squarnitle

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Relaxing.
Fear Fail. ugh
Refreshing.
If I'd ask, you'd probably say no.
Reinvigorating.
If I don't ask soon, you will say no.
Releasing.
If I never ask, I'll never have to know.
Relapsing.
Whoever said "Ignorance is bliss" is an idiot. :|
Ready.





 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Point.

It's not enough.

Point.

Action must be had.
 
Point.

Fear.

Ergo,

Nothing.

Where did the Jboys mostly end up in?

Reply naman kayo.

why is the schedule for Physics so funky?

schedule breaking fjalkdjf;aeuwjrajdfl;kja;eoiuja;oidkjf;laewijfi!

so I've canceled my physics in favorfrom chem.

Which I need.

But that puts me 5 units less than what's suggested.

BUHAY.

:-<

**Second edit, added more parts and fixed some minor errors.

as always, comments and suggestions please!**

Helm, Hand, Heart

“Tighter,” you say, as the armourer yanks on the helmet's straps. You shake your head, checking if the helmet fits snugly. The black bars of the helmet's face mask fade out of focus as you squint through them, your eyes adjusting to the sudden loss of clarity.

The armourer flashes you a double thumbs up. After nodding in reply, your weapon, a meter-long foam insulated wooden dowel wrapped in blue polyester, is placed into your right hand. Gripping it tightly, you look across the arena, seeing a blob of red in the distance. It's your opponent, for this round. The referee calls you and your oppenent into the ring.

The eight meter by eight meter square seems like ample room to move about, the one meter wide warning perimeter shining bright against the blue tile floor. You look around, noticing one electric scoreboard being manned by an official at your 1:30 position. Across him, or to your 7:30, sits another such board, similarly manned. Your opponent stands a meter in front of you, his features masked by his red leather helmet. The referee walks in and starts the match, commanding both of you to salute.

“Unang labanan.”

You stand at attention as you gauge your opponent. Tall, imposing and armoured in red, he fits the bill for his organization's president. You stand taller, trying to mask the small nervous movements you're undoubtedly doing, a year's worth of bragging rights for the organization you lead being up for grabs. Removing any traces of emotion, you hope that the mien of passivity induces fear. Your rival does the same, shoring up his mind game.

“Handa!”

On its own, your weapon hand swings up, tracing patterns through the air. He copies you, his pattern even more elaborate, attempting to make you doubt your own ability. It doesn't work.

“LABAN!”

Both of you lunge forward, attempting to gain points with each strike. At each engagement you trade blows, alternating from hooking the legs and weaving out of range to charging forward and striking the helmet or chestplate. Despite the apparent nonchalance you both show, each strike's report betrays the speed and power used in each attack. After some assaults, the match is stopped to replace sticks destroyed. Teammates tease you about this, shouting, “ Sumusulit ah, the tournanment fee you paid's been reimbursed.”

Both of you race to score five points before the other. You win the first round.

Pangalawang Labanan.

Panting, your throat starts to dry, breathing becoming more of a chore than a reflex. You had planned this out, blowing through his defense in round one then abusing his shattered morale i n the second, but even willing your body to relax just enough to put up a decent defense next round seems impossible. You hope he's as tired as you are.

Handa!

Instead of the usual flourish, your weapon raises and slams down on your shin, producing a resounding boom. The display of bravado doesn't go unnoticed. He roars his defiance as the transient crowds of SM Megamall look on.

LABAN!

You're badly swamped by the fatigue and outmatched by your rival's stamina. Despite using unorthodox techniques to break his set strategy, he easily eats you up boverpowering your defenses. Your actions feel slower and awkward, prompting you to start going on the defensive. Noticing the sudden loss of aggresiveness, he bellows before engaging, breaking not just his stick on your helmet, but your morale as well. Too preoccupied with denying him points, you merely ignore his attempts. Nevertheless, his assault overwhelms your attempts at sallying forth from your beseiged position. Both of you work hard to score points, but he still gets the final blow, the both score boards showing two- three in his favor..

