For Alexandria

Dreams are such sordid affairs to deal with, but We must deal with them, especially if a beloved figure arises from such a rather forgettable phantasm. That She, of all girls, should appear--and cordially--to me during one adventure of Ours last night, is truly a sign to behold. And to Our merit this time We were not a mere observer, but We hugged her tight just as she was knocking on the door to complain of somesuch predilection of Ours. This was never even inconceivable even in those days when Our desire for her was such that despair almost crystallized into Our own paralytic body. Maybe it's simply Our mind telling us that We were now in such a state of desire that We can unconsciously make physical contact with her, whether she despises it or not. Society would dictate that this is an abhorrent act to do, but given three shots o' gin, or some other spirit that needs a pirate's cup, We shall not hesitate to embrace Her.

Whatever clean inspiration We have gotten from this remarkable imaginary scene, it did drive Us into rethinking, and eventually retelling the stories of Our endeavor, which is now exactly three weeks into Our promised deadline. We dare change it because the renovated sequences will make the story simpler, though We certainly hope that Our subconscious will not devolve the work into a cheap Dumas imitation.

We shall work these lonely nights for the enlightenment of lonelier minds.

The Return

You were supposed to have passed out in a forest. Which is why you’re now expecting to see trees above you. But there are none.

Aaaggghhh! The pain!

You must be by the river—you can hear the water crashing.

You try to turn to your right even as you’re lying on the ground, but the incredible pain is taking away every ounce of strength you need to make the move. You look sideways, frustrated, and now pass out.

Wait!

Was that a black cloak?

With tears in your eyes you look sideways again: it is a black cloak!

The Roseman!

Your hands, despite your weapon, scramble for a weapon to hold. Where’s the sword?

Your left hand got hold of a sharp rock, but now, of all times, you hesitate: he must have been watching you for some time, maybe just waiting for you to wake up. But why? I should play dead.

Heck. It’s now or never.

The rock flies wobblingly into the air, and it seems it just might really hit him.

A sword.

Out of nowhere a woman has drawn the blade to deflect your missile. And she succeeds, your rock ending up in the river.

And what a drop-dead gorgeous woman this is: a rather pale complexion, with curly hair and almond eyes, a straight nose and rosy lips. Her dress quite hugs her figure from the neck down to the hips, from which thereon her ruffled skirt would give no further details.

She walks to your side, and puts a foot on your chest. For a moment you would have wanted to take a peek inside her skirt; a little breeze could help…

But then she presses on.

“I’m wearing pantaloons, thank you very much for the concern,” a girlish voice spoke. She now digs into the ground with her sword, just right beside your neck.

“He with you?” you resignedly ask.

“Ain’t that obvious?”

“Why didn’t I see you when we were fighting?”

“Because dealing with you was his job. Now get up.”

You try to sit up, but then again you cringe in pain. And then you remember why it hurt so bad.

You’ve got wings.

The woman had left to approach the Roseman. She whispered a few words, to which none the Roseman expressed anything.

She returns, not to help, but to whack their hostage’s head with her sword hilt.

***

Sandy woke up again, this time in a room. In a bed. With blankets. And bandages. That last blow to the head was still aching.

Where am I?

He tried to sit again. In doing so he placed his left hand upon the bed in such a manner that it would support his torso’s ascent, like a piston pushing the opposite direction.

But in doing so he unthinkably placed his hand where his wing was.

As his back rose, the wing, almost severed from a wound dealt by the Roseman, completely tore off.

Sandy could hardly breathe.

A cry rang out of the house.

And townsfolk rushed into old Raphael’s shack.

When they charged in, they saw Sandy inconsolable – and uncontrollable. He was rolling on the bed, pressing on his wings like some baker’s roller. Blood was everywhere.

Then someone oh so loudly suggested, “Call Dr. Ansashi!”

***

Ansashi was treating a toddler with a cough when a man came running to his clinic. “Sandy’s been found and is bleeding inside Raphael’s house!”

Raphael’s house? Wasn’t Raphael suspected to be a Unionist? Ansashi thought. He had an intense dislike for the poor man, but then he hated all poor people. But especially this rascal, whose debts to Ansashi the doctor never forgot. All poor men hate the Republic; let them be beheaded for their uselessness and their disloyalty!

Suddenly Ansashi had abandoned the toddler, who was also of a poor family. He told the mother, “Just get your child to drink tea with a pinch of salt every day for the next seven days. Now get out!” He pushed them out, closed his clinic for the day, and bringing his surgical apparatus he dragged his great weight into an old enemy’s abode.

Lord Okamoto’s going to reward me again, Ansashi thought. Run, Ansashi, drag your fat ass into the town… ‘tis worth another three gold coins! An angel for a patient!

A Most Intriguing System of Wisdom

Clouds Light and Heavy

"This just in boys," announced Katsurada, "the Roseman is two towns away from us."

Everyone's eyes went ablaze. Some became excited, some dreaded the news, and some were simply surprised. Legend or not, their attention was transfixed into this latest development of the Unionist menace.

"In a week or two we may find ourselves dead like all his other victims," warned the captain, "and that is more of a possibility than us barely surviving or the Roseman passing through this town without touching a single hair on our head. If he proceeds to Martimort via the river, consider it the luckiest day of your lives."

"Aren't we supposed to be arresting the guy?" asked Nanda the rich man who was sitting behind the rest of the group.

"Keep your heroics to yourself, Nanda," the captain sternly retorted. "I know that his is the most prized head in the Republic, and that it is very cowardly of me to say things such as being spared by the Roseman and all, but capturing him is beyond our powers. We need the help of the neighboring towns. Alone the best thing we can do is hope that the damn Unionists have not thought of us as the Roseman's next victims. But of course, we'll have to engage the Roseman if he enters Povoir."

"But isn't that what we volunteered for?" asked Polo, a veteran of the last war. "To defend this town by tacking down the Sichamers?"

Murmurs, murmurs.

Katsurada looked at Polo squarely in the eye and said, "Polo, you cover the entire troop once the Roseman enters this town."

"With pleasure," Polo cockily replied.

***

“Sandy, fetch your sister from the market. She’d be carrying a lot of things on the way home.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And don’t try jumping off the cliff. We’re not sure if you can descend safely from that height.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And stop giving away your feathers.”

Sandy looked at his left wing. A lot of featherless parts. His feathers would only fall off if a replacement is growing, and right now his left wing was almost naked. He had given his feathers to cute ladies, to the children. Sometimes the children—and even passersby—would be naughty enough to steal from him.

He sighed. “Yes, Mother.”

He stepped out of the house.

