Toss and Turns

Real Love never parades itself outside in the streets, letting everyone know just how real it is. Real Love never needs an agent, a manager or a public relations guy. It doesn’t need an ad campaign or clever salesmen to move its product or drum up business. Real Love rarely sends out flyers to let everyone know it’s in the neighborhood.

Real Love has talent, has a real gift, but it doesn’t orchestrate the camera angles to maximize its potential. And it never has to slip money into an unnoticed hand to get into a gig or sell itself out to slide in through the back door. Real Love is content to wait quietly outside talking to the stage hands.

Real Love never needs a dozen roses and a nice car for the first date, and it doesn’t start out with the lobster and chardonnay. Real Love won’t lie in the heat of the moment to have its way, and it never uses all the right words to get what it wants. Real Love usually takes things slowly and gets better with age.

Real Love smiles even when it’s unfashionable to do so and never holds back tears. It looks good without makeup on and isn’t afraid to go out in public unprepared. Real Love quit rambling on about nothing a long time ago and doesn’t worry that it might not have anything to say right now. Real Love looks you in the eye during the awkward silences.

When it’s treated cruelly or quietly snubbed, Real Love never turns inward or burns spitefully. It never calls up mutual friends to vent in anger or stoops to pettiness to have its revenge.

Real Love is quietly hopeful and devastatingly kind. It’s always on time, and it doesn’t quit just because the shift is over. Real Love is surprising, like a night out under the stars. And though it usually prefers the softest touches, Real Love has strength enough to fend off all other suitors.

Real Love is not a gamble, a ruse or a phase. It’s not faddish or shallow, too young or too old. It’s cross-cultural and counter-cultural and sub-cultural. It doesn’t favor big bank accounts or the most beautiful faces, and it rarely comes around when it’s not called. Real Love likes the lowest voices and shows little respect for the big booming ones, though it doesn’t count them out just because they don’t get it right now.


Real Love is a movement, an affection and an arrow pointing home; it is a peace, a precept and a personality. It knows about forever and ever, and it works just fine in the now and the here. And Real Love doesn’t need a clever tag line at the end to get its point across one last time.

-Eric Hurtgen, via Relevant Magazine

 I met him for the first time around two years ago. I immediately had this weird feeling. Immediate attraction, maybe? Good vibes, yes? But shy (or perhaps just an amateur?) as I am when it comes to such matters I tried to delude myself into thinking that it was just a silly crush. But days, months, and years passed by and the feeling (despite my constant prayers for it to go away) persisted, intensified even. I buried myself in self-help books hoping to find something there that could help me understand or deal with whatever is happening. But the attempt proved to be futile. Outside, I laugh and face people as if nothing's wrong but in my heart there's a storm. I nurtured (am nurturing?) what was (is?) an unusually intense feeling for someone who probably is not even in the least aware of it. What is this feeling? An infatuation, admiration, or just a crush? I dare not label it love, although a very close friend of mine said it probably is. I really don't know, really don't understand. I am afraid, afraid that by focusing my energies and thoughts and feelings on this one person, by hoping that "he" could be "it,"I might have ignored those who truly deserve my affection or even the real "the one." Writing it down, I thought, would help me, but it only aroused in me more questions.

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How do you know when someone is the one for you? And what happens when you let doubt consume the best of you? Read on the story below. I think a lot of people can relate to it. And if you can't relate to it, maybe someday you'll meet someone. When that happens, remember this story and what it's trying to tell you.


On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning
by Haruki Murakami

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

Behold, from the  "Land of Everything Cute" aka Japan.

Creative Barcodes!





Pretty cool, huh?

This made me cry - but what's new, eh?
Anyway, I was blessed by this video and I want to share the blessing to all of you.
Enjoy! Smile! Remember, God's love for us is more than anything we can ever imagine! (:

