According to the Chinese calendar, New Year's has just come and gone. It's now the Year of the Dog, and depending on which Feng Shui experts you've consulted, we're either headed for a troublesome year or an optimistic outlook.
I believe that I'm Chinese enough to realize that you really can't phrase the traditional New Year greeting into Pinyin English without making it look really strange when read. So I'll just keep it simple: Happy New Year, everyone.
I'm still busy at work, so if you've got any stories I have to read, or pictures I have to see, or animations I have to watch, I'll have to ask that you wait a little longer. My schedule should free itself up somewhere in the middle of this week, I hope. Maybe I'll have enough time to get back to writing.
Of course, I'm horrible with schedules... they tend to sneak up and bite me on the leg whenever I'm not looking. But hey, an educated guess is usually better than no guess at all.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Absence Without Official Leave
Hmmm... interesting.
It's obvious that I haven't posted here for a while. In the interim, however, I've taken to analyzing the nature of blog visits as well as audience presence, and I'm surprised to see that most of my initial assumptions were correct.
For anyone who's been wondering why I haven't been around lately, you're welcome to select any or all of my excuses from the following list:
Despite these reasons, however, part of me can't help but think that my ending of the Suman Latik posts may have precipitated this to some degree. I'll admit that I found the Suman posts to be refreshingly... regular. That is, whenever a Wednesday rolled around, I would find myself making a mental note to sit in front of the computer later that same evening, and write. Just write.
The Suman posts made me worry for my constant updates as well. How would you feel, for instance, if you placed a Wednesday post online, only to find that it was hovering directly above your previous consecutive Wednesday post? You'd be ashamed at not updating your blog more often, that's how you'd feel. It was probably more obvious on my part, seeing that I was using the same Suman Latik image week after week.
In a sense, therefore, it was the Suman posts that were getting me to write something at least three times a week. No kidding there.
That, I think, puts a certain idea into the realm of consideration: What could I write as a weekly feature for this blog? It would have to be vague enough to support multiple attempts at writing, yet curious enough to attract the attention of a multifaceted audience. I'd rather not have to write fiction every week (for fear of burnout), and I'm sure that those few readers I have would not appreciate me airing my vituperations on a regular schedule. On the other hand, I also want to make sure that I feature something totally different from what most other blogs are doing out there.
I suspect that I can't really just decide on something and proceed to do it. I find that the successful endeavors, the real deals, the great journeys, all often grow out of a completely unassuming routine. It could be that the key to a weekly feature lies somewhere in the stuff I'm already writing; It could also be that I'll find inspiration in somebody else's blog or web site. Who knows, really? Who knows?
All the same, however, I'll be looking around for a bit. There's probably something interesting that I can find somewhere...
It's obvious that I haven't posted here for a while. In the interim, however, I've taken to analyzing the nature of blog visits as well as audience presence, and I'm surprised to see that most of my initial assumptions were correct.
For anyone who's been wondering why I haven't been around lately, you're welcome to select any or all of my excuses from the following list:
1. I've been busy at work. The new general manager hasn't come in yet, we're experiencing a staff exodus common to most companies at the start of each year, and I find myself doing everything at work that I really shouldn't be doing at all.
2. I've been coming home late. If it's not because of work, it's because of the planning sessions for my sister's 18th birthday. Hey, somebody's got to scare all the hormone-driven young men away. :)
3. I've been playing a lot of computer games. Sometimes when you're sitting in front of the computer late at night, there's nothing much else you feel like doing that doesn't involve stomping on rogue Koopa Troopas.
4. Er... my dog ate it.
Despite these reasons, however, part of me can't help but think that my ending of the Suman Latik posts may have precipitated this to some degree. I'll admit that I found the Suman posts to be refreshingly... regular. That is, whenever a Wednesday rolled around, I would find myself making a mental note to sit in front of the computer later that same evening, and write. Just write.
The Suman posts made me worry for my constant updates as well. How would you feel, for instance, if you placed a Wednesday post online, only to find that it was hovering directly above your previous consecutive Wednesday post? You'd be ashamed at not updating your blog more often, that's how you'd feel. It was probably more obvious on my part, seeing that I was using the same Suman Latik image week after week.
In a sense, therefore, it was the Suman posts that were getting me to write something at least three times a week. No kidding there.
That, I think, puts a certain idea into the realm of consideration: What could I write as a weekly feature for this blog? It would have to be vague enough to support multiple attempts at writing, yet curious enough to attract the attention of a multifaceted audience. I'd rather not have to write fiction every week (for fear of burnout), and I'm sure that those few readers I have would not appreciate me airing my vituperations on a regular schedule. On the other hand, I also want to make sure that I feature something totally different from what most other blogs are doing out there.
I suspect that I can't really just decide on something and proceed to do it. I find that the successful endeavors, the real deals, the great journeys, all often grow out of a completely unassuming routine. It could be that the key to a weekly feature lies somewhere in the stuff I'm already writing; It could also be that I'll find inspiration in somebody else's blog or web site. Who knows, really? Who knows?
All the same, however, I'll be looking around for a bit. There's probably something interesting that I can find somewhere...
Monday, January 23, 2006
Blog Theory
Sean's Note: The results of the 2005 Philippine Blog Awards have produced a bit of a controversy in the blogosphere. Some quarters have pointed out a number of needs for improvement in its process, particularly with regards to mechanics, marketing and general judging. Others have openly questioned the credibility of the awards, and have denounced the fact that no concrete criteria was established prior to the contest in the first place.
Despite the fact that I have no direct involvement in the organization that gives out the Philippine Blog Awards, and despite the fact that I'm more of a shifty-eyed weasel than I am a proper blogger, I feel as though I have to react to these recent developments. My words here do not intend to defend any honors I have received from such authoritarian entities, nor do I expect a greater audience to stop, listen, and take them to heart. I write what I write here because I feel that it should be said. I write what I write here because I think it makes sense, and frankly, that's all that matters to me.
So what makes a good blog?
Let's be serious, now: There's got to be a number of worthwhile blogs on the Internet. Otherwise, you wouldn't be reading them regularly, now wouldn't you?
Of course there are a bunch of worthwhile blogs out there. Any Internet reader will probably be able to show you his or her collection of bookmarks and favorite links. The chances are good that there will be at least one or two regularly-visited online journals, or news feeds, or recipe books, or event handlers, or whatever in there.
Heck, most bloggers themselves have this handy little thing called a "blogroll" that tells you exactly what places the writer tends to visit. In a way, it's like a suggested reading list: If you liked this work, then you can try reading other works by authors of similar mind or interest.
But then, I shouldn't be explaining this to you, right? If you're reading this, then you're most likely aware of weblogs as a whole, what they're like, and how they work. I can probably take it in good faith that you either have a weblog yourself, or had one before, or are planning to establish one in the future.
Seeing that you're obviously qualified for rational discussion on the matter, I can sit back and ask you my question without any trace of discomfort: What makes a good blog?
...uh huh.
...mm-hmm.
...yes, quite so.
...good point.
...uh huh.
All right, then. But we have to remember that you're not the only one reading this article. There's a whole multitude of people reading this as well; some, perhaps, at this very moment. We can't assume that you're the only one who answered my first question, after all.
So, I give you my second question: Do you think that your answer perfectly agrees with that of every other person reading this article?
...
...
No.
Unequivocally, no.
Every person out there looks for different qualities in what he or she reads. Some look for friendship and fellowship. Some look for enlightening experiences. Some look for laughter and entertainment. Each and every one of us has his or her own preferences. There is no single specific group of characteristics that defines what a good piece of writing is. There is no single specific group of characteristics that defines what a good blog is like.
You can probably make such a case for every positive quality that we see in a blog. After all, while certain aspects may be important to some readers, these same aspects may mean little more than chicken scratches to others. It's obvious that each such quality does not have the same level of significance to each and every person out there!
Let's take popularity, for example. Popularity, you say? Hah! What does it mean, really, if a blog is popular? A site may draw a significant audience, but we must really ask ourselves how it's drawing them in. I could theoretically create a brand, spanking-new blog that shows nothing but pictures of naked women in hardcore sex positions, and it would obviously draw a large segment of the international male population. But would you nominate me for the Blog Awards simply because of my blog's popularity?
How about writing? Some people would make the argument that any blog with good writing deserves an award. But in truth, writing doesn't mean anything by itself. I mean, I could spin stories that make children laugh. I could write words that make men weep. I could read rhymes that espouse the beauty of life and bring fulfillment to the human soul. But what if I somehow manage to write all this, and yet decide to keep it all to myself? Do I deserve to be nominated for the Blog Awards despite the fact that I have no devout readers who can testify to my strengths?
So is it a question of influence, then? Is it a question of audience and regular readership? To that, I ask this: What's the difference between audience influence and popularity? You could make the argument that there must be something that the audience sees, something in the blogger's style, technique and presentation that allows him to exert influence over such a wide stable of readers -- but then you'd fall back to the questions of how and why. Could I then create a blog that caters to an existing audience (Philatelists? Musicians? Reality TV fans?) and cruise to a Blog Awards nomination on my newfound influence? Or what if I create a blog that just happens to promote blogs themselves, generating an audience through the many writers and RSS feeds with whom I come into contact? Should that automatically qualify me for a nomination?
Okay, then what about linkage? Can I theoretically whore out my blog's address to every single aggregator, place it on every journal collection I can think of, produce thousands and thousands of hits on Google, and expect myself to be nominated on the sheer number of links alone?
Hard-hitting commentary, perhaps? I mean, it draws readers, right? Sure, but does that mean that I can write a blog that insults every entity in existence and expect a nomination just for my plucky, balls-to-the-wall attitude?
Prolific writing, perhaps? Does that mean that I deserve to get nominated just because I happen to post something three times a day on a regular basis, regardless of the quality of my resulting work?
Layout and design? Please. Do you mean to tell me that I can have the prettiest-looking blog on the face of the earth and score a nomination for the Blog Awards regardless of whatever I've written inside?
I don't think that much more needs to be said at this point. The answer to each and every one of these questions is obvious. Can we -- should we -- do we even deserve to qualify for a set of Blog Awards nominations on the strength of a single one of the above qualities alone?
...
Yes.
...
Hell, yes.
What makes a good blog, we wonder? What makes a good blog stand out from the rest? After all, we've already named more than a few positive qualities that can evidently not stand on their own.
That, however, does not automatically mean that we can discard them, either.
Good blogs do not depend on the weight of a single one of the above qualities, but are a consensus of all of them. That's what it is, really: a Consensus. It's all of the given factors taken together and judged with an equally significant weight for each.
A blog can be nominated for popularity, for example, and it can be acknowledged for such -- even if the blog in question is merely a glorified porn site.
A blog can be nominated for good writing, and be acknowledged for that. A blog can be nominated for its influence across a wide audience, and it will be acknowledged for that. A blog can be nominated for its sheer number of referring links, its spotlight on relevant issues, its prolificacy in updates, its awesome graphic design, and millions of other aspects... and it will be acknowledged for those.
But a blog will be judged on the sum of its combined qualities. Each of the factors will be given an equally significant weighing with regards to the whole.
That is what a consensus is, ladies and gentlemen. It is an agreement between multiple entities who each have different ideas as to what makes a good blog in the first place.
That, I believe, is the essence of a true Blog Awards. We may or may not agree with any final decision that comes forth, but we must never let it be said that we do not try to accomplish this despite the differences. We should not judge a blog on the basis of a single quality that we just happen to hold higher than the rest of the reader population, if only because of the presence of a reader population in the first place.
There are aspects of quality out there other than the ones we hold close to our hearts. We can rant and rave all we want about whether or not certain things fulfill what we like to see in a weblog, but when it comes right down to it, we have to look at the big picture. We have to take things in as a whole. We need to reach a consensus with those around us.
The question is not what you think makes a good weblog, but what we all think makes a good weblog.
In the end, I believe that that's what matters.
...