Almost overnight he had assumed a new identity, an identity he neither wanted nor liked. He just wanted to be Sandy, Special Defender the Republic against the Unionist threat. He liked the morning sun, good food, and his sword. He had wanted to be an angel when he was young, but that was years ago. Now he just wanted to serve the town, make his family proud of him, and live a normal life. Fate can be cruel.

He walked towards the market, but before he had gotten there, there was his sister, accompanied by a young porter who seems to have been talking all the while, seemingly trying to start a conversation with her.

***

He walked into the bar defeated. But this was not an assurance that the place was going to be quiet tonight. On the contrary, any news of a jilted love in the town of Povoir was an occasion for the men of the town to have a raunchy, and sometimes bloody, evening.

The lover did not settle into the counter alone. With him were uniformed men – though the lover was not himself of the uniform. One of these fearsome chaperons ordered, “A barrel of beer on me, Eddie!”

“You haven’t paid the last two orders of yours, Sarge,” came the swift reply.

“Beh! Do only the beautiful people get to weep with their love? Even monkeys have feelings too!” Laughter.

“Hear, hear!” the other patrolmen cheerfully shouted. “A barrel of beer!”

The young bartender angrily muttered to himself as he left to get their order.

“Cheer up, Canavero, there are still a lot of lowers in the field,” said Ned while patting his seatmate. “Tonight we celebrate, tomorrow is another date!”

“Just don’t come near my girl, Canavero,” said the fat patrolman by the window. “Otherwise I’ll cut your little monkey’s dick off.”

“Whoa, whoa!” sniped the others.

“Which is larger, the pig’s dick, or the monkey’s?” retorted Ned, itching for a fight with Rendermein.

The laughter was still there, but everyone knew that a duel had just been proposed. Fellow Sabeurreini tried to shout down Ned’s insult, but Rendermein the pig stood up and approached his heckler. “Maybe you’d like to see it outside, teenie-weenie,” he softly said.

Everyone wanted to be in the middle, but nobody actually did. Then out of nowhere Katsurada emerged, thrusting his sword through the space between his two men, saying, “You surrender your swords before you go outside. I’ll return it to you tomorrow.”

Still eyeing each other, they replied, “Agreed.” Rendermein finally went back to his seat by the window; Ned turned to face the counter again.

Eddie finally reappeared with the group’s barrel of beer. He began serving the glasses.

Ouchiyama came from behind and patted Canavero’s back. “You can still chase that horse Mizuka if you want.” Then, facing Ned, he said, “Lord knows what their baby’s gonna be – a horse dangling on a tree!” He whacked Canavero’s back before returning to his own table.

The poor servant could only weep by himself. He had been accustomed to the vicious jokes of these men, who had employed him and had saved him more than once from charges of theft and trespassing. But since when had they ever been in control of what happens to his personal life? Just now?

Eight o’clock.

Ouchiyama went out to take another soldier, Hiroya, to the latter’s home.

Nine o’clock.

Ten o’clock.

Eleven o’clock.

The men were getting rowdy. Almost everyone had given a speech, a song, or a joke to make fun of Canavero and entertain everybody else. Just when everybody had thought everybody else had forgotten,

“When will you, Rendie, be showing your enormous dick?!”

A malevolent cheer erupted. Both men had been talking with other people, but upon hearing the reminder they excused themselves and stepped outside, where they were blocked by their captain. “Swords, please,” the ever-stern Katsurada said. They gave up their swords.

“Do it behind the bar, and don’t touch Eddie’s bottles. One cracked bottle and I will have the bottle ground and have you both swallow it. Understood?”

“Yes sir.” Alcohol was just another spirit.

The men in uniform went out to follow the duelists.

The two found their spot, a dark alley filled with crates and smashed bottles. Just as Ned was about to throw a punch to Rendermein, he noticed an outstretched arm in a dark part of the alley. He shivered, giving enough time for Rendermein to land a fist on his face. Ned collapsed immediately.

“You want to see my fucking dick, huh? I’ll let you swallow it after I break your jaw. Then I’ll take a leak inside your…”

Ned, though badly shaken by the preliminary blow, did not fight back. Horrified of what he alone was seeing he tried to point to the hidden corpse, but was quickly downed again by Rendermein.

Rendermein collared him, and with a furious roar threw Ned into the very spot of the hidden corpse.

The mess that followed shocked them all.

Everyone saw the body, with the fallen Ned on top of it.

"It's Ouchiyama!"

They had pulled Ned away from the body, and removed the pile of garbage that had initially covered their dead comrade. Rendermein in his horror had stumbled and fell on his butt.

Ouchiyama's body bore deep sword slashes. Almost at once, they feared the one man known for this.

Something was protruding out of the man's chest wound.

A rose petal.

"Oh God," as they all retreated. Several turned their eyes away from the gruesome sight.

These men, many of them battle-hardened, now pained themselves with the atrociousness of their enemy's work. The sight was simply unbearable. Ouchiyama still had his face, but it had been skinned from the left side and was now dangling, with the right side to keep it from falling. Apparently the murderer had time to play with the corpse. His slash wounds were no better; besides the rose inside the chest, Ouchiyama's entrails were exposed, not out of his belly, but out of his back.

The men, drunk and smarting for a fight between Ned and Rendermein, now found themselves revolting. "Let's go after him!" "He's in town!" "Avenge Ouchiyama!" They all marched into the streets,  including Ned, and Rendermein, starting an impromptu search for the Roseman in the entire town.

If you're wondering where Captain Katsurada was in all of this, he had merely been following them., from the bar to the back alley. No use calming a bunch of drunk swordsmen. He had given Ned and Rendermein their swords, and let them on this unplanned night search. After all, this is what they should have been all doing tonight, instead of "brooding" over a servant's love problem.

They combed every alley, knocked on doors, and pronged their swords into every suspected alcove and corner.

And then disaster struck again.

Rendermein had reached Hiroya's house. He knocked on the door. "Mrs. Hiroya?"

A homely woman opened it for him. "Yes? Where's Hiroya? Is he alright?"

Rendermein was surprised. "Hiroya's not here?"

"No. I thought you were with him--"

Rendermein ran to the others. "Hiroya never made it home."

For Aaron Marlowe

This bloody headache is driving Us mad... Maybe it's the inevitable compound of Our house arrest and the sudden task of disinfecting the dogs of their damn ticks. The head, which is an indispensable aide to the task of writing, throbs most intolerably, and instead of being able to honor engagements and also to write at least two chapters by which We could've advanced Our destiny, I am now restrained by physical weakness.

