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Welcome to Volume 6 of The Marocharim Experiment. This blog is authored and maintained by Marocharim, the self-professed antichrist of new media.

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Marocharim is a 21-year-old college senior from the University of the Philippines Baguio, majoring in Social Anthropology and has a minor in Political Science. He lives with his parents, his brother and his sister in Baguio City - having been born and raised there all his life. He is the author of three book-versions of The Marocharim Experiment.

Most of his time is spent at school, where he can be found in the UP Baguio Library reading or scribbling notes, and sometimes hanging out with his friends or by himself in the kiosks, or the main lobby. During his spare time, he continues writing. When not in school he hangs out with his friends, or takes long walks around Baguio City to, as he puts it, "get lost."

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The Marocharim Experiment Volume I: The Trial of Another Mind, Subject to Disclosure is Available Now

The Marocharim Experiment Volume II: The Nevermind Chronicles is Available Now

The Marocharim Experiment Volume III: The Sentence Construction of Reality is Available Now


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April 4, 2005
Sniz and Fondue... Or What I Can Type In One Hour

< i don't know what that title has to do with today's second entry... >

   The best of my day was spent looking for diversions.  Heck, I don't really have anything in mind today, except to escape reality.  The idea being that I spent the better part of my day sitting down in front of my computer writing about my theory of ideological singularity, something that you wouldn't appreciate reading, given my propensity to write stuff people don't really understand.

   My best companion, so far, has been Microsoft Word and Adobe Photoshop.  Something tells me that in the realm of copious academic brouhaha, you have to make loads of diagrams to prove your point.  Singularity, being a concept in physics (a point in space is not in motion compared to time, which is always in constant motion), has been applied to social reality.

   And like I said, my best companion, so far, has been Microsoft Word and Adobe Photoshop.

   Back home, I couldn't bear to look at my copy of George Ritzer's "Sociological Theory" and my (borrowed) copy of Clark Neher's "Southeast Asia in the New International Era," which I turn to whenever I feel the need to go polsci on my already nine-page long philosophical treatise.  Although Winamp has been kind enough to give me some Milkdrop, Geiss and NullSoft visualizations when I can no longer stand looking at Word, and it kind of makes me wish the Office Assistant does nothing more than just mozie on around like some ridiculous, animated paper clip.  Aside from my usual messes of Vital, star apples and corn nuts, yes, there's nothing to do around there than just sit there and peruse my paper all over again whenever I'm done with a sentence, just to check for consistency.

   You see, that's the problem if you're schooled in writing one too many papers for your entire academic... career, if you will.  I'm quite proud of two of them: my paper on novelty songs as manifestations of social movements, and the hegemony present in 24-hour television text chatrooms.  That last one was particularly memorable for me, since I had to spend the better part of three weekends and a couple of Wednesdays watching one.  Ah, there I learned the cryptic meanings of such jargon as "SOT" and "SOP," and yes, they all have to do with the inherent kalibugan of today's youth.  No wonder Manoling Morato took it upon himself to buy some airtime over at NBN and talk about morals.

   If you're like me, you have to find diversions somewhere where you couldn't go to your computer, open up your folder and start typing like hell with only your brain and novelty songs to keep you going ("Sumusunod sa Galaw" being a staple, right after it's done cycling through Vertical Horizon, Hanson and Weird Al Yankovic).  Then if you grow sick you play 30 minutes worth of "The Sims" and see how cyber-Marck is doing, probably still stuck in his job as a medical technician.  Or play "Final Doom" and waste my time killing revenants and arch-viles.  I managed to get through it once without cheating, and now I'm breaking a sweat typing "iddqd" and "idfa" (yup, not "idkfa," just so you would be convinced that I'm not a hardcore cheater) while holding down fire with my plasma gun and switching to the BFG whenever I feel like it).

   Yes, I'm about to disgust you with an obscenely long entry I was planning to do for about an hour before I get carpal tunnel syndrome.  And it has only been about 22 minutes.  Do we make sense for now?  Nope.  Figures.

