The Garbage of Baguio

Much to my dismay, the way to school was paved with ridiculous intentions... well, littered with garbage, for that matter. It was paved with ridiculous intentions because no one wants to segragate, therefore, garbage collection is halted.

So much for that article I wrote a semester ago about Engineer's Hill residents finally properly segregating their garbage - the barangay chairman was wrong. Mr. Chairman, you're wrong. You. Are. Wrong. Whenever I walk down Manolo Alley, all I see are tons of garbage and there is no way that people in our Barangay have learned proper segregation. This is stupid.

Apparently, not only our place stinks. The rest of Baguio stinks. Terribly.

"Baguio had won four consecutive titles as the cleanest and greenest highly urbanized city in the 1990s, earning it the pioneer hall of fame title." (http://newsinfo.inquirer.net/breakingnews/regions/view_article.php?article_id=92544)

Huh.

Baguio isn't "clean and green" (VM said so... huh) at all. It's dirty and things are going into an "aberrant" - a word which here means, as Lemony Snicket put it, "into a very, very wrong and causing much grief" -direction.

Simplicity at its Best

Only a few of the beautiful things in life come by my way, if I may say so.

I'm not complaining - I am merely stating one of the facts in my life. In fact, I am saying this because one of the beautiful things in life passed by me today. Something I needed after a rather dissapointing 30 minutes in one of my classes.

I got to touch a little bird - about one-third my fist - and feel its soft feathers.

How wonderful would it be to be able to fly and leave everything behind? Of course if it would be rather ridiculous to want to be a bird, seeing that bird's have relatively small brains. But the point is being able to soar high in the sky, feel the wind rushing in your face and get lost in the clouds.

A Series of Unfortunate Events: A Fortunately Unfortunate Find

A Series of Unfortunate Events: The Hostile Hospital
Lemony Snicket
HarperCollins Publishers
Text copyright © 2001 by Lemony Snicket
Illustrations © 2001 by Brett Helquist
257 pages, illustrations before and after text included

Of the Unfortunate and the Fortunate
Although it is never a good idea for a 13-year old to just go around and pick up a book in a certain bookstore and buy it – all because the author’s letter looked intriguing – without thinking whether the book is part of a series, I am very glad I had picked up The Hostile Hospital.

When I laid my eyes on the phrase “before you throw this awful book to the ground and run as far away from it as possible” from the author’s letter, I knew right away that I had to have the book. So I did buy the book and discovered a little later that The Hostile Hospital is the eighth book among the thirteen books of A Series of Unfortunate Events. It was fairly interesting how I came to know the book when I was a mere 13-year old – while thirteen is a rather unfortunate number, I have reason to believe that having discovered A Series of Unfortunate Events when I was thirteen is very fortunate.
My discovery of the book is indeed fortunate, for I have discovered a book I would cherish for all time but while I am fortunate, I am afraid that I cannot say the same for the characters of this book.

Unfortunate is a word that no one wants to hear – unless, of course, that person is hoping for news such as, “It is unfortunate that your parents have perished in a terrible fire.”

And that line back there, with the exception of the, phrase, “it is unfortunate that,” was exactly what had started the unfortunate events following the lives of the Baudelaire siblings, Violet, Klaus and Sunny.

Unfortunate is never a wrong word to use to describe the lives of the Baudelaire siblings, given that wherever they go, unfortunate events follow them like their own shadows; in this case the phrase “unfortunate events follow them like their own shadows” means “a horrible and disgusting man named Count Olaf has decided that he wants their inheritance so he follows them wherever they go.”

Written by a man who goes by the pseudonym Lemony Snicket – A Series of Unfortunate Events consist of thirteen (which is a very unfortunate number) books telling of the misfortune and strife that the Baudelaire siblings have experienced because of the terrible fire that had engulfed their parents therefore forcing them to live with numerous guardians who have either decided to abandon them or were killed by Count Olaf.

