happen to come across him in the future, I would show my achievements, accomplishments and even wealth by pretending to not recognize him. I imagined myself walking past him as if he does not exist or in the event of an unavoidable conversation say, "Hi, have we met?" or the more dramatic, "Can you please introduce yourself? This is the first time I encountered such an abominable persona." That was how vengeful I was. Yes, vengeful is a substitute for bitter, something people associate with failed romantic fixations and which I associate with a certain vegetable. 

So when I graduated I decided to cut all possible means of communication. I deleted his numbers (yes, two different networks), and hid his facebook updates on my wall. To remove him from my list of friends was too bitter a move-- you know you're bitter when you deny being so.

 I longed for self-improvement: I took up a master's degree, spoke in front of people and delivered lectures-- all in the pursuit of something I could be proud of against him. In my fascination of ninjas I thought of all those as shurikens: things to hurl at him until he's ground to a pulp the moment we meet again.

To fuel my motives I thought of how he threw derogatory remarks on me, the curses, the expletives. How he slaughtered my confidence. How he condemned me for who I am. How verily he portrayed how terrible I was as a friend. The months of uncomfortable silence between us plus more months of half-hearted interactions were more than enough to torment me and kept me asking why. But those were to end because I'm going to throw it all upon him the next time we meet. Bastard, I'm gonna kick your ass without you knowing it. 

But time thwarted all my plans. Time, with its sharpened edges cut the chains that held my mind captive. Suddenly, there were new friends, new adventures and a lot of things to do and it all slowly, painstakingly removed the hate from me. It was like shouting at the top of your lungs in front of the vast ocean until the burden weighs no more.

And it confused me. 

Before, I was certain of what to do when we meet. Grind, pulp, feed to the dogs. Now I don't have any idea. I was supposed to rehearse my reaction upon seeing him but all I could ever think of was nothing. He thinks I hate him. A big smile and a warm welcome is ironic, not to mention so unlike me. A cold glance and stark indifference was out of the options anymore. In a moment of enlightenment I decided to stop thinking and let it all just happen.

And he was the same old friend I know.

Probably slimmer but the pounds he lost were gained by his ego. Mas yumabang pa nga eh. But this time I realized that I do not take that against him anymore. Before, I cannot stand him. In fact, I restated the Pauli Exclusion Principle to apply to us:  We cannot be in the same place at the same time without an argument. I hated him a lot, but I liked him more. Ironic but true. But now, I took his yabang as that usual attribute of a friend you would tolerate simply because he is your friend. I was not irked anymore and would not engage in a senseless banter with him anymore. Yet he was his usual self. The kind who teases, jokes and irritates you like a pesky little spoiled brat infuriating the yaya with his mischiefs. Before I would fuel his malevolence by striking back, now I just pass it off as his nature. 

When we met and sat down to a couple of drinks I must admit that I had the best conversation in years. No one can beat that guy's smart ass when it comes to things we talk about. That was why I liked him in the first place. And when we touched on religion, he said that we should not just call on God only when we need something from him. I felt the urge to insinuate that by extension, one should not do that to people, say for example, me. But I held my tongue. Something has really, remarkably changed. There was no pounding of the chest, there were no awkward moments for me and I could look at him straight in the eye and say the things I want to say. 

Have I forgotten all the hate? God forbid, have I been nice to any life form? I don't exactly know but one thing's for sure. I don't want to hurl at him all those shurikens anymore or ask him what kind of surgeon would operate on him if I shove an entire shoe collection up his ass. Time has been so kind to remove him from my death list. 

Was it indifference? No. I still care for that conceited member of the male species. However, what I probably had in excess before, to the point of staying up all night to answer his exams, I have now in the friendliest of form. The kind that refuses, says enough and says not what you want to hear but what you need to. I realized a major mistake I made all along. I was too engrossed on liking him that I did not notice the good friend that he was. It was unfortunate that we have to go through all these just to find ourselves enjoying each other's company now without the stigma that prevented us then. 

I found it amusing when he shook my hand really hard and patted my back like he's going to expel my lungs when we parted ways. I even thought we'd gonna do a chestbomb. You know, that gesture boys do when they're happy to see each other. Hilarious. But most of the time the ultimate manifestation that things move forward for the better is when you could simply laugh it off. And we laughed till we had abs. Then suddenly I remembered a line from the opening theme of Full Metal Alchemist: To regain the things we've lost we must keep on moving forward. I cannot stand the cheesiness but I agree.

And oh. He recently just officially became an engineer. I did not congratulate him. There is no point in doing so. I am not surprised that he would pass. I knew it all along. 

Keep well.

Do we still have a reason to celebrate Christmas?

Photo by

Naderev Saño

One moment we were watching the evening news Christmas countdown with anticipation. The next thing we knew, we were watching ourselves on the news, heartbroken and devastated to the extent commensurate to the damage around us. Just when we were so excited to greet Christmas with a festive mood, we were suddenly knocked down with Nature's fist of fury--tearing us apart, breaking our hearts, driving us to tears.

With the recent disaster and its aftermath haunting us, turning into a nightmare in high noon, reminding us of the sufferings of others and our own, do we still have a reason to celebrate Christmas?

Yes, we do. 

To Christians, Christ itself is enough reason. Our sufferings from the disasters of this world pale in comparison to what He endured for all of us. Surely, no amount of despair could make us let go of even the smallest reason to remember Him. This very act is an act of Hope, that even at our darkest times we fight against that black hole forming in our hearts, sucking all of the remaining light. 

We may not be able to sit around our Christmas trees in our comfortable living rooms now rendered unrecognizable with the filth and thick sediment, prepare a bountiful dinner in our beloved kitchen that now lays destroyed, or hear the sounds of torn wrappers together with peals of laughter as we jump in surprise of the gift we receive. But celebrating Christmas was never about these things. It was not about how loud and merry we get, how inebriated we become from our drunken revelries and how varied the dishes served on our table will be. It is not in the best greetings we speak, but in the quality of our prayers. It is not in the mere physical presence of our loved ones, but in the extent of our remembrance and love which transcends borders and can even get past death. 

