Me: Mwahaha, andali lang!
Classmate: O? Sabi nung iba ang hirap daw ah!
Me: Ganun?(napaisip) Kinabahan tuloy ako bigla..
Classmate: Bakit naman, akala ko nadalian ka..
Me: It only means.. either I answered the test correctly, or I made a guessing game out of it (thinks harder) kaya pala ako nadalian!
Classmate: (laughs) Well, that explains everything.
Oh no! But hell, I don^t think I guessed all the answers. Not in the lecture test.. okay, maybe a little in the lab. But I found it easy, really I did. And somehow, I think I^m confident with most of my answers. Wak, defense mechanism!
Moving on..
***
I downloaded a new software in my PC so I could download more MP3^s (and hopefully not as obsessively as my dad).
The pilot run was smacked with ten songs at once. Hekhek, prepare to crash.
***
I still haven^t studied for any of my two tests tomorrow, and I^m damn sure I^ll be getting a healthy karma for being so slothful this supposed study-for-your-next-exam-tomorrow-or-else night. Agh, I am wasted as hell!
So anyway, I was browsing through the Internet and came across this wonderful poem in Jeanette Winterson^s website. Title is Rough Guide by George Szirtes.
Your image destroys itself, remakes itself, and is never weary.
[Octavio Paz, The Prisoner.]
Impossible to look directly into
another^s eyes. Impossible to look
into your own. You read the dense book
of being like a document you flick through.
Eyes, even an inch apart, are blurs,
clouds, like the concept of yesterday
which has an entity you sometimes stray
into beyond the limits of his and hers,
The unknown: the roughest of the rough guides,
and all it says is: you^re here, you^d better make
the best of it. You entered by mistake
and so you^ll leave. It^s what the route map hides
and languages obscure, the magnetic pull
of all you ever see of the beautiful.
****
But I have seen the beautiful. I know
its contours and the rough guide it provides
is blissfully specific: the hand that rides
the ridge of the collarbone or moves along the brow,
the perfect form of momentary light
in this line or another. It^s what Blake
saw at the top of the stair, the terrible earthquake
at the root of the flesh we think of as delight.
It^s what you see when you shut your eyes and see,
the angel with the whip or a flaming sword
that burns your eyes down to the spinal cord,
the shit, blood, semen smell of mortality
you get used to because it follows you
everywhere and is both beautiful and true.
Sweetly rich in beauty. Now that's hands-on review for real Literature. (atleast Octavio Paz is included in our test tomorrow.. is he?)
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