And What of the Hymen?

Tess of the D'Urbervilles. Once you get past the proseyness of it all, it's easy to realize why T.H. Hardy caused such an uproar in the 19th century with what is arguably his best work. A woman deflowered, impregnated, left to her own devices, ultimately reduced to murder...

"He knelt and bent lower,till her breath warmed his face
and in a moment his cheek was in contact with hers. She was sleeping soundly,
and upon her eyelashes there lingered tears."

Scandal! Too much effing porno in the house! Queen Victoria will keel over and have a coronary. How dare he expose such... such... such sin and defilement in the name of art!

Read in the 21st century, the destruction of Tess D'Urberville is a sad tale of the whimsies of fate, the determined hypocrisy of the age, and it slams the reader with a heavy realization that scenarios like these really don't happen today. Ours is a world where a hymen means nothing. What is deflowering but a brief twinge of discomfort? The skanks and hoes of the world now unite with their baby daddies, making it rain, dropping it like it's hot.

Bastard children? What bastards? Illegitimacy is no longer the heavy social scourge it was (in some circles, maybe). We flaunt the norms. We glory in the utter decadence of a world that no longer pays attention to morals. Britney Spears flashes her vagina for all to see. Madonna spreads her legs in her latest album cover. A woman raped, forced to see her pregnancy to fruition and then to watch her baby die? This happens every ten minutes.

Poor, poor Tess. A Victorian icon of all that was mistreated, abused, vilified even in her innocence, now she stands as a symbol of an age where things may have been hidden, but at least morals were upheld.

For Illi (Reeling from too much BG)

Darling,

Yes, it's true - the deep breath before the plunge. We have no date, but we should have one soon. Between work, running around, and doing my homework, I'm out of breath. It is exciting, exhilarating and unbearably scary.

Not to mention potentially expensive in the most ridiculous sort of way.

And the pressure is insane.

The dress? Nothing fancy. No veil. I want no wedding march. No aisle. Just sweet cosmopolitans, hors d'oeuvres, soothing music and a lovely venue.

Wouldn't mind two big roasted pigs and the traditional buffet so guests can gorge themselves though.

I want you to be there. My gay of honor.

The date will be forthcoming.

Too Much Brian Gorrell

Schadenfreude out the wazoo. Manila's finest huddled under a barrage of name-calling. Filipinos have ever loved dirty laundry. It's especially wack because it's so close to home. There are three things Filipinos love: telenovelas, beauty pageants and a good old-fashioned scandal.

Poor Australian Brian. Taken for a very expensive ride. Barring the occasional typo and misspelled word, this Aussie sure can vent.

Lesson to all: try not to get on the bad side of a gay man. Hell hath no fury - and it's worse because the bitch will be half woman/ half man, and all the wrath combined.

Admittedly, I'm a little late to the Brian Gorrell/Gucci Gang Controversy Party, but I finally arrived and boy, is it a read. Google "Gucci Gang" and see what you can find. Sordid and titillating.

Next

Update - I deem the Asus EEE is not for me. Way too tiny, and I have no idea how to work a Linux. It's a cute piece of work though. I think I'll hold out just a little bit longer.

There's something romantic about writing as the moon tracks across the sky. There's something romantic about free internet. There's something romantic about a new wireless adaptor. There's something romantic about CD-R King!

Viva CD-R King. May your no-frills, cheap thrills approach never wane, else the poor and needy languish.

And no, I don't own the wireless adaptor. Chucky does.

Literatura

And so, inspired by the invite to a luncheon with F. Sionil Jose as guest, I have attempted to feed my brain by going back to the classiques. Ending up in a room full of writers festooned with literary awards does that to you. It wasn't just F. Sionil Jose in there. Dr. Edith Tiempo was there, too. Two National Artists under one roof. A smattering of other literary movers and shakers, a handful of which had brought home Palancas (since I don't have my notes atm, I can only name two offhand: Cesar Ruiz Aquino and Ian Fermin Casocot).

I felt like the sorest of sore thumbs. I don't exactly aim for awards, and I don't hobnob with the literary giants of this age. Still, one cannot ignore a metaphorical bludgeon to the head. Is the universe reminding me that writing must move the world and not oneself? Why not be great if one can be great?

The writer known as "Frankie" is an impassioned, fiery, supremely critical writer who holds nothing back in his critique on Philippines, Filipinos, and the mentality they call 'colonial.' I'd heard of Mr. Jose, but never read a single word of his work. Yes, it is rather pathetic of me, but I do not pretend to be anything other than who I am: a commercially brainwashed consumerist.

Goal One: Buy the Asus EEE little notebook. And then I shall have no excuse but to inflict my insanity once more on the unsuspecting, uncaring public.

Goal Two: Read something other than escapist drivel. I bought Tess of the D'Urbervilles yesterday at National Bookstore, on an impromptu afternoon jaunt with the lovely Georgie. They were selling it for PhP46.50. Steal!

Chaos

The better part of my (dubious) adulthood has been spent avoiding the issue of marriage. Now I'm paying the price for my ignorance.

I know absolutely nothing about what has to be done to make it happen. This is a serious matter when the M word looms over the horizon. I'm stuck watching it loom and I know it's going to crash over me like a wave of the hyperbole being spouted at this very moment because there seems to be no way to describe the fear and the utter panic.

Three blind mice. Three blind mice. See how they run. It's this way, chaps. *Thud*

That didn't even make any sense other than to showcase the fact that I am groping my way through mysterious territory. The paperwork is terrifying. The requirements and the fees and the celebration and the planning - I have no one else to blame but myself for procrastinating and putting the whole thing off. I think I may need one more year to do this.

Why does it have to be so much work? Why does it have to be me? Why am I even doing this? Is true love worth all the financial, physical, mental and emotional upheaval? They make it look so easy. Movies lie! Easy is not a word, it is an impossibility!

Maybe I should watch The Wedding Planner for inspiration. The lamest thing ever. I'm grasping at straws. This is not who I am. I do not know the girl in the mirror.

Priorities

Dial-up sucks.

Nearly 2010 and I'm stuck in my room with the longest telephone wire ever recorded, fingers flying over a Dell that's built for a Pentium II processor. Am I actually stuck in a time warp without knowing it, because it feels like I'm stuck in 1998.

I wonder when I'll ever grit my teeth and just spend for a good laptop. Everytime I think I should just tighten my belt and sacrifice a little, I start getting itchy. Nothing new for a year? I'm not too sure my fragile psyche can take the punishment.

Typical girl. An idiot when it comes to shopping, always choosing form over function, happily spending on things that just don't last. I believe there is a method to the madness, however. Women choose frippery to escape from the dreariness of everyday life. I also believe I do it because I want to forget that time marches on and every second spent is a step close to aging and mortgaging and all the boring stuff that comes with having to be mature and responsible. So I spend to forget and to fool myself into believing that yes, this is all worth it.