a favorite poem

May 13, 2007

 here's another favorite poem. i fell in love with this since i first read its whimsical and touching lines while i was still in high school. actually, i incorporated this poem into one of our group projects. it has always remained as a personal favorite, even as i grew older and my taste changed in several aspects…

"High Flight" was written by Pilot Officer John Gillespie MacGee (RCAF), a WWII pilot who was only 19 years old when he died (just 3 months after he wrote this poem).

 

 

High Flight

 

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

 

architecture and society

Architecture is a reflection of the society that fostered and refined it

 

Architecture is an art form. And yet, appreciation of architecture goes beyond beauty and concept, because it deals directly with life, or specifically on how human beings evolved from the basic concept of building crude structures for shelter until they eventually learned to harness it as an expression of their dreams and aspirations.

It is essentially an auspicious symbol of man's progress, an overall gauge of the level that a specific civilization has attained. Nowadays, it has become easy to identify what point of history you're dealing with, simply by looking at the buildings and monuments, and analyzing their characteristics, as well as the style that their builders had adopted or the materials they used.

 

It is a graceful merging of form and function, and a convergence of the artistic, cultural, economic technological and political factors that define a specific age or race. In short, it is a reflection of a society that built it — how its citizens lived, worshipped, played, worked, schooled its young, and entertained, and how they conceived and measured beauty.
 
How does architecture define an age or a culture? Simple. Think of the ancient Greeks with their passion for symmetry and balance, and the Parthenon, with its fine Doric pillars, immediately comes to mind. The Romans derived amusement from gladiatorial combats in venues like the Colosseum. Egyptian pharaohs glorified their rule with soaring structures such as pyramids (Great Pyramid of Giza) and temples. The Baroque (Les Invalides, France), Byzantine (Hagia Irene, Turkey), and Gothic (Notre-Dame Cathedral, France) periods are well delineated by buildings built during these times. Traditional Chinese architecture, with its emphasis on the horizontal axis and the visual impact of the width of buildings (Forbidden City, China), is just as distinctive and representative of China's deep cultural past

 

my bookcase… my friend

March 7, 2007

 

My venerable-looking bookcase is bursting with weather-beaten copies of old books, and I don't intend to throw them out just yet. I like to think of their disreputable condition as part of their charm. They're an anachronistic keepsake in the age of the Internet. You know. Like old mementos you can't bear to part with.

 

 

 

Occasionally I take some books out to renew my acquaintance with some of my favorite characters such as the distinctively odd but formidable M. Hercule Poirot and the harmless-looking but shrewd Ms. Marple. And oh, who can forget about super-lawyer Perry Mason and his girl friday Della Street? Or the resourceful Susan Dare and tough guy Mike Hammer? *sigh* I miss those guys.

 

summer thoughts

March 6, 2007

I found this poem in one of those quirky sites that i stumble into when i was looking for something else. since it's march na, and summer is already here, i'm posting this poem here. it seems appropriate somehow.

 

 

Thoughts and Memories on a Summer Day
E.W. Richardson

 

Brazenly purring
Under the elm
Tabby Cat lays in the shade
Watching mice raid the wheat field
And contemplating
Murder.

Slowly bowing to the sun,
The snowman’s
Mouth forms an O
Of surprised embarrassment…
Its carrot fell off.

His bold hands caused her to blush.
Her melodious response
Caught him unaware
And he sang a new song.
When she heard her fill,
She left during the chorus.

War Memorials…
They serve their purpose
For some, providing closure.
So much has been lost to war.
It would be grand if one day
If they became unnecessary.

Chuckling down three steps,
The fountain forms a deep pool.
A narcissistic robin
Struts along the basin rim.
Lost in the moment
He leans, sipping his reflection.

The old willow
Touches the river
Whispering the names and dates
Of all the lovers
Who first kissed behind its veils…
It becomes the river’s song.

A red maple leaf
And small, white feather
Dance together on the wind.
They land on my pad, side by side.
For a moment, they rest, then
Whirl away, leaving the gift of a poem.

 

 

a fleeting weekend in boracay

 

After slogging through 6 months of 7-day workweeks (occasionally punctuated by 1-day breaks) and vainly wishing for a long vacation, I finally got a downsized version of my wish — a weekend jaunt to Boracay.

With some deft plotting, I managed to wrest a weekend off from work with no pressing deadline hanging on my coattails. Despite some snags (less than 10 hours to get my stuff packed, some pals canceled at the last minute), we eventually set foot on boracay's famed white beaches tired, slightly wet, and parched.