Celebrating Christmas is lying in the silent knowledge that despite what we've been through, Life is still worthwhile because Someone cared enough to give up His own in an ultimate expression of Love.

Forget the breeze, the lights and the songs. It is Christmas in our hearts that brings Christmas in the air. 

How to make an event like a beauty pageant particularly riveting and engaging.

1. Start way behind schedule. In order to do this, choose judges that avail each and every salon service an hour before the show actually starts. Or you could choose judges that simply have the guts to let people believe we have all day to wait for them. Choose those judges who believe they are very important. They are those who do not know that the reason the pageant needs them and cannot start without them is that their valuable subjective judgments play a crucial role, not because they have an unlimited sense of entitlement.

2. Assign a boring host. Choose public speaking veterans who have gained the accolades of their peers with probably a century of experience kicking ass in the hosting industry. Their long experience made them sank into complacency as they are certain that even though they are pulling the flow of the pageant together with their dragging spiels and effortless vocal nuances, they still believe they are doing a great job. Make them introduce the board of judges in a time duration equivalent to one judge per day. This way, the audience which is mostly composed of young and highly-energetic students, will be able to relate to the host because the generation gap is non-existent.

A few reminders.

There are some things I must remind myself of.

First,  most of the time the problems we have with other people are actually problems we have with ourselves. In introspect, it is not actually the other person's actions that is making you uncomfortable but it is your attitude, your reaction, and your paranoia that is causing all the distress. Thus, before condemning others by attributing to them the error and fault of the circumstances, ascertain first where the true problem lies. It could be within your area of responsibility and burden pushing other parties might lead to irreparable consequences. If you found out that it is your fault, then rejoice. The easiest mistake to correct is the one you have committed, for you have no control of others' errors but you have full control and responsibility of yourself.

Do not distract us.

BELOVED ENGINEERS,

Do not allow yourself to worry over lousy overreactions to your opinion, of which you are rightfully entitled. You have tons of other things to think about other than what others think of you and how you might appear to them. If you do so, you are giving these people the means to become popular. Everybody wants to be talked about and in the process you are giving these people the very thing that they want.

Engineering is a tough course (not the toughest for others already claimed the tough spot. But to quote Janina, it came from one of the tough ten) and it requires (among all other things) FOCUS. When you are distracted from your work, buildings may collapse, factories may explode or airplanes may crash. The fabric of the world as humans made it may wear and tear and find us all helpless, if not inexistent. Distraction gives birth to mistakes, and all engineers who take the oath of accuracy treat error susceptibility as a malady, much like the allergen to their allergy.

IRONorwaY.

IT WAS very ironic. Two instances of horrific violence occurred in one of the most peaceful and peace-loving countries in the world last Saturday. An apparently mad, paranoid individual set off a bomb that killed seven people in downtown Oslo and later massacred 93 people, most of them children, in the island youth camp of Utoya.

It was the worst case of carnage in Norway since World War II and the deadliest day of terror in Western Europe since the Madrid bombings in 2004. Norway is a pacifist, peaceful country that hosts the annual Nobel Peace Prize awards. (The irony in the Nobel Peace Prize itself is that it was funded by Alfred Nobel, the man who invented the detonator or blasting cap for detonating nitroglycerin and igniting explosives.)

Hear no evil.

Just one comment: I did not cope with college life. It coped with me.

This isn't goodbye.

Bowing my head down as if someone might find out what I had done, I munched heavily on my cheeseburger, making sure that I do not remove my gaze on the unfortunate bun in case I accidentally catch eye contact with anyone I know who happen to drop by the fastfood. Imagination still eludes me as to what these people’s reactions will be when they find out what I had done. Guilt aside, I think above all persons in the Multiverse, the person who I owe an explanation to is myself.

 Great tales from the past speak of people going beyond the conceivable and doing what we might have thought impossible. Moses, obeying the command of God and wielding His power, crossed the Red Sea by splitting it in half, racing against the tyrannical chariots of oppression and making way for the desolate people of Israel to continue their pilgrimage to the Promised Land. In Greek mythology, the ingenious Deidarus thought of a brilliant escape from the tower where he and his son were imprisoned. Gathering the feathers of birds who unwittingly pass by their window, he painstakingly designed wings to allow them to fly their way to freedom. Deidarus succeeded of course, and the sad thing about his son is, well, another story. It seems therefore

Acknowledgment

Because JanMell would graduate, he would like to thank:

1. his power Plant Design groupmates Sheila, Russil and Jade. Especially Sheila, Russil and Jade. Without the three of them, he would never graduate. He believes that the best group to join would have to be the group where you can have the least contribution and your design would still be completed. He found that group in those three amazing people. He owes them a lot of money and gratitude. This part includes their printers, PCs and unrelenting patience for his lack of cooperation for reasons that range from livelihood to drinking sprees.

2. his extended family. They have been his constant reminder aside from the patabaing baboy, accumulating debts and cash flow problems that he should not give up and strive to graduate. Moreover, Imelda and Eric are so proud. He can’t disappoint them. They’ve practically told the whole neighbourhood that their firstborn will finish his bachelor’s degree with flying colors. His two brothers, John Michael and Paul Joseph and many a cousin need a luxury Kuya and his aunts, particularly Merle, Charity, Juvy, Grace, and Beverly need a trip around the world. He can’t fail them. The financial support they have provided to the point of depriving themselves will make this sheet of paper drenched in tears if he contemplates about it too much.