   Besides, this place is giving me the diversion I need.  The ambient sounds of Ragnarok is music to my ears, even though I don't know how to play.  Yup, never learned how, and I'm not planning on doing so.  While my friends have graduated Ragna Cum Laude, I'm still earning my degree in the inane and asinine art of blogging.  "Inane," being the "simpler" word for "mundane..." my English is something better off not understood and just read through.

   English has never been my forte, although I write in it.  My editor-in-chief, aside from scathing criticisms of my "SocSci" English, would periodically ask me to write an editorial, which I finish off in about three minutes.  Now they're playing Jason Mraz.  How relevant.

   I can write about anything, you know.

   Thank heavens, they changed it.  Mraz is something pretty close to me, since I was "born on the fourth of July, freedom ring."  And something on the surface is telling me I should find an ashtray, and quick.

   The usual parinig, when it comes to my little cave in the UP Baguio campus, is not Jason Mraz.  Try True Faith.  Yup, habang tumatagal, lumalala, laging nagwawala.  After that, it's a group of idiots (in a good way: take it as a compliment, I don't describe too many people) who barely made it through their freshman year, singing "Crazy For You."  The hell with that: too many memories I'm liable to burn.  So let's talk about Sponge Cola: it's bordering on gasgas, considering that "Jeepney" is one of the better songs they wrote so far, which just goes to show how much I abhor "KLSP."

   For the sake of diverting topics (before I go way off hand again) I'm answering some Friendster questions... give me a minute.

   So, what's your favorite lunch meat?

   I came across this question and remembered my brother's Monty Python sketch on SPAM he kept around the drive containing nothing but MP3s.  Like... "SPAM, wonderful SPAM..." you know it, if you're a foreigner, or you read Jessica Zafra.  I don't like it as much as the next guy, so I did some study on it (mainly by reading SPAM can labels).  Apparently, I was wrong: SPAM isn't an alien being compressed inside a can, cooked and made to look like meat, as I theorized back in high school.  It's ham and pork shoulder... which oddly enough, tastes more like chicken than anything.

   I can never understand the American palate... and then my mind diverts to that new Jollibee commercial.  Like, "Beef... beef..." I don't get it.  Beef was never an item served in a fastfood restaurant, because the burger is anything but meat, trust me.

   So we move on to another relatively useless topic for the next few minutes (it's just been 40 minutes, can you believe it?), like... say... Friendster.

   In my socio classes, we tackled Friendster and the "six degrees of procrastination."  I did my little experiment (no, not my blog), and they were right: somehow, I'm connected to every person in the world through six degrees.  Someone who knows this guy, who knows this guy... you know the drill.  I could be related to Arroyo, for that matter, and yes, I have read Kris Aquino's LiveJournal.  It was nice, in a fancy shade of pink, and had, on average, 25 comments an entry.  And I get not too many... statistics fail me at this point.  I'm no Pulitzer-prize winner, but there's no comparing The Marocharim Experiment to Kris' LJ.  Why should I care?  Yes, Avril is playing right now.

   Is it "Ah-vril" or "Ey-vril?"  Never knew.  I say the latter.

   Avril Lavigne isn't my favorite pop singer - Christina Aguilera is.  Then again, when you speak of Christina you say "X-Tina," and then remember "Dirrty."  What's the deal?  All of a sudden your favorite pop stars turn into filthy, dirty, disgusting, brutal, bottom-feeding trashbag hoes.  I'm not too particular with the morals of a pop icon: hey, Michael Jackson is a pedophile awaiting trial.

   Speaking of Jacko, I remember my Speech Comm 10 class... yes, I sang "Billie Jean" and ranted about Michael being the Antichrist, and I got a perfect score.  I doubt I looked good at it, considering that I didn't grip my crotch, which is a standard MJ performance... cherva (technical term).  I wore a pretty nifty semi-formal get-up, which got the thumbs up from UP's fashion critics.  The metrosexuals and the gays thought that I carried the gray-and-black motif just fine, save for my choice in footwear.  Hey, combat boots rock, and yes, I can tie a necktie perfectly.  So what?  Save your critiques for the freshie girl who dresses like Avril.

