In Tune With the Church Songs

A boy sits down with his father outside the church as the sermon of the priest comes to a close. They hand the ale next to them a few pesos and the ale in turn gives them some Hansels and a Pillows pack to wile away their hunger. The boy thinks about his mother and his sister who are inside the church listening attentively to the sermon as he takes in a Hansel sandwich. He remembers that not long ago, he would also be inside the church with them. But tonight, he's outside the church, sitting on a bench by a big willow tree keeping his father company.

The boy looks at his dad and knows that deep inside, that they want to believe in a God. He knows that they want to believe in something bigger than this life. But with all the repetitive sermons which just cycle each year, over and over again delivered by different preists, getting worse every year, just more illogical, hitting the same brick walls of the arguement of faith. "How do I know that what you're telling me is real, Mr. Priest?" "All you have to do is believe, young one." Don't worry Mr. Priest I believe you...

Three years of sciece-based education did something to the boy. It reconstructed his way of thought. Now, he won't accept anything that has no logical, acceptable, realistic proof. After reviewing the many theories and formulas of physicists, the uncanny physiology of each biological individual, and the behavior of the unstable little molecules, he has come to terms with the idea that everything must have a factual basic assumption from which everything else will follow. Physics has the Laws of Newton. Biology has the Theory of Evolution. Even Chemistry has its basic assumptions. He scrutinizes religion and finds no Law of Newton, no Theory of Evolution, no basic assumption.

However, the boy is no Satanist. He doesn't let his moral code crash with his religious one. These are two different things for the boy. He keeps his moral code of doing good when you can and avoiding bad when someone might get hurt. He just doesn't acknowledge a diety to guide it. He's spiritual, not religious.

Just as he replays the religious arguement of believing blindly or searching for proof, the churchpeople recite the Apostle's Creed. "I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth..." "Why do I believe in Him? Why should I believe in Him?" But the prayer does not answer him, instead it goes on "I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord..."

The boy steals glances at the different points of the church's exterior. He spots the moldy pillars of the outside, it look like this church has been here since Spanish times. He notices the nearby cemetery and remembers the beliefs of the past. Old habits die hard and tradition at times, although illogical and superstitious (something the Church is said to discourage), people up 'til now are still burying their dead beside the Church thinking gives them a better chance of shotgunning and rubbing their shoulders their way to heaven. He realizes the immense size of the Church and while it may be older than his grandparents, this structure was taken care off better than any individual who has ever come across it. He remembers the corrupt friars, and while they may be gone, the fact still remains that gave proof that evil men can hide behind holy masks. He sees the lavish altar all golden and lit up with the Christmas songs. He sees the Communion paraphernalia, and thinks about the hungry beggars outside relying on humble Hasnsel sandwiches for lunch. He then turns his attention to a simple sign by the corner printed on it are huge letters in bold: BAWAL MAGTINDA SA SIMBAHAN.

Just then, the Our Father is played. "Give us this day our daily bread." For some people, these vendors provide them with THEIR daily bread, be it some Chippy or some crackers. Apparently the Church 's standards are are too high to let these simple folk take their daily bread as long as the priest and the laymen take theirs.

It's Communion time and the boy remembers that if he doesn't show up in that long line, his mother will notice that he didn't attend mass. He's going to hear a sermon if he doesn't lie to the tradition. He stands up and walks toward the door, his father doesn't mind. But he stops himself short. What's the point of being a sentient if one doesn't have one's principles. He sits back down next to his dad who hands him another Hansel sandwich.

The mass ends a few moments later and the boy props himself up near the door to look like he's gone out with the rest of the people, make it look like he did go to Mass. He has his principles but he's too tired to listen to a sermon so he lies to avoid the trouble. His mother doesn't ask him if he did nor does the boy think she wants to know. Or maybe he's just overthinking the silence. Just like how I overthought religion.

Take a Drink - Quietdrive

I never want to be part of the herd
I guess I was in case you haven’t heard
Maybe you can tell that I can’t stand
The way I want to be the included
I always want to be a mystery
I always knew that two and two made three
I wish away the time I’m living in
I never wanna see the smile again

It’s not for sure
And I’m feeling
Like it’s not for sure
Come on and take a drink with me
Whoaaa whoaaa
I don’t think you can cope with it
I don’t think you can handle it
Whoaaa whoaaa
Forgive my own forgetfulness
And take a drink with me

I wanted to be two, but more than one
I only thought that I could be so dumb
Crush my heart with your new heels
I’d beg for you, but I don’t kneel
I understand that you were living there
It never bothered me that I don’t care
I wonder if I’ll act on my impulse
I wonder if I’ll leave if you say go

Whoa would you take a drink with me
If it’s all you can take
It’ll be okay
If it’s all I can take
Then just put me away

Whoaaa Whoaaa
I don’t think you can cope with it
So take a drink with me

I never want to be part of the herd
I guess I was in case you haven’t heard
I wanna spend some time to make you see
So why not come and take a drink with me?

There's this Door

I was walking through the dorm's halls one night. Noticed the same things. Looked for the same people in the same rooms. Asked some what was the homework. Asked some for answers to the homework.

Then I came across this door. When you walk the halls of the dorm, the doors to people's rooms are always to your right. But then there's this door. Then again, there are two actually, that if you walk the entire square of the hall, they're to your left. No one notices them. One door has a part of it broken so some of us throw garbage inside it. We know it's empty. But then the other one's always locked. No way to look inside.

Logically, there would be nothing inside. It would be just an empty room with a discarded Voice cracker wrapper as random garbage. It would probably be a dusty room, with some cobwebs on the side. No light bulb inside.