3. his inspirations. Chocolate, balut, ice cream and yes, fastfood chains. They have made every waking day tolerable. The prospect of eating always gets him going. He would like to single out McDo and Greenwich for being so delicious. And speaking of delicious, he would like to thank someone for being his inspiration. (Oh puhleease. Not two. The other one is an expiration).
(The thought of you makes him trip and stumble and your presence incites clumsiness. But he likes it. In your honor, he named his break-even analysis graph after you.)

4. Jessica Zafra and the iconic, Regine Velasquez whose blog and videos respectively have kept him awake during moments when he doesn’t know what to do and yet cannot find the audacity to sleep lest his group mates would throttle him. (Given of course that an internet connection exists.)

5. his friends. They taught him to party, emaciate a poor videoke machine, and get inebriated in between deadlines. Soo fake barkada for being true to their name. Special mention to Bernaden, who can tolerate his nagging and cravings for any food that comes to his mind. She says he’s just sexually deprived. He says it takes one to know one.  

6. Malu, for being a constant reminder that he will always have a friend no matter what.

7. his netbook whose name would incite anarchy if mentioned. It rises beyond utility and rests above high esteem, despite its price. Ha ha.

8. Engr. Ronald Bual (Ron!), Engr. Vergil Aleria (Verj!), Engr. Edmark S. Icalina (Fled!), Engr. Rodel Guerrero (Rodel!), Engr. Ralf Ruffel M. Abarca (Barcs!), Engr. Arniel Ching O. Dizon (Ching!), Engr. Dexter J. Navales (D’King!), Engr. Kristine Grace Bama (Tin!) and Prof. Rosalinda C. Balacuit (Rose???), Chairman, ChE/MetE/CerE Department, College of Engineering (whew!) and to all his teachers. Without their immense patience for his despicable character, he would not be able to get relatively wonderful grades, let alone pass.

9. Ate Malou, Kuya Chang and Uncle Pitman. Without their kindness, he would have been nowhere and hungry. During the hardest of times, they showed compassion to his struggles and they never questioned nor expected anything in return. It is the kind of genuine kindness he can never regard as memories. It keeps itself fresh and vivid. He was literally adopted by them. He could never thank them enough.

10. Christian Saguin and family for the succulent dinners, the surprising bonuses, and most importantly for regarding him as someone important. They have been a blessing to his life in more ways and another.

11. Ate Rica. Without her and her patience for accumulating debts and delayed payments, he would find himself kicking tin cans in the street and stitching garbage in his clothes. Not only does he owe Ate Rica his latest meal, but also his graduation.

12. Nanay Azon and family for generosity, patience and kindness. It would be preposterous to say that he would return all their favors because the magnanimity of it renders that impossible. His whole family is indebted to them yet they never remind them of it.

13. his former boardmates. The Limbago brothers, Jade, John Eric, Justin and the Gallardo sisters, Charise and Charmaine. Boarding life would have been insufferable without their company.

14. ChEpaPervs for reasons they already know.

15. his friend, the Renaissance painter, for an unknown reason.
(Somehow, he cannot end this without including you. But that doesn’t change the fact that he hates you.)

16. himself and his other selves for going beyond the limits of his intelligence and surviving Engineering, for not giving in to DOTA, endless movie marathons, or the temptation of the overpass. They should make a lot of certificates. They will all graduate cum laude.

17. everyone who in any way, minuscule or ginormous, have helped him achieve his goals. You are only too many and he may not be able to name you here, but there is no posting limit in his awareness. He will always be grateful. In moments when he apparently forgets, don't worry .You are all in his subconscious where, in principle, nothing is forgotten.

And oh,

17. God. 

Disconsolate.

At last, after a year of dormancy, the Silahis is now here to satisfy our need for information. After waiting almost to oblivion and teetering to the point of forgetting there is an official school publication, it resurfaced and confirmed that our publication fees are not put to waste, right? That after all, the birth of new writers and the pleasure of reading them would vindicate their absence and compensate for their failed issues, right? True, it was put off for long but here it is now, geared towards affirming the "world-class" ambition of the institute by equally "world-class" articles, right?

WRONG.

If there is one thing that the latest issue of Silahis  proved in any of the above mentioned it would be that the publication was done to remind students that the publication fee is put to use. And this it proved barely. Putting to use does not necessarily mean putting to good use. I do not have to enumerate in this post everything that compelled me to litigation of the paper which could be distilled to the grammar, diction and content problems. You only have to turn to the editorial section to prove to yourself that the alleged return of the Silahis is a premature one.

What reader would not grimace at the realization that the editorial written in Filipino would be flawed on the first paragraph? Who can tolerate a movie review when the author apparently knows not how to punctuate? Where on earth can "grace and yoke" be a better and more apt replacement than blessing or burden? What self-respecting editorial staff would publish that they have undergone rigorous selection of writers composed of neophytes, yet the rigor of it all failed to inculcate the perfectionist character of a writer,at least, in his prose? Who would not believe the haunting feeling that this paper did not even fall under the scrutiny of an editor? When the world is teeming with a lot of better things to write about, who would bother giving a second thought to a truncated article about metrosexuals? (Unless one is bothered about her boyfriend.)

Drowned with all these thoughts, I remembered my old issues of Silahis. What happened to the writers? The likes of Jay-Ar Decenella, Karen Nueva Ecija, Gratian Paul Tidor? Has their excellence in their craft failed to proliferate in the succeeding generations or is it still on the process of doing so? Either way, it only affirms the unlikely publication of Silahis. I do not wish to undermine the writers of which quite a few are freshmen, but their works have spelled their demise. Published works are supposed to be impeccable. Content, grammar and other elements. All the more when you are writing under the banner of a school with a claim to prestige. When you look at the latest issue of Silahis and compare it to a school paper written and edited by high school students you would think that Silahis has just recently released a lampoon issue, in obvious defense of the absurdity of the articles. After all, what is not absurd about an editorial, editorial cartoon and student reaction survey about pedestrian lanes and security guards all in one page? I need not mention that a topic about pedestrian lanes and security guards is pretty trivial for an editorial of a paper returning from an "invigorating slumber" and "recharging hibernation."