We should wish for the cough to cease, as it does not help in the jerking of Our head every time the necessity to expel the undesirables comes, but We have chosen to refrain from taking medicine for two reasons: We have yet to satisfy Our newly-discovered ability to reach unreachable notes, and more importantly, We do not deem Ourself as worthy of taking expense in this family's medical resources. Until We have found an occupation and the money starts flowing in, We should be parsimonious as to every need which occurs.

Damn brain, We're now at a loss for words. We shall try to sleep now; but it would be most helpful if our great collaborator Mlle. L.M. come around for at least a short chat. At least  We won't be dreaming of incessant running again, but have Our dreams filled with Plato's forms. Otherwise, ta ta!

A Promise Is a Promise Kept in Check

Today I start my seventeen-day whiling-away period from Facebook. I must admit I've been addicted to the online network since last year, no thanks to the emotional turmoils that upset my life during the same time. Now I've found some solace in the collaboration of a friend, and I've decided to spend a lot less time on FB and more time filling this other avenue for expression with my thoughts and eccentricities.

I'm hoping that in this seventeen-day retreat from being the loudmouth that I am in FB I can finally push myself to concentrate on the book that is due next month. I wonder how Bianca will react to the possibility of my failing to meet the deadline for the book. While I have no serious attachment to the girl besides my sharing to her the ambition of writing a book, I feel pressured to finish the book with a devil-may-care attitude. A deadline is a deadline, and it is my voluntary acceptance of the deadline that compels me to beat it, not the possibility of her gloating over my failure, or disappointment and disbelief of me for the same. Sigh.

For Julius Oigimer

Blame Ms. Lizette for this. (Just kidding, Mom... You know how grateful I am for learning this from you. :))

The current Wikileaks controversy and the multinational efforts to deter it from continuing to make the stolen cables accessible seems to be a rehearsal for containing rebellious human beings before the community of nations plan to enforce their plans for an ersatz world domination. I cannot help but wonder to what extent will these opponents of Wikileaks work to suppress this manifestation of their systems' loophole. And I'm already wondering whether retribution will eventually fall not only on Assange and the defenders of free access to information, but even those who have successfully copied the Insurance file and even those who had the slightest access to and support for Wikileaks. The Matrix, it seems, is at hand.

A Strange Act of Salvation

“I swore that I will never kill again.”

The clash of swords was inevitable.

“No…. no… no… Don’t do it…Please…”

The enemy was less than a feet away. And yet Denis had not raised his sword in front of him. He was deluded, sick, and unwilling to fight.

The Roseman pivoted before crouching to hit his target on the legs; but then suddenly he hesitated and thrust his sword onto Denis’s face.

“No!!!”

Within a split-second the sick lad swung his blade to block the thrust. The Roseman’s sword wavered, giving enough room for Denis to take a step backward and recover his personal space.

The Roseman himself leaped backwards, and then lunged again.”

“I can’t fight you…”

“No one told you to fight,” came a reply, seemingly from the assassin.

He brushed his blade against the already raised sword of Denis, retreating again, and then lunging again.

“They expected you to die, that’s why they sent you here. To be the hero they could worship. Don’t you get it?” The enemy was tormenting him with his words more than his blows.

Denis cried out.

And then suddenly he came lashing out at the Roseman, a strange sight, because the Roseman was slowly taking steps back.

But it was all a play. With one strafing move, the Roseman dealt a blow under Denis’s left arm, and the soldier wailed in agony as he fell. Remarkably the Roseman did not follow up on his blow. He lowered his sword, and watched the all-too-familiar sight of a slow death.

The flesh under Denis’s arm breathed, squirting blood in the process, and also revealing the young man’s diseased skin. The maggots were gushing out more slowly than the blood.

Denis remembered his friends again. Ned died on the same side as he now dies; Clem and Sandy had fought for this guy and died nevertheless. Are they, like so many thousand others, going to be remembered as just the victims of this devil incarnate?

He remembered the soft but morose face of Cham, how she wept at the news of her brother’s fall, Ned’s final duel with the Roseman, Clem’s insanity as he charged to defend the Roseman’s gang despite the lack of a Compass or Astrolabe or even a shield. Now, he, diseased that he was, was about to join his friends. Will Cham cry for him too?

He knew otherwise. I must defeat this bastard.

Blood and worms gushing from his side, he stood up, resolved, planting the sharp end of his sword into the sand to support him, and then swung the same blade in preparation for his strike.

“Long live the Republic! I love you, Cham! Aaaahhh!!!”

He charged like never before.

Strange thing was, the Roseman lost all sense of the drama and raised his hands before him as if to defend himself mockingly with only his arms.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Man, you don’t have to do that.” He was near chuckles.

Denis was stupefied. Keeping his sword raised above his head, he wondered, what the fuck? Here I charge and you defend yourself like some helpless jerk.

The Roseman was smiling, but not the terrifying smile he and his friends saw during their first encounter with him. He had begun laughing, and lowered his defenses by laughing so hard that he held his right torso as if to control the stitches that were paining him.

Oh God, oh God…. The assassin continued to laugh, and Denis began to feel insulted by the Roseman’s reaction to his charge.

Shit… He was about to strike this most fearsome enemy, but the guy was laughing so hard and gasping for breath because of the stitches that he had to stop. Roseman or not, I’m not going to kill him unarmed… as the Roseman had already dropped his weapon.

Maybe, this is my way out… to Cham, and to avoiding the fate of my friends… Denis thought. For some unknown reason the man was still rolling on the ground with his laughter that Denis had already decided to leave the place. He ran, trying to look back but hoping that the man will get killed by his stitches… an impossible thing, you idiot! Just get the fuck out of here!

For Marvin Dominic

A former student of mine once asked me what would be my emphasis in my preaching if ever I get to land myself on a pulpit as God's holy priest. Would it be heaven? salvation? damnation? I chuckled to myself and readily replied to him, "Love." Hahaha... After all these years of sacrifice for that damned subject, why should I veer away from it come the time I don the priestly vestments? After all, is not Christianity about love becoming flesh? Forget heaven and hell if you cannot even remember to love your neighbor for love's sake (which means for God's sake in the New Testament, since it categorically declares: "God is love" (1 Jn. 4:8).

Speaking of God being love, I've been imagining a heresy that I hope to incorporate in my book. I'm calling it Anti-predicationism, and according to it, God cannot be used as a predicate, only as subject. For example, for them, it is alright to predicate love to God, i.e., "God is love", but not the other way around, viz. "Love is God." It seems reminiscent to the transcendentalist view of the Muslims, who claim that God's mysteries are not a matter of human study. The pillar of Shahada seems to justify my opinion, as it unequivocally states that there is no God but Allah, and thus he cannot be equated to anything. Of course, I've definitely extended my little understanding of Islamic theology here, but I think it does present points to reflect on when we express God in human language. Linguists, O linguists, come to my rescue.