A Half-built Hospital and ‘Cranioectomy’
Violet, Klaus and Sunny Baudelaire’s lives had been plagued with all the probable misfortune in the world. All this misfortune had led them to be accused of killing someone and now they are running for their lives.

In this book, they encounter the Volunteers Fighting Disease and they were mistaken for fellow volunteers, in spite of the fact that they are three wanted children.

Fortunately for the Baudelaires, the Volunteers Fighting Disease do not believe in reading the newspaper for they believe in the line “news is good news,” and they haven’t seen the children in the news stating that they are wanted criminals.

The children then rode a van with the said volunteers to the Heimlich Hospital, a hospital that was half-finished and contained a rather disturbing intercom system.
Upon their arrival, the Baudelaires discovered that Count Olaf had found them and was once again up to his sinister ways. Count Olaf’s evil and fashion-slave-girlfriend, Esmé Squalor (or as she likes to call herself, the city’s sixth most important financial advisor) was also in the picture.

The children decide to work in the hospital’s Library of Records and there they discovered that there was a possibility that one of their parents may have survived the terrible fire that was the beginning of all their misfortune.

Violet, the eldest Baudelaire, was captured by Esmé and unfortunately for the Violet, Count Olaf, disguised as a medical practitioner, hatched a convoluted plan involving surgery for her, which he called cranioectomy ­­– wherein he will saw her head off. Fooling people is one of the things that Olaf did best and unfortunately, when he told the people that cranioectomy was a proper medical procedure, they all believed him.
Klaus, the middle Baudelaire, and Sunny, the youngest Baudelaire, decide to look for their sister in the wards of Heimlich Hospital and discovered that Count Olaf had kept her under the name Laura V. Bleediotee, which is an anagram of her real name.
Now if only they can save their sister before the murderous Count Olaf saws her head off and his treacherous associates torch down Heimlich Hospital and its Library of Records…

How Far Down is the Rabbit Hole?
A Series of Unfortunate Events: The Hostile Hospital is a very interesting read, as the rest of the books in the series are. It gives a vivid description of events that it is almost like one is within the story itself. The contrast between the logical and the frustratingly irrational is enough to keep the reader glued to the seat and keep reading in spite of the danger of being attacked by vicious wolves.

One interesting thing about the book is that whenever a rather difficult word, phrase or thought is introduced, the author explains it to the reader – just like what I have been doing in the past paragraphs. All words, phrases and are defined in context to the book, of course.

A Series of Unfortunate Events is a children’s book, however, I have difficulty agreeing with those who may have insisted that it is so. The book is rather intricate, not to mention frustrating. It doesn’t comply with the usual children’s book that contains the traditional formula; there are no happy endings (unfortunate endings are the theme here) and everything just seems plain confusing. In fact, it seems like the author has “taken a leaf out of Lewis Carroll’s book,” a phrase which here means, “wrote a disturbing book like Lewis Carroll’s famous children’s book, Alice in Wonderland.”
Alice in Wonderland may seem appropriate for a child to read because of its imaginative prose but its disturbing concept would make one wonder, if not haunt anyone who has about half a brain.

Both books have the same disorienting streak, which gives the reader an impression of falling down the rabbit hole, as in Carroll’s book; and if one insists on going down the rabbit hole, one may find oneself in a rather confusing place. The enchantment in A Series of Unfortunate Events lies in its intricately woven details and the confusion. When it comes to this book, the question “how far down is the rabbit hole?” may only be answered with “it depends on whether you want to keep going down.”


Note from the author:
A review of the last book in A Series of Unfortunate Events, which is The End, is soon to follow - along with a full blown review of the series itself.

Always Interesting

Anxiety attacks are often interesting. They give you a sudden rush, faster heart rate, and a slight tendency to deviate from all sanity.

It is always interesting how it can make one a slave by their own doing. It's interesting how that during the past few minutes, I had one and acted, once again, irrationally.

It's really interesting.

