and all the men and women merely

Directed a school production of Ang Pinakamakisig sa mga Nalunod sa Buong Daigdig,Ms. Risa Jopson's adaptation of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World, which was the final exam for theater class. Since I've no previous experience in theater whatsoever oh save for the time I played a drunk partee girl that gets raped in an interschool theater fest november last year, I found it surprisingly, seriously hard.

The closest thing to directing I see myself doing is maybe making films. I don't like playing god. Or rather, I don't like playing god so...for a lack of a better...directly. Like telling actors how to move around on stage. Makes me feel like they're objects. I'd rather make movies and control people from inside their heads. haha, of course i'm maybe kidding.

Or rather I'd rather watch. Watch people. Someone once said I live by looking and listening and staying still. Omniscience over omnipotence.

But yeah. Now come the cliches.

The play turned out great. I learned a lot from the process and even made good friends with many of the talented people i worked with. Am pretty proud of our class. A lot of 'em are potentials. A lot of times felt like being in actual theater school. Plus, the playwright came. We've met before through my sister, so I was shameless in asking her how she found the play. She said she liked it because she saw a lot of new things in it. I couldn't but smile.

I ended up on a rooftop with my brother and bestfriends, drinking beer, laughing, and watching the rain fall like curtains. "All the world's a stage..."

Sleep and Tristan Tzara

To stretch your brain
awake with shots of caffeine
and punch holes through the sleepy
blanket of rain falling stretching over
all our sleepy houses and not a wink
despite the pauses, blankness, is to keep
yourself connected to this wretched stretched waiting
waking...Waking. .......Waking : Extended Long-Playing
pain

- 09180600000000000000000000000000

Witch-Wife

She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun 'tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.

Edna St. Vincent Millay


To be sent this message through this floating, fleeting labyrinth. Awwww.