For Danice Jencelle

I find my penmanship these days amusing. As I write in a carelessly cursive manner, I cannot help but remember the various influences that shaped such scribble: my father's illegible handwriting, the numerous depictions of chicken-feet scratches of great writers in so many a movie, my attempts to imitate female handwriting during my high school days (in order to keep myself incognito as I write insults on the blackboard -- and yes, I did succeed!), and finally, the discipline imposed on me by my erstwhile work as a high school teacher. Yes, in those days I considered myself a genius who had the right to write illegibly: God knows how my poor readers managed to cope up with the flurry of ideas in hieroglyphic writing. But now that I've been sobered of the view, I keep my "marks of a genius" to myself, but I still find it so satisfying that even when I am stuck in what I write, just an appreciative glimpse at how I've just written the menacing thought and I'm back on track.

Coat-of-Arms

This will serve as my official coat-of-arms until I can have my own design made by some artist who's better than me. As I'm very poor with Photoshop, this is the best I can do for myself (my thanks to Wikipedia for the default coat-of-arms image for cardinals and the Bobone-Orsini family crest).

I adopted the Bobone-Orsini family coat-of-arms (this one was actually coat-of-arms of Pope Nicholas III, one of the three popes coming from that illustrious family) since I justified the use of the riddle-name "Cardinal Bobo" by adopting the persona of a real Cardinal Bobo, namely Giacinto Cardinal Bobone, who was also recorded as "Bobo" (see http://www2.fiu.edu/~mirandas/bios1144.htm#Bobone for more details of this already obscure Pope.) Though I have my personal interpretations for the elements of the Bobone-Orsini coat-of-arms, you can find the original meanings for yourselves in the Internet.

However, the motto "Deus Est Mea Libertas" is my own, and its meaning has been discussed in my article "God Is My Freedom," http://cardinaloftherevolution.blogspot.com/2010/11/god-is-my-freedom-c-october-2010.html.

I do deserve a coat-of-arms. Save your objections for now.

My 3 Most unforgettable Anime

Third Place, Gundam Wing.



Second Place, Neon Genesis Evangelion



First Place, Rurouni Kenshin.

The News

The news of the assassination of the prevant hit hard on the town of Povoir. The news had almost been a week late, but still it hit them hard, like a sandbag being thrown into each of their faces. Some were openly crying, some just expressed their sorrow as if it were shame, with heads bowed. No one dared look into the heavens that morning, though the people who felt the gravity of the news seemed to commend our illustrious victim to the ruler of that realm.

In mourning the town of Povoir listened to the herald who brought the news, with both silence and a seething hatred for the assassins. Never mind that their boy was neither their ruler nor even their citizen, the prevant was born and raised in this town, took up his seat in Parliament as their representative, and brought prestige to Povoir by becoming Prime Servant of the King and People of Noftiers. Even when his placating policies finally split the nation, which had been fighting a civil war for three years, into two –ironically severing himself from his constituents – Michael Doi was Povoir’s son.

Will he be buried here? they asked. No, the herald said. The King himself has declared that Doi belongs to the North now. He cannot be buried in the South, as this will be more expensive. Doi will be buried in a cemetery in Sichame.

Murmurs against the King.

You say that it was the Unionists? one asked. Aye, said the herald. Clamors for reprisal against the rebels erupted among the townspeople.

At this point the town mayor, who had been standing behind the herald, stepped up front, raised his hands as if to stop the cries for vengeance, saying, “I shall order our Sabeurreini to conduct raids to stamp out these evildoers from our town, and even in the neighboring towns, to avenge Prevant Doi and those who have fallen in the fight for our freedom.” This earned applause from the townspeople, although they have heard this from the mayor many times and the only thing that ever came out of these raids were a few broken swords, highway bandits and bums, and documents which they claim to be proofs of Unionist conspiracy in Povoir but could simply have been old paper waiting to used as fuel for their fires.

And as if on cue, right after the applause had died down, the clouds came and blackened the sky, and the people rushed to their homes.

And all this was happening just as the herald was about to announce that a collection was to be made, to be delivered “to Prevant Doi’s family.” The herald turned to the mayor to ask him to call the people back for this important announcement, but the mayor himself had gone. The herald was left alone in the town stage.

He tried looking for a soul in the streets, but nary a soul could he find. He walked out of the town, without a  new gold coin in his pocket.

The rains came.

Isang Lumang Sanaysay (Na Naman?)

Ano ba ang weltanschauung para sa Pilipino?

Mahalagang ipaalala dito na ang weltanschauung ay, unang-una, isang indibidwal na pananaw, isang pribado at eksklusibong pagtukoy sa mundo bilang ganito at hindi ganoon. Isang ilusyon ang pagtaguyod ng isang malawakan at mapang-yakap na weltanschauung na hindi ginugulo ng kontradiksyon at pagtunggali.

Ngunit walang kwenta ang weltanschauung na hindi maibabahagi ng may-ari nito; sa kanyang pakikipagsapalaran sa buhay hindi maiwasan na maipakita ng indibidwal ang kanyang weltanschauung sa iba. May dalawang bahagi ang weltanschauung: ang ”tradisyunal” na bahagi nito bilang isang pagtanaw ng mundo, at ang ”nakatagong” bahagi ng ”pagpapakita” (schau) ng pananaw na ito. Ito ang prinsipyo ng weltanschauung bilang isang naibabahaging realidad ng tao.

Sa pagtaguyod ng weltanschauung bilang isang naibabahaging kaalaman madaling isunod ang tanong na, ”Maaari bang umangat sa pambansang antas ang indibidwal na weltanschauung?” Sa pananaw ng maraming pantas, ang sagot ay limitado lang sa bilang ng salita nito: bakit hindi? Hindi ako tutol sa kanilang pagtangkilik sa isang progresibong proposisyon, ngunit hindi rin maaalis ang ilang alinlangan.

Una, madaling sabihin sa teorya na ang isang bansa ay may mapag-isa at natatanging pananaw sa mundo. Ngunit sa praxis, at lalo na sa isang demokratikong praxis, ang iiral lang – at kasalukuyang uniiral – na ”pambansang weltanschauung” ay isa na bumabalangkas at tumatangkilik sa realidad ng hidwaan. Totoo na ang tao ay isang mapanglipong nilalang (social animal), ngunit totoo rin na ang tao ay nilalang ng hidwaan. Inihihiwalay siya sa kanyang ina sa kanyang kapanganakan, itinuturo sa kanya na iba-iba ang mga bagay sa mundo, na may tama at mali; sa kanyang pakikipagkapwa itinutugma niya ang kanyang kaibahan (distinction) sa kaibhan ng iba; siya’y nakikipag-away at nakikibaka; atbp. Sa madaling salita, ang perpektong unibersal na weltanschauung ay isa na kumikilala sa kanyang kabaligtaran: isang di-perpekto at makasariling weltanschauung.

