I've managed to fill my day.
I met my students from the only class I have today and I'm happy to report that they did not succeed in jumping on me with their brown rubber iguana. HAHAHA!
I met and tortured, I mean tutored Kim, Kring's second-grade little brother, after lunch for his Reading and Language periodical exams, and we enjoyed lots of snacks. Tita even brought Mc snacks later in the afternoon. I'm such a sucker for food. Gawd!
And at five, Jackie, my co-adviser and I met with the II-Amorsolo parents (only nine of 23, I'm disappointed to say) and we discussed some matters. It's sad that we only managed to resolve half of what we planned on accomplishing. I hope that eventually everything will be settled soon.
And so far, that's it. We also got our delayed salary today, and we all were upset to learn of the increase in our witholding taxes. I'm not really familiar with all these tax talk, but I do hope that this raise in the witholding tax would eventually be for the good of all the Filipinos, and of our nation as well. Haay...
Friday, October 17, 2008
Umnggthz...
...
Nakakainip.
Nakakainis.
Nakakabadtrip.
What is?
To wake up to an empty day.
But I'm hopeful that today will turn out fine.
Umnggthz...
Nakakainip.
Nakakainis.
Nakakabadtrip.
What is?
To wake up to an empty day.
But I'm hopeful that today will turn out fine.
Umnggthz...
Monday, September 29, 2008
How dads can be so supportive
Gregorio del Pilar has a boyfriend.
Gregorio del Pilar used to be eye candy for a thirteen-year old girl. He still is even when she is already twenty-three.
But the eye-candy turned out to like lollipops, too. No more hope for that girl; otherwise called "Me."
I sort of ran into dear old Gregorio recently. And about him are vines, vines that brought me news of his true identity. My young wards (etch, governess?), who were with me, were shocked. Our common friends were incredulous for a second (yes, for only a second). It's not surprising, that's what most of them assured me.
"Ahay," is all they could say.
My dad was less sympathetic. I told him, "Dad, remember Gregorio del Pilar? He has a boyfriend. (Sniffles, sniffles.)"
If daddy was sitting on a stool instead of a chair with a backrest, he could've toppled over with laughter. So much about filial love. (Sniffles, sniffles).
Monday, September 22, 2008
Ode to my Yosi Boy
For people who hurt there is one thing that they reach for to ease the pain that they feel.
Some people reach for the phone and talk or text to their friends, telling them they are okay when they actually aren't, perhaps only saying so to assure not their friends but themselves.
Some people reach out more personally, like going home to curl up in daddy's arms or cry buckets on mommy's breasts.
Some tend to be less vegetative and rather let out the [party] animal in them--perhaps they would reach out for that bottle of Red Horse or that videoke microphone and belt out "I Will Survive" or "I Did it My Way."
Still, for some other people they reach for a variety of things--some opt for the steering wheel and the welcoming wide stretch of the orange-lighted highway at 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning, for some who believe in God, they reach for the rosary or the Bible, and let themselves be comforted by the Holy Word.
Some, on the other hand, instead of drowning their tears in beer or sending up prayers into the Heavens, or letting whoever is in Heaven take pity on their road-racing souls, like to simply fog out reality in a blanket of cigarette smoke. Smothering themselves in intoxicating tar and nicotine is a way for some people to breathe freely.
But what happens when that single thing that you always reach for when you want to breathe suddenly turns out to be a reminder of the allergen that had set off your asthma? What do you do when everytime you inhale the sweet, menthol taste of tobacco and everytime you let that taste take over you, you remember how somebody used to do the same thing to you? What do you do when instead of smoke rising above your head, you see his face and instead of the cigarette smell, you smell his hair?
What do you do?
Some people reach for the phone and talk or text to their friends, telling them they are okay when they actually aren't, perhaps only saying so to assure not their friends but themselves.
Some people reach out more personally, like going home to curl up in daddy's arms or cry buckets on mommy's breasts.