Pangatlong Labanan.

Again, you attempt to rally your strength, your second wind arriving just in time. Your limbs lighten, the weight of the helmet suddenly being a mere feather in your cap. Although your throat's still dry, it's easier to breathe.

Handa.

Not only do you attempt to shock your rival with the shin strike, you also start to favor your left hand for attack. Although very risky, it serves its purpose as a distraction. He bellows his amusement, brushing off your feeble attempt to strike fear, countering with his own psychological attack. This time, your legs cringe at the thought of facing him again, but you're confident you can match his strength and ferocity with your speed and finesse.

LABAN!

You decide to be surgical with your strikes, striking once or twice at each encounter. Your opponent feels the sudden shift in strategy and renews his assault. His ferocity is equally matched by your speed, each blow countered, neither gaining points or giving any away. In the end, you switch back to your more domimant side; both of you falling back to basics, going for the easier but more sure combinations, both score boards slowly creeping to five.

“HINTO!”

Both of you stop in your tracks as the ref stands between you, pushing outwards like Bernardo Caprio against his stone prison. Time runs out with both of you at four points each on one board, two-all on the other. The referee gestures for both of you to turn and sit. As you both comply, the referee and judges convene at the referee's command.

You take advantage of the sudden inactivity to gauge the fatigue you've accumulated.

You're tired. Your body starts to complain about the stress of resting, itching to get moving. Your calves start to lock up, refusing to ascede to the electrical impulses emanating from its control center. Your mind starts wandering, each thought a strange re-play of the fight looking for holes in Red's defense. Each one devolves into you spread-eagled on the floor, bleeding from a 300-inspired jumping-stab-to-the-chest. You cringe at the possibility of a similar scene occuring (with less blood of course).

The referee and judges walk back to thier stations. The referee commands you both to stand, holding out his fists in front of his chest and bringing them together like a boxer before his fight.

“Sudden death,” the ref declares as he gestures, “first clean hit wins.”

You steel yourself for the sudden bursts in speed that are sure to come. You can sense your opponent doing the same. Your imagination ignites, blurring reality, making you feel like a strange mix of Moro warrior, Japanese samurai and Medieval knight.

The ref extends his hand forward, creating a imaginary wall in between the both of you. Your imagination runs wild, the crowd becoming trees and the small box you'd been fighting in transforming into a battlefield strewn with dead horses and corpses of men. He becomes a red armored samurai, armed with a German zweihander sword (literally translated as “Twohander”). You weild a bolo, but are armored in blue painted gauntlets and helm of a medieval knight and bamboo armor of a Japanese footman for your torso.

HANDA!

You bring your machete into position in silence as he singlehandedly swings his zweihander in intricate patterns with no apparent effort, shouting his challenge.

LABAN!

You hesitate in your attack, hoping to catch your opponent in his pre-attack draw. You're a second too early in your lunge. The impact of his counter returns you back to the present. You're still shaken by the ease his avatar in your strange hallucination decapitateed you.

The crowd goes silent as excitement builds. You fake a strike at his head then hook for his legs. He catches your face mask as you reach for his legs from a near-prone stance, causing the metal grill to ring. Your strike passes muster with the judges to be considered a strike to his calf, nullifying his near point.

He goes for your leg this time, but you reciprocate his earlier blow with one to the side of his helmet. He staggers for half a second, but returns to his ready position. Niether judge gives it a point.

You tense up, preparing to to strike his side. A second before you launch, he strikes your hip. In those few miliseconds, your stick swings out of its own accord, reaching out to a target – no longer there. Time stops but the world keeps moving. Your rival wins.

The ref officially ends the match, formally declaring the winner of the bout. After saluting to each other, you extend your hand and shake his. You finally see him without his helmet. He's surprisingly younger looking than you are.

“Beautiful shot,” you say as he shakes it. “Rematch?”