The release of the recent issue has not stirred the Silahis from dormancy. Not until the staff and whoever is responsible for the school publication would realize that releasing a schoolpaper is no avenue to display mediocrity, it goes without saying that this dormancy could head on to extinction. 

Well, you could argue that Silahis lacks writers and that the authors are still proving themselves. The dire situation is exemplified by this quote from the article 'The Silahis and the Neophyte.' (The first "the" should have been omitted, by the way.)

(sic) "Out of more than 10,000 students of MSU-IIT, only 14 have the eagerness to join the team. Although there are still brilliant thinkers out there who may have the best writing skills necessary for the publication, enthusiasm lacks them all, the enthusiasm which is vital to a student journalist. Thus, there are no questions that these 14 students were qualified automatically to become a staff of the student publication. Besides, these 14 students were not just chosen since they are the only present but they all took the examination as well underwent the process of interview."

Aside from the grammar and construction going straight to hell, this paragraph seems to regard enthusiasm as the only requirement to become a staffer. Nothing could be further from the truth. Enthusiasm alone doesn't make a good writer. Talent does. And the paper needs good writers. Judging from the quality of the articles, the standards of qualification were not what they claim it to be or they were just so desperate to fill the spaces with people, not with talent.

 Rejection, if viewed on the bright side, is an effective motivator. These writers have a lot of promise. Some may even turn out to realize the writer's dream.  However, the OFFICIAL paper is not meant to exclaim this and mere inadvertence is unacceptable. It is not a medium for aspiring writers to prove themselves. For the love of God, it is not a DRAFT.

The lack of writers, QUALITY writers, means one thing-- lengthen and intensify the search. The problem of Silahis is that no one seems to be interested in being a staffer.  Did you delve deeper into the reasons why this is so? Why not attack the problem from there? Why not go to the tasking business of making students interested? Multiply advertising efforts, double incentives, conduct writing workshops and propagate concepts to spark the interest of the skilled writers out there.

I am not aware of your internal affairs but if this is what you claimed to have done and by all means did not work, then do not PUBLISH. To do so in order to appease the students in their collective clamor against misuse of funds while sacrificing the quality of the published work is atypical of an institute geared towards excellence. Imagine this issue competing with UP's The Philippine Collegian, The Guidon of Ateneo de Manila, The LaSallian of De la Salle University to name a few. If non-publication due to lack of writers is the problem, then let the students know that the funds are being used to secure the necessary talents. Surely this could not go on for long and when that comes, get a better editor and PUBLISH. The test of the pudding is in the eating, so to speak.

On the bright side, this could be a decree for "the brilliant writers" who are ahead of their time to save the quality of the school publication. I know there are a lot of you out there. Children of the Schools Press Conferences, spawns of the union of the pen and paper, young students who aced their Formal Themes. Or to the staff themselves to improve exponentially. Do not allow readers to laugh at your articles like how Pinoys laugh at carabao English, then later come to realize that the situation is rather sad and unfortunate. Reject mediocrity and deserve the honor of being a student journalist.

That is an ardous process.

In the meantime, I am hoping that this disconsolate feeling would elude me.

To everyone who has come to the end of this post, here's a treat. Read it. Just read it. It's here.

'Congrats and goodluck to you'- Regine

It occurred to me that everywhere I go, the fact that I am a fan of Regine Velasquez always shows. One example was during my Nestle M.I.L.E. experience where I dined with Bear Brand's brand manager, Ms. Jasmin Estacio. Because the topics usually revolve around business and management ideas, our conversation shifted towards Bear brand's endorsements and commercials. I asked her if she had met Regine-- a stupid question since she sure had met Regine, being the brand manager. She said yes. Before she could even ask me why, I told her that I am a huge fan of the diva in an exaggerated manner (probably forgetting that I am dining in a five star hotel's international buffet with no less than accomplished and high-ranking professionals around me). That sent her the message that my newfound 'close' connection with Regine (Me to Nestle MILE to Nestle to Bear Brand to Ma'am Jazz to Regine) meant the world to me so she offered to bring me along during Regine's new Bear Brand commercial taping. To my extreme disappointment, the MILE program would be over by that time and while Regine was taping her new commercial, Ma'am Jazz would have to bring something else instead.

A piece of paper, I suggested. Regine could sign it and Ma'am Jazz would send it to me. The piece of paper I gave was a Bear Brand stationery with blanks for your name and ambition. I wrote my full name and after pondering for a short while I scribbled 'to be successful' as my ambition. Then I left her my address. 

A Facebook message from Ms. Jazz revealed that Regine Velasquez, my idol, rejected to sign that piece of paper. But it was a different kind of rejection. She proposed instead to give me her soon to be released album sometime in November.( The MILE program was from Oct.26-29). To quote Ma'am Jazz, "with dedication pa ha."

She was referring to "Fantasy," her last album as a single woman before tying the knot with Ogie Alcasid. It was October then and I never heard from Ma'am Jazz until recently when she asked for my mailing address once again because aparently she never forgets her promises.

I used MSU-IIT's Chemical Engineering Department as my address because I was worried that if I use my boarding house address I might not be there to receive it. At least my instructors would be willing to secure the package for me. 

Imagine my elation upon receiving this.

 My reaction was, "Omigad, she wrote my name. Look friends, she got the double L right!!"

 When I opened the package I saw the CD enclosure and a beautiful Regine greeted me with her lips parted.

Great.

But this was greater. Regine postcards.

I remembered the time when I browsed through these pictures in Facebook and showed them to my friend the Renaissance Painter. He refused to believe that it is Regine. As usual, it was a heated debate I insist I won.