   Take a long look at the tagboard, and read an entry of mine, and yes, I play Tekken.

   In my search for the ultimate diversion me and my friends failed to sit down and play a gentlemanly game of Tekken... where we act like whooping cavemen by the time any one of us would connect with an unblockable.  I was planning on using Asuka on their pathetic, Paul-happy asses, but nooo, that goon over at the warehouse (yung kanila Em's, as they put it) was so engrossed in his "Call of Duty" game that he, the bantay, failed to get our attention.  That was dumb.

   That was downright stupid... and so is this.  Fifty-three minutes into my entry which makes no sense.

   As a (cough) journalist I have been taught that towards the end of your writing, you go back to your lead.  Like I said in the beginning (scroll up... way up), I was looking for diversions.  I have succeeded, need I say, in diverting my attention from more important issues like the death of the Pope, which to me means absolutely nothing.  Or the resignation of the embattled Kyrgyz president.  Or Prince Rainier.

   Time to get a bit cheesy here, for a second.

   I always thought that diversions meant nothing, that we should face our problems head on.  But then I get reminded otherwise, and yes, Jose Mari Chan gives us quite a nice verse on it: "...maybe we could go out / for a ride / drive down to the countryside / Get away from this gray / and frenzied hurly-burly / of the city life..."

   The sugar-selling singer is right, after all.  Now that I have diverted my attentions, maybe life does get better if you just ignore the pressures and live off the nonsensical, the mundane, those things that mean absolutely nothing to you.

   There's nothing much I can type in the next two minutes, so you can go away now.  The death grip I have had on your minds is over.  Go on.  Move along... and tag me.

Posted at Monday, April 04, 2005 by marocharim

Ai Shang Ni Shi Wo Qing Fei De Yi...

< funny how i wasn't here yesterday... oh well >

   Today is April 4.  The Pope died yesterday.  And every Tom, Dick and Harry in the blogging world is talking about it.

   Today is April 4.  About a year (or was it two years) ago, basta, April 4, it was F4 mania.

   Yes, F4.  I suppose I should be talking about TVXQ or something like that, but April 4 of recent history was F4 mania.  Dare I say you should remember Ken Zhu, Vanness Wu, Vic Zhou and, of course, the resident crush-ng-bayan Jerry Yan?  You should: I wasn't an F4 fan.

   Every Filipino who happened to live last April 4 (or last-last April 4) knew where they were and what they were watching during that time.  I sure did: my TV addiction of that time was "Crayon Shin-Chan."  But I kind of knew what was going on, to the point that I had memorized Harlem Yu's "Can't Help Falling," which now I have forgotten in favor of revisiting my elementary faves, Kula Shaker.

   So I did a web search, and I came across some... very familiar lyrics.  Here goes, and thank whatever-deity-you-worship I don't record my own voice.

   Here's to the x-anniversary of F4 mania:

Can't Help Falling
Original Soundtrack, Meteor Garden
Lyrics by: Harlem Yu

Nan yi wang ji chu ci jian ni
Yi shuang mi ren de yan jing
Zai wo nao hai li
Ni de shen ying
Hui san bu qu
Wo ni de shuang shou gan jue ni de wen rou
Zhen de you dian tou bu guo qi
Ni de tian zhen
Wo xiang zhen xi
Kan dao ni shou wei qu
Wo hui shang xin Oh...
Zhi pa wo zi ji hui ai shang ni
Bu gan rang zi ji kao de tai jin
Pa wo mei shen me neng gou gei ni
Ai ni ye xu yao hen da de yong qi
Zhi pa wo zi ji hui ai shang ni
Ye xu you tian hui qing bu zi jin
Xiang nian zhi rang zi ji ku le zi ji
Ai shang ni shi wo qing fei de yi
Shen me yuan yin Ya...
Wo jing ran you hui yu jian ni
Wo zhen de zhen de bu yuan yi
Jiu zhe yang xian ru ai de xian jing Oh...
Zhi pa wo zi ji hui ai shang ni
Bu gan rang zi ji kao de tai jin
Pa wo mei shen me neng gou gei ni
Ai ni ye xu yao hen da de yong qi
Zhi pa wo zi ji hui ai shang ni
Ye xu you tian hui qing bu zi jin
Xiang nian zhi rang zi ji ku le zi ji
Ai shang ni shi wo qing fei de yi