Despite the fact that I have no direct involvement in the organization that gives out the Philippine Blog Awards, and despite the fact that I'm more of a shifty-eyed weasel than I am a proper blogger, I feel as though I have to react to these recent developments. My words here do not intend to defend any honors I have received from such authoritarian entities, nor do I expect a greater audience to stop, listen, and take them to heart. I write what I write here because I feel that it should be said. I write what I write here because I think it makes sense, and frankly, that's all that matters to me.
So what makes a good blog?
Let's be serious, now: There's got to be a number of worthwhile blogs on the Internet. Otherwise, you wouldn't be reading them regularly, now wouldn't you?
Of course there are a bunch of worthwhile blogs out there. Any Internet reader will probably be able to show you his or her collection of bookmarks and favorite links. The chances are good that there will be at least one or two regularly-visited online journals, or news feeds, or recipe books, or event handlers, or whatever in there.
Heck, most bloggers themselves have this handy little thing called a "blogroll" that tells you exactly what places the writer tends to visit. In a way, it's like a suggested reading list: If you liked this work, then you can try reading other works by authors of similar mind or interest.
But then, I shouldn't be explaining this to you, right? If you're reading this, then you're most likely aware of weblogs as a whole, what they're like, and how they work. I can probably take it in good faith that you either have a weblog yourself, or had one before, or are planning to establish one in the future.
Seeing that you're obviously qualified for rational discussion on the matter, I can sit back and ask you my question without any trace of discomfort: What makes a good blog?
...uh huh.
...mm-hmm.
...yes, quite so.
...good point.
...uh huh.
All right, then. But we have to remember that you're not the only one reading this article. There's a whole multitude of people reading this as well; some, perhaps, at this very moment. We can't assume that you're the only one who answered my first question, after all.
So, I give you my second question: Do you think that your answer perfectly agrees with that of every other person reading this article?
...
...
No.
Unequivocally, no.
Every person out there looks for different qualities in what he or she reads. Some look for friendship and fellowship. Some look for enlightening experiences. Some look for laughter and entertainment. Each and every one of us has his or her own preferences. There is no single specific group of characteristics that defines what a good piece of writing is. There is no single specific group of characteristics that defines what a good blog is like.
You can probably make such a case for every positive quality that we see in a blog. After all, while certain aspects may be important to some readers, these same aspects may mean little more than chicken scratches to others. It's obvious that each such quality does not have the same level of significance to each and every person out there!
Let's take popularity, for example. Popularity, you say? Hah! What does it mean, really, if a blog is popular? A site may draw a significant audience, but we must really ask ourselves how it's drawing them in. I could theoretically create a brand, spanking-new blog that shows nothing but pictures of naked women in hardcore sex positions, and it would obviously draw a large segment of the international male population. But would you nominate me for the Blog Awards simply because of my blog's popularity?
How about writing? Some people would make the argument that any blog with good writing deserves an award. But in truth, writing doesn't mean anything by itself. I mean, I could spin stories that make children laugh. I could write words that make men weep. I could read rhymes that espouse the beauty of life and bring fulfillment to the human soul. But what if I somehow manage to write all this, and yet decide to keep it all to myself? Do I deserve to be nominated for the Blog Awards despite the fact that I have no devout readers who can testify to my strengths?
So is it a question of influence, then? Is it a question of audience and regular readership? To that, I ask this: What's the difference between audience influence and popularity? You could make the argument that there must be something that the audience sees, something in the blogger's style, technique and presentation that allows him to exert influence over such a wide stable of readers -- but then you'd fall back to the questions of how and why. Could I then create a blog that caters to an existing audience (Philatelists? Musicians? Reality TV fans?) and cruise to a Blog Awards nomination on my newfound influence? Or what if I create a blog that just happens to promote blogs themselves, generating an audience through the many writers and RSS feeds with whom I come into contact? Should that automatically qualify me for a nomination?
Okay, then what about linkage? Can I theoretically whore out my blog's address to every single aggregator, place it on every journal collection I can think of, produce thousands and thousands of hits on Google, and expect myself to be nominated on the sheer number of links alone?
Hard-hitting commentary, perhaps? I mean, it draws readers, right? Sure, but does that mean that I can write a blog that insults every entity in existence and expect a nomination just for my plucky, balls-to-the-wall attitude?
Prolific writing, perhaps? Does that mean that I deserve to get nominated just because I happen to post something three times a day on a regular basis, regardless of the quality of my resulting work?
Layout and design? Please. Do you mean to tell me that I can have the prettiest-looking blog on the face of the earth and score a nomination for the Blog Awards regardless of whatever I've written inside?
I don't think that much more needs to be said at this point. The answer to each and every one of these questions is obvious. Can we -- should we -- do we even deserve to qualify for a set of Blog Awards nominations on the strength of a single one of the above qualities alone?
...
Yes.
...
Hell, yes.
What makes a good blog, we wonder? What makes a good blog stand out from the rest? After all, we've already named more than a few positive qualities that can evidently not stand on their own.
That, however, does not automatically mean that we can discard them, either.
Good blogs do not depend on the weight of a single one of the above qualities, but are a consensus of all of them. That's what it is, really: a Consensus. It's all of the given factors taken together and judged with an equally significant weight for each.
A blog can be nominated for popularity, for example, and it can be acknowledged for such -- even if the blog in question is merely a glorified porn site.
A blog can be nominated for good writing, and be acknowledged for that. A blog can be nominated for its influence across a wide audience, and it will be acknowledged for that. A blog can be nominated for its sheer number of referring links, its spotlight on relevant issues, its prolificacy in updates, its awesome graphic design, and millions of other aspects... and it will be acknowledged for those.
But a blog will be judged on the sum of its combined qualities. Each of the factors will be given an equally significant weighing with regards to the whole.
That is what a consensus is, ladies and gentlemen. It is an agreement between multiple entities who each have different ideas as to what makes a good blog in the first place.
That, I believe, is the essence of a true Blog Awards. We may or may not agree with any final decision that comes forth, but we must never let it be said that we do not try to accomplish this despite the differences. We should not judge a blog on the basis of a single quality that we just happen to hold higher than the rest of the reader population, if only because of the presence of a reader population in the first place.
There are aspects of quality out there other than the ones we hold close to our hearts. We can rant and rave all we want about whether or not certain things fulfill what we like to see in a weblog, but when it comes right down to it, we have to look at the big picture. We have to take things in as a whole. We need to reach a consensus with those around us.
The question is not what you think makes a good weblog, but what we all think makes a good weblog.
In the end, I believe that that's what matters.
...
Thursday, January 19, 2006
A Few Little Tweaks
It's Wednesday night (Thursday morning, actually), and the deadline for the Draconic Fiction Anthology has just elapsed. I was fortunately able to attach something to an e-mail at around 11:45 pm and send it in as a submission, although at this point in time, I'm not quite sure how it's going to turn out. It'll come to be regarded as either a work of genius or an abomination of nature, I suppose.
I actually went on leave for the whole day today, slept until noon, and then spent the afternoon and the evening pounding out drafts on the computer. I went through five or six drafts before I came up with one that I finished, and so I tweaked that and sent it in. I'm not particularly satisfied with it, if anyone's wondering; it's probably workable, but I need at least one or two more days to find out what I did wrong and what I did right.
I've observed that I need a lot of "lead time" before I come up with a legible short story. Apart from the long process of figuring out the plots, the characters and the settings in my head, I need at least two or three days to come up with a succession of drafts. I don't think that this is a normal practice, mind you, but more of a personal thing -- it's akin to rattling away at a typewriter, occasionally tearing out old drafts and tossing them into the wastebasket.
Obsession-compulsion, perhaps? I doubt it. I like tweaking finished drafts, yes, but if I ever leave something unfinished, it's usually because I've lost interest in the work somehow. And if a work is so bad that I find myself losing interest right in the middle of the narrative, then I'll almost certainly leave it behind without looking back. I lose more drafts that way, yes.
And if you think that this is bad, must I remind you that the deadline for the Fully Booked writing contest is on the 28th of February? Once again, it's time to get cracking, guys.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Draconic
I'm still trying to think up a Dragon story.
In the midst of heavy work, staff problems, independent projects, L5R, bedside reading, Photoshop wrangling and Super Metroid, I'm still trying to think up a Dragon story.
Writing a Dragon story is easy, really. Any writer can put together a nice Dragon story. It's the search for a different Dragon story that's taking up most of my time.
My deadline's on Wednesday, and I'm still trying to think up a Dragon story.
I just wanted to say that.
...
...
Ah, well. Back to work now.
In the midst of heavy work, staff problems, independent projects, L5R, bedside reading, Photoshop wrangling and Super Metroid, I'm still trying to think up a Dragon story.
Writing a Dragon story is easy, really. Any writer can put together a nice Dragon story. It's the search for a different Dragon story that's taking up most of my time.
My deadline's on Wednesday, and I'm still trying to think up a Dragon story.
I just wanted to say that.
...
...
Ah, well. Back to work now.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Who Watches
Dominique was nice enough to inform me yesterday afternoon that the local Powerbooks was selling copies of Watchmen again. Seeing as it's one of the items on my list that I hoped I'd get for Christmas (but didn't), I dropped by later that same evening to pick it up. Dominique, for that matter, was nice enough to let me borrow his discount card for the duration of the sale.
Watchmen, for the non-readers out there, is one of the greater works of the last century. Time Magazine has it in their list of the 100 Greatest Novels of all Time (circa October 2005), in fact. It is an utterly fantastic read that covers an alternate version of our modern world, and it offers us glimpses into the flawed and often disjointed personalities that human heroism often wears. It's a comic, but it can definitely not be judged by the fact that it's "just" a comic.
I first read the book back in college and loved it then. Seven years later, I apparently still love it enough to shell out a good chunk of cash for a copy. And seven years later, the book still holds the power to keep me turning the pages -- I went to bed at 4:30 am last night, just going through the story.
Good books are like that, I think. You don't just read them once and put them away; you read them, remember them, and when that memory sparks in your mind one cold day seven years later, you wish that they were in your hands once again.
You can always tell whether or not a book is loved. These books are invariably scratched, folded, dogeared, marked and stained. Their spines are broken in more than once place. Their covers are long gone, torn completely off their pages by the mere passage of time. Their words are smudged or crumbling in particularly favored passages.
This could be why I don't like people who have private libraries. I think you know the type -- the rich, dapper ones who manage to have an entire room dedicated to shelves and shelves of formal hardcovers. I spend hours in those places. I look at the glass displays, frown in dismay at the fact that they're locked shut, and generally give people a look that says, But does he actually read these?
Strangely enough, there's even a Feng Shui tenet that advises people to fill rooms with books in order to subconsciously absorb the knowledge within. Sad, but true.
Of course, Watchmen isn't the only item on my list of good reading. I've covered a small selection before, and even that doesn't scratch the surface of what I read, like and love. The best part about good books, of course, is that barring a catastrophic occurrence that affects the universe as we know it, books like these will continue to be written.
All that remains, then, is for us to find the time to drop by the nearest place and pick them up. They may cost us only two bits, or they may cost us a whole roll of bills, but if they stand out in our memories so well, then at least we know that they're well worth the experience.
In my opinion, everyone out there should have a book that they're constantly looking for.
Here's to more of their kind. In both ways, yes.
Watchmen, for the non-readers out there, is one of the greater works of the last century. Time Magazine has it in their list of the 100 Greatest Novels of all Time (circa October 2005), in fact. It is an utterly fantastic read that covers an alternate version of our modern world, and it offers us glimpses into the flawed and often disjointed personalities that human heroism often wears. It's a comic, but it can definitely not be judged by the fact that it's "just" a comic.
I first read the book back in college and loved it then. Seven years later, I apparently still love it enough to shell out a good chunk of cash for a copy. And seven years later, the book still holds the power to keep me turning the pages -- I went to bed at 4:30 am last night, just going through the story.
Good books are like that, I think. You don't just read them once and put them away; you read them, remember them, and when that memory sparks in your mind one cold day seven years later, you wish that they were in your hands once again.