To Ma'am Jazz, I could never thank you enough. It was very kind of you to do this and this is something deeply engraved in my memory.

To Regine-- if this can be considered my message to you-- finally, after watching all your videos in YouTube for n times, going to one of your concerts, listening to almost all of your songs original or cover, watching all of your movies and TV shows, a dream of mine came true. I keep on wondering what is next-- meeting you in person, perhaps or singing with you? It is not an exaggeration to say that I would be ready to die when that happens. Thank you, Songbird for this tangible gift of my admiration. I believe it transgressed the electromagnetic waves, radio signals, huge concert venues and silver screens between a fan and his idol.  I cannot help but think that your kindness and compassion to those who admire you as a singer and as a person is the reason why you are still reigning beyond compare.

Why he is the G.I.

I knew he would win. Grabbing the title was one of the two things I was certain he would do (the other one is make me swoon). But the pageant night was not for his keeping. My friends told me he looked like a ghost one time, then literally ugly the next. His make-up was so garish I almost thought he was going to stage a theatrical act. And God forbid the barong which would make him complement a casket and make us all attend a burial. To speak plainly, he did not look good on stage. (At least for those who were about 10 meters away from the spectacle. Was it the lighting? Or the make-up?). Ironically, my eyes always see him as an impeccable creature. But even this failed.  I almost agreed with my friends except probably for the belief that I was certain the judges would never base their scrutiny on what they see on the stage alone. They have to see something far more relevant—the simplicity that makes him who he is.

I think Alberto Lucas Belgera neither became the Ginoong Inhinyero 2011 because he sashayed across the stage, displaying his bare torso for everyone to see nor because he proved to us that men could wear that much make-up and actually be men.  Aside from considering that there can be no other winner, Alberto Lucas won because of two things: First, he won because he was not meant to be on that stage.

Being a Ginoong Inhinyero is not a stage presentation. It is actually what is not on the display that matters. Our impression on whoever wins the title is not shaped by the way they walk or project. It is how we know them in their everyday life as an engineering student that we believe in them, or in any case, ascertain that they will actually win.

Alberto Lucas is that ginoo. I don’t know him personally but I would base my conclusion on what I observe from afar. He looked ugly with make-up because he is infinitely better-looking without it. He was diffident and ungraceful with extremely embellished costumes because he is not a celebrity who is comfortable with what others insist as fashion but an athlete who is content with a loose T-shirt and a pair of pants and pull the look that could make girls and pa-girls die with longing. (The bag pack is a perfect complement, by the way). He was unsure with choreographed movements because it was his nature to move unpredictably when he plays. I noticed that he doesn’t care what the hell happens to him as long as he could steal that ball or deliver that spike. Moreover, his was not the best projection on stage because he suppressed his wide grin—the very thing that made him a chick magnet. (Sorry to descend to cliché. Not that I am a chick. Ha ha). In fact, the rare shining moments he had were on occasions when he showed his true self by smiling at his ECE fans with that distinctive smile. (I swore I saw the Cheshire cat).  It was probably on these instances where the judges were enlightened with their choice. Here is a man who presents himself with all the flamboyant effects, yet here is also a man who could epitomize the Ginoong Inhinyero without the same.

                

I repeat: He won the title because he lost the pageant. The judges, if ever they had the same notion, have had to be very observant. I guess they had seen beyond the costumes, glitters and spectacle. After the event, in an ordinary day, they saw the simple Alberto Lucas sharply contrasted to men with overdone hair, body-fit clothing, ubiquitous shades and condescending air. This is of course based on my own observations, and the truth might be otherwise. However, other people testify of the same and I can assure you there are a lot of them. This alone is proof of his charm.

                

Probably you could attribute it to the eyes but his expression is one of humility, something not hard to see in him. I just hope that this achievement would not take that away. After all, it was this expression of humility that was his ticket to becoming known. After his win, it is his job to prove and keep it. 

               

This brings me to the second reason why he won: A lot of people believed in him. Sure, other departments cheered for their bet by bringing in streamers with their departments’ names. But it was only his ECE family who brought in streamers with his name blatantly spelled out. They did not just cheered for their department, they cheered for him. I have not seen any previous contestant who had this kind of support from their course mates. They seem to have this consensus among them and their concerted efforts showed in the results.

Gratzness, Alberto Lucas. I have always believed that competitions such as these are of no importance. Nada. The reason is because the title doesn’t impose any responsibility or if there is one, it is not so defined. Glory would not be worthwhile without the attached burden. Yet now it occurred to me that somehow this is a test of your character. You don’t have to save the world by being the G.I. or do anything for that matter except for one thing—improve for the better and stay humble. Do not even attempt to become a model student. Sure, COE students admire people but they are never constrained by emulating role models because they go beyond. The Ginoong Inhinyero was not meant to produce an ideal COE student. Originally, it was meant for the thrill of seeing good-looking boys on stage. But here you come letting people see that you could actually win by looking better without the stage. That of course is desirable, since the glamour of the stage is only fleeting. What matters is everything else.  

                

I have bothered to write this all up for no reason at all. Or shall I say for a reason completely irrelevant to you. I do not mean that you live by other people’s expectations. That is just unfortunate. No other person knows what you ought to do except yourself.  Nonetheless, all this stranger wants is for you to heed his unsolicited advice.            

[01.29.11]

Killed by a book

This will be your fate when you nicely  try to take a peek  into my room, comment about how nice my reading backlog looks from afar, asking me to hand you over one of the books, borrow it, and after ten seconds return it with an expression of disgust on your face. And as if you're not yet done with your self-expression, you say you don't want it because they're boring. The hardbounds, with all its volumes, will definitely flung themselves at you screaming to take away your life by endless papercuts and bludgeons.

If only you could exert extra effort to just keep it to yourself, you will not suffer the above mentioned.