Posted at Monday, April 04, 2005 by marocharim

April 2, 2005
The Pope Is Dying... And The Rad-Fems Are Having A Field Day

< i don't think the way others do, so here >

   I'm two things: I'm male, and I'm a non-practicing Roman Catholic.  Pope John Paul II is on his dying hours right now, and I should be writing about the life and times of Karol Wojtyla: instead, I'm hovering between my blog, the site (big wrestling fan, sue me), and, interestingly enough, my Friendster account (which I open from time to time... just barely).  Over ambient sounds of Counterstrike, Gunbound and First Circle's "Ako'y Sa 'Yo, Ika'y Akin," I read this post from my friend Ramille:

the pope is dying (matutuwa ang mga lesbiyana sa
Nat Org 4 Womyn)...

- friendster post excerpt, april 2, 2005

   Interesting take-off point... at least in my estimation.

   Frankly I don't like radical feminism.  I don't appreciate being called "the source of oppression" by the opposite sex, nor do I look at social relations between the genders (no, not sexes) as a form of social S&M.  I'm just looking at this phrase as a take-off point for me to do what I do best:

   Rant.  After all, the rad-feminist is one of my ideological nemeses, or is it nemesises... nemesi... whatever.

   Upon the death of Pope John Paul II, the cardinals of the world (all male, BTW) will go to the Vatican and vote for the next Pope, who happens to be a geriatric, bald, Catholic European guy.  Such has been the situation since Saint Peter, who happened to be male, and such was the case for nearly a millenium.

   Note that I said "happened to be."  I have my own theory with "patterns of history:" historical events are pretty much tied with manifest and latent... stuff.  Ergo, the underlying meanings of a historical event or process do not necessarily constitute the meaning.  The church, per se, is not against women (or womyn) by not allowing them to "rule" or "lead" the church.  Shat like that just happens.

   I suppose rad-fems would come knocking my the door of my subterranean laboratory and shove writings like "If Men Can Menstruate" and the writings of Gloria Steinem in the face of my resident butler, Edward.  Spare him, and the tilework of my lab, and let me explain.

   See, I'm not against a woman pope.  But in order to establish a gender-neutral church we have to rework everything that has anything to do with this church.  After all, in the rad-fem's eyes, what is "equal" is to have the woman on top.

   Hmmm... I wonder...

Radical feminist-friendly reworkings of Biblical doctrine

   - Eve does bite the apple first, but is able to say that because of chivalry and gallantry, Adam doomed personkind into saying that womyn are the fairer sex.  (However, Adam suffers for this: the apple gets stuck on his throat and Eve gets away with a perfectly flat thorax.)

   - When God tells Ms. Person-Related-To-Noah-Through-Cultural-Activities-Made-By-Bearded-Jewish-Males ("Peretono" happens to be Noah's wife's maiden name) to tell Noah to get a pair of each animal in the world and put it into the ark, she exercises her right to independent thinking and forsees the future of biological science.  Miss Peretono tells Noah to collect only the females and to leave the males off to drown, as they are unnecessary in the reproductive process.

   - Moses' wife reworks the Ten Commandments for the eminently sexist ninth commandment.

/// more on this next time... I'm bored.

Posted at Saturday, April 02, 2005 by marocharim

March 31, 2005
Quaking In My Skechers

< before i ramble on, i'll play five minutes of quake 3 arena... let's see how rusty i am >

   Being rusty in Quake III Arena, I suppose 23 frags in a 1-man-versus-five-bots Free For All game is quite nice... it being the "Hardcore" level.  Standard Tournament map (The Campgrounds), one 5-minute round.  Under the auspicious name "chiller," my closest bot opponent, Orbb, got about 11 frags.  The match was that damn insane, I can tell you... quaking in my Skechers, as I say.