He grins, then nods.

“Why not?”

** This is Creative Non-Fiction for my CW10 class. I need comments storywise, character wise, etc etc. **

Helm, Hand, Heart

“Tighter,” you say, as the armourer yanks on the helmet's straps. You shake your head, checking if the helmet fits snugly. The black bars of the helmet's face mask fade out of focus as you squint through them, your eyes adjusting to the sudden loss of clarity. The armourer flashes you a double thumbs up. After nodding in reply, your weapon, a meter-long foam insulated wooden dowel wrapped in blue polyester, is handed to you. The referee calls you and your opponent into the ring. Both of you salute at the referee's command.

“Unang labanan.”

You stand at attention as you gauge your opponent. Tall, imposing and armoured in red, he fits the bill for his organization's president. You stand taller, trying to mask the small nervous movements you're undoubtedly doing, a year's worth of bragging rights for the organization you lead being up for grabs. Removing any traces of emotion, you hope that the mien of passivity induces fear. Your rival does the same, shoring up his mind game.

“Handa!”

On its own, your weapon hand swings up, tracing patterns through the air. He copies you, elaborating his pattern to make you doubt your own ability. It doesn't work.

“LABAN!”

Both of you lunge forward, attempting to gain points with each strike. At each engagement you trade blows, alternating from hooking the legs and weaving out of range to charging forward and striking the helmet or chestplate. Each strike's report betrays the speed and power used in each attack. Both of you race to score five points before the other. You win the first round.

Pangalawang Labanan.

Panting, your throat starts to dry, breathing has become more of a chore than a reflex. You had planned this out, blowing through his defense in round one then whittling his shattered morale in the second, but even willing your body to relax just enough to put up a decent defense next round seems impossible. You hope he's as tired as you are.

Handa!

Instead of the usual flourish, your weapon raises and slams down on your shin, producing a resounding boom. The display of bravado doesn't go unnoticed. He roars his defiance as the transient crowds of SM Megamall look on.

LABAN!

You're badly swamped by the fatigue and outmatched by your rival's stamina. He easily eats you up, despite using unorthodox movements to evade most of his blows. Your actions feel slower, prompting you to start going on the defensive. He attempts to whittle your will to fight by bellowing before engaging. Too preoccupied with denying him points, you merely ignore his attempts. Both of you work hard to score four points, but he still gets the final blow.

Pangatlong Labanan.

Again, you attempt to rally your strength, your second wind arriving just in time. Your limbs lighten, the weight of the helmet suddenly being a mere feather in your cap. Although your throat's still dry, it's easier to breathe.

Handa.

You attempt to shock your rival with the shin strike. He bellows his amusement, brushing off your feeble attempt to strike fear, countering with his own psychological attack. This time, your legs cringe at the thought of facing him again, but you're confident you can match his strength and ferocity with your speed and finesse.

LABAN!

You decide to be surgical with your strikes, striking once or twice at each encounter. Your opponent feels the sudden shift in strategy and renews his assault. His ferocity is equally matched by your speed, each blow countered, neither gaining points or giving any away. Both of you fall back to basics, going for the easier combinations, both score boards slowly creeping to five.

“HINTO!”

Both of you stop in your tracks as the ref stands between you, extending his palm. Time runs out with both of you at four points each on one board, two-all on the other. The referee gestures for both of you to turn and sit. As you both comply, the referee and judges convene at the referee's command.

You take advantage of the sudden inactivity to gauge the fatigue you've accumulated.

You're tired. Your body starts to complain about the stress of resting, itching to get moving. Your calves start to lock up, refusing to accede to the electrical impulses emanating from the control center. Your mind starts wandering, each thought a strange re-play of the fight looking for holes in the Red's defense. Each one devolves into you spread-eagled on the floor, bleeding from a 300-inspired-jumping-stab-to-the-chest. You cringe at the possibility

.

The referee and judges walk back to their stations. The referee commands you both to stand, holding out his fists in front of his chest and bringing them together like a boxer before his fight.