Fun Stuff #1


Fooling around with pictures and a photo editor (PhotoFiltre - my Photoshop kept lagging for some reason) got me this. There's nothing spectacular about my editing, but I kind of like this picture.

One, at least I did something last night. Two, this picture has Corlene, Robby, Rozzanne, Jill, Glaiza and Van on it - six good friends of mine.

And by "good friends," I mean really good friends.





Finding Walls That Speak

The inability to hold my bladder for extended periods had made me a regular visitor of public restrooms. Once seated, it cannot be helped that my eyes would wander around the small cubicle, taking in every detail.

Damn.

I don’t know if walls really do have ears, but they sure can talk.

Scrawled all over the door are proclamations of love, political commentary, enough obscenity to last a lifetime, and of course, the usual profanity.

Public restrooms, though public, still offer their visitors a certain degree of privacy, which means that the individual is pretty much left to his or her business. Logically, it is where anyone can write down what they will without the risk of being seen. The sense of anonymity the restroom offers is rather tempting. No wonder people have the courage to write stuff there.

Though it seems that most graffiti can be seen in the restrooms of less refined establishments, it is not always the case. One restroom stall I happened to use in a popular mall actually showcases its own share of graffiti. A sheet of bond paper with numerous handwritings is plastered to the door. Amusingly, it seems like someone tried to remove it, but only succeeded in ripping the edges off, leaving the middle part where most of the writings are.

While most of these graffiti found in public restrooms can be considered hogwash, some can be rather entertaining, not to mention beautiful and inspirational. Also, even though the subject is disgusting, when there are replies to these messages, the reading becomes interesting. The public restroom being exactly that, public – it gives everyone the chance to air their opinion.

Theoretically, people condemn the act of writing anything on public domain, much more those that consist of crass language. On the surface, these writings look like minor cases of vandalism (although, of course, the definition of “minor” is relative). However, what if we look at them in a different light? What if these scrawls across our restroom cubicle walls mean more than what they are saying?

In 1973, Norman Mailer wrote an essay entitled “The Faith of Graffiti” wherein he referred to graffiti as folk art; “the admittedly crass expression of the collective hopes, desires, and fears of the underclass.”

I don’t know how sure he was when he wrote the word “underclass,” (the person who wrote graffiti on the restroom cubicle may be of high status and he or she happened to have an uncontrollable bladder as mine, for all you know) but I have to agree with the rest of the phrase.

Hopes, desires and fears are things people barely talk about under normal circumstances… unless under the influence of alcohol (or something else), that is. These things, however, need to be expressed lest one is courting a heart attack. Expressing oneself is vital in one’s course of life. One is not missing an audience, though. If one writes something within a restroom cubicle, one can assure an audience. In fact, one can even return to the restroom cubicle and there may be a possibility of finding that one’s communicated problems may be answered by other public restroom users who offer their support through humor, advice and even inspirational statements. And then there might also be a lot of wisecracks which are unavoidable.

(Of course, I am talking about female public restrooms. I don’t have any idea what kind of graffiti may be found within the male restrooms, although I think it is safe to say that there is graffiti in there.)

Although the idea that there are deeper reasons to why one would stain a clean wall with ink other than barbarism (it may be recalled that our ancestors wrote on walls… cave walls) seems rather questionable, shedding a little more light into one’s previous notions may be helpful in understanding human nature, which, by the way, happens to work in rather mysteriously disturbing ways.

After all, who are we to judge those who relieve their inner feelings in public restrooms as they relieve their bladder (or even their intestines)? It’s not like we have any sure idea on their motives for writing, anyway. For all we know, the person may be sitting in the restroom cubicle, with the toilet cover down, crying and pouring her heart out on the walls. On the other hand, the person can be on crack – who knows?

One thing is sure though, if you find a restroom cubicle full of graffiti and you’re not someone who is ridiculously disinterested, reading them can give you enough entertainment for the time you are sitting there, doing your business.

Tertiary Education and Randomness: An Autobiography

While there may be some things that I am certain of, like my name (which is, last time I checked, Aubrey Monteroso Angeles) - I was never certain of a lot of things.