So that you readers can have a blight insight into this predicament, allow me to list the books in my reading backlog:

• Weekend Wodehouse by P.G. Wodehouse
• Saturday by Ian McEwan
• The Journey Inwards (I forgot the author)
• a book about the Korean war (I have not touched it, yet)
• 3 issues of the theosophical digest
• Youngblood 2.0

I apologize to you if the only definition of an interesting reading material you know is one regarding aliens, science fiction and puhlease, vampires. I find them enjoyable to read, too. Honestly. But, por pabor, the last thing that you should ask me, His kingdom come, is whether I instead have a copy of the Twilight book after handing you the collated works of young essayists in Youngblood. The next thing you know,you'll be running for your life.

I understand that these kinds of books/reading materials require a higher level of appreciation. That's probably why you showed apparent disgust when I said I prefer books studded with words that enrich my vocabulary, without minding the hassle of opening a dictionary everytime I encounter one. My fault, probably, is not telling you beforehand that if ever you want books with simple language and straightforward symbolisms if ever there are, you cannot get that from me. Don't get me wrong. I read a lot of popular books, but I don't OWN them.

I'm glad my copy of The Prophet was lost.  If it ever reached your hands and in your audacity, vilified  it beyond consideration, labeled it boring and inscrutable, then it's your problem that you look like a man yet you're as intelligent as a trilobite.

You can insult my face and my social status, but I have low tolerance for people who insult my English, my music preferences and the books I read.

Don't get killed by a book. You know you don't want to.

You know who she is? She's Iphreeta, the demon goddess. And she's ready to unleash her wrath on you unworthy mortals.

Fly Me to the Moon

I want to escape all this ruckus. And one solution would have to be flying myself to the moon. If only I'm as ingenious as Phineas and Ferb, the siblings who could conjure a spaceship in their backyard without so much of a fuss.

But then again I'm JanMell. And I should take responsibility for whatever lapses of judgment I had incurred that made things wonderfully worse. I seriously pray that these PALAKASAN issues be settled already with the least possible damage to friendships. Personally, I don't care If I lose the sympathy of a whole college. What bugs me is to lose the closeness of a single friend.

*****************

During our Plant Tour in Cebu I bought a copy of Jessica Zafra's Twisted 8 and 1/2. (I also obtained a copy of Ian McEwan's Saturday and the classic Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas by Jules Verne. Until that time, I did not know that Jules Verne is the most translated author of all time.) One article in the compilation was entitled The Moon, The Meryl. There's this thing about the Meryl Syndrome. Apparently, people doesn't get excited with the excellent performances of Meryl Streep anymore because they have become used to her superb artistry. After reading it, I thought the same idea applies to Regine Velasquez, this time in singing. I call it The Regine Syndrome when listeners do not get too enthralled with you singing on stage because they have become used to you singing beautifully and mind-blowingly. (That's actually literally mind-blowing, try reaching B5 with pure chest and you'll know what I mean.) I think that explains why the only video of Regine who reached a million views is the video where she sang Beyonce's Listen with awfully wrong lyrics. The public wants something different from Regine's impeccable vocals. And that would spark their interest towards her.

*************

Have you made a bus wait and delayed a field trip departure just because of books? Yes I did. Thanks to the hardbound Ian McEwan, the classic Jules Verne and the wicked Grungella, Ms. Zafra. They cost Php 300 all in all and of course a scold from the official chaperon. Note to self: Do not say "be back in a jiffy" if going to National Bookstore, or any bookstore for that matter.

When all caution and censorship have let go: The Story

In connection to my previous post regarding inspiration that denotes lifting the lid of the unconscious, Jostein Gaarder, in her masterpiece, Sophie's World, tells us a story in illustration of the importance of the artist to not let reason and reflection control a more or less unconscious expression. (Warning: It's a very serious and sad story.)

Once upon a time there was a centipede that was amazingly good at dancing with all hundred legs. All the creatures of the forest gathered to watch every time the centipede danced, and they were all duly impressed by the exquisite dance. But there was one creature that didn't like watching the centipede dance- that was a tortoise.'

'It was probably just envious.'

'How can I get the centipede to stop dancing? thought the tortoise. He couldn't just say he didn't like the dance. Neither could he say he danced better himself, that would obviously be untrue. So he devised a fiendish plan.'

'Let's hear it.'

'He sat down and wrote a letter to the centipede. " O incomparable centipede," he wrote, "I am a devoted admirer of your exquisite dancing. I must know how you go about it when you dance. Is it that you lift your left leg number 28 and then your right leg number 39? Or do you begin by lifting your right leg number 17 before you lift your left leg number 44? I await your answer in breathless anticipation. Your's truly, Tortoise."'

'How mean!'

'When the centipede read the letter, she immediately began to think about what she actually did when she danced. Which leg did she lift first? And which leg next? What do you think happened in the end?'

'The centipede never danced again?'

'That's exactly what happened. And that's the way it goes when imagination gets strangled by reasoned deliberation.'

When all caution and censorship have let go

Some writers claim that their hands have minds of their own when writing sometime of the day, say, at dawn. For some, it's amazing, and some of them grow out to be prolific writers whose work reflect poignant experiences concealed in characters that are in introspect, mirror images of themselves. In reality, the "mind" of the hand is actually the subconscious of the wielder of the pen, resurfacing and manifesting itself when all caution and censorship have let go. However, for me, it's just scary. To live a life full of caution that borders on paranoia, I have never really let some part of me go berserk-- i mean, out of control. When I write, everything is within my umbrella of consciousness, and I guess this is where I come to be problematic.