 

 

 

Like most city dwellers, I hadn't counted on making so many stops before reaching our destination [taxi ride to the airport, plane ride to kalibo, a 15-minute tricycle (no taxis around these parts folks) dash to the bus terminal, followed by a 1-hour plus bus trip to caticlan, a 20-minute boat hop to the island itself, then another 20 minutes on a rip-roaring tryke to Boat station 1]. By the time we arrived at the beachfront, we were pretty much worse for the wear. After walking a good distance lugging our heavy backpacks and hoping the rain wouldn't break any minute (it didn't, luckily), my friends and I finally decided on this quaint inn roughly 25 meters away from the water.

We staggered to our rooms, pushed off our heavy loads, and plopped on our beds groaning and making wisecracks about the sorry state of our spine. Unpacking didn't take long; a few minutes later, we were out hunting for a good place to eat.

 

Sights and Sounds of Bora. Dining in boracay is as easy as falling off a horse, even for the most timid of explorers, because restaurants, bars, cafes, grill houses, turo-turo, you name it — they're all over the place. in fact, there's no direction you can turn to (except maybe the beach) without stumbling over one of them. And the array of culinary styles being offered is as eclectic as the island's visitors and long-term dwellers: native, French, continental, seafood, Chinese, Korean, etc.

And of course, there's the ubiquitous presence of boutiques and souvenir peddlers, as well as various items and services being sold or rented — boat trips, massage (courtesy of blind masseuses), funky tattoos, internet and online gaming, biking/diving/surfing gears, baked goods, electronic gadgets and components, labrador puppies, etc. It's like the whole beachfront has become this sprawling, hodge-podge marketplace where tourists clad in casual wear and various swimming gears rub shoulders with laidback locals and busy shop owners, each one intent on doing his/her own thing.

 

  

 

It is also noteworthy that there are a couple of shops here that sell or exchange second-hand books (presumably left behind by tourists) in various languages. I saw four huge bookcases of them, mostly in English, French, German and Spanish, at the inn where we were staying. They included standard bestsellers, romance novels, diet guides, business text, self-help/spiritual titles, technical manuals, even children's books — if nothing else, they served as a testimonial to the demographics of the island's visitors: families, expats, business types, techie types, yuppies, vacationers, etc.

What i find most interesting though is the mix of languages that virtually transformed the place into something like a global village. Walking along the beach, you'll soon hear somebody rattling off in the local dialect, or maybe in Tagalog, Ilonggo, or Cebuano. English, of course, is spoken practically everywhere: it's the accent you need to watch out for if you wish to distinguish the Brits from the Yanks, Canadians, Kiwis, or Aussies. Occasionally, you'll hear somebody utter something in Korean, German, French or Dutch. And it's not unusual to find multilingual innkeepers and shop attendants here. I suppose they need to be, in order to thrive in this culturally diverse setting.
 
Music is continually played here — reggae, adult contemporary, jazz, hip-hop, R&B, soul, alternative, OPM. It all depends on where you are and what type of scene you prefer.

The beach, of course, has been and continues to be a subject of countless articles and features (print, TV, news, blogs, etc.), so i won't add to the clutter by stating the obvious, except to say that while you're here your holiday won't be worth what you paid for it until you've tested the waters. Go figure.

 

My Take. Visiting Boracay during off-season is a bit like arriving at a party when all the VIPs have gone. The food, drinks, music and everything else are still there but you know that no matter what happens next (barring some spectacular disaster, knock on wood), chances are it won't get featured in the next day's papers. Still that was fine with me, because it's hard to relax when you're being hemmed in by sunburned, sweaty and tipsy bathers, who seem to sprout everywhere during peak season. Plus, prices are a bit more budget-friendly this time of the year, and you have more time to explore and less distraction when you're trying to meditate.

The next two days flew by like a blur. The occasional drizzles were a pain, but we didn't let them spoil our fun (swimming, eating, sightseeing, rambling, buying stuff). Oddly enough, i didn't really swim all that much. I was content to bask in the ambience of the place, and welcomed the chance to slack off for a bit. The island's leisurely pace was a form of seduction, and the easy camaraderie among vacationers who came here to relax and unwind was a marvel to see. It's like we were sharing this unspoken bond (regardless of our background, race or age) of putting our busy lives on hold to snatch this delicious moment of inactivity while the rest of world hurtled to its destination… somehow their presence feels like a kind of validation.

 

A Journey's End. The temptation to stay longer was strong, but reality (not to mention the cost of living) is a powerful taskmaster. Before we knew it, it was time to leave. *sigh*

 

  

 

After packing off our things and the requisite jumble of souvenirs, we went for a last swim, then snapped gazillions of pictures and checked out some more shops. To my delight, i found his charming LOTR-inspired English pub (The Hobbit House) among a gaggle of pricey boutiques. Somehow, it provided a rousing finale to my all-too-brief holiday.