Matagal na matagal na matagal na panahon na ang lumipas simula noong huling blog entry ko. At sa dami naman ng nangyari, hindi ko alam kung paano at kung alin ang ikukwento. Ganito kasi e, kapag may masayang nangyayari sa buhay ko, iniisip ko agad, "Iba-blog ko ito!" tapos pag-uwi sa bahay, tatamarin ako hanggang sa hindi na magbablog. Pero pag may malungkot na nangyari, walang patumpik-tumpik, habang mangiyak-ngiyak pa ako, nagbablog na ako agad... 'yan tuloy, ang dami kong "emo" entries dito. Sa totoo lang, gusto ko na burahin itong blog na 'to. Paano nahihiya na ko sabihin sa iba ang username ko rito. Natatandaan ko pa dati kausap ko 'yung isa 'kong blockmate, nung sinabi ko sa kanya kung anu yung blog username ko, natawa siya tapos nasabi nya na lang, "Grabe, bata ka pa nga talaga nung ginawa mo yan. Pa-deviant ka pa e." Siyempre, nahiya naman ako, pero natawa rin ako dahil may point sha. At dahil dun, naisip ko, magsisimula akong muli. Gagawa ako ng bagong blog. Pero 'di ko rin itinuloy kasi naman una nasasayangan ako sa kakaunting entries ko rito tapos feel na feel ko pa sinulat lahat yan. Pangalawa, naisip kong, kung ito ngang blog na 'to di ko maupdate-update, bagong blog pa kaya? Pangatlo, tinamad lang talaga ko gumawa at feeling ko kahit anu naman username piliin ko e magiging OA pa rin ang dating kaya kakarerin ko na itong"invertedriddles" na wala talagang sense. Sa totoo lang, ang tagal ko na iniisip kung anu ba talaga ang dahilan, anu ba talaga pumasok sa isip ko, at bakit "invertedriddles" ang ginawa kong username. Isa sa mga suspetsa ko, e nanggaling 'to sa "inverted pyramid" writing... (ito yung paraan ng pagsulat ng News writers). Kaso lang kahit iconsider ko yun, wala pa ring sense kasi hindi ko inaapply sa mga sinusulat ko ang sistemang yaon... saka, san galing 'yung "riddles"? Dun na papasok ang statement ni former blockmate: "Padeviant lang." Okay sige na, padeviant na! Pero dati yun. 

Just like this one I saw posted by a friend from college:

"The worst thing one can do is not to try, to be aware of what one wants and not give in to it, to spend years in silent hurt wondering if something could have materialized - and never knowing." - David Viscott

Now I don't really know who David Viscott is. But I do know what I want and I might never know what could have happened.

Seriously, given the choice, would you prefer to know the outcome or the end even though there's a huge chance that it would only lead to disappointment or would you rather just live with regret, with the "what could have been", where at least you could hold on to that possibility (albeit, a bit small) that it could have turned out right?

There, there. Months of stagnation and all this blog gets is a confusing entry written by a confused me.

On a happier note: there's exactly 75 more days to go before Christmas! :D I can't believe it's that close!

I have loved them way back their "totoy" HUG days. And I love them even more now that they've matured, became more talented, and turned into passionate young men. I have always dreamed of seeing them perform live... and it is only when this happens, that  I could truly, with tears in my eyes and without any regret, bid goodbye to the fangirling chapter of my life. But my beloved group is going through a tough time right now. And all I could do, just like many other fans, is to "Keep the faith." I have never doubted them and I know they could get through this. But then I saw this video... and suddenly I felt  really sad. Suddenly, I am beginning to doubt if I could ever see them perform LIVE as a GROUP. OH, no. 어떻게해야? This video (thanks to Ate Anne for posting) broke my heart. You can really see the "separation" thing going... para bang, "Goodbye, this is it. It's been great but this would be the end." But no. No. This can't be. Waaaah! :'(

There's no room for even the smallest mistake in news writing/reporting especially if you're working for one of the oldest and leading newspapers today. But can you blame reporters for commiting minor mistakes like this every now and then? They're human too, you know.

However, for one of the country's biggest televison networks to commit the same mistake?


Must be the product of the writer's subconscious. Or not. Who knows?

Photo credits: Midfield.

I fell in love with this song the first time I heard it. I loved it more after seeing this video. Sam Beam is a genius.
 

I didn't really want to watch Transformers. I haven't even seen the first movie yet which, according to many,  is definitely a lot better than this one.

But last Friday, I had dinner with some friends/officemates and  they asked me if I wanted to watch Transformers...
so, even when I don't have any plan of watching it...I said yes - just for the heck of it.

It wasn't worth it. That was probably the looooooooongest two hours (or was it 4 or 5 hours???) of my life. Think , "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" long except that BB is much more acceptable.  So, basically, Revenge of the Fallen is a film of million booms, too many lenghty, unnecesary fight scenes amplified by industrial-strength sound effects. It practically screams one word: DRAGGING. Shia Labeouf and Megan Fox looked more like siblings and there was absolutely no chemistry, spark, whatever you call it, between them. So far, the only redeeming aspect of this movie, which some people I knew appreciated, are the visual effects which, personally, I deem too ordinary. Also, it didn't help that it approached a Deus ex Machina-ish ending and has a lot of back-scenes.


I kinda feel sad about Michael Jackson's sudden death.