You can always tell whether or not a book is loved. These books are invariably scratched, folded, dogeared, marked and stained. Their spines are broken in more than once place. Their covers are long gone, torn completely off their pages by the mere passage of time. Their words are smudged or crumbling in particularly favored passages.
This could be why I don't like people who have private libraries. I think you know the type -- the rich, dapper ones who manage to have an entire room dedicated to shelves and shelves of formal hardcovers. I spend hours in those places. I look at the glass displays, frown in dismay at the fact that they're locked shut, and generally give people a look that says, But does he actually read these?
Strangely enough, there's even a Feng Shui tenet that advises people to fill rooms with books in order to subconsciously absorb the knowledge within. Sad, but true.
Of course, Watchmen isn't the only item on my list of good reading. I've covered a small selection before, and even that doesn't scratch the surface of what I read, like and love. The best part about good books, of course, is that barring a catastrophic occurrence that affects the universe as we know it, books like these will continue to be written.
All that remains, then, is for us to find the time to drop by the nearest place and pick them up. They may cost us only two bits, or they may cost us a whole roll of bills, but if they stand out in our memories so well, then at least we know that they're well worth the experience.
In my opinion, everyone out there should have a book that they're constantly looking for.
Here's to more of their kind. In both ways, yes.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Monday, January 09, 2006
"We're Not Bad People."
He was about six inches shorter than me, his hair had considerably thinned, and his tiny eyeglasses did little to dispel the effect of his age. As the traffic moved around us, I noticed that he was wearing a blue shirt... although I could merely have been mistaken about the color. It was dark, after all.
"We're not bad people," he told me, and I realized that a little girl -- presumably his daughter -- was hugging him about the knees. A tall woman, close enough to look like his wife, hovered in the background. All three of them were watching me intently.
"You see, sir," he said, "we thought that you were a Chinese or a Japanese."
"No," I said, "I understand what you're saying."
He breathed what seemed to be a sigh of relief. They had been walking around since 4:30 in the afternoon, he explained, because they wanted to drop by the church across the street. The pastor there was a friend, he said. By the time they arrived, however, they found out that he had left work early, and so they decided to go home.
It was only when they reached the station, however, that they realized that they were out of money. "This is the first time it's happened," the old man said, "and we should have checked before we left. We went back to the church to ask the pastor's secretary for fare, but by the time we got there, she was already gone."
The little girl was still staring at me, as though I was some foreign ogre to be feared.
"So...?" I asked.
He told me that they lived somewhere in Bataan or something like that. In truth, I wasn't really listening. Chances were good that, in the encroaching evening of the business district, there would inevitably be one or two people who find themselves trapped by the lack of funds.
My mother used to tell me this story: Once, many years ago, there was this beggar who came to their front door to ask for money to buy food. My mother was only a young married woman then, and she felt sorry for the poor man. So she told him to wait there, and went back inside for her purse.
On the way back out, she ran into my father, who asked her what she was doing. "There's a beggar at the front door," she told him, "and he's asking for a little money so that he can buy food."
"Don't give him anything," my father said. "He's just going to take advantage of you."
But my mother ignored him then, and gave the beggar some money. And the man thanked her and went off.
The next day, the man appeared at the front door again. Once again, he asked for money to buy food, and once again, my mother went inside to get her purse.
This time, however, my father was waiting. "Why not," he ventured, "just give him some food to begin with? We have some bread left over." And my mother agreed that this was a good idea, and gave the beggar some pieces of bread from the kitchen. But when she returned, my father beckoned her to the nearest window, and said, "Watch carefully."
And as they both watched, they saw the beggar spill the bread onto the street, curse a couple of times, and walk away.
My mother never forgot that lesson, and neither shall I.
It was foremost on my mind when the old man finished his story. "All we need is a little money," he said, "just so that we can get home. We've been here since 4:30."
The woman behind him remained silent. The child at his feet remained silent. All three of them were still staring at me.
"How much do you need?" I asked.
"We only need 82 pesos," the man said. "We're not bad people. We just want to go home."
I didn't want to spend more than a few minutes thinking about my decision, so I pulled out my wallet and offered a rumpled 100-peso bill.
"Thank you," the man said, taking it from my hand. "Thank you," the woman said.
The child said nothing. She just walked back to her mother.
"Go home," I told them, and listened to the old man thank me one last time before we parted ways.
Ten minutes later, I'm now sitting in an internet cafe among the dozens of gamers, trying to decide what I learned on this ubiquitous day. I find myself wondering who they were, and where they are now.
Perhaps they're on a bus back to their home in Bataan or someplace like that. Perhaps they're simply having dinner somewhere. Perhaps the man is playing the Lotto with my one hundred pesos while his two companions wait patiently for him to finish.
I can't decide how I should feel. Maybe I should have ignored them and kept on walking, and maybe I should have given them a bit more than just one hundred pesos so that I could be sure that they could make it back to their place.
The chances are good that, on any given evening in the traditional business district of the Philippines, there would be at least one person unable to return home due to a sudden lack of funds. The chances are just as equally good that we've met some already, or that we'll be meeting some soon enough.
The man told me that they weren't bad people. I'm not sure as to whether that's true or not; I just gave him some money.
What do you do when someone stops you in the middle of the street and asks you for money so that he can get home? You have to assess the situation, of course. You have to figure out whether his story's believable or not.
Have we fallen to the point, then, where we must be suspicious of each other's intentions? Or, at the very least, suspicious of our own actions in this regard?
Are we bad people?
...
...
I don't know.
...
"We're not bad people," he told me, and I realized that a little girl -- presumably his daughter -- was hugging him about the knees. A tall woman, close enough to look like his wife, hovered in the background. All three of them were watching me intently.
"You see, sir," he said, "we thought that you were a Chinese or a Japanese."
"No," I said, "I understand what you're saying."
He breathed what seemed to be a sigh of relief. They had been walking around since 4:30 in the afternoon, he explained, because they wanted to drop by the church across the street. The pastor there was a friend, he said. By the time they arrived, however, they found out that he had left work early, and so they decided to go home.
It was only when they reached the station, however, that they realized that they were out of money. "This is the first time it's happened," the old man said, "and we should have checked before we left. We went back to the church to ask the pastor's secretary for fare, but by the time we got there, she was already gone."
The little girl was still staring at me, as though I was some foreign ogre to be feared.
"So...?" I asked.
He told me that they lived somewhere in Bataan or something like that. In truth, I wasn't really listening. Chances were good that, in the encroaching evening of the business district, there would inevitably be one or two people who find themselves trapped by the lack of funds.
My mother used to tell me this story: Once, many years ago, there was this beggar who came to their front door to ask for money to buy food. My mother was only a young married woman then, and she felt sorry for the poor man. So she told him to wait there, and went back inside for her purse.
On the way back out, she ran into my father, who asked her what she was doing. "There's a beggar at the front door," she told him, "and he's asking for a little money so that he can buy food."
"Don't give him anything," my father said. "He's just going to take advantage of you."
But my mother ignored him then, and gave the beggar some money. And the man thanked her and went off.
The next day, the man appeared at the front door again. Once again, he asked for money to buy food, and once again, my mother went inside to get her purse.
This time, however, my father was waiting. "Why not," he ventured, "just give him some food to begin with? We have some bread left over." And my mother agreed that this was a good idea, and gave the beggar some pieces of bread from the kitchen. But when she returned, my father beckoned her to the nearest window, and said, "Watch carefully."
And as they both watched, they saw the beggar spill the bread onto the street, curse a couple of times, and walk away.
My mother never forgot that lesson, and neither shall I.
It was foremost on my mind when the old man finished his story. "All we need is a little money," he said, "just so that we can get home. We've been here since 4:30."
The woman behind him remained silent. The child at his feet remained silent. All three of them were still staring at me.
"How much do you need?" I asked.
"We only need 82 pesos," the man said. "We're not bad people. We just want to go home."
I didn't want to spend more than a few minutes thinking about my decision, so I pulled out my wallet and offered a rumpled 100-peso bill.
"Thank you," the man said, taking it from my hand. "Thank you," the woman said.
The child said nothing. She just walked back to her mother.
"Go home," I told them, and listened to the old man thank me one last time before we parted ways.
Ten minutes later, I'm now sitting in an internet cafe among the dozens of gamers, trying to decide what I learned on this ubiquitous day. I find myself wondering who they were, and where they are now.
Perhaps they're on a bus back to their home in Bataan or someplace like that. Perhaps they're simply having dinner somewhere. Perhaps the man is playing the Lotto with my one hundred pesos while his two companions wait patiently for him to finish.
I can't decide how I should feel. Maybe I should have ignored them and kept on walking, and maybe I should have given them a bit more than just one hundred pesos so that I could be sure that they could make it back to their place.
The chances are good that, on any given evening in the traditional business district of the Philippines, there would be at least one person unable to return home due to a sudden lack of funds. The chances are just as equally good that we've met some already, or that we'll be meeting some soon enough.
The man told me that they weren't bad people. I'm not sure as to whether that's true or not; I just gave him some money.
What do you do when someone stops you in the middle of the street and asks you for money so that he can get home? You have to assess the situation, of course. You have to figure out whether his story's believable or not.
Have we fallen to the point, then, where we must be suspicious of each other's intentions? Or, at the very least, suspicious of our own actions in this regard?
Are we bad people?
...
...
I don't know.
...
Weighted
My monitor's been laid low by what appears to be a technical problem. The good news is that it's still under warranty and the shop was perfectly willing to replace it with a new model. The bad news is that the old monitor has to get sent back to their supplier for thorough checking, and the model's not likely to appear until they're satisfied with what they find.
What this all means, ladies and gentlemen, is that I don't have a computer for the next week or so. I find that kind of ironic, actually, seeing that I'm effectively half-paralyzed despite the fact that my PC is working perfectly on its own. This'll definitely stunt my development for the Dragon Anthology (deadline on January 18), will ensure that I'll be away from computer games for a while, and will affect my blog postings as well.
As I've already told some people, I'm still wandering around a bunch of workable plots for both the anthology and the Fully Booked contest. I haven't written anything yet; In fact, I'm waiting for a couple of two-hour gaps within my schedule so that I can write each of the stories in one sitting. The work pileup at my office, of course, doesn't help much.
It just goes to show you that when life gives you lemons, it's time to stand around the sidewalk wondering how to make your lemonade.
What this all means, ladies and gentlemen, is that I don't have a computer for the next week or so. I find that kind of ironic, actually, seeing that I'm effectively half-paralyzed despite the fact that my PC is working perfectly on its own. This'll definitely stunt my development for the Dragon Anthology (deadline on January 18), will ensure that I'll be away from computer games for a while, and will affect my blog postings as well.
As I've already told some people, I'm still wandering around a bunch of workable plots for both the anthology and the Fully Booked contest. I haven't written anything yet; In fact, I'm waiting for a couple of two-hour gaps within my schedule so that I can write each of the stories in one sitting. The work pileup at my office, of course, doesn't help much.
It just goes to show you that when life gives you lemons, it's time to stand around the sidewalk wondering how to make your lemonade.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Looking Back (Part 3)
Looking back on things, it's been a great run.
It's possible that suman latik may be a strange topic. It's possible that it may be an unworkable topic. But at least I can say that I took it and ran with it.
In addition, I know that it's had at least two beneficial effects on my blogging habits:
First, it's allowed me to write at least three posts per week. Writing at a regular pace is important for both a writer and his blog; it keeps the writer in good practice, and it makes sure that any regular readers of the blog remain regular readers. People don't bookmark sites that tend to become uninteresting and/or stagnant, after all.
Second, it's allowed me to explore multiple angles to a single topic. As far as I know, I've attempted to write suman latik into the comic strip, interactive fiction, and comedic biblio-religious formats, and that's among the many other expository and introspective essays I've turned out. Strangely enough, I've hardly written any suman fiction for this exercise, although I've somehow managed to segue between suman and literary writing every now and then. I can tell you that, once you start running out of ideas, you start looking at a lot of fringe approaches, and that's not necessarily a bad thing. :)
With all that said, and with all the curiosity that goes into both writing and reading posts like these, I have to say that even great runs have to end sometime.