   I'm really, really rusty... considering that I once played for a clan back in the day, under the yet again auspicious name, "coeur_de_lion."  Being Marocharim Lionheart, I ruled cyber-ass, to a certain extent, with my antics with plasma guns and rocket launchers.  Now, given my frag stats in five minutes, I suck.  Twenty-three frags is a goddamned shame, given that map, which I know all-too-well given that The Campgrounds was where I lived back then.

   Before I confuse you with the Quake lingo...

   Back in the day, aside from my (sporadic) clan matches, I may have ruled Quake, but I sucked at Counterstrike.  Under the auspicious name of "tao," I brought up the bottom of the ladder when it came to matches played at de_dust and cs_deathmatch.  The only other places where I could have had a respectable ranking was at cs_sniper7, cs_aztec and the VIP levels.  I was notorious, however, for doing one thing, and that's when I (or my team) had enough money I bought (or they bought for me) the only weapon that can save my ass from total cyber-annihilation: the 4-7, or the H&K automatic sniper rifle that could clear right through a wall.

   Talk about total bummers.  Warcraft III was a different story: although I am proficient (although still sucky) in StarCraft, I can never seem to handle W3 quite well as I should: I get pounded quite easily if I am not given enough time to set up enough Necromancers, Meat Wagons and Ghouls.  So yeah, the only mainstream PC game I'm really good at is Quake III.  Nobody plays Unreal anyway, save for my brother, who I have yet to face mano y mano... although he's said to be really good at it.

   Me and my bro, working over an ancient Pentium III, have a little fetish right now with retro-gaming.  While he favors text-based games like Zork, Superstar and Rockstar, I lean more on the graphics-side of gaming and have, in a way, cheated my way through Blood, Hexen and Final Doom.  Yes, I cheated: I don't like playing campaigns, although yes, I can play right through them without cheating.  Somehow I get my kicks from typing codes like "i wanna be like kevin," "satan" and "iddqd" for no odd reason except that I kind of like walking through levels without as much as a scratch on me, except on the Gibbet level on Hexen... I hate it.

   Somebody give me tips on killing the second Heresiarch... without cheating.

Posted at Thursday, March 31, 2005 by marocharim

The Right To Kill: Marocharim's Take On The Terri Schiavo Case

< here's something for the international community >

   I'm fascinated with the Terri Schiavo case, even though I'm not American.  I suppose it's in the interest of free speech that I have a few... takes, if you will, regarding it.

   Anthropologically, Terri Schiavo is still human.  She is still bipedal (although she couldn't walk), she no longer has the prognathism characteristic of pre-Homo sapiens hominids.  Legally, Terri Schiavo still is entitled to her Constitutional rights: she is still a citizen of the United States of America despite the fact that she's currently in a "persisting vegetative state."  Medically, Terri Schiavo should still (ideally) be kept alive if (and only if) she is able to respond to her environment as any "normal" human being would.

   So with all these under consideration, should Terri Schiavo be allowed to die?  Or, should her life-support systems be terminated?  Should America pull the plug on Theresa Schindler Schiavo?

   These questions, for me, border on the asinine.  Nobody said anything about this being just about Terri Schiavo.  This is about her, and more importantly our, "right to die."

Playing King Solomon

   The "right to die" is something we cannot all agree with as much as we do with the "right to live."  The debate over abortion between "pro-life" and "pro-choice" blocs has been legend that abortion is now an integral element of feminist ideology and theory, and that it has made its way to serious political and social debate.  The debate on the death penalty is now a matter held in serious contention that the forum of public opinion holds more opinions than the justice system or those who pull the switch.  But what of the "right to die?"  Euthanasia is something that people don't really talk about (until today) because it is a moral question.

   I'm not a philosopher, but the problem with questions of morality is that there will be no end to debate with it.  It's much like ideology: morals can never be compatible with each other, even if they are the same.  Everyone's bound to argue about their beliefs in one way or another, but in terms of morals the argument would not cease to end.  It's like putting Larry Flynt on one hand, and Gloria Steinem on another.  What is moral anyway?  The moral is the greatest good: what is "good" anyway?