I was born November 20, 1988 and I’ll be turning twenty in a few months. At my current age, I don’t think I’m sure that I know what I want or who I am. Not that I am experiencing some sort of identity crisis – what I may be experiencing right now is a dissatisfaction on the current state of things.

So how does one even begin to write an autobiography without sounding so… boring? I don’t want to make this into a chronological account of events. I want it to be more on who I am, rather than what merely happened in my life.

One thing’s for sure: it would pretty much be writing a history of my uncertainties.

Currently, I am a BA Communication student in the University of the Philippines, Baguio. My major is Journalism – I like it, although I don’t recall it being a childhood dream. When I was a kid, I used to dream of being a nurse. It was a typical dream coming from a child whose mother is a nurse. And then I started dreaming of being an architectural engineer. My father is a graduate of mining engineering.

Logically speaking, as a child I dreamt of being what my parents are – or at least partly.

When I was in the fifth grade, most of my teachers recognized my capacity to write well – some insisted that I take up a writing course someday. I, however, had other plans.

The way my mindset changed throughout the course of my young life is rather random; thus, I believe, casting doubt on my sanity.

Ever since I was in kindergarten I had been doodling. By doodle, I mean wasting valuable sheets of paper, drawing big-headed people (literally, of course – think Bratz). As I progressed through elementary years, I was able to produce rather beautiful sketches. I also won a clay sculpture contest (with the help of a fellow “artist”) and a few other art contests. When I entered first year high school, I was starting to think of a life with the arts.

And then the school principal (nosy old nun) decided to put me in the school paper.

Funny, how the school paper changed my life course.

By the time I got the job of associate editor of the literary page, I started thinking of becoming a writer in the future. It wasn’t like it was some sort of epiphany, but it’s something. I forgot all about the arts, eventually (see, most of my editorial cartoons went down the bin, given that my superiors thought I was rather too feminine with my work).

So anyway, all the seminars and press conferences I went to during my secondary years got to me. At my fourth year I became editor-in-chief of the school paper (which by the way, has the lousy name of The Williamite Gazette, courtesy of the school administration – I don’t know if it still has the same name, or if it still exists). I wasn’t so happy with the position as much as other people would have been; given the kind of responsibilities it hauled me into and the kind of people I had to deal with (like the school principal). However, it greatly influenced my way of thinking.

The applications I sent to the University of the Philippines and the University of Sto. Tomas for a tertiary education contained proof of what I believed I wanted to be. A journalism student.

So I guess I wanted to be a journalist. It felt like I was so sure of what I wanted to be. I was one of those people who thought that by the time I entered university life, I would have a map of where I wanted to be.

How clichéd.

It was the second semester of my first year in college that my certainty in my course started diminishing. I took up Philosophical Analysis (Philosophy I) under Professor Leticia Tolentino. I swear, she changed everything. The subject created an undeniable feeling within me – a feeling I prefer calling dissatisfaction.

(The reason why I prefer using the term dissatisfaction will later be revealed.)

One semester later, I took up a course on Social, Political and Economic Philosophy (Social Science II) and Contemporary Philosophy (Philosophy 113), both of which introduced me to abstract thinking. One challenged my interpretation not only of social, political and economic theories but also of human nature, while the other challenged my interpretation of reality itself.

Personal favorites are Machiavelli and Derrida.

Niccolò Machiavelli is an Italian political philosopher whose influential writing (although rather amoral) turned his name into a synonym of deception. He wrote The Prince which made a lasting impression on my mind – given that I adored the fact that Machiavelli implied that to instill fear among one’s subjects is better than instilling love.

As for Jacques Derrida…

Well let’s just put it this way: he pretty much influenced who I am now, how I think, and how I interact with people.

Derrida is a French philosopher who originated deconstruction. A lot of people like to think that they know what deconstruction means, but let me tell you what I think – I don’t think so.