No, this isn't the last suman latik post you'll see from me. That'll probably come next week or so. If anything, that should allow you and me to savor the moment when it comes.
The last bite of suman always works like that, I think. You chew your way through the rice, taste the sweetness of the sauce, perhaps crunch your way through the remaining bits of sugar. Sometimes the last bite is gone before you realize it; you pop it into your mouth distractedly, never knowing that it's no longer there until you reach for that empty plate.
Sometimes, however, you know that the last bite is there. You know that once you consume that final piece, the taste will linger only as a memory. And you pause and think, wondering whether or not it happened to be a good piece of suman. Sometimes you think it was. Sometimes you don't, and just look forward to the next piece.
Whatever the case, once you're aware of the presence of that last bite, you savor the moment.
It's all unconscious, really. But it's fitting, after all, that after you savored an entire piece of suman, then you get to savor your knowledge of the entire experience afterwards.
In that sense, it's quite filling after all.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Disclaimer: January 2006
I find it ironic that I have to start the new year off with a warning like this. I feel that it's probably necessary, though, seeing that a spate of minor plagiarism-related offenses occurred around the Internet for the last quarter of the previous year. As a concession to the fact that 2006 has only just begun, however, I'll leave out the threats this time.
Plagiarism's a huge issue for writers, artists, sculptors, conceptualists, animators and other people who work within the bounds of creativity. Everyone knows that it's not an easy task to be creative, and these people know it much more intimately than the rest of the population. These people take great pains to ensure their continued creativity and organization even with a number of set limitations hanging over their heads. Sometimes it's their job. Sometimes it's their dream. But for the vast majority of them, their ideas are their life.
Every creative person therefore lives in constant fear that their works might be appropriated by a public with no appreciation of the effort that has gone into them. Or even worse, that an unfamiliar name may one day be planted on their many hours of hard labor simply because somebody was too lazy or too stupid to come up with his own work. Every such work is an extension of its maker; Sever any such extension and you will hear the screams of pain.
No matter how easy or convenient plagiarism is, it tends to compromise the position of the affected author. When the acknowledgement for a given work is shifted towards an undeserving person who is unlikely to produce future pieces of the same or better quality, then the public suffers in the long run. The author begins to question the worth of her effort, and the plagiarist begins realizing the ease at which he can continue his theft. We grow up learning that rewards should be given only to those deserving of them, to those who are willing to put in the time and patience to produce quality works. Plagiarism perverts such a lesson, and damages our capacity to recognize the creators for what they have given to us.
Virtually everything written in this blog is an original work as produced from the mind of Sean, with the exception of a few items referenced from external sources. These sources are invariably noted, usually in tandem with the references themselves; Should you find that this blog does not recognize one of these sources in any way, just leave a comment and I'll correct the entry as soon as possible.
Should you wish to use, link or reference anything in this blog for your own use, please leave a comment and I will gladly assist you as much as I can. In the event that you do not contact me in this manner, you are obligated to reference this weblog as one of your sources. Otherwise, I will be compelled to contact you regarding my interests of copyright. (There's more to this, but I promised that I'd leave out the threats this month.)
Finally, all of the entries in this blog are purely the opinion of Sean, and are not connected with any external entities unless otherwise noted. I will be happy to discuss matters of a legal, moral or rhetorical nature concerning the articles in this blog with you, as long as we do it in a mature and cordial manner.
I'm fully aware that very, very few people have bothered to use any aspect of this blog's entries as of this point in time. Whether or not it means that my writing isn't fit to be used is not my concern; At the moment, I only wish to institute some form of protection for my writings. No one quotes me at the moment, but I'd rather be prepared in case someone does.
Besides, how do we not know that maybe the disclaimers are simply working the way they're supposed to be working, hmmm? :)
Plagiarism's a huge issue for writers, artists, sculptors, conceptualists, animators and other people who work within the bounds of creativity. Everyone knows that it's not an easy task to be creative, and these people know it much more intimately than the rest of the population. These people take great pains to ensure their continued creativity and organization even with a number of set limitations hanging over their heads. Sometimes it's their job. Sometimes it's their dream. But for the vast majority of them, their ideas are their life.
Every creative person therefore lives in constant fear that their works might be appropriated by a public with no appreciation of the effort that has gone into them. Or even worse, that an unfamiliar name may one day be planted on their many hours of hard labor simply because somebody was too lazy or too stupid to come up with his own work. Every such work is an extension of its maker; Sever any such extension and you will hear the screams of pain.
No matter how easy or convenient plagiarism is, it tends to compromise the position of the affected author. When the acknowledgement for a given work is shifted towards an undeserving person who is unlikely to produce future pieces of the same or better quality, then the public suffers in the long run. The author begins to question the worth of her effort, and the plagiarist begins realizing the ease at which he can continue his theft. We grow up learning that rewards should be given only to those deserving of them, to those who are willing to put in the time and patience to produce quality works. Plagiarism perverts such a lesson, and damages our capacity to recognize the creators for what they have given to us.
Virtually everything written in this blog is an original work as produced from the mind of Sean, with the exception of a few items referenced from external sources. These sources are invariably noted, usually in tandem with the references themselves; Should you find that this blog does not recognize one of these sources in any way, just leave a comment and I'll correct the entry as soon as possible.
Should you wish to use, link or reference anything in this blog for your own use, please leave a comment and I will gladly assist you as much as I can. In the event that you do not contact me in this manner, you are obligated to reference this weblog as one of your sources. Otherwise, I will be compelled to contact you regarding my interests of copyright. (There's more to this, but I promised that I'd leave out the threats this month.)
Finally, all of the entries in this blog are purely the opinion of Sean, and are not connected with any external entities unless otherwise noted. I will be happy to discuss matters of a legal, moral or rhetorical nature concerning the articles in this blog with you, as long as we do it in a mature and cordial manner.
I'm fully aware that very, very few people have bothered to use any aspect of this blog's entries as of this point in time. Whether or not it means that my writing isn't fit to be used is not my concern; At the moment, I only wish to institute some form of protection for my writings. No one quotes me at the moment, but I'd rather be prepared in case someone does.
Besides, how do we not know that maybe the disclaimers are simply working the way they're supposed to be working, hmmm? :)
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Assessment
So here I am, punching out words on the keyboard and watching a bit of Stephen Chow on the tube. I'm switching back and forth between tabs on Firefox, seeing as there's a list of notable 2005 deaths on MSNBC that's worth reading. In a few minutes, I'll probably resume my brainstorming for Vin Simbulan's draconic anthology and the Fully Booked writing contest (both due next month, which is kind of unfair, really). By 7:00 pm tonight, I'll be in a restaurant somewhere, sitting among relatives and toasting the new year with non-alcoholic drinks.
All in all, it's a normal New Years' Eve afternoon today.
There's nothing as gratifying as lazing around the computer on a Saturday afternoon, I think. If at anytime I stop feeling like writing, I can always turn off the Internet connection and play a nice game of Wesnoth.
No, I'd rather not look back on the year 2005. The anticipation of 2006 is enough as it is, and I try to think of myself as the kind of person who looks forward rather than back. Sure, we've written quite a few works of art. Sure, we've looked at our selves, our souls, and our surroundings. Sure, we've created new endeavors, traveled to fantastic places, and tasted new experiences. But that's all gone now. That's long gone. All that we have left to bring into the future are those lessons we have seen fit to teach ourselves.
That's probably what New Years' Resolutions are for, I think. Every year is a benchmark, a method by which we can ask ourselves what has changed. How have we improved or degraded? Has it been for the better, or for the worse? Have our perceptions shifted somewhat? And most importantly, why?
Different people will tell you different things, depending on just who they are. Some people will actively seek change, while others will be content to let things stand the way they are. It's kind of like conservativism and liberalism -- only without the politics, the activism, and the general name-calling. Either you change or you don't. At the end of the year, it's only the assessment that's really important. Wrap up the bills and close up the books, boys -- it's time for the IRS to step in and do their count.
Back at the beginning of 2005, I remember reading somewhere that this was a specific Year of the Rooster (according to the handy Chinese zodiac); that 2005 was supposed to be a year of upheaval. 2005 was supposed to be a year that tested the denizens of the world for their ability to handle oncoming change. Now, I'm hardly the superstitious or astrological sort, but I'll leave you to decide whether or not that little prophetic announcement was accurate enough for you.
Change, yes. Quite obvious, really. Every year brings change.
But momentous change? You figure out whether or not that's accurate in your case. It's your life, after all. I'm the last person you want to say how much you've grown or shrunk in the last year.
You're your own IRS, in that sense. You should be your own IRS. And for you, it's time to go a-counting.
So... there go my chicken scratches for today. As for me, well: I've slept till noon. I've dragged the computer over to the little corner shop for a wee bit of maintenance. I've had lunch. I've watched some Asian kung-fu action on the small screen. I've opened up my last Christmas gift (Terry Pratchett's Going Postal, which beats the pants off anything else I've received this season). I've opened up Blogger and punched in my last message for the bottomless pit that was 2005, and I'm content.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I might just be able to squeeze off a short Wesnoth game before I leave for my little New Years' Eve gathering.
I wish you all a Happy Holidays, ladies and gentlemen, and a mighty good 2006 besides.
All in all, it's a normal New Years' Eve afternoon today.
There's nothing as gratifying as lazing around the computer on a Saturday afternoon, I think. If at anytime I stop feeling like writing, I can always turn off the Internet connection and play a nice game of Wesnoth.
No, I'd rather not look back on the year 2005. The anticipation of 2006 is enough as it is, and I try to think of myself as the kind of person who looks forward rather than back. Sure, we've written quite a few works of art. Sure, we've looked at our selves, our souls, and our surroundings. Sure, we've created new endeavors, traveled to fantastic places, and tasted new experiences. But that's all gone now. That's long gone. All that we have left to bring into the future are those lessons we have seen fit to teach ourselves.
That's probably what New Years' Resolutions are for, I think. Every year is a benchmark, a method by which we can ask ourselves what has changed. How have we improved or degraded? Has it been for the better, or for the worse? Have our perceptions shifted somewhat? And most importantly, why?
Different people will tell you different things, depending on just who they are. Some people will actively seek change, while others will be content to let things stand the way they are. It's kind of like conservativism and liberalism -- only without the politics, the activism, and the general name-calling. Either you change or you don't. At the end of the year, it's only the assessment that's really important. Wrap up the bills and close up the books, boys -- it's time for the IRS to step in and do their count.
Back at the beginning of 2005, I remember reading somewhere that this was a specific Year of the Rooster (according to the handy Chinese zodiac); that 2005 was supposed to be a year of upheaval. 2005 was supposed to be a year that tested the denizens of the world for their ability to handle oncoming change. Now, I'm hardly the superstitious or astrological sort, but I'll leave you to decide whether or not that little prophetic announcement was accurate enough for you.
Change, yes. Quite obvious, really. Every year brings change.
But momentous change? You figure out whether or not that's accurate in your case. It's your life, after all. I'm the last person you want to say how much you've grown or shrunk in the last year.
You're your own IRS, in that sense. You should be your own IRS. And for you, it's time to go a-counting.
So... there go my chicken scratches for today. As for me, well: I've slept till noon. I've dragged the computer over to the little corner shop for a wee bit of maintenance. I've had lunch. I've watched some Asian kung-fu action on the small screen. I've opened up my last Christmas gift (Terry Pratchett's Going Postal, which beats the pants off anything else I've received this season). I've opened up Blogger and punched in my last message for the bottomless pit that was 2005, and I'm content.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I might just be able to squeeze off a short Wesnoth game before I leave for my little New Years' Eve gathering.
I wish you all a Happy Holidays, ladies and gentlemen, and a mighty good 2006 besides.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Why Do You Write, Sean?
I write because:
... I like writing.
... I wish to establish the fundamental truths I explore within my mind.