Some tend to be less vegetative and rather let out the [party] animal in them--perhaps they would reach out for that bottle of Red Horse or that videoke microphone and belt out "I Will Survive" or "I Did it My Way."
Still, for some other people they reach for a variety of things--some opt for the steering wheel and the welcoming wide stretch of the orange-lighted highway at 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning, for some who believe in God, they reach for the rosary or the Bible, and let themselves be comforted by the Holy Word.
Some, on the other hand, instead of drowning their tears in beer or sending up prayers into the Heavens, or letting whoever is in Heaven take pity on their road-racing souls, like to simply fog out reality in a blanket of cigarette smoke. Smothering themselves in intoxicating tar and nicotine is a way for some people to breathe freely.
But what happens when that single thing that you always reach for when you want to breathe suddenly turns out to be a reminder of the allergen that had set off your asthma? What do you do when everytime you inhale the sweet, menthol taste of tobacco and everytime you let that taste take over you, you remember how somebody used to do the same thing to you? What do you do when instead of smoke rising above your head, you see his face and instead of the cigarette smell, you smell his hair?
What do you do?
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Restaging a show put on by a formerly abhored artist, and loving every second of it
Who'd have thought that after ten years, I would be back where I've started?
It's just funny that this time I'm on the opposite side of the teacher's table, and honestly, I am still stunned that I found myself once again on this place that has made me into, well, me.
It's been only a mere three months since I've started teaching in INHS- School for the Arts, and believe it or not, I've managed, in a couple of occassions, to do what Sir Rex had done several times during our high school stay in this crazyhouse --yank open each locker door and throw out messy/wet/smelly tshirts and leotards and undershirts, and dirty socks and sneakers from Girbaud to Chucks, and Algebra workbooks, and unwashed lunchboxes (which shouldn't have been in there, in the first place) in a perfect 180 degrees trajectory out the door!
May my students forgive me but yes, I simply couldn't help it. Perhaps it came from impulse, that ugly little red nerve threatening to burst inside my brain that twenty four kids managed to switch on just by being very messy, very irresponsible, very snotty, very foul-mouthed, and ugly-mannered, and very everything!
But then perhaps it also came from wanting to try to do that very thing-- what seemed to my 14 (or was it 15?) -year old mind as an act that was full of flair, full of extravagance, a memorable finale to an impulsive reaction from an abhored yet idolized teacher of Biology. And so perhaps I simply wanted an encore performance, starring myself.
Thank you, Sir Rex for inspiring me to break plastic garbage cans by throwing them in the middle of the room for the sad reason of being unemptied, and to experience the sheer thrill of letting an Algebra workbook fly!
It's just funny that this time I'm on the opposite side of the teacher's table, and honestly, I am still stunned that I found myself once again on this place that has made me into, well, me.
It's been only a mere three months since I've started teaching in INHS- School for the Arts, and believe it or not, I've managed, in a couple of occassions, to do what Sir Rex had done several times during our high school stay in this crazyhouse --yank open each locker door and throw out messy/wet/smelly tshirts and leotards and undershirts, and dirty socks and sneakers from Girbaud to Chucks, and Algebra workbooks, and unwashed lunchboxes (which shouldn't have been in there, in the first place) in a perfect 180 degrees trajectory out the door!
May my students forgive me but yes, I simply couldn't help it. Perhaps it came from impulse, that ugly little red nerve threatening to burst inside my brain that twenty four kids managed to switch on just by being very messy, very irresponsible, very snotty, very foul-mouthed, and ugly-mannered, and very everything!
But then perhaps it also came from wanting to try to do that very thing-- what seemed to my 14 (or was it 15?) -year old mind as an act that was full of flair, full of extravagance, a memorable finale to an impulsive reaction from an abhored yet idolized teacher of Biology. And so perhaps I simply wanted an encore performance, starring myself.
Thank you, Sir Rex for inspiring me to break plastic garbage cans by throwing them in the middle of the room for the sad reason of being unemptied, and to experience the sheer thrill of letting an Algebra workbook fly!
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