But then again, that would be boring as hell now wouldn't it. After reading a few Sandman comics, I get this imaginative state of mind wherein ideas of the hypothetical suddenly pop out everywhere.

That door should have something to make it more mysterious. Maybe, it really is a dark room, with cobwebs on the side... and a corpse in one dark corner. Or it should have some physically impossible doorway to the SHB. Or maybe it should have a turned off cyborg that if you look a little more closely, you'd find out it was the dorm manager. Gasp. Or maybe everyone goes in that room when I'm not looking and play Poker or something. And I'm the butt end of the joke of the secrecy. Or maybe when everyone's asleep, the place morphs into a medium for everyone's dreams all crumpled into one.

Everyone's always told me that when it comes to describing me. What you see is what you get. You'd get my life story by just looking at me. To a certain degree, it is true. I'm about as deep as a puddle, but then there are a select group people out there who know me just about 20,000 leagues deeper. Who just like that door, have taken the time to take a peek inside. Who've seen me take off the masks when there's no one else looking.

Logically, I'm just a door to an empty room. The most amazing thing about me is my doorknob which you could sell off somewhere for a quick buck. What you see is a door, what you get is a door. But then again, screw logic. I'm not an empty room.

Maybe I'll try to open that door next week. I'll bring a lock pick. Take my time.

I wish I knew how to play the Piano

I was listening to a song a while ago. It was a cool song. Killer guitars, solid bass, catchy drums. But then, there was this really cool part of the song where everything fades behind the lyrics. And then it comes, the gentle keyboards behind the singer's voice. As if to amplify the ambiance of the song. The keyboard goes on for some time. It was so soulful, so smooth, so blah. No words to describe it. Then the entire bravado of the song comes when all the instruments play. Ang astig talaga ng music.

That's when it hit me. I wish I knew how to play the piano. or any instrument for that matter. I wish I could outlet all my emotions into one melody of sorts. Just like these musicians.

There's something about music that makes you just want to grab a guitar and go. Sometimes, when I listen to a song, I can help but tap my fingers to the beat. It's as if I want to be the drummer behind the guitar and the bass rocking along. Sometimes, the song just take me by the ear and I just have to sing along. The melody. The rhythm. The beat. It all comes together to make something that is just too amazing for words at times.

I think God just gave a piece of the puzzle called music. He didn't give me the finger of a guitar god. Nor the perfect ears for beat of a drummer. I didn't even get the aura of the bassist. And sadly, I also didn't get the hardwired tuning of a lead singer. Instead, God gave me the pen and paper. He gave me words to live with. There's something about writing that suddenly makes me click and all of a sudden, the pen, the paper, and the words i write on them suddenly become a mirror to myself. I can suddenly express myself on a black sheet of paper.

I guess that's my instrument. They say the pen is mightier than the sword. They didn't say anything about guitars though. So yeah, I'm still wishing I could play an instrument. XD

It's official

It's Sunday again...

Woke up at around 12 today. Still feeling groggy. Played the PSP for the 10th time in 48 hours. It's a good thing I got some homework done today. I even got to do my ComSci blog posts even when my internet's busted. Thank God for Word.
I'm far away from Pisay, here in Valenzuela. Got most of my homework done but then again, there was nothing else to do so yeah. I here my siblings arguing over who gets the last krinkle. it all seems so pointless. Just like the rest of my boring day. My parents are late again, still doing the housework. I'll probably get to the dorm even later... again.

Oh crap, we have mass again. Why do we always go to mass at night. Ba't di nalang kaya pwede sa umaga. Better yet, wag na lang. Bleh ang sabog ng araw ko.

It's official. I hate Sundays at home.

For the Long Absence

As some of you may notice, technically, it's been a while since all my posts. See it's like this. My internet got busted. Turned out, we forgot to pay for it. For the entire month of November, I didn't have internet. To compensate, and to some degree, to also fulfill my Comsci requirements, I made all the preceding blog posts in word with dates stamped on them.

The dates of the next few blog posts will be accurate. That I can assure you.

Why Now?

It's been a while since November 1 and I've only got to go deep in the subject only now.

Through some long random thought process, I got to remember the thoughts I had on that day of cemeteries, candles, prayers, and glowsticks. There was a number of things I noticed during this festivity of the dead.

The prayer were growing more and more quieter. The flower were growing less in size and number. No one seemed to bother anymore about the dead. Frankly, I can't blame them.

The prayers just seemed like a set of repeating patterns of code. Useless, repetitive, meanigless.
The flowers just seemed like an invitation for graverobbers to steal some from your graves. I have some relatives who fixed up some tombstones of some of our dead. It looked great. During the first year. By the next November, it's lighting was pulled out, the chandeliers were stolen, and all the glass was broken. Graverobbing 101. By the next November, the metal was sawed and probably sold to some junkshop, the giant lock we used to keep the place safe was also welded out. You could still see the shard of the welding implement. Now the place has the lowest quality lighting which only turns on during the first week of Novemeber. It's sockets were all pulled out. Technoically, what's to steal if there's nothing there. The metal was allowed to rot. Who would steal rusted iron.

In our efforts to keep our relatives respected, we open ourselves up to theft. To solve the latter, we open ourselves up to the former. It's a cycle of detox just to retox.

If you really want to respect the dead. Give flowers to them on their death bed, when they can still smell the flowers. If you want to pray for them, make it so that they can still hear you. If you want to respect them. Do it while they're still alive. a truckload of tears for the dead is nothing for an ounce of love for the living.

And can someone make sure all the cemeteries are well-protected. The gossips of graverobbers is getting repetitive and boring. Shoot the graverobbers if you will, baka multuhin pa sila kung ipagpatuloy nila un.