To be able to interpret deconstruction, one has to repeatedly read Derrida and spend days and nights thinking in rather irrational but rational ways.

Deconstruction is a method of analyzing texts based on the theory that language is inherently unstable and shifting. The reader, rather than the author, is central in determining meaning.

This means that I am not giving you anything at all. What you get from this that I have written is your interpretation of what I have written. Since meaning is arbitrary and to “understand” is to take something as meant, I have enough guts to tell you that you are merely interpreting what I have written – not “understanding.” The original meaning of what I have written is lost upon another’s interpretation.

Only I know what I mean, after all. The rest of you are just… speculating.

So now I come to the part on why I keep calling this that I am feeling, dissatisfaction. A lot of people may say that it’s probably guilt or regret – however, let me remind you that I think in different ways. The way you see things is definitely not the way I see things. For example, you say impression management, I say deception.

But enough of that.

If anyone’s having trouble interpreting the way I am thinking, they can look up those two guys I mentioned back there.

I then took up Modern Philosophy the following semester, which pretty much sealed the insanity in. Honestly, I am not having any trouble seeing the borderlines of insanity, since I may cross it any day now. Mind you, I think I know how to get back.

Combine me and all the philosophy courses I’ve taken up and what do you get? A Journalism student who wants to embark on a life with philosophy. Yes, that definitely destroys everything.

For almost three years, I have been dealing with the fact that I want to shift to another course, but not being able to do so. It’s not that I hate Journalism, I just want something else.

However, I can't just shift to another course; while lots of people shift courses whenever they feel that the course they are in is not right, my case is rather different.

One, my parents, Ricardo and Asuncion, didn’t force me into Journalism. Although they had preferred that I be in the medicine profession, when they learnt that I “wanted” to become a journalist, they set aside what they wanted and let me be what I wanted to be.

After some time, my parents got over the fact that I wasn’t going to be in the medicine profession. Before long, they were starting to become excited over me becoming a journalist. My father used to tell me that as long as it makes me happy, they’ll be there to support me.

And then, I realized that I wanted to be in another profession. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t. I’m not trying to be a martyr. I’m merely trying to be fair. My parents let me have my way once and became happy for me, so I guess I can do the same for them. Of course, I’m not happy in the sense of the dictionary meaning of the word, more like, happy in a rather convoluted way.

Happy in a convoluted way. Yeah, let’s stick with that.

Two, it’s my mother’s brother who’s paying for my tuition. While shifting to another course in the form of Philosophy is tempting, I don’t want hard-earned money to go to waste. I’m trying to be rational; it doesn’t rain money, after all.

Three, if I graduate with a degree in Philosophy, teaching is a number one option. I tend to over-analyze things, therefore, I think I will make my students’ lives complicated. Besides, I don’t think that a teaching career will help me achieve any of my long-term goals. Taking a Philosophy course in the Philippines is not ideal.

On the other hand, if I do shift to a course in Philosophy, I think that this feeling of dissatisfaction will ebb away. Besides, Philosophy welcomes me and my insanity. It entertains my randomness in ways Journalism doesn’t, won’t, can't.

Over-analysis of things is a hobby of mine; call it an illness if you will. It brings forth paranoia, that which I am rather familiar of. Paranoia is something that Journalism forces out of me but follows me in the deepest recesses of my mind.

I’ve become rather paranoid over the years since I began my tertiary education. I do not know whether it has something to do with my course or anything else that I have in my life right now – but I am quite sure that it makes my blood rush into various parts of my body whenever my heart beats faster than normal, thus, keeping my blood from clotting wherever, which in turn, keeps me alive.

Anyway, there’s not a single chance that I will shift to a course in Philosophy now. I am now in my senior year. Hopefully, I’ll be able to graduate at April 2009. For the time being, I just have to set aside what I want for what there is.

Oftentimes, I like to think that Journalism and its nature of rationality is supposed to drive me into normalcy. So far, the only thing it’s driven me into is far more peculiarity.

June 2008