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narodnikkki
philippines. buddhism. history. literature.
 
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DREAM JOURNAL COLLECTION Part One


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2013 JAN 20. weird dream.snippets remain. most forgotten. general atmosphere of dread and doom. end of the world. i was talking with someone outside the front door of someone's house. it was a dark night and from there i could see something weird happening in the sky. the moon was weird too and the stars also. they were too beautiful and intense, so crystal clear. then something whirled into existence. it was a beautiful spiral galaxy filled with countless stars. then it started moving towards us. getting bigger and bigger. i though this is it, the end of the world. it finally arrived and it was so bright. but it was only light. end of dream.

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2013 JAN 21. dreamt this afternoon that i was in a car with lolo l and palparan. the latter was in front. we were at the back. lolo l was wearing what i thought at first was a npa cap, but later it turns out to be an mnlf cap. weird. palparan was talking and cracking jokes. i think we killed him later, and also his bodyguard or associate, big guy. i hit him with a chair until he broke down like a piece of old furniture. weird dream.

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This dream journal I am starting again. [Inspired by Colson Whitehead's 'How to Write' article in the New York Times.] I started one a long time before, but could not stick to it. Hopefully I can this time. Today is April 5, Friday. The weather is warm to hot, it is summer already. I have trapped myself in my room in order to stimulate my brain to create new and enticing ideas, a method I imagine is similar to that employed by the medieval period monastics. I will add later the first dream if I can recall it. It was an interesting dream, I think. Maybe I'll recall it later. No worries though. The idea is to keep this thing light-hearted. It is but a lowly dream journal, not a treatise on how to improve the economic, moral and political situation of my country.

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2013 APR 29. A dream I had earlier. It was a trip to the market. I remember being inside the jeepney, on the spot near the exit, as is my usual preference. Everything was dark or badly illuminated, like rain is about to fall. There was an acquiantance there with me, though I am not sure who he is, or to what purpose is he riding with me in that jeepney for. The jeepney stops for a moment to drop off a person. I don't know if it was the person I was with or another passenger. But then we arrived at our destination - the market. There was something weird with that market. It was small and the stalls are cement counters upon which are laid the various merchandise. The front half is well-lighted and more open/airy, while the inner-half is dark, as if the electricity died for a while.

I remember going in and being surprised by the variety of the things they sold there. For something so remote and provincial, they sure had a lot of urban things to sell. One episode in there I recall strongly was this girl who steals a yellow flip-flop. She just pulls, or rather tries to pull it out of the bunch of flip-flops, but is unable to and she instead pulls the whole bunch along with the one she's after. She struggles, while all the other market-people - sellers and potential buyers are looking at her. Some are laughing at her pathetic attempt at theft. I was looking to. Finally she frees the flip-flops then runs out of the market.

The last part of the dream, I was sitting on the cement sidewalk of the market, looking at a store or a bakery, I am not sure. I remember there's a large umbrella like the one you see in beaches, under which are arranged a plastic table and its corresponding chairs. Then my memory fades out after that, and moments later I wake up.

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2012 MAY 27. so it rained really hard this afternoon, and i was half-asleep during it. in my dream, the band soad could not play in the venue because they discovered upon arriving that it is a huge dumpsite. literally. disgusting close-up details of garbage and disgusting things. there is a log/electric pole that is used to move from one part of a structure to the other. the log would move because it was not anchored properly. to anchor the log properly, someone have to turn the log slightly from above and have someone from below plug the hole at the bottom of the log into the hole in the ground thereby connecting both holes. i was at the top of the structure, while at the base below are members of soad seated on a picnic table. the weird short guy helped me anchor the log into the ground. another incident in the dream is these tricycles running haphazardly and almost hitting me in their mindless rush. it was a dark alley, sort of like that street between balay kalinaw and ilang-ilang dormitory. these were all disjointed in my recollection now, but there must have been a connection between these events while I was dreaming them.

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testing
Tags: testing
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Do not blur the boundaries.

Remember William Gibson's dictum on separating the fiction from the non-fiction.

Non-fiction too often gets personal.

Though it does not have to.

You could write about other things, besides yourself.

David Markson writes this way.

Chuck Palahniuk was a mechanic before becoming a writer.

The truth is I'm really bored and have nothing to do.

So I started to search for those topics that really interested me.

Like Buddhism.

Like Taoism.

Like Confucianism.

Rectification of names.

Wei wu wei.

It is pointless though to just state facts. There has to be an overarching point or theme or meaning somewhere.

Though it must not be too in-your-face.

The reader must search for it between the paragraphs, between the sentences.

In the library of Jose Rizal, there was a copy of the Kama Sutra.

In the GMA films introduction to their movies in the cinemas, the actor playing Rizal is seen with a rosary wrapped in his hand.

'greater revolutions have often resulted from the quiet musings of the genius and the gentle virtue of the man of wisdom than from the violence of all-powerful tyrants.' August Ludwig von Schlozer (1735-1809)

Finished reading Richard K. Morgan's 'Altered Carbon.' I highly recommend it. I believe it is the way cyberpunk is supposed to be written. A problem I see though is that there are too many characters and I often get lost with who is doing this and why.

Poppy Z. Brite is another author I like. Or rather liked. Since reading, or rather attempting to read, 'Drawing Blood', my feelings have become mixed. I liked her 'Wormwood' collection of short stories much more.

Numerous anthologies suck. Rare to find good stories. 'Soft' by F. Paul Wilson. That short story by Dan Simmons where the cause of cancer are found to be these weird vampire things. The ending to that was intense.