Pangalawa, ang mismong salitang ”weltanschauung” ay likas na limitado sa sakop nito: hindi ito angkop sa malawakang pagtalima. Ang ating paggamit ng weltanschauung bilang isang pagtanaw sa mundo ay barok at kulang, kahit sabihin natin na ang paggamit nito ay tapat sa ibig ipahiwatig ng mga Aleman. Sa karanasang Pilipino hindi sapat ang ”weltanschauung” upang isiksik ang lahat ng kasaysayan, tradisyon at mga ad hoc na kalagayan, mga realidad na hindi maaaring isantabi. Aking iminumungkahi na ang tunay na hinahanap ng kamalayang Pilipino ay isang ideolohiya. Ang Pilipino ay hindi tumatanaw sa mundo gamit lamang ang kanyang subhetibong pagkakalilanlan; hindi lang ang mga mata ang ginagamit niya kundi pati na rin ang kanyang karanasan. Ideolohiya ang mas-angkop na hanapin ng unibersal na kamalayang Pilipino sapagkat inuungkat nito ang parehong indibidwal at kolektibong karansan ng tumatanaw na Pilipino at nililipol ang mga ito upang maging batayan ng pribadong weltanschauung ng Pilipino.

Masasabi na ang weltanschauung, dahil na rin sa kanyang batayan ng karanasan (experiential dimension), ay isang mayamang pagtanaw sa mundo – oo, puno ng bias at mga irrasyonal na haka-haka, ngunit bahagi ang mga ito ng kayamanan. Ang malawak na kaurian ng kaalaman at karanasang napapaloob sa isang weltanschauung ang nagbibigay kaibahan at kasarinlan sa pagtanaw-sa-mundo. Ang ’kultural’ na aspeto ng weltanschauung ang siyang ”nagbibigay-kulay” sa pagtanaw ng Pilipino.

Mahalaga ang weltanschauung sa pag-iral ng isang kamalayan. Bagama’t ang una ay hindi bahagi sa pagbuo ng huli, mahirap isipin ang patuloy na pag-iral ng kamalayan ng indibidwal kung nawala o wala naman talaga ang weltanschauung. Sa pilosopiya ni Sto. Tomas de Aquino, ang esensya ng subjek o ng ego ay umiiral – at umiiral lamang – sa kanyang relasyon sa objek o id. Sa ganitong prinsipyo nakataguyod ang kamalayang Pilipino: ang malay natin ay tumatanaw sa mundi na nagpapatunay na namamalayan natin ito.

Sa pagtanaw ng mundo “nawawala” ang “bagay” na mundo at napapalitan ito ng ”mundo-sa harap (o paligid)-ko.” Ang paglipat mula sa obhetibo patungo sa subhetibo ay isang sine qua non ng weltanschauung, dahil dito nabubuo ang tinatawag na “karanasan.” Ngunit hindi rito nagtatapos ang proseso ng weltanschauung: sa kanyang pakikipagtalastasan at pagbabahagi sa iba ang Pilipinong kamalayan ay nagdudulot mg ”objectification” ng kanyang sariling subhetibong pananaw. Sa pagbanggit ng kanyang weltanschauung sa iba ito ay nagiging objek ng pag-ayon o pagtutol ng iba: hindi na ito ang subhetibong pananaw ng indibidwal na kamalayan; ito ay isa nang ideya na maaaring pagsama-samahin upang maging isang ideolohiya. Dito na papasok ang mag isying epistemolohikal, ngunit iiwasan na ng awtor sa mga ito.

Sa pagtaguyod ng weltanschauung bilang sangkap ng kamalayan, dapt din itanong: ano ang tinatanaw ng kamalayang Pilipino?

Ayon sa Katekismo para sa Pilipinong Katoliko, ”tayong mga Pilipino ay mapaniwala sa espiritu” (2000:18). Ito raw ang pananaw sa daigdig ng mga Pilipino. Mga puwersang hindi matanaw ang silang pinagtutuusan ng pansin ng mga Pilipino. Sa unang tingin tila kahungkagan ang ganitong pananaw. Ngunit ganito ba talaga ang pananaw ng mga Pilipino?

Isang tatak ng kulturang Pilipino ang sari-saring pananampalataya at paniniwala na tumutugon sa o nagpapahiwating man lang ng isang espiritwal na mundo o realidad. Hitik ang mga alamat, pamahiin at ritwal panlipunan sa mga bagay espiritwal. Sa kanyang pagkilala sa di-materyal na realidad nabubuo sa kamalayang Pilipino ang pananaw na may higit pa sa mundong kinagagalawan ng Pilipino, isang kwasi-realistikong kamalayan na nakakaimpluwensiya sa kanyang pagkatao at gawain at kadalasa’y nakapangyayari sa kanyang paligid. At ang Pilipino ay hindi ang tipong nagwawalang-bahala; bagkus inuugnay niya ang lahat ng karanasan sa kanyang sarili: pinipilit niyang tumugon sa mga penomenong nararanasan niya, at sa kanyang pagtugon ay nag-aalala siya sa kung anong impluho ang maidudulot ng maitatanaw.

Ang pag-aalala na ito ang siyang nagbibigay-anyo sa weltanschauung ng Pilipino. Sa pananaw ng kamalayang ito ang mundong kanyang kinabibilangan at tahasang nararanasan ay miderwertig, isang mababang klase ng realidad kumpara sa realidad na lagpas sa sarili niyang pagtanaw, at sa pakikipag-ugnayan sa espiritu ay naitataguyod niya ang sarili niya bilang buhay, may malay, naiiba sa mundo, at espiritwal rin. Ito ang prinsipyo ng relihiyong pilipino, at ang Pilipino bilang homo religiosus: isang indibidwal na weltanschauung na ang tanaw ay ang überwelt sa halip na ang mismong mundo-sa-paligid.

An Obsolete Commentary on the Philippine Situation

Months before the much-hoped-for national elections, the Commission on Elections (COMELEC) is scrambling to procure automated poll machines by which it plans to bring the Philippine electoral process into the 21^st century.

Unfortunately for the COMELEC, the 21^st century demands progress, not regress. No, it is not because they are vain in trying to update their hopelessly obsolete election apparatus; indeed, if this is even a fault (which it is) it is because the principles that allow, if not dictate, these means are themselves flawed.