To lift the lid of the unconscious is essential in creative writing, for the very fact that the unconscious houses a whole universe of experiences that when exploited can lead to works like "The Tell Tale Heart" of Edgar Allan Poe, or even "Letters of St. Paul to the Corinthians." Different writers have different ways of lifting the lids of  their unconscious. Edgar Allan Poe, the father of the english short story, writes when drunk. His famous short stories, like the Cask of Amontillado, even reflects his fondness of wine. Similarly, the writer Ernest Hemingway who wrote the short story " A Clean Well Lighted Place" (a phrase I utter everytime I'm asked where i want to eat) was a heavy drunkard, and even this short story of his was definitive of his neurosis which eventually drove him to suicide. 

On a lighter note, some writers (not just writers but artists in general), drown themselves in coffee and then smokes. I know of one who even named his blog after the empty coffee cups that was the detritus of his artistic side, and an esteemed debater and writer of my school smokes a lot. The revelry of the experience is the closest they could to obtain the "high" that would allow themselves to let go of repression and let the inner artist take control. But then again there's drugs. Drugs, and this is not taboo, is popular also for some artists, who says the experience is irreplaceable and accept no substitutes. Artists who take this course though, oftentimes unwarily, or even warily (eerie!), leads themselves to self-destruction(think Kurt Cobain).

Liver cirrhosis aside, or worse, suicide (Oh the ignominy!), I realize that If I want to ace in writing I must find ways to access my subconscious. Right now, coffee solves the problem somehow. But I know for certain that there is only one reason why I cannot develop my writing to a deeper extent. It is because, tadaaa!, I'm too busy with struggling to graduate this year in an engineering course. When you're supposed to commit gluttony with living upon reaction rates and Laplace transforms, you cannot expect to commit wholeheartedly to devouring the novels of Ian McEwan, Robert Ludlum or Michael Crichton much more Immanuel Kant's Critique of Pure Reason. (Personal sentiment: Add to the list the Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, which until now remains impossible for me to read because I'm busy with equipment design.) I must say no amount of coffee could leach the stain of a straightforward prose so devoid of creativity it reminds you of the solution of a problem involving quadratic equations.

I think I have to allow myself to graduate first before I allow my subconscious to resurface because seriously by that time, all hell will break loose.

At the park, in between deadlines

Stud my brain with dizzying Laplace transforms, a lab report due the next day, faze from barely submitting a 500 word essay on time, and an impending MSU-IIT charter day celebration, and I find myself at the park.

They call it the "children's park," although it would be fitting if they'd call it Lover's Park instead, or, Spawning Children's Park. Ha ha. Couples are sprawled everywhere, particularly on the benches. If you have a partner and you're spotted there, you'd be instant celebrities. People there are infamous for public display of affection. Some even makes you wanna cringe. It's just a 5 minute walk from the campus though, and the isaw there is great. Plus, the Pan-Q (its barbecued bread, yeah they grill it, stuffed with either isaw or grilled hotdog, your choice) and the mango shake are real stress relievers. (If you're coffers are full, kapapadala pa lamang, you can settle for Park to Go's sumptuous pizzas. It's delicious enough for you to wonder why they're in such a place.)

Nothing really out of this world happened while I was there. I just want to believe that I have the luxury of time when in fact every moment I spent expends my compromised minutes and chained hours. Probably it is partly because I had so many things to do that I was confused where to start. Sort of a predator dazed with a zeal of zebras, confused with the stripes and numbers, that it would never dare to attack. But nevertheless, being there is inexplicably necessary for me to get going. Something in the myriad of sights made me stay there. Something in the bicycles laden with crispy chicharon and steaming balut, in the shouts of a group of teens practicing their dance for the baranggay presentation, in the running to and fro of basketball players, or at the sight of many people who probably share my sentiments and went there for the same nonexistent reason. 

I never thought it was a waste of time. To rationalize everything, I just thought indulgences like these prepare oneself for the handwriting on the wall--impending doom brought about by virtue of being a 5th year graduating student.

Jingles, Trips and Falls from Ladders

I reasoned to the security that I'd go get my certificate of completion. Instead, I went and made myself a spectator of their JINGLE COMPETITION. I must say they're really good at transmuting lyrics of popular songs to include their advocacy at working safely. They never really let their creativity harden together with their cement products.

By the way this competition was held at the plant's canteen, and every table was decorated and placed with these friendly postcards whose message always make me smile simply because they remind me of basic life lessons.

Tread lightly. Avoid being hurt. Never let yourself FALL.

Now you're smiling.

Best of Both Worlds

It was a rather balmy morning and by some kind of miracle the OJT Orientation managed to make me feel motivated I could almost sprint all the way to the venue without minding the almost 10 kilometer distance at all.

“Please welcome, our Senior Process Engineer, here to discuss about the cement process flow. Let us all give him a hand.”

Certainly! At the sound of his position, I even thought he could also have my feet. He thanked us, and his next statement hit home.

“I am a Chemical engineer by profession...”

Surprised? No.

Amazed? Na-ah.

Rather, I was happy that a chemical engineer by profession is a senior process engineer, and not a laboratory detainee.

It is a common foreknowledge amongst incoming OJT’s that the stigma brought by the word chemical is very much pronounced even when appended with the word engineering. Hence, I’d already projected to the will of universe that time that even though my course is harder to spell, and takes longer to fully write, I’d still end up doing B.S. Chemistry stuff. And true enough, by the incontrovertible law of attraction, the universe projected it back.

Don’t get me wrong. I love being in the Quality Assurance Department. My supervisors, and of course the manager, are people you can easily get along. They were a very kind group, and somehow, now that the training is over, I miss them. I miss how I greet them good morning when I time in, arguing that a minute before noon is technically, still, morning. I miss how I was asked by the manager to make a calendar of events and how he was surprised by the apparent expertise of how I constructed it, not knowing there are plenty of calendar templates available for download. I miss the feeling of apprehension every time the phone rang simply because I might become my unrefined self and brush telephone etiquette away. I miss being practically drowned in cement samples waiting to be analyzed, and of course, I miss break time moments with employees and fellow trainees alike (especially the free meals and the “kuha lang mog bisag unsa sa canteen, i-charge lang sa akoa” line).