   So now we have a very serious problem on our hands: the United States Supreme Court, Bobby and Mary Schindler, Michael Schiavo, Florida Governor Jeb Bush, and the American people are now the King Solomons (or is it Kings Solomon?) ready to cut Terri Schiavo in half to see who's right among them, in some perverse interpretation of Biblical fact/fiction.  On one hand, Michael Schiavo got his wish from the Supreme Court and had his ex-wife's feeding tube removed, so as to hasten the dying process and cut Terri Schiavo's agony short.  On one hand Bobby and Mary Schindler want their daughter to live, not only out of parental love (which is a given) but because their daughter (apparently) wants to live.  Gov. Bush is on yet another hand, unable to decide on the issue of Schiavo's feeding tube because of his "limited powers as Governor."  And on millions of hands, America is a house divided when it comes to the issue of someone they don't know, but has been part of public discourse because of extensive media mileage.  Different people, different morals... where does the debate end?

Says who?

   If Terri Schiavo dies, the debate will not end.  Thousands of people all over the world can be found in life-support systems.  What makes Schiavo's case so different is not the media coverage but because two opposing sides are bull-headed enough to make their cases regarding Terri's fate and carry it all the way to the way she should be buried.

   The question here, however, persists: do we have the right to die?  All of us are bound to die, but in cases where the individual in question is in a life-support system the "right to die" is given in full proxy power to the family, spouse, or the hospital/health center.  I'm not familiar with the nuances of such a situation when it comes to its legal interpretations or repercussions: like I said, I'm not American.  I'm not a lawyer, but I know more than my fair share of the law, being a lay person.  If Michael Schiavo acted in loca parentis this argument should have been over, but with the Schindlers still alive and are in themselves decisive of Terri Schiavo's life, the problem turns so complicated.

   Parental power and spousal power, from what I know, are pretty much on equal footing when it comes to the law.  In this case, both Michael Schiavo and the Schindlers should have been given equal treatment: and they had, although the verdict ruled in favor of the former and the Supreme Court has denied any motion for further appeal to extend Schiavo's life.

   But where does the law have anything to say regarding the biological state of somebody?  Nope: we have the doctors to do that.  But after watching the extensive coverage of the Terri Schiavo case in major US-based news networks like CNN, NBC, FoxNews and, God forbid, Bloomberg, to some extent BBC, I start to doubt if the doctors actually have an opinion whether to pull the plug or not.  Unethical?  Maybe, but we're talking about someone's life here.

The right to kill

   Is there a right to die?  Short answer: who are you kidding?

   Death is an unavoidable circumstance.  We're not talking about "the right to die," we're talking about the right to kill.  One way or another someone will "kill" Terri Schiavo.  That someone is either Michael Schiavo or the Schindlers.  Michael wants it now, and the Schindlers want to do it later.  It's either kill Terri Schiavo now and risk the moral consequences of someone who is, apparently, obviously alive; or kill her later and prolong her agony.  Any way we look at it both sides are committing manslaughter in their own right.

   Terri Schiavo is the only victim here.  Keep her alive and you keep her in pain.  Pull the plug and you murder her.  Why don't we ask her?  In her state she can't.

   So who should kill Terri Schiavo?

Posted at Thursday, March 31, 2005 by marocharim

March 29, 2005
X's and Y's

< this will make you think a bit hard... considering that i'm not going to lead you to the answer anyways >

   I'm not a mathematician, but I have reduced my emotions into equations.

   Depression hasn't really set on me for the past week, planeswalking (notice the semiotics presented by this term from Magic: The Gathering) between being in the Milky Way and bottles of C2 Lemon... which says quite a lot.  Normally I would guzzle down on cans of Coke Light, but yes, to a certain extent, I'm depressed, considering that I've shifted my liquid diet for once - although I did subsist on Gatorade and mineral water when I got that cholera attack back in Subic a year ago.