... I wish to delude myself with lies, vanity and all that seethes within my heart.
... I look to describe the condition of humanity in some way. What does it mean to be human? What makes one human? Why are we inherently good / evil / moral / immoral / amoral / fat / thin / tall / short / quiet / talkative / graceful / clumsy / stoic / outspoken / indifferent? And why, for that matter, do we like chocolate?
... I need to get the whispers out of my head before they drive me insane.
... I own a thousand monkeys and a thousand typewriters, and one of these days, I'll finally be able to see if one of them has managed to turn out the works of Shakespeare.
... I need to somehow organize my thoughts in one place.
... The aliens made me do it.
... I want to see how fast I can type using a standard keyboard arrangement. (I'll give the Dvorak a try soon.)
... I like placing certain character types in certain situations and seeing how they work their way through it, much like white rats in a complex maze.
... I'm a hopeless neurotic and desperately crave for peoples' attention.
... I'm a true independent who needs no man's approval.
... It allows me to speak without exposing people to some of my obvious aspects: the crooked teeth, the donkey-like braying, and the Devil's halitosis.
... It allows me to dialogue with readers, and that's especially important. Only readers can give a truly objective opinion of one's own writings. The resulting critique may be good, bad, or just plain indifferent, but it's valuable nonetheless.
... It allows me to dialogue with writers, and that's especially important. Only writers know what the struggle is like, and are familiar with varying approaches to their duties. Sometimes they work and sometimes they don't, but half the fun's in trying them out.
... It allows me to dialogue with myself, and that's especially important. You figure out why.
... I can't do anything else. It's been a while since they've chained me to the laptop, much less let me out of the house.
... I've had a bomb strapped to me since November, and it's threatening to go off if I ever stop writing for more than a week. I'm just sitting here, desperately waiting for Keanu Reeves to come by and get on the bus. (If Mr. Neo isn't available, then I suppose Sandra Bullock would do.)
... I can put up a bunch of pop-culture references and then gleefully see if people get them.
... I can act as a force of justice, reason, advocacy, or argument. One voice may not be much, but it's a big deal if it happens to be yours.
... I want to catch myself overusing certain expressions or figures of speech, and consequently cut down on my use of them.
... It allows me to lay traps for my most distant thoughts. The empty slate is more than sufficient bait, and soon the net swings wildly with captured emotion. I then calm them down, gently release them from their temporary imprisonment, and scatter them across the stars.
... It's better than running around smoking, or drinking, or doing drugs, or downloading porn, or hanging around with loose women, or hanging around with loose men, or generally digging a hole in the backyard and sticking my head inside.
... It's really gratifying, seeing all your words on paper. (Virtual paper, yes, but still...)
... Hey, why not?
... My third-grade English teacher thought that I would never amount to anything.
... I want to find some middle ground between all the genres in existence, and if I keep writing, then I might accidentally hit upon it someday.
... 42.
... It ain't much fun when you realize one of the secrets of the universe and have nobody else to tell it to.
... I'm serious, man. The aliens made me do it.
... I like writing.
... I wish to establish the fundamental truths I explore within my mind.
... I wish to delude myself with lies, vanity and all that seethes within my heart.
... I look to describe the condition of humanity in some way. What does it mean to be human? What makes one human? Why are we inherently good / evil / moral / immoral / amoral / fat / thin / tall / short / quiet / talkative / graceful / clumsy / stoic / outspoken / indifferent? And why, for that matter, do we like chocolate?
... I need to get the whispers out of my head before they drive me insane.
... I own a thousand monkeys and a thousand typewriters, and one of these days, I'll finally be able to see if one of them has managed to turn out the works of Shakespeare.
... I need to somehow organize my thoughts in one place.
... The aliens made me do it.
... I want to see how fast I can type using a standard keyboard arrangement. (I'll give the Dvorak a try soon.)
... I like placing certain character types in certain situations and seeing how they work their way through it, much like white rats in a complex maze.
... I'm a hopeless neurotic and desperately crave for peoples' attention.
... I'm a true independent who needs no man's approval.
... It allows me to speak without exposing people to some of my obvious aspects: the crooked teeth, the donkey-like braying, and the Devil's halitosis.
... It allows me to dialogue with readers, and that's especially important. Only readers can give a truly objective opinion of one's own writings. The resulting critique may be good, bad, or just plain indifferent, but it's valuable nonetheless.
... It allows me to dialogue with writers, and that's especially important. Only writers know what the struggle is like, and are familiar with varying approaches to their duties. Sometimes they work and sometimes they don't, but half the fun's in trying them out.
... It allows me to dialogue with myself, and that's especially important. You figure out why.
... I can't do anything else. It's been a while since they've chained me to the laptop, much less let me out of the house.
... I've had a bomb strapped to me since November, and it's threatening to go off if I ever stop writing for more than a week. I'm just sitting here, desperately waiting for Keanu Reeves to come by and get on the bus. (If Mr. Neo isn't available, then I suppose Sandra Bullock would do.)
... I can put up a bunch of pop-culture references and then gleefully see if people get them.
... I can act as a force of justice, reason, advocacy, or argument. One voice may not be much, but it's a big deal if it happens to be yours.
... I want to catch myself overusing certain expressions or figures of speech, and consequently cut down on my use of them.
... It allows me to lay traps for my most distant thoughts. The empty slate is more than sufficient bait, and soon the net swings wildly with captured emotion. I then calm them down, gently release them from their temporary imprisonment, and scatter them across the stars.
... It's better than running around smoking, or drinking, or doing drugs, or downloading porn, or hanging around with loose women, or hanging around with loose men, or generally digging a hole in the backyard and sticking my head inside.
... It's really gratifying, seeing all your words on paper. (Virtual paper, yes, but still...)
... Hey, why not?
... My third-grade English teacher thought that I would never amount to anything.
... I want to find some middle ground between all the genres in existence, and if I keep writing, then I might accidentally hit upon it someday.
... 42.
... It ain't much fun when you realize one of the secrets of the universe and have nobody else to tell it to.
... I'm serious, man. The aliens made me do it.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Looking Back (Part 2)
You think writing about suman latik is easy?
Well, okay... you probably don't. That's all right. The thought probably never crossed your mind; I know that it was one of the last things I would have written about to begin with.
If I haven't told you how difficult it is yet, then I'll tell you now: It's not easy.
Come to think of it, there are probably ten or twelve other people out there -- fellow writers in the Suman Latik Web Ring -- who experienced, first-hand, just how difficult the exercise was. Or how easy it may be, depending on your point of view.
I figure that the first thing that most people consider is some form of prose or poetry. Despite the indignity of the task, it's not all that difficult to imagine a short story about suman, or a sonnet about latik sauce. To be sure, the suman doesn't necessarily have to have a starring role in the finished product; It can merely permeate the background to such a degree that you can smell, feel and taste it. A good writer should be able to write about anything he wants, much less suman latik.
The problem, of course, is that you can't keep writing suman fiction or suman poetry forever. You'll eventually run out of different approaches. You'll eventually run out of central themes. You'll eventually run out of ways to describe the glistening grains of rice, the soft sweetness of the tropical sauce, and the sticky sensation in the roof of your mouth. The exercise is more a method of seeing how long you last than it is a measure of your creativity, I think.
Then again, any person who can write even a small number of creative, compelling, and morbidly fascinating suman latik posts can already find them a testament to his skill. I suspect that my approach to the matter is more of a chance-based endeavor: I just churn them out week after week in the hopes that some of them strike it rich. I have to admit that not all of my works were winners, anyhow.
It's a lot like karate-chopping your way through a bunch of boards: You can break twenty boards at once with a single blow, and people will give you their applause. But you don't want to break twenty, thirty, or even fifty boards with a single blow. You want to find that single moment, that unparalleled level of skill that allows you to sunder a board precisely in half. You want to reach the point where you can merely twitch once and watch the wood shatter into pieces without anyone seeing your hand hit the surface. You want the audience to gasp, or shake their heads at the sheer impossibility of it all.
Frankly, I think that most people are surprised that I've gotten this far on suman latik alone. But I assure you that that'll pale in comparison to how the ultimate suman latik post turns out. You'll know it when you read it, I think. :)
I know that I've tackled the topic from different approaches, some that directly reference suman latik and some that hardly make mention of it at all. (I even wrote a cute essay concerning the latter, I think.) But for all this work, I still have yet to get down and write.
Do matters like this have goals in mind? Sure. But I suppose that they're not as easy or as obvious as they first seem...
(To be concluded in part 3.)
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Antaria: Of Memories Beyond
The Festival of Remembrance was over, its twelve days now firmly ensconced in the short-term memory of every man, woman and child who had guested in its cloth tassels and raucous music. All throughout Lorendheim, peasants and noblemen alike returned to their duties with the fading images of the event dancing in their minds.
Lianesse, Vestal of Antaria, liked watching them. That was all, really; She just liked watching them mill about in the streets, going about their daily business. It gave her a sense of... earthiness, she felt. It gave her a feeling that her feet were still firmly planted on the ground despite the fact that they were hundreds of yards in the air.
Lianesse had been Vestal for over fifty years, but she still knew where her heart lay.
She leaned back in her ornate divan, letting the silks fall about her tired old legs, and thought. She reached for a soft cushion, feeling the soft satin whisper beneath her fingers. She brushed the cover of an old book, given to her as a gift from the Metrians ten years hence.
Sometimes she missed the Metrians. But she remembered them, and they remembered her. It was enough to satisfy a weary old woman, to a certain degree.
She cast a short glance towards the window, noted silently that the twilight was approaching, and then decided to reach for the book again.
Kharandon watched the young woman with a great deal of interest. "And who is she?" he asked the veteran healer standing beside him.
"She was once Thanatai," Sister Teresa said. "We found her among the remnants of an Inquisition raid... one of the few survivors of her village."
The young woman sat at the foot of her bed, completely still and unbending. She was dressed in plain clothes of Galenic white, and had a distant expression in her eyes. In front of her, a bowl of water sat peacefully on a small table.
"The Inquisition found an entire village populated by necromancers?" Kharandon asked.
"As I understand, my Lord," Sister Teresa said, "the village deliberately sought to hide a number of their agents. She may or may not have been one of them."
"I see," Kharandon replied, watching the young woman stare blankly into space.
"We have not informed the Inquisition of her presence here," Sister Teresa admitted. "The Order of the Guiding Light seeks to bring back what has been lost, not to merely excise what has been corrupted. We believed that we could rehabilitate her, perhaps let her see the truth of our cause."
Kharandon nodded. "How do your efforts fare, Sister Teresa?"
The healer bowed in deference. "Quite well, my Lord. She has been very eager to accept our teachings, and at this point she only vaguely remembers the depravity to which she was once subject. But we cannot prevent her from receiving the visions."
"The visions?"
"She is a seer, my Lord. The lessons of the Thanatai have warped her mind to the point that she can catch what appear to be glimpses of the future."
Kharandon nodded. "Fascinating," he said.
"Indeed, my Lord. It was my opinion that this may turn out to be one of Aran's hidden blessings. The knowledge of forthcoming happenings may be useful to us."
"It would," Kharandon said, looking into the young woman's fine gray eyes. "You were right not to inform the Inquisition. Does she have a name, Sister Teresa?"
"Gwyneth, my Lord."
Dusk slowly fell upon Lorendheim in sheets of blue and indigo. Lianesse could hear the roar of the crowds fade away, and finally fall silent.
She stood, and placed one hand on the wooden door. How long had she lived in the Vestal's Spire? Fifty years? Fifty-two? Fifty-five? She was old, and her memory was fading. She remembered faces but not names, and names but not faces.
It was the people below who gave her strength. Thousands upon thousands of individuals, from peasants to journeymen to merchants to nobles -- all gazed towards the Spire at dusk each day to observe a ritual that was perhaps as old as time itself.
Lianesse opened the plain wooden door, and it opened onto empty air a full ten stories above the ground.