The Philippine political situation is, if it is anything at all, a sour joke, perpetrated by our authorities-cum-clowns who cling to power as if it were their birthright. While charity and truth have every right to depose these scumbags who make democracy a worse ideal than other political formats, the purpose of this essay is to examine why democracy is flawed in the first place.

One of its principles is worth the scrutiny: political equality is one of the main draws of democracy, much like a hero of the battlefield praising his son before the people who have come to see the former. Political equality states that everyone is a citizen, whether he be a president or a farmer, and is entitled to one and only one vote, besides other political opportunities provided for by the state. This seems a given…until we see its inappropriateness.

Politics is a delicate exercise of societal relations, and it has a lucrative possession in tow: power. You may call it government, or some such fanciful name, but it always boils down to power – the arbitration and enforcement of convention sine qua non chaos simply draws the line between life and death. Bringing that exercise to a quantitative showdown was the first political sin, since it degenerates the value of the inherent power of the society which it seeks to govern (by recording the process of ostraka we can blame the Greeks for this). Democracy is the magnification of that first sin.

The decisive factor here is formal education. Not all men are comfortable with formal education, something that is required by democracy in lieu of the very discriminative ennobling process. While formal education is admittedly insufficient to bring about societal change, its dispensation places democratic government at the mercy of chaos, which understands no equality whatsoever.

The delicacy of politics is such that knowledge of convention—a knowledge ensured safeguarded by formal education—is required, along with a reasonable partiality, to effect justice and morally acceptable change. If politics devolves into a numbers game, all societal relations subject to that politics are compromised of their political value, i.e. any political process becomes a travesty because the convention, which recognizes no majority or minority but emphasizes its appeal to all, has been overridden by the ad hoc convention of a majority. This political value, ironically, is what political equality claims to safeguard for everyone. The majority-minority format thus imperils the entire political process, especially if the majority is ignorant of both the convention and the delicacy of politics.

Power is basically quantitative; most forces of nature are. But it is precisely our rationality that transforms it into a qualitative reality, thus enabling it to be shared. To leave it into the hands of the ignorant is to warrant the death of politics and destroy—not just impede—the progress of man.

Of Copyrights and Copy-lefts

Just a few minutes ago I ceded to a former student of mine my copyright to an entire essay (albeit a short one) that I've recently (re-)written. It may sound crazy, but given this freakish streak of charitableness that I have with me, it is not impossible. I have been prodigal in everything that I have, possessions, time, effort, even my personal secrets. You may find it incredulous, given my disrepute as a miser and as a greedy individual, but I enjoy surprising people with the little good that I can muster every now and then.

I do not intend to justify my surrender of the damned essay, as my charity needs no justification except itself. Besides, I can make another essay on the same matter, and I can readily defend it against accusations of unoriginality. I merely pray that my student can defend her rights to the essay by accepting its ideas as her own.

MJJyS, I pray that with your thesis, you should, as Churchill would have it, "KBO." An advanced Merry Christmas, despite the grotesque gift you'd have to receive from me.

INSPIRATVS

This afternoon has found me pseudo-scribbling (i.e. typing) ideas about the novel that has had crazy changes in the past four months. It does help, that self-imposed deadline of January 11, 2011 (I had promised an old friend of mine two years ago that the book will be finished by that date), even if it really meant that I shall have to reinterpret the date as the submission to a printer, to a publisher, to the editor/s, or simply as the submission of the first draft. Lord knows which.

It is my conviction, unless fate plays another cruel game on my priestly vocation, that 2011 shall not be replaced by another year without my ideas being finally published. It's been thirteen years going on fourteen. The ideas have stayed too long in my mind; I wonder whether the reader will sense the stench of corruption that has beholden me. Haha. Goodbye, Nobel Prize; goodbye, Pulitzer.

I must admit that I had aspired for fame as a writer when I was much younger, especially when I started with this endeavor; I have grown old and weary enough to cheerfully admit that right now I shall happily die satisfied as long as I get to see my book in book stores (by that time I'd be so ill with disease I shall have to drag my ass into the store while strapped into a wheelchair). 'Tis my ideal death scene to collapse while browsing the first copies of the book.

That makes me wonder: how do I repay everyone who's inspired me to write (obviously, the infernal dragon who's opposed me all these years does not count among these benevolent people)? Is acknowledgment enough? Shall I yield the proceeds to them? I cannot give them the dedication part -- that I am resolved to give to one and only one person. The only solution, it seems, is to write another book... but does that mean I shall have to live another fourteen years in the loony bin?

Ah, but I must dedicate the second book, if I ever survive the depression caused by the first one, to a good friend. I am no genius, which is why I need at least one comrade to walk me into that door called destiny. Lucky me, I've got at least one, and I am so grateful to her that the second dedication is but a small gift.

After which, I can happily be run over by some reckless driver, or (un-)intentionally fall into the Pasig River, or get stabbed by an ice pick by some deranged drug addict as I refuse to hand him the little pamasahe that I have, or some other violent death for which I must happily join the ranks of poor souls whose deaths are, like the fictional Albert Jerska, mere statistics.

God help me and my and my corrupt mind and calloused hands.

The Hubbub

Sandy recovered. It took him two days before he was able to wake up, and three more for him to be able to sit straight. He tried to stand, but it seemed that his wings were toying with his posture, as if he was being pulled backwards and at first he always had to bow in order to balance his weight.

The wings were heavy. They were far heavier than his limbs combined, and this weight became a source of another sort of back pain for Sandy, who already has to bear the intense ache from the area where his wings were attached to his back.

 

***

The storm had left. The people of Povoir have started to repair their roofs, fences, and windows; they have started to sweep the roads, reinforce their walls, and live out their lives just like before.

Oh and yes, they’re already talking about Alexander Okamoto.

The market was abuzz with stories of him. Some said he had two wings, or that he had four; that he had a tail; that Ansushi was cruel to drag the poor boy all the way to his clinic, or that Sandy’s mother was a member of an evil cult.

Most prominent of the versions came from the meat stalls, where Sarah, a fat woman with strong hands for cutting meat and stronger jaws for speaking out her mind, swiftly ran her cleaver into the chicken before her, while ranting against the local doctor.

“No, no, no, no,” bellowed Sarah to the chicken, then turning her sights on Hazel, the vendor to her right. “It was the old man’s idea. The other boys could do nothing. That old man wants to charge heavy.”

Disapproving cries. Ansushi, it seems, has his supporters.