   Back to the math: considering my inability to prove the simplest of equations and solving the easiest math problems, I have started to do some stuff on my own and make sense of the math I know and my emotions...

   It boils down to an issue of X's and Y's.

   Being another alien being here at the computer shop, where everyone aside from me knows how to play Ragnarok (I don't, out of personal choice), I suppose these people know what's going on given the music they're playing.  Right now they're playing Parokya ni Edgar's "Halaga," and that's quite relevant given what I have planned to do right now... for this relatively long entry.

   The stacks of math books my brother keeps around our room have given me an idea of math-stuff like Boolean algebra, non-linear mathematical theory and three-dimensional geometry.  Although I couldn't understand and apply the concepts, yes, I have an idea of it.  Sometimes, I'm even tempted to laugh at that "I.M. Weasel" joke that "given two points, and between these points are infinity, 2 + 2 is actually equal to infinity."  But what if I.M. Weasel is right?  What if I.R. Baboon's answer that "2 + 2 is equals (sic) to 4?"  Or, God forbid, what if Cow is right, and "2 + 2 is equals (sic) to Abraham Lincoln?"

   Funny how I should think that way... I need a drink.

Marocharim's Equation #1: In any given set "A" of two elements, for every element "a," if there exists an element "b."  However, if element "a" can be associated with the disjoint set "B," "a" should only be considered as an element of only one set, and factored out from the other set.

PROOF:   Given  "A" = { a, b }
                "B" = { a, c }
         Find   { a } is an element of set "A" and not of set "B"
         Sol'n  A = { a, b } ; B = { a, c }
                ? = { b } ; B = { a, c }
                ? = { b } ; B = { c } ; ? = { a }
                ? + ? = { a } { b }
                a + b = a + b
                A = { a, b } ; B = { c... }

   This looks like crap from the eyes of the mathematician, but there's a logic to this... I think.  You see, "a" cannot exist in both sets "A" and "B" if we work on the premise that these sets are disjoint.

Marocharim's Equation #2: For any given problem " x + y," if the variable "x" is a non-zero variable not equal to the variable "y," the equation cannot be solved if "x" is not the answer to "y."

PROOF:   Given  x + y = ?
         Find   that x = y
         Sol'n  x is not equal to 0, thus +x or -x
                let x = ( +x ), or x = ( -x )
                let y = ( sol'n ( +x ) ), or ( sol'n ( - x ) )
                let sol'n ( +x ) or ( -x) = { ( (+x) + y ) } or;
                let sol'n ( +x ) or ( -x) = { ( (+x) - y ) } or;
                let sol'n ( +x ) or ( -x) = { ( (+x) . y ) } or;
                let sol'n ( +x ) or ( -x) = { ( (+x) / y ) }
                if y = not sol'n, x is not the answer to y
                if y = sol'n, x = y

   Confusing, huh?  Simple: the "X" will have to be the answer to the question "Y."

   And finally:

Marocharim's Equation #3: No point in infinity can cross zero, such that all points will pass a positive or negative integer.

PROOF:   refer to Cartesian plane:

         note that two lines (red and blue) cross point "zero"
         green lines indicate other points of reference in plane
         thus, zero is relative to points in plane that refer to it
         thus, there can be a -0 and a +0

   No explanations necessary.

   So what does this have to do with what I'm feeling right now?  Just to give you an idea, there's a reason why I entitled this entry "X's and Y's."  Just read it... X, Y...

   What drove me to the point of almost-insanity is that I had quite a long chat with a friend with regard to what I really feel... and I didn't really go through the whole deal of having to, well, confess, my problems, but she's right: if she can't solve it I have to.  I have to find proof... and I found it in math... ex's, and why's.

   I haven't yet reached the point of proving stuff to anyone who doesn't give a damn, a'la "The Piece of String" by Guy de Maupassant (pronounced "Gee de Ma-pazzan," not "Guy de Ma-hoo-pas-sant,") although maybe I'm just denying it and I am.  After all, equation #2 holds true: x does answer y...

   And I have a lot of proving to do.