Before her lay the Tabernacle. Like the Vestal's Spire, the Tabernacle was part of what people knew as the Obsidian Ruins. Both buildings were of black, shadowed stone lanced with streaks of white, and they glowed softly at night against a clear field of stars.
Unlike the Spire, however, the Tabernacle was no longer connected to the rest of the ruins. It floated in mid-air, a single structure held aloft by some unknown force, the crown of a once-mighty tower now utterly resistant to the ravages of time and logic. Against all common sense, it remained accessible to the Ruins by a single long flight of black-lined stairs, stairs whose ancient stones that now crunched under Lianesse's sandaled feet.
This was the center of Antaria. The hopes and dreams of the people, the faith and love that they devoted towards their one true god... all of it came to rest on the Tabernacle's stately exterior. All of it came to rest on the shoulders of a single Vestal.
Lianesse was Aran's one true servant, and this was a servant's daily duty.
She placed one tiny foot on the stairway's first step, and began her ascent.
"Can you hear me, Gwyneth?" Kharandon asked, looking into her eyes.
Sister Teresa shook her head. "Sometimes she falls into trances, my Lord. They last anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours. We do not know what she sees during these episodes, nor do we know where her mind wanders."
Kharandon nodded. He stepped around the table and its bowl of water, and peered into the young woman's eyes from a different vantage point. Gwyneth's eyes were a deep shade of gray, much like his sister's and much like his own.
"Can you hear me, Gwyneth?" Kharandon asked, slowly placing one gentle hand on the young woman's arm.
Gwyneth screamed, and Kharandon jerked his hand back in utter surprise. The table overturned and the bowl upended, flying through the air and drenching the floor in clear liquid before smashing into a dozen pieces. Sister Teresa gave a sharp intake of breath, catching her shrill response between her teeth and hiding it beneath the thick cloth of one sleeve.
Gwyneth fell back onto the bed, thrashing wildly. Kharandon stood back, steadying himself with one hand and guarding himself with the other. Sister Teresa took one look at the convulsing young woman and dashed out of the room.
And to his surprise, Kharandon heard the young woman speak in a clear voice despite the seizure.
"There will be calm, and there will be madness," Gwyneth said in a hollow tone. "The arcanics shall desert the sorcerers in their time of need, and a power shall arise to replace them. It shall drive souls beyond the point of redemption, and its talons shall grasp the land as a conqueror does his prize."
"Madness indeed," Kharandon said, uncomprehending.
Gwyneth suddenly shuddered and lay still, and for a moment Kharandon thought that the vision had passed. Then the voice began to speak again, and the first thing Kharandon heard was his own name.
"Kharandon Greybane!" Gwyneth roared. "Remember me upon your ascendance, Kharandon Greybane! When your moment comes, Kharandon Greybane, you shall remember me!"
"Madness," Kharandon said, although he shuddered with fear inside.
The voice never spoke again, not before Sister Teresa returned. When the healer finally entered the room with two guards in tow, she found Kharandon sitting on a nearby chair, anxiously wiping the sweat from his forehead.
Lianesse reached the top of the obsidian stairway, and watched as the Tabernacle unfolded before her.
It was a large structure, perhaps about the size of a great hall. It was certainly smaller than any of the grand halls of any of the palaces of Antaria, however, and she was aware that there was plenty of speculation on just what was inside. Some said that the Tabernacle housed a collection of artifacts that were sacred to Aran; Some said that it contained the holiest of temples to the benevolent god, greater even than any of the Galenics' opulent cathedrals. Some even said that the voice of Aran himself lived in the Tabernacle, and that only the Vestal could communicate the hearts and desires of his worshippers with it.
But only the Vestal knew just what was inside, and Lianesse knew better than to tell.
She paused at the massive wrought-iron gates of the floating structure, and touched the cold metal with her fingertips. She was Aran's servant, and this was her task. It was her duty every dusk of every day of every year of her life.
She slid the iron doors open; For all their weight, they yielded under her gentle pressure. Ten and many stories below, she felt the contented sighs of the gathered crowds. Today's ritual walk was over; Tomorrow, another would begin.
Lianesse slipped into the darkness inside. A few seconds later, she closed the doors behind her.
"My name is Kharandon Greybane," Kharandon said.
Gwyneth bowed low. "I offer sincere greetings, Lord Kharandon. I am Gwyneth, of the Galenics."
Kharandon nodded in acknowledgement. It was strange how, scant minutes after she had roared his name, he found himself introducing it to her for the first time. His brow wrinkled at the thought.
"My apologies, my Lord," Sister Teresa said. "The visions... we cannot predict when they take over. I can assure you that they arrive in a much calmer fashion than the one you have just witnessed."
"Of course," Kharandon said. He had told Sister Teresa everything he could remember about the first prophecy, although he felt it best to keep the second statement to himself.
"With your permission, my Lord, we would like to observe her further."
Kharandon shook his head. "That will not be necessary, Sister Teresa."
The healer appeared to be confused at his statement. "Pardon me, my Lord?"
"I will see to her myself," Kharandon said sternly. "If Lady Gwyneth can indeed see into the future, then it is best that she communicate to one who is in close proximity to the Lady Satine. The visions she sees may be a matter of security for all of Antaria."
It wasn't quite a lie, Kharandon considered. Satine Whitestone was unlikely to act promptly on any critical pieces of information, prophetic or otherwise. But he felt safer knowing that everything was under his control.
Sister Teresa bowed low. "I accede to my Lord's wishes," she answered. "Should you require any assistance, then the Order of the Guiding Light shall remain at your disposal."
"My thanks, Sister Teresa," Kharandon said. "It is an honor to have your attendance."
It was dark when Lianesse emerged from the Tabernacle. The streets were clear and the shadows were already about; Unlike the earlier dusk, there was no crowd that watched as the Vestal descended the steps into her home.
Lianesse navigated the stairway carefully, and paused for breath only when she reached the plain wooden door that led to her quarters. She did not resume breathing until she was back inside, and even then it came in thin, ragged gasps.
She was old now. Perhaps too old. But she would continue her duties until the last.
"There shall be another Vestal one day," she said, to no one in particular.
"Then we must be thankful that that day has not come yet," a voice said, from the shadows of her chambers. Lianesse remembered the tone and texture of the voice -- and embraced it as she had done for many, many years.
She smiled. "Hello, Atharus," she said.
The Metrian grandmaster stepped out of the darkness, chasing it away with a single lighted taper. "You should light your candles before you make your ascent," Atharus said. "You wouldn't want to return to a pitch-black room."
Lianesse laughed. It was a small, slight laugh, one that was accustomed to her ancient frame.
"You're a treasure, Master Atharus," she said, putting one hand to her face.
"Stop calling me 'Master'," Atharus said. "You haven't been my student in over fifty years."
"Over fifty years," Lianesse repeated. "Over fifty years."
"You remember all too much, Lianesse. It's too heavy for one of your age."
"It's my burden, Atharus. All men have burdens, and this is mine. Aran chose me."
"Aran has always been a fool," Atharus said without smiling, "and the people have never failed to amaze me with how superstitious they truly are."
"But is that not why we are here, Atharus? We are here for their sake... that, and the sake of all men who cannot remember."
The Metrian grandmaster sighed. "We celebrate a Festival of Remembrance for that very purpose, and look where it's gotten us. We celebrate Remembrance when we cannot even remember."
Lianesse looked deep into the old man's eyes. She saw layers and layers of age there, and more than a few hints of hardened expression. But she also saw a tiny sparkle in Atharus's eyes, one that kept the old grandmaster going where most would have faltered.
"But you remember, Atharus," she said. "You remember, and I remember."
"Yes," he said.
"And as long as we remember, then Antaria shall forever be secure. That," she finally added, "makes all the difference."
Lianesse, Vestal of Antaria, liked watching them. That was all, really; She just liked watching them mill about in the streets, going about their daily business. It gave her a sense of... earthiness, she felt. It gave her a feeling that her feet were still firmly planted on the ground despite the fact that they were hundreds of yards in the air.
Lianesse had been Vestal for over fifty years, but she still knew where her heart lay.
She leaned back in her ornate divan, letting the silks fall about her tired old legs, and thought. She reached for a soft cushion, feeling the soft satin whisper beneath her fingers. She brushed the cover of an old book, given to her as a gift from the Metrians ten years hence.
Sometimes she missed the Metrians. But she remembered them, and they remembered her. It was enough to satisfy a weary old woman, to a certain degree.
She cast a short glance towards the window, noted silently that the twilight was approaching, and then decided to reach for the book again.
***
Kharandon watched the young woman with a great deal of interest. "And who is she?" he asked the veteran healer standing beside him.
"She was once Thanatai," Sister Teresa said. "We found her among the remnants of an Inquisition raid... one of the few survivors of her village."
The young woman sat at the foot of her bed, completely still and unbending. She was dressed in plain clothes of Galenic white, and had a distant expression in her eyes. In front of her, a bowl of water sat peacefully on a small table.
"The Inquisition found an entire village populated by necromancers?" Kharandon asked.
"As I understand, my Lord," Sister Teresa said, "the village deliberately sought to hide a number of their agents. She may or may not have been one of them."
"I see," Kharandon replied, watching the young woman stare blankly into space.
"We have not informed the Inquisition of her presence here," Sister Teresa admitted. "The Order of the Guiding Light seeks to bring back what has been lost, not to merely excise what has been corrupted. We believed that we could rehabilitate her, perhaps let her see the truth of our cause."
Kharandon nodded. "How do your efforts fare, Sister Teresa?"
The healer bowed in deference. "Quite well, my Lord. She has been very eager to accept our teachings, and at this point she only vaguely remembers the depravity to which she was once subject. But we cannot prevent her from receiving the visions."
"The visions?"
"She is a seer, my Lord. The lessons of the Thanatai have warped her mind to the point that she can catch what appear to be glimpses of the future."
Kharandon nodded. "Fascinating," he said.
"Indeed, my Lord. It was my opinion that this may turn out to be one of Aran's hidden blessings. The knowledge of forthcoming happenings may be useful to us."
"It would," Kharandon said, looking into the young woman's fine gray eyes. "You were right not to inform the Inquisition. Does she have a name, Sister Teresa?"
"Gwyneth, my Lord."
***
Dusk slowly fell upon Lorendheim in sheets of blue and indigo. Lianesse could hear the roar of the crowds fade away, and finally fall silent.
She stood, and placed one hand on the wooden door. How long had she lived in the Vestal's Spire? Fifty years? Fifty-two? Fifty-five? She was old, and her memory was fading. She remembered faces but not names, and names but not faces.
It was the people below who gave her strength. Thousands upon thousands of individuals, from peasants to journeymen to merchants to nobles -- all gazed towards the Spire at dusk each day to observe a ritual that was perhaps as old as time itself.
Lianesse opened the plain wooden door, and it opened onto empty air a full ten stories above the ground.
Before her lay the Tabernacle. Like the Vestal's Spire, the Tabernacle was part of what people knew as the Obsidian Ruins. Both buildings were of black, shadowed stone lanced with streaks of white, and they glowed softly at night against a clear field of stars.
Unlike the Spire, however, the Tabernacle was no longer connected to the rest of the ruins. It floated in mid-air, a single structure held aloft by some unknown force, the crown of a once-mighty tower now utterly resistant to the ravages of time and logic. Against all common sense, it remained accessible to the Ruins by a single long flight of black-lined stairs, stairs whose ancient stones that now crunched under Lianesse's sandaled feet.
This was the center of Antaria. The hopes and dreams of the people, the faith and love that they devoted towards their one true god... all of it came to rest on the Tabernacle's stately exterior. All of it came to rest on the shoulders of a single Vestal.
Lianesse was Aran's one true servant, and this was a servant's daily duty.
She placed one tiny foot on the stairway's first step, and began her ascent.
***
"Can you hear me, Gwyneth?" Kharandon asked, looking into her eyes.
Sister Teresa shook her head. "Sometimes she falls into trances, my Lord. They last anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours. We do not know what she sees during these episodes, nor do we know where her mind wanders."