“Beh!” continued Sarah. “He knows Mr. okamoto owns this market. Does he give a damn whether anyone here got hurt in the storm yesterday? He closed his damn clinic while five people outside!”

“Five, including you?” It was Gundy, the vendor opposite Sarah.

“Shut up, you ungrateful pig! You still owe me fifty!” Sarah was not to be crossed with, especially if you owe her.

“What will become of him?” asked Hazel.

“Hmmmm… he can play an angel every Christmas…” Gundy replied.

The chuckles that followed were stifled when Sarah glared at her debtor. “That depends whether the old man keeps him around…”

“It’s horrible, just horrible.” Vincent, a calm bulk of a butcher and husband of Sarah, has just arrived. “You don’t have to make it more horrible by fighting about it, guys. The customers are waiting for their meat. Get over it.”

***

 

In the rectory, the parish priest was quietly eating his rice and fried fish. His assistant priest has just arrived. The young man joined his superior at table, sitting by the latter’s right hand. He crossed himself, both to bless the food before him and to hope that the old man won’t ave to ask—

“Late again, Louis?”

“Sorry, Father. Confession.”

The curé stared at him. Louis knew it, but still he tried to prepare his first spoonful without trembling.

The curé resumed his meal. Silence.

Silence.

Chew. Silence.

Swallow. Chew. Silence.

Sil—

“If I may ask, Father,” inquired Louis, trying to look at the old man’s face but ending up looking at the forehead, “there’s been a lot of confusion, a lot of gossip going on about Sandy Okamoto.” It’s quite scary, I think.”

The curé continued eating as if he heard nothing. Louis somehow took it as a sign to continue. “What should I tell the people? Is it supernatural? Is Sandy a freak? Is he possessed?”

The senior laid his fork on his plate. He stared at the window in front of him, and for a few seconds did nothing more. Louis tried to eat.

“I baptized that boy,” the old man finally replied. It’s not his fault, whatever happened to him, and I am not to condemn what God has planned for him.”

“But what should I tell the people?” asked Louis.

“That he is Alexander Okamoto, son of this town and a human being. We will treat him for who he is, not for what he had become.”

***

In the hills south of the town, five children were lying on the grass, watching the sun set while talking about their neighbor’s transformation.

“Do you think Sandy’s an angel?” asked Rizza.

“Nope,” answered David.

“Then where did he get those wings?”

“Birds have wings,” retorted Bowie.

“Sandy doesn’t have a tail,” said Rizza.

“Who cares? What’s important is that he can fly now. He can see the enemy from above,” commented Samantha.

“Can he end the war?” asked April.

“Surely he can. The other side’s a bunch of losers,” replied Bowie.

“I sure hope so.” April sat up. “Then Dad can go home. I miss him.”

“Of course your dad’s going home… None of us will lose anyone, now that we’ve got Sandy the angel,” sniped Jossen.

“He’s not an angel,” said David.

The Nightmare

The ceiling tore itself open like a mouth gaping wide, and the wood and paint debris fell like sticky drool, as if they were squid’s arms extending to grab Sandy.

Help!

Sandy couldn’t move. He was stuck in his bed. He tried to rise but his back seemed to be too heavy; his arms, for no reason, wouldn’t move. Terror was eating him before the ceiling could.

The ceiling hole was nearing Sandy’s body. The debris didn’t act only like squid’s arms, they now looked as if they were fangs of this fearful gorge. Sandy could see the insides of the ceiling itself, but he saw nothing of the attic of the house that was supposed to be above that very ceiling. Instead he could see the night sky, riddled with stars, calm and quiet. It seemed like a consoling sight, if he could just be sure that the orifice was not going to chew him to pieces.

The room windows banged.

And Sandy wakes up, with the windows still banging, along with the door being continuously slammed; and there is the ceiling, still shuddering. But no hole, no monster.

There is a storm. It’s a nightmare, alright. No need for Sandy’s monster.

Sandy feels wet.

He looks at the window by his bed. The rain has been sprinkling on him for some time, no thanks to the poor fastening of his windows. He reaches for the windows.

He can’t.

His upper back feels heavy. And awfully painful. Very, very painful.

Sandy gasps.

Help!

“Okamoto, you alright?” a voice from outside the room asked in a crescendo.

“No! Help me, man! My back hurts!”

The owner of the other voice comes inside Sandy’s room. Ned is carrying his sword, as he is on his way to the office. He stands beside Sandy’s bed and not knowing exactly what to do, hovers his arms above Sandy. He finally places his right arm behind Sandy’s back. Sandy cries in pain.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t touch my back!”

Ned recoils his arm.

“Turn me on my back, man, and call the doctor…” Sandy was tiring from the pain.

Ned, confused, heads out the door and looks for a doctor.

Sandy looks sideways, sees the open door, slamming and opening, and tries to make for it. Slowly, gaspingly, he crawls, and falls from his bed.

A louder cry.

Clem and Denis come by the door and see their comrade. They rush to help him, carrying him by his arms. Agony once more.

“What’s wrong Sandy?” asks Denis.

“Get me to a hospital, guys…” panted Sandy.

“You’ve got to lie down for now,” says Clem.

“No! it’s my back that’s killing me!”

“Alright, alright!” Clem looks for the main door. “Where’s Ned?”

“He’s gone to look for a doctor,” whispers Sandy.

“I’ll call for Doctor Ansashi,” remarks Denis, and he leaves. Ned goes too, leaving Clem with Sandy.

Clem makes his friend lie on the floor on his back. He can see Sandy gasping for air, and feels sorry about it, but the man can’t tolerate lying properly, because his back is the problem.

“Hey, Clem,” gasps Sandy.

“Yeah?”

“Promise me you’ll take care of her.”

“Man, you’re not dying.”

“Oh yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Just promise me.”

“I’ve always taken care of your sister.”

“This might change things. I’m not sure—“

Sandy has hardly spoken his second thought when blood suddenly stains the cloth over his back. Sandy cries out again. Clem is shocked, as the blood stain grows larger and larger. He watches in disbelief as Sandy’s back swells.

Then, the horror.

Something is bulging on Sandy’s back. Clem is unsure as to what it is, but he grabs a pocket knife and slices into Sandy’s clothes.

“Arghh!!! What are you doing?!” yells Sandy.

“Something’s coming out of your back, man!”

Sandy faints.

“Crap,” mutters Clem, shuddering from the sight.

It was not some animal, or some strange automaton lodged in his friend’s back. It was flesh. Sandy’s own. Slowly, whatever it is, it came out like some finger or knee protruding from the wrong place. And then…

Feathers.

Bloody feathers.

“Oh, God,” and Clem crawls away with his butt, and crosses himself.