But sentimentality aside, while I was working in the laboratory I felt like singing Streisand’s “A piece of sky,” or Freddie Mercury’s “Break Free.” I have long since harbored the adventurous feeling that chemineers are supposed to crush, grind, agitate, sub-sonically flow, or isenthalpically throttle and not titrate, stir, filter, analytically weigh or precisely standardize. That is, as blatant as Section 4 of Article I of the Chemical Engineering Law which defines chemineering practice as, “… excluding chemical analysis and operation of the chemical laboratory…” However I have to make it clear, that even though at this premise the objective of the training seems to be flawed, I do not undermine the administration’s effort to offer quality apprenticeship and the things I had learned, developed and cultivated during the duration of my worthwhile adventure, and that even though I spent most of my time on the laboratory, there were a couple of instances where I was asked by the process engineers to do nothing short of discharge calibration of conveyor belt for gypsum and maintenance of dryers, valves, cyclones, and other equipment.

The world is not black or white. Having an amazing learning experience both academically and socially doesn’t have to be constrained by the dictums. Yes, I was at the laboratory, mostly, and according to the icy statement it is not definitive of the practice of my profession. But chemical engineering practice does not stop at those criteria. A true chemical engineer is someone who loves being one, who delights in being one, and is proud to declare that he is one despite the apparent misplacement in the laboratory.

“I am a Chemical Engineer by profession…” is insufficient.

“I am a Chemical Engineer by heart…” sums it all.

During my training I was lucky enough to say I had the best of both worlds. True, excursions to the process line might be sporadic due to safety concerns, but the moment it came, I had the most of it. Somehow, my assignment in the lab made me even more eager to discover the art and science of Chemical Engineering.

[06.29.10]

Why did you take up Chemical Engineering, huh, JanMell?

BATTLING INNER WARS By JanMell Dugenio

It’s 7:00 pm. You’re hungry, and then you decide to go out for dinner. You’re walking along Tibanga highway with all the eateries and fast-food chains to flood your vision. You walk to, and when you seemingly reach Gaisano mall, you walk your way back again, and find yourself heading home. Then you pinch yourself, and finally settled on Jollibee. Never mind, you say, that you’re Php40 transmuted into a plate of shanghai rolls and the ever scant rice, a glass of fizzy soda, and one peso. You just needed a clean and well-lighted place, so you could sink your mind into something in need of utmost attention, it feels like your dendrites and axons would shred. You were just given an assignment; call it an onus, a yoke, a terrible joke in the form of an interrogative sentence. The kind of joke that makes you smile but your face reads worry. And then you hear it again—clearly now, quite dreadfully, in a very deep, terrifying tone—you’re teacher saying, “Why did you take up Chemical Engineering?” (Put maniacal laughter, lightning and thunder effects here.)

And then you’re in my shoes.

It was neither an accident that I took up chemical engineering nor was it because I let my index finger play into the course list with my eyes closed, and then I said “Stop!”, and behold, “I’ll take that!” I would have to blame my former third year Chemistry teacher, Mrs. Zyhrine Mayormita, for igniting that spark which fueled my interest towards Chemistry (which later on grew to a conflagration), and when she mentioned that Mr. Edmark Icalina (apparently one of her two favorite students, I am the other one. Ha ha) was taking up Chemical Engineering, my curiosity over the course grew. Moreover, my classmate, and one of my best buddies, said that he too, would take it up, and together with the name that sounds high profile, Engr. (attach name here), I decided to place ChE as my first choice on every admissions exams there are, even on one when ChE is not offered at all.

This is one book whom I've always longed to devour. The approach is fundamental, but not layman, and I believe every disciple of Chemineering must read this by heart if he wants to be good in his craft. Stuff toy not included.

But I never really thought of the deeper reasons behind my adventure. Surely, a teacher’s words and a friend’s enthusiasm are mere bagatelles. With only a year more before I finally finish my B.S., I was put back on a reality check with this assignment, (God, this is even more difficult than being questioned why, given that you are a cactus.)and in the rare event of rummaging through the recesses of my brain I found several reasons. I took up ChE because I thought:

1. Civil Engineering is so hackneyed it has become battered and bruised.

2. ME best suits big boys who can carry a car’s V8 engine, and probably the car, too.

3. I don’t want to be electrocuted. Plus, I find circuits too much of a headache.

4. B.S. Bio is so expensive, I pass out at the thought of paying PhP10,000 for a dive. (And in this category, I would never dare to mention B.S. Nursing. Oh, I just did.)

5. B.S. Chem is too feminine, and the Physics area is gloomy and exudes an air of diffidence that I vowed never to place myself near it.

6. All CASS subjects can be self-taught.

And probably, the one with most sense, and not based purely on whims of a 20 year old who thinks he’s still a child,

7. I think ChE would give me more job opportunities, will make me a dignified and exemplary citizen of the world (in short, rich) and will give me an air of immense intelligence such that when I walk by (put wind effect here), you could hear me saying “Get out of my way”, without opening my mouth, and then everybody says “Whoah!”

Basically, that’s it. I wanted to lift my family’s poverty and put some bills on the coffers. The closest solution that I could think of is to choose a college degree that would best serve my purpose, without squeezing me dry of finances, even if it turns my brain into a dried coral. You see, I am not really good in Math of which my course is teeming. In high school, my idea of the inverse of functions is snoitcnuf. But I toiled, and managed not without adventure, to reach 5^th year without losing the main momentum (euphemism for a GPA which is nice to look at and makes you confident to leave your COR open for anyone to gawk.) It is my family’s future, not just mine, which is at stake. I do believe now, quite seriously, that they are the reason why I took up Chemical engineering.

[06.22.10]