Kharandon nodded. He stepped around the table and its bowl of water, and peered into the young woman's eyes from a different vantage point. Gwyneth's eyes were a deep shade of gray, much like his sister's and much like his own.
"Can you hear me, Gwyneth?" Kharandon asked, slowly placing one gentle hand on the young woman's arm.
Gwyneth screamed, and Kharandon jerked his hand back in utter surprise. The table overturned and the bowl upended, flying through the air and drenching the floor in clear liquid before smashing into a dozen pieces. Sister Teresa gave a sharp intake of breath, catching her shrill response between her teeth and hiding it beneath the thick cloth of one sleeve.
Gwyneth fell back onto the bed, thrashing wildly. Kharandon stood back, steadying himself with one hand and guarding himself with the other. Sister Teresa took one look at the convulsing young woman and dashed out of the room.
And to his surprise, Kharandon heard the young woman speak in a clear voice despite the seizure.
"There will be calm, and there will be madness," Gwyneth said in a hollow tone. "The arcanics shall desert the sorcerers in their time of need, and a power shall arise to replace them. It shall drive souls beyond the point of redemption, and its talons shall grasp the land as a conqueror does his prize."
"Madness indeed," Kharandon said, uncomprehending.
Gwyneth suddenly shuddered and lay still, and for a moment Kharandon thought that the vision had passed. Then the voice began to speak again, and the first thing Kharandon heard was his own name.
"Kharandon Greybane!" Gwyneth roared. "Remember me upon your ascendance, Kharandon Greybane! When your moment comes, Kharandon Greybane, you shall remember me!"
"Madness," Kharandon said, although he shuddered with fear inside.
The voice never spoke again, not before Sister Teresa returned. When the healer finally entered the room with two guards in tow, she found Kharandon sitting on a nearby chair, anxiously wiping the sweat from his forehead.
***
Lianesse reached the top of the obsidian stairway, and watched as the Tabernacle unfolded before her.
It was a large structure, perhaps about the size of a great hall. It was certainly smaller than any of the grand halls of any of the palaces of Antaria, however, and she was aware that there was plenty of speculation on just what was inside. Some said that the Tabernacle housed a collection of artifacts that were sacred to Aran; Some said that it contained the holiest of temples to the benevolent god, greater even than any of the Galenics' opulent cathedrals. Some even said that the voice of Aran himself lived in the Tabernacle, and that only the Vestal could communicate the hearts and desires of his worshippers with it.
But only the Vestal knew just what was inside, and Lianesse knew better than to tell.
She paused at the massive wrought-iron gates of the floating structure, and touched the cold metal with her fingertips. She was Aran's servant, and this was her task. It was her duty every dusk of every day of every year of her life.
She slid the iron doors open; For all their weight, they yielded under her gentle pressure. Ten and many stories below, she felt the contented sighs of the gathered crowds. Today's ritual walk was over; Tomorrow, another would begin.
Lianesse slipped into the darkness inside. A few seconds later, she closed the doors behind her.
***
"My name is Kharandon Greybane," Kharandon said.
Gwyneth bowed low. "I offer sincere greetings, Lord Kharandon. I am Gwyneth, of the Galenics."
Kharandon nodded in acknowledgement. It was strange how, scant minutes after she had roared his name, he found himself introducing it to her for the first time. His brow wrinkled at the thought.
"My apologies, my Lord," Sister Teresa said. "The visions... we cannot predict when they take over. I can assure you that they arrive in a much calmer fashion than the one you have just witnessed."
"Of course," Kharandon said. He had told Sister Teresa everything he could remember about the first prophecy, although he felt it best to keep the second statement to himself.
"With your permission, my Lord, we would like to observe her further."
Kharandon shook his head. "That will not be necessary, Sister Teresa."
The healer appeared to be confused at his statement. "Pardon me, my Lord?"
"I will see to her myself," Kharandon said sternly. "If Lady Gwyneth can indeed see into the future, then it is best that she communicate to one who is in close proximity to the Lady Satine. The visions she sees may be a matter of security for all of Antaria."
It wasn't quite a lie, Kharandon considered. Satine Whitestone was unlikely to act promptly on any critical pieces of information, prophetic or otherwise. But he felt safer knowing that everything was under his control.
Sister Teresa bowed low. "I accede to my Lord's wishes," she answered. "Should you require any assistance, then the Order of the Guiding Light shall remain at your disposal."
"My thanks, Sister Teresa," Kharandon said. "It is an honor to have your attendance."
***
It was dark when Lianesse emerged from the Tabernacle. The streets were clear and the shadows were already about; Unlike the earlier dusk, there was no crowd that watched as the Vestal descended the steps into her home.
Lianesse navigated the stairway carefully, and paused for breath only when she reached the plain wooden door that led to her quarters. She did not resume breathing until she was back inside, and even then it came in thin, ragged gasps.
She was old now. Perhaps too old. But she would continue her duties until the last.
"There shall be another Vestal one day," she said, to no one in particular.
"Then we must be thankful that that day has not come yet," a voice said, from the shadows of her chambers. Lianesse remembered the tone and texture of the voice -- and embraced it as she had done for many, many years.
She smiled. "Hello, Atharus," she said.
The Metrian grandmaster stepped out of the darkness, chasing it away with a single lighted taper. "You should light your candles before you make your ascent," Atharus said. "You wouldn't want to return to a pitch-black room."
Lianesse laughed. It was a small, slight laugh, one that was accustomed to her ancient frame.
"You're a treasure, Master Atharus," she said, putting one hand to her face.
"Stop calling me 'Master'," Atharus said. "You haven't been my student in over fifty years."
"Over fifty years," Lianesse repeated. "Over fifty years."
"You remember all too much, Lianesse. It's too heavy for one of your age."
"It's my burden, Atharus. All men have burdens, and this is mine. Aran chose me."
"Aran has always been a fool," Atharus said without smiling, "and the people have never failed to amaze me with how superstitious they truly are."
"But is that not why we are here, Atharus? We are here for their sake... that, and the sake of all men who cannot remember."
The Metrian grandmaster sighed. "We celebrate a Festival of Remembrance for that very purpose, and look where it's gotten us. We celebrate Remembrance when we cannot even remember."
Lianesse looked deep into the old man's eyes. She saw layers and layers of age there, and more than a few hints of hardened expression. But she also saw a tiny sparkle in Atharus's eyes, one that kept the old grandmaster going where most would have faltered.
"But you remember, Atharus," she said. "You remember, and I remember."
"Yes," he said.
"And as long as we remember, then Antaria shall forever be secure. That," she finally added, "makes all the difference."
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Hey, Presents!
What did I get for Christmas, you ask?
A Gillette Mach 3 Turbo hand razor and some shaving cream, that's what.
...
...
My brother, on the other hand, got an iPod Nano.
...
...
...
* No, I'm not jealous. But I can't stop laughing at how funny this is. :)
A Gillette Mach 3 Turbo hand razor and some shaving cream, that's what.
...
...
My brother, on the other hand, got an iPod Nano.
...
...
...
* No, I'm not jealous. But I can't stop laughing at how funny this is. :)
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Looking Back (Part 1)
If my count is correct, then this should be my 31st suman latik post -- which means that I've technically written one of these each day for a full month. Sometimes I even wonder just where all this content comes from; It's not as though I have any great love for suman, after all.
Every now and then, a visitor to this blog will contact me directly and ask the fateful question: What's with the suman latik?
Personally, I've considered that very same thing myself.
The suman latik posts actually started off as a bit of a joke. You see, way back during the 1st Philippine iBlog Summit, speaker Dean Alfar raised the importance of relevant blog posts, as opposed to mere plain blog posts. As an example, Mr. Alfar put forward the idea of writing about suman; Imagine, if you will, an article that says in its entirety:
May XX, 2005: Ate some suman today. Ang sarap ng suman!
The above item is obviously not much of a blog post, and it most definitely won't rate more than a passing glance.
Mr. Alfar's point seemed pretty clear to me -- any written article, much less a blog post, will hold no substance if it carries little or no relevance to its audience. Now, I will remain quick to argue that any blogger reserves the right to scribble whatever he or she wants in his or her blog (whether it's suman-related or otherwise). But just because one can write anything he or she wants doesn't necessarily mean that people will read it and come away more or less satisfied.
In short, you don't just write about suman; You find a way to make the topic of suman relevant.
The original suman latik webring probably realized this to some extent, which was why a bunch of online writers suddenly developed an affinity for the glutinous rice dish. For all I know, it might even be why you're slogging through one of my mundane Wednesday posts right now. To be quite honest, it sounded more like a challenge when we first set it off: Ladies and gentlemen, your assignment is to write something about suman every Wednesday. You can do anything with the topic -- pen a story, construct an essay, paint a picture, make a comic strip -- as long as you make it interesting and readable. This disc will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Jim.
I won't pretend that all of the resulting articles were pretty good. Some of them were downright rotten, and we knew it. But regardless of quality, we had to admit that every single one of them was readable. Every single one of them was leagues beyond simply saying that suman was good to eat. Every single one of them attempted to tackle the relevance of an unlikely topic in some way, and often, that was more than enough.
If anything, the webring easily demonstrated that it was not only possible to come up with something substantial out of a relatively insubstantial topic, but that it was also possible for multiple writers to come up with completely different approaches to the theme.
It's amazing what one can do with suman latik, you think?
(To be continued in part 2.)
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Paper Doll: Chiaroscuro
About a month ago, one of my female friends found herself in need of a white bustier for her organization's annual gathering. By some unfathomable reason, she actually allowed me to tag along as she scoured the malls and department stores for that one article of clothing.
No one said it has to be real,
But it's got to be something you can reach out and feel
Now it ain't right, it ain't fair
Castles fall in the sand, and we fade in the air,
And the good girls go to heaven
But the bad girls go everywhere
And the good girls go to heaven
But the bad girls go everywhere
Somebody told me so
Somebody told me, now I know
Every night in my prayer,
I'll be praying that the good girls go to heaven
But the bad girls go everywhere
- Meatloaf, "Good Girls Go to Heaven
(Bad Girls Go Everywhere)"
As we went through the sparse selections at various places, we discussed exactly what she was planning to wear: A white bustier, black slacks and a white trench coat. (The white coat, of course, was so that she could get to the gathering without being stared at.) She figured that this was a relatively good combination; I disagreed, primarily because I thought that a black coat would look better.
I think I preferred a white bustier - black slacks - black coat combination because of my experiences wearing formal clothes. We've probably already noticed, for one, that the usual three-piece suit involves a coat that's the same color as the trousers and a shirt that's the exact opposite in tone; I normally wear a white shirt, blue-gray pants and a blue-gray suit to ultra-formal occasions, for example.
(And for those people who have started wondering whether or not I've suddenly gone nuts: No, I am not about to guest on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy or anything. A heterosexual man has to have even a little fashion sense, after all.)
After three or four hours of searching, however, we came up empty. None of the stores we visited had any white bustiers available (or at least, any white bustiers that weren't already attached to prom dresses). She told me that she already had a black bustier at home, however, and we resigned ourselves to the fact that she was most likely going to wear that with the black slacks and white coat.
I considered the idea of the resulting black-black-white combination over the next few days, however, and decided that maybe it didn't seem so bad. In fact, as I mentioned this to her over tea the next time we met, I sketched out a rough idea of how the result would look. While we both liked what we saw, I figured that perhaps it was worth changing the white coat to a white jacket instead. (No reason came to mind at that time... maybe I just like jackets.)
Sadly, however, her organizational gathering had long since finished by then, and so we were forced to shelve the fashion discussion for another time.
But then again, some things have a habit of cropping up in the strangest places:
It doesn't look bad, does it? I don't think it's daring enough for the character's, er... character, but I really shouldn't complain as long as it drapes well.
Well, there's my second entry for Jac's Pilya contest. Now I really must get back to my fiction...
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Lightning
Darn it, I've had a bunch of songs stuck in my head since Wednesday.