“Sudden death,” the ref declares as he gestures, “first clean hit wins.”

You steel yourself for the sudden bursts in speed that are sure to come. You can sense your opponent doing the same. Your imagination ignites, blurring reality, making you feel like a strange mix of Moro warrior, Japanese samurai and Medieval knight.

The ref extends his hand forward, creating a imaginary wall in between the both of you. Your imagination runs wild, the crowd becoming trees and the small box you'd been fighting in transforming into a battlefield strewn with dead horses and the corpses of men. He becomes a red armored samurai, armed with a German zweihander sword (literally translated as “Twohander”). You wield a bolo, but are armored in blue painted gauntlets and helm of a medieval knight and bamboo armor of a Japanese footman for your torso.

HANDA!

You bring your machete into position in silence as he effortlessly swings the zweihander in intricate patterns, shouting his challenge.

LABAN!

You hesitate in your attack, hoping to catch your opponent in his pre-attack draw. You're a second too early in your lunge. The impact of his counter returns you back to the present. You're still shaken by the ease his avatar in your strange hallucination decapitated you.

The crowd goes silent as excitement builds. You fake a strike at his head then hook for his legs. He catches your face mask as you reach for his legs from a near-prone stance, causing the metal grill to ring. Your strike passes muster with the judges to be considered a strike to his calf, nullifying his near point.

He goes for your leg this time, but you reciprocate his earlier blow with one to the side of his helmet. He staggers for half a second, but returns to his ready position. Niether judge gives it a point.

You tense up, preparing to to strike his side. A second before you launch, he strikes your hip. In those few miliseconds, your stick swings out of its own accord, reaching out to a target – no longer there. Time stops but the world keeps moving. Your rival wins.

The ref officially ends the match, formally delcaring the winner of the bout. After saluting to each other, you extend your hand and shake his. You finally see him with out his helmet. He's surprisingly younger looking than you are.

“Beautiful shot,” you say as he shakes it. “Rematch?”

He grins, then nods.

“Why not?”

 

     It's been a long time since I've blogged seriously.
This entry happens to be a little sad, but I've learned that things I don't wwrite end u sounding ridiculous in my head.


Para 'di ma pikon kayo sa akin after the short essay.


     Christmas time has arrived yet again. I've gotten my loot, enjoyed the festivities and more or less relaxed. Yet something stirs me to regretfully say, "Parang kulang."
     Christmas Eve Mass has always been the point of culmination of Advent for my family. After the mass, we troop to my Lola's house to have the Noche Buena, wating for the clocks to strike twelve. Then the gifts are given.
     But that's not what I want to talk (or write) about.
     Christmas Eve Mass in our village has always had our village choir carol the mass goers, before the mass and after communion. Songs vary from year to year, but Kumukutikutitap and Eto Nanaman are the songs I always want to hear conming from our choir. It's no surprise I've always more or less followed the songs. The choir used to practice In Lola's house, she was a member.
     It's been four years since she's passed, and yet it only hit me yesterday as I heard the choir singing thier carols. They didn't sing the songs I looked for.
     I enjoyed the singing, the carolling, but that's not what I think I miss. I miss my Lola, and it's sucks that it's only hit me now, a full four years later, to realize that.
   
     My 5 cents I suppose.

-besides the GBA emulator 

Lap

On one side stands the naked bronze effigy of intellectual freedom, facing the uninspiringly (but aptly) named University Avenue, welcoming -with its nakedness- visitors and passers-by into the oblate rotunda. Various vehicles, ranging from stainless steel smoke spewing jeeps to aluminum framed bicycles flow right, keeping to one side of the road. The other side of the orbital road is devoid of vehicular traffic, being reserved for the bikers, pedestrians and athletes.

Everyday, at least one person can be seen pounding along the the road, in a hurry to get nowhere. Each one charges forward, passing by the various statues, halls and roadside eateries, not paying attention to any of these, but the rush of wind across their ears and the potential obstacles ahead.