Remembered the feeling of first encountering the character Dr. Manhattan. Though I like Rorschach best.

V for Vendetta. 'By the power of truth, I while living have conquered the universe.'

Gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha

The People Power Revolution which ousted the dictatorship of Ferdinand Marcos in the Philippines was a failure. The country is still ruled by the same families that have ruled it since at least the 1930s. Read 'An Anarchy of Families' by Alfred W. McCoy.

There was a buddhist statuette found in the city of Butuan. It was called the Golden Tara. The original is in the Chicago Museum. It was found during the American period.

Anarchist thoughts were among the ideas imported to the Philippines by the writer-journalist-researcher-folklorist-politician Filipino Isabelo de los Reyes.

In the novel of Jose Rizal, El Filibusterismo, the cynical anarchist character Simoun reveals to Basilio his plan - a bomb disguised as a glass lamp in the shape of a pomegranate which he would send as a gift to the wedding party of a young couple where the alta sociedad and the rulers and influential people of the country will be attending.

Plan failed.

Nationalism based on novels. Fiction or non-fiction? Rizal claimed in the intro to the Penguin edition by that American guy, that he can prove the truthfulness of the accounts and events in the novels.

In the epic Lam-ang, Lam-ang bathed in a river. He was so dirty that all the fish died.

Young girls must confess their sins, even ones they already confessed to have done, to the friar. 'Is someone courting you, child?'

In a short story by Carlos Bulosan, there is an episode where a Filipino migrant worker in the United States was lynched by a mob of Americans. They cut off his tongue. His guts were spilled out. He was hung on a tree.

In the biography of Luis Taruc, there is a long poetic lament enjoining the reader to never forget the travesties and injustices committed by the government to the poor farmers and peasants of Central Luzon. Villages burnt, people killed, by the military.

Struggling to categorize these new people they encountered, American soldiers during the Filipino-American war simply called the Filipinos 'niggers.' Source: Howard Zinn's 'A People's History of the United States.'
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Found an old poem
[recently i found a hidden stash of documents in my old laptop. this was one of the poems i wrote that i found there. i wrote this four years ago. i think it's not that bad. but it's not that good either.] 

 DEvotion 

the blood from my bleeding heart falls on her face 

its flowing now and she starts to choke 

she gags and makes choking noises like ackkk, whok 

i say, what the fuck, go away, you'll choke 

but then she looks at me with her sad pretty eyes and 

she tells me that she is worshipping me, that she loves me that she has devoted her entire life for me 

that she will die for me. 

and i tell her, what the fuck lady, can't you just live an ordinary life like all ordinary people? 

can't you instead of being canned in this place go out 

and have a family, a devoted husband, nice adorable kids? 

For the love of God, learn to live woman. 

And she looks at me sadly, dejectedly, and then she swallows some more 

blood and later she chokes to death because i cannot stop the flow
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why hello there
Tags: smile

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at the meeting for indigenous people's education
at the meeting for indigenous people's education

they speak like it's their first time to ever speak, they pour out everything. it embarasses me to see them so free and unconstrained in expressing their feelings. this volunteer teacher spoke about how she chose to stay in her community, to help the children there. tears are streaming from her face. she's speaking in her indigenous language, then in Cebuano, then she translates into Tagalog and English, so everything's a mixture of flowing emotions and languages. it was one of the more beautiful things i've ever had the privilege to witness.
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Thoughts on the Mountains, a Poem
Thoughts on the Mountains


Every day I go to work,
I sit inside the jeepney,
and stare outside at the mountains.

Each day I don't see the mountains,
I feel irritable and shallow,
like I am wasting my time here
doing this thing, when I could be
outside there with the breeze on my face
and my mountains filling the horizon.

I am possessive of the mountains,
I look at the mountains and feel
that none of the people here sitting
with me inside the jeepney,
truly appreciates them.

For they are beautiful and so huge,
just look at how blue they are from afar
but not so far that you can't see 
some details like that really tall tree at the top
of that peak.

I want to spend my days just sitting on my porch 
in front of my house with no other people for miles,
just staring at the mountains.
And now look at those white clouds, so fine and delicate,
circling some peaks.

It comforts me to think that these mountains will still be here
thousands of years after all these people here inside the jeepney
have gone out of existence. 
 
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List of things to do
always with the lists. little accomplishments.


especially with the sleeping part
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Samples of my handwriting
here are some sample of my handwriting:



i take notes a lot. mostly half-baked ideas. things that would be good to write something about. tidbits of inspiration. funny dialogues. reminders. this one i wrote at the back of those print-outs they give you after you return a book in my library. 

here's another:



i have no real organized note-taking method. i just write on whatever scrap of paper i can immediately get my hands on. i prefer to write not on those formal, expensive 3 x 5 index cards, but on those which have a more 'ephemeral-ness' to it. these were maybe a year ago. 

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so i made this a long time ago while in the university. because i was bored. 


it's supposed to be 'cyberpunk-ish' but looking at it even then, i just don't have the technical abilities to bring the ideas into fruition. but the effort is there. we can see it in the bold lines and the repetitive half-metallic half-biological look of the tentacle thingies. one of the tentacles also look like an umbilical cord. but why is this particular umbilical cord located at the back? maybe it's not an umbilical cord or life-support cord, but a sort of tentacle hook and there's a giant tentacle monster there in there hiding somewhere.

it took a long-ish period of concentration to really come up with this half-assed composition. but i am glad i did it. just for the sake of having finished something, scratched an artistic itch if you will.

i don't remember where the words in the background came from. i do remember reading a lot of political works then. it's probably from a noam chomsky book. 
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