Believe me, having a bunch of songs stuck in your head is infinitely worse than having a lot of prospective plots bouncing around your mind. The plots, at least, are potential ideas that can later be released in the form of written prose. The songs, on the other hand, are fully realized works that you can't even perform without having to pay some hefty royalties. You can't do anything with a bunch of songs that are stuck in your mind, unless you're patient enough to wait for them to go away.
I think that that's why people who listen to music at work tend to confuse me. How do they manage to come up with completely original work in the face of commercially packaged products, anyway? I suppose that it's fine with regards to noncreative, repetitive tasks like encoding, but what if you're writing a report? Designing an ad campaign? Brainstorming a marketing strategy? I don't get it.
I'm aware that a similar situation exists for writers, though. Every writer almost certainly has a bunch of books by his bedside. Every writer can easily name a bunch of his or her favored authors. Every writer invariably reads.
So, bearing in mind that every writer is constantly surrounded by the works of his or her peers -- and, arguably, greater works at that -- how do these writers manage to come up with new and original stuff? How do we create new concepts when we constantly pelt ourselves with a barrage of older, more established ideas?
There's a theory going around that the anti-plagiarist effort doesn't particularly like, but it's the one to which I subscribe: There are no new ideas, and creativity is simply a matter of putting together a bunch of old concepts in some new combinations.
Just think about it:
- The concept of a leading female character, for example, is most definitely not new. (The Bible makes mention of Deborah, one of Israel's judges; and Esther, who has her own book in the Old Testament.)
- Neither, for that matter, is the concept of a character with an interest in archaeology. (Lovecraft's explored this area, and as long as we're on the subject, so has Spielberg.)
- And characters who are skilled in shooting and marksmanship have long been a mainstay of action-oriented stories. (Zane Grey comes to mind, but come to think of it, so does the Lone Ranger.)
It's fairly obvious, then, that the concept for a certain female tomb raider is an amalgam of multiple established ideas.
While the theory looks sound, however, I can't help but think that it's got to have a loophole somewhere. It can talk about how ideas simply source themselves from other ideas all it wants, but the fact remains that, for everything to have started out in the first place, there must have been an original, primordial idea somewhere.
It's the chicken-and-egg problem, everyone. In the context of the argument, it's obvious that eggs come from chickens, and that chickens come from eggs. But there must have been something that started the entire chain, and the question of whether that something was a chicken or an egg is at the very heart of the matter.
The early scientists come to mind. Where in the world did Isaac Newton get his original notion about gravity? What caused Galileo to suddenly realize the basic idea behind pendulum theory? How did the concept of underwater displacement arrive in Archimedes' mind, a mental impact so sudden that it got him running naked through the streets? It's not as though any of them had any relevant notes or prior references or predecessors or anything like that.
Is it possible for people to come up with completely original ideas when they're sitting in the middle of a hoard of established concepts? If so, how? Why?
Or maybe it's the complete opposite -- maybe we hardly see any completely original ideas nowadays because we have so much exposure to established ones. If anything, that could be why most of the creative productions nowadays consist of various rehashes and recombinations of older stuff.
Or maybe it's an alternative way of looking at the opposite -- maybe it's still possible to come up with completely original ideas, and yet we're just too lazy to do anything but tool around with the references available to us. Maybe we're just content to listen to our downloaded mp3 files (or purchased CDs), and not bother making our own music. Maybe we like suffusing ourselves in the fiction of established universes so much that we don't bother making up our own.
Or maybe we get distracted to such a degree that we can't think straight anymore... which leads us back to the bunch of songs that are still stuck in my head.
Good grief, how do people work straight when Meatloaf's crooning voice hems and haws at their inner minds? The man must have single-handedly made the 80's a case in human distraction.
Then again, it could just be Meatloaf.
Then again, it could just be me.
Believe me, having a bunch of songs stuck in your head is infinitely worse than having a lot of prospective plots bouncing around your mind. The plots, at least, are potential ideas that can later be released in the form of written prose. The songs, on the other hand, are fully realized works that you can't even perform without having to pay some hefty royalties. You can't do anything with a bunch of songs that are stuck in your mind, unless you're patient enough to wait for them to go away.
I think that that's why people who listen to music at work tend to confuse me. How do they manage to come up with completely original work in the face of commercially packaged products, anyway? I suppose that it's fine with regards to noncreative, repetitive tasks like encoding, but what if you're writing a report? Designing an ad campaign? Brainstorming a marketing strategy? I don't get it.
I'm aware that a similar situation exists for writers, though. Every writer almost certainly has a bunch of books by his bedside. Every writer can easily name a bunch of his or her favored authors. Every writer invariably reads.
So, bearing in mind that every writer is constantly surrounded by the works of his or her peers -- and, arguably, greater works at that -- how do these writers manage to come up with new and original stuff? How do we create new concepts when we constantly pelt ourselves with a barrage of older, more established ideas?
There's a theory going around that the anti-plagiarist effort doesn't particularly like, but it's the one to which I subscribe: There are no new ideas, and creativity is simply a matter of putting together a bunch of old concepts in some new combinations.
Just think about it:
- The concept of a leading female character, for example, is most definitely not new. (The Bible makes mention of Deborah, one of Israel's judges; and Esther, who has her own book in the Old Testament.)
- Neither, for that matter, is the concept of a character with an interest in archaeology. (Lovecraft's explored this area, and as long as we're on the subject, so has Spielberg.)
- And characters who are skilled in shooting and marksmanship have long been a mainstay of action-oriented stories. (Zane Grey comes to mind, but come to think of it, so does the Lone Ranger.)
It's fairly obvious, then, that the concept for a certain female tomb raider is an amalgam of multiple established ideas.
While the theory looks sound, however, I can't help but think that it's got to have a loophole somewhere. It can talk about how ideas simply source themselves from other ideas all it wants, but the fact remains that, for everything to have started out in the first place, there must have been an original, primordial idea somewhere.
It's the chicken-and-egg problem, everyone. In the context of the argument, it's obvious that eggs come from chickens, and that chickens come from eggs. But there must have been something that started the entire chain, and the question of whether that something was a chicken or an egg is at the very heart of the matter.
The early scientists come to mind. Where in the world did Isaac Newton get his original notion about gravity? What caused Galileo to suddenly realize the basic idea behind pendulum theory? How did the concept of underwater displacement arrive in Archimedes' mind, a mental impact so sudden that it got him running naked through the streets? It's not as though any of them had any relevant notes or prior references or predecessors or anything like that.
Is it possible for people to come up with completely original ideas when they're sitting in the middle of a hoard of established concepts? If so, how? Why?
Or maybe it's the complete opposite -- maybe we hardly see any completely original ideas nowadays because we have so much exposure to established ones. If anything, that could be why most of the creative productions nowadays consist of various rehashes and recombinations of older stuff.
Or maybe it's an alternative way of looking at the opposite -- maybe it's still possible to come up with completely original ideas, and yet we're just too lazy to do anything but tool around with the references available to us. Maybe we're just content to listen to our downloaded mp3 files (or purchased CDs), and not bother making our own music. Maybe we like suffusing ourselves in the fiction of established universes so much that we don't bother making up our own.
Or maybe we get distracted to such a degree that we can't think straight anymore... which leads us back to the bunch of songs that are still stuck in my head.
Good grief, how do people work straight when Meatloaf's crooning voice hems and haws at their inner minds? The man must have single-handedly made the 80's a case in human distraction.
Then again, it could just be Meatloaf.
Then again, it could just be me.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Songs in the Key of Suman
It's late, I'm tired, and I don't feel like writing anything right now. So, no suman post for today.
...
...
Okay, maybe just one.
I'm sitting in front of the computer listening to eighteen tracks of a personalized CD right now. About a month ago, you see, a friend and I agreed to burn copies of each other's music files and exchange them so that each of us could get an inkling of what the other was listening to. At this very moment, in fact, I'm finding it rather difficult to concentrate on writing because of the hard rock blaring in my ears.
(For the pundits: Yeah, well, we're burning mp3s. But we agreed to burn only one music sample per artist, if only for the purpose of letting each other know what their work is like. That way, if we like certain songs, we can go out and pick up the respective CDs. Or... well, uh... maybe... steal a few more files from off the Internet, but the reasoning isn't exactly perfect here.)
As a result of our little agreement, I've thrown a lot of bits and pieces into mine: Some rock, a little techno, a dash of R&B, and a sprinkling of Broadway. Otherwise it's about eighteen different songs that you normally wouldn't see on a single CD. (The disc, I fear, may develop a serious identity crisis in the near future.)
Now, with my current activities out of the way, I will now attempt a smooth segue into the topic of suman latik.
As far as I can recall, no artist has ever released a song about suman latik. In fact, based on the few attempts that first came out in the webring, it must be pretty difficult to write such a song. I mean, what would it be about? What kind of theme would it integrate with sticky rice? Would it get played on the radio despite the obvious fact that it's a song about suman, of all things?
So I won't try writing a song about suman latik. I think that it's the most obvious idea that marries suman and music, and I'm not much for obvious ideas. Besides, my lyrical attempts are usually so bad that their printouts have to be burned and their ashes scattered.
Instead, I'll ask a different question: What if you had a suman album?
No, I mean a suman album. What if you had a CD collection that was entitled "Suman", and had a picture of the delicacy in front? (We can probably use the Sassy Lawyer's picture above, just for this exercise.) What songs would probably be inside?
The first thing that comes to mind is "Weird Al" Yankovic:
Don’t you tell me you’re full
Just eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it
Get yourself an egg and beat it
Have some more chicken, have some more pie
It doesn’t matter if it’s boiled or fried
Just eat it, eat it, just eat it, eat it
Just eat it, eat it, just eat it, eat it, ooh
- "Eat It" ("Weird Al" Yankovic)
I'm never satisfied with three meals a day
While the world is sleeping I'll be munching away
Gonna sneak into the kitchen
Gonna tiptoe down and turn on the light
Right, yeah, if no one's around to see you
It don't matter if you snack all night
- "Snack All Night" ("Weird Al" Yankovic)
"Weird Al" is probably the king of strange songs. Chances are fairly good that if you're looking for a song on an obscure topic, he's probably written it already. :)
In addition, I must point out that Craig David has some oddly coincidential lyrics in one of his works:
You're what I want
You're what I need
I wanna taste ya (taste ya) take ya home with me
You look so good
Good enough to eat
I wonder if I can peel your wrapper
If I can be your fantasy
- "What's Your Flava" (Craig David)
Sounds familiar, doesn't it?
What's more, I know that the band Shonen Knife released a single called "Banana Leaf" in one of their early albums. Sadly, I don't have the lyrics to the song, but the title of this one alone makes it something of a good fit.
What else is there, anyway? Maybe something tragic...
Yes, it's bad to take Moby's lyrics out of context, but it sounds pretty close on the surface, right?
What's more, I know that the band Shonen Knife released a single called "Banana Leaf" in one of their early albums. Sadly, I don't have the lyrics to the song, but the title of this one alone makes it something of a good fit.
What else is there, anyway? Maybe something tragic...
I feel it soft
In my hands
So soft
So soft
And I can sit through the door
Watching mine
Watching the sign
I know it's soft
So soft
I know it's soft
So soft
- "Soft", (Moby)
Yes, it's bad to take Moby's lyrics out of context, but it sounds pretty close on the surface, right?
I suppose I can name one more possibility, although it's in as general a context as "Weird Al" above:
Food, glorious food!
Eat right through the menu.
Just loosen your belt
Two inches and then you
Work up a new appetite.
In this interlude --
Then food,
Once again, food
Fabulous food,
Glorious food.
- "Food, Glorious Food" (Oliver!, the Musical)
It's probably just me, but I find it difficult to leave Broadway out of anything nowadays.
That's six possible entries into a suman album already, and although the pickings are pretty sparse, there could be a few more songs out there that could fit. I don't suppose anyone's got any other suggestions?
No? Ah, well.
I suppose that this is why personalizing a CD isn't easy -- either you've got too much to work with, or you've got too little to pick from.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be going back to checking my selections...
*Hums*
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)