After the Oblation, Vargas Museum is the next landmark, a few hundred meters away, with its overgrown statues seemingly forgotten at the back. Not much is of interest besides the statue of a Datu that guards over the driveway.

Right next to Vargas Museum lies Rizal Hall. Better known as the old CAL or new FC, instantly noticeable are the nude statues at the front, dancing and prancing to an unheard tune.

Across this lies a watering hole for bikers, students and runners, Plato Wraps and Pancit Canton calling to those hungry from all the calorie burning. It's not unusual to see a group of cyclists resting while watching the runners, cars, jeeps and students pass by.

Palma Hall, or AS, comes next, with its well known, all purpose “tambayan” facing the road. The Steps tell runners that they're more or less halfway through this side of the oval. Across it, is its parking lot, the domain of Upsilon (or at least one side), and the multipurpose hall of the CSSP.

OASH, Palma Hall Annex (or PHAn) and Education (what the name of their hall is, I don't know) succeed AS. The occasional jeep parks by Educ(ation), barkers calling out for commuters to Katipunan Avenue.

Vinzons Hall, with its jeepney terminal clogging the road, signals the start of the curve. The amphitheatre opposite it serves either as a starting point or halfway mark, it being directly across the Oblation.

The Economics building (Diosdado Macapagal Hall, if I recall correctly), comes next, with its fabled clean bathrooms – with hand blowers – and (from what I heard) an air conditioned cafeteria/ student lounge with free wi-fi. Next door, the Business Administration building's statue, in the form of a ray gun, declares that this leg of the oval is done.

Next up are Law – The Isaw Mecca – and Engineering. Law, being behind Eng'g, is not technically on the oval itself, but the mere fact that one can see Maryknollers (aka, Miriam students) and Ateneans flocking here to get some grilled chicken or pork intestines makes it a valid landmark.

Eng'g facade is quite similar to AS, except it takes up the length equal to the front facing parts of AS, PHAn and OASH combined.

The Sunken Garden lies opposite of the aforementioned buildings. Footballs, Frisbees and Rugby diamonds fly about as amateurs and varsity members engage in their sports.

Tennis courts adorn the right of the street, the satisfying sound of greenish yellow spheres striking synthetic fibers filling the air.

The UP Film Center, with its proud sign, comes next. Runners are seemingly unfazed at the interesting films that are shown here. People have stopped and taken pictures of these titles and their posters (me being one of them). Titles like “Adam and Steve”, “Nagalit ang Buwan sa Haba ng Gabi”, “Cyber Daddy”, and “Quickie” attract quite a lot of attention.

The University Theatre follows, along with the newly renovated Carillion. Nothing much to see, except the occasional banner.

Abelardo Hall follows, with the strains of music emanating from its windows. Jazz chords, trumpets, tubas and drums cause an accidental harmony and impromptu concerts entertain those willing to listen. Others move on or move faster, as the music only rewards them with the knowledge of being finished with a lap (or half lap, if they started at the amphitheatre.)

Back again to the naked man.

He waits, welcoming the pilgrims for education with his nakedness.

-Francis Peter C, Vesagas
2008-2144
I BS Biology

Blargh.
When random thoughts strike across the desert of my mind, they roam like nomads.
Noticed only when convoys are raided or when oases are suddenly alive.

-- Slogans/Mottoes for a story(if my subconcious allows me to write one down)
 What sharper blade than Silence?
 What tougher shield then Conviction?
 What colder bolt than Sorrow?
 What sharper whip than Hope?

(Eric, feel free to post your set here.
Might use them if my mind allows me to gather a coherent story. Permission if ever ?)

There are just times when you just want to reach out,
'cause words aren't enough to say what you mean to say.

Is awkwardness a defence from pain?

blargh.

CW requires me to create an LJ...

Mind this not.


--ooh it works!--

:D hello LJ!