The flesh has fully emerged from Sandy’s back, covered with bloodied feathers. And there was not just one.

Wings. How about that.

Clem has not recovered from his shock when the other two friends return with the doctor. Now it is their turn to be awed and horrified.

“Is he still alive?” Dr. Ansashi whispers.

“I don’t know.”

The young doctor tries to compose himself, and though still shaken by the sight, thinks of a way to wake himself out of this. “Let’s move him out of here. He’s lost much blood,” he says.

“We can’t let other people see him like this,” replied Clem.

“We can cover him with a blanket,” says Denis. “I’ll get it.” He makes for a nearby bedroom. “There’s a cot here!”

They take the cot, and load their friend in it.

Denis unfurls the blanket over Sandy.

They leave for Ansashi’s office.

***

The three friends transfer their patient into one of the clinic’s beds, while the doctor prepares his linen.

“Let’s just wipe the blood off his back.”

Ansashi hurls pieces of cloth to Ned and Denis, who take them and start wiping the blood and grime.

“Aren’t we cutting them off?” asks Clem, who is watching from a distance, still horrified.

“We can’t, Clem,” replies the doctor. “He’s lost too much blood already to even survive the next hour.” The doctor peeks into the part of the back where the wings protruded. There’s still blood seeping. “Besides, the wings seem to share in his blood. Cutting them off might produce enough shock to kill him.” He looks again at his patient’s friends. “You might want to call his mother, or his sister.”

Ned grins. “Clem can do that. He’s Sandy’s brother-in-law, right?”

Clem’s face goes red. He goes out.

Sandy sleeps steadily. He’s still breathing, even though his breath is very faint.

Ansashi starts to clean up the room. Ned helps him. Meanwhile, Denis takes out a rosary from his pocket and settles on a stool. Himself ill with a strange disease, the effort of carrying his friend through even a short distance proved to be taxing. He clutches his rosary and mutters his prayers.

Ned whispers to Ansashi. “Is Sandy going to be alright?”

Ansashi looks sadly at his helper.

Of the Winds that Carried the Sand.

It was in 1697 when the Kingdom of Noftiers split. The entire Visayan and Mindanao group of islands declared independence from the royal government in Sichame, which was in the north. Almost immediately war broke out as the troops sent by the North to compel the separatists faced strong resistance from the breakaway South.

The roots of this conflict can be found not inside the country, but far away overseas. The world itself was undergoing a great turmoil as the Blunish Empire, the oldest, largest, and most powerful nation on earth, was slowly—but violently—being fragmented by scores of separatist rebellions. Armed with radical political ideas and supported by the few nations that have not been gobbled up by the Blunish, the separatists won ground and opportunity. The world as it knew itself was coming to an end. If the rebels had it their way, there would be no Empire to speak of by the turn of the century.

One such nation that supported the rebels – at least initially – was the Kingdom of Noftiers. Not being a rich or powerful nation itself, the Noftierese government refused harbor to Blunish military ships bound for rebellious provinces. It even sent mercenaries to help the nearby rebel provinces oust the Blunish armies.

But such international support was very taxing on a nation like Noftiers. With food production hampered by government corruption, it was easy for any government policy to rouse the ire of many a Noftierese. This fact was especially obvious in the south, whose politicians have to come to Sichame in order to find favor from the King.

Thus in 1697, amidst the already turbulent political atmosphere in Sichame, General Kiyotaki Kawaguchi, a surprisingly pro-Blunish career officer, proclaimed a “Republic of Noftiers” in the city of Bainfeer. Supported by many of his reform-minded comrades in the military, Kawaguchi set up a government composed of representatives of the people. He called on his fellow Noftierese to join the Republic, and demanded the execution of the nobles, many of whom were immediate relatives of the King. Very soon enough, clashes broke out as Noftierese towns proclaimed their support for the Republic or for the King. There were massacres of whole populations of villages. There were a lot of republicans in the north, and there were a lot of royalists in the south. But the three years of war that followed Kawaguchi’s proclamation soon evinced that only the Luzon group of islands were staunchly royalist, whereas the Visayan and Mindanao group would only support the government in Bainfeer.

In the years preceding and during this civil war, the Meizherist party controlled Parliament. In 1700, their longtime rivals, the Nationalists led by four-time prevant Langford Doi, promised to end the war if they win the election. They did win, capturing Parliament and returning Doi to the prevantial seat. In 1701, Doi and Kawaguchi travelled to Rogatorio and signed a peace treaty recognizing the Republic, returning prisoners of war, and demarcating both countries’ borders. With this the civil war was supposed to have ended.

But it didn’t.

A lot of people, not least the King, were unhappy with the treaty of Rogatorio. They were apprehensive because the treaty did not resolve the issue of whether Bainfeer’s support of Blunish troops would be seen by Sichame with hostility. And many South Noftierese didn’t like the idea of supporting the Blunish at all. The Noftierese people had won independence from the Empire only fifty-seven years ago, and memories of that previous war were still vivid to many of them.

Such dissent would inevitably foment the creation of secret groups perpetrating various agendas. Many societies did emerge, some publicly, but most were underground cabals who procured for themselves weapons.

News of these formations reached Bainfeer, and Kawaguchi immediately moved to outlaw what he branded as “Unionists.” He formed a special military force, wherein he drafted a lot of disenfranchised swordsmen[1], who would hunt down these Unionists. He called them the Sabeurreini, or “sword-kings.”

It is this troubled atmosphere that I now find myself embroiled with, and that which the other inhabitants of this singular country must live with.

---

[1] The Noftierese formerly had a socio-political caste of swordsmen that was officially abolished by the King after the Love Rebellion in 1669.

One Hell of a Prayer Book

I really haven't thought of this piece, and yet I want to share this stuff of mine.

I once had a project made by my students which constituted of prayers made by them. Regardless of their religious denominations, they were instructed to create a prayer using the overrated A.C.T.S. (adoration, confession, thanksgiving, and supplication) guideline. Having four sections under my charge, I used the opportunity to hold a competition amongst them, with the best compilation of prayers awarding a perfect score to the entire class. The photos below is that of the best compilation, which has ever since been kept in the recesses of my stuff. I now share it after more than a year of selfish possession.

What made me choose this compilation among the others was its resourcefulness, compared to the other three sections which utilized a ready-made scrapbook. This one was made out of an old magazine. The same decorations were employed, but I-Aristotle's president seemed to have much more in mind in designing this work (she claimed that she did most of the work, which was expected since most of her classmates had nary an idea of what I was trying to describe in the project plan).

For posterity's sake I now present the first quarterly examination of I-Aristotle SY 2009-10 in my subject.