Posted at Tuesday, March 29, 2005 by marocharim

March 28, 2005
Haiku Time

< i'm in quite a mood to write another one of these... >

   In yet another one of my "nari keri" moments wherein I try to construct a poem that would, at the very least, make some sense, I made quite a few haikus:

Though the waterfalls
Crash into me like a storm
I will remember
That the tears you shed for me
Don't compare to this.

Not much time is left
Before we go our own ways
But 'til that time comes
I'll cherish the memories
You have left for me.

I never told you
What I really feel inside
'Til I realized
No words can ever express
How much I love you.

(Note for this haiku: this was lifted from that Garry Valenciano song)

Not today, the noise
That in silence we shall find
Truths, realities
That not all can be shouted
Or even spoken.

The path to true love
Are like meteors in the sky
That when you catch one
You back away and let go
Before you get burned.

That's all for now... more haikus coming up.

Posted at Monday, March 28, 2005 by marocharim

March 23, 2005
There Will Come Rains...

< welcome to the newly-improved marocharim experiment.  it is in keeping with me getting a bit sick of grue-themes, and that nifty little header over there says it all >

   The rain is turning out to be in perfect sync with my mood, now that you're standing next to me, talking about her.  I just thank God that you can't differentiate the tears from the raindrops on my face....

   How relevant.  This, even:

   Kung prineserve ko yung lahat ng luha ko sa 'yo, babaha...

   In the realm of passe but otherwise poignant text messages, these ranks on par with those Tinkerbell messages I got so long ago, although I don't want to dwell on that anymore inasmuch as I don't particularly like having to sing those same old songs.  All I know is I'm bordering (OK, right deep in there) with being a professional heartbreaker.

   So (yet again), what happened to me today?

   I fell asleep reading Frank McCourt's "Angela's Ashes" last night, after watching a "Late Night with Conan O'Brien" rerun.  It was another one of those futile attempts not to catch sleep and remember stuff that I don't want to recall at all.  Unfortunately, I'm only human and I'm bound to catch sleep.

   At about 9 AM I was awakened by a text message from her, and she said she found what I was doing difficult to believe.  At about lunchtime, while I was switching channels between Star Movies (hey, they were showing "Meet Joe Black," and even if I watch that movie 50 times over I wouldn't grow sick of it) and "The Tonight Show with Jay Leno," she said it.

   Three points, just to make things clear:

   Point #1: Why did Karen (my ex) come first?
   Point #2: Why is she (Rona Dale) playing second fiddle?
   Point #3: Why is the treasure box still in my pigeon hole?

   And then:

   Kung prineserve ko yung lahat ng luha ko sa 'yo, babaha...

   I am not insecure to post something that seems to be private in something as open and public as my blog, it's just that I have to go through a lot of lengths to explain myself.  Think of Fyodor Dostoyevsky's "The Idiot:" I have a strange affinity to Prince Myshkin.  So read it.

   Time to do some answering of my own... and I can't find any answer except for Point #3.  I threw it away.  Closing cycles, goddamit.  And I don't like Paulo Coelho.

   Perhaps "regret" wouldn't be the best choice of words, as far as I'm concerned.  Did I regret choosing Karen?  Nope, and I probably never will.  I could never take up a No. 2 eraser and start rubbing out all of my past.  It can't be done.  As much as I like to put myself in a position to reverse, or at the very least forget all that happened, I couldn't.

   Suffice to say I wasn't forced into playing King Solomon with my own heart even if I want to believe I did.  I can never can tell what would have happened if I chose Rona instead.  Karen may have tried to kill me before (figuratively) but I always have a Nietzschean wall to fall back on: what does not kill me will only make me stronger.  I have Karen and Stan to thank for making me stronger, but I will I be able to forgive them is something I'm not dwelling on right now.  This is the immediate future I'm talking about.

   What Rona did was to give me the second chance, which was shattered by perhaps the most powerful force in the known world: my pride.  I was too proud, rationalizing on such mundane and asinine reasons like delicadeza and "I'm not over it just yet."  Perhaps I put it together on just the most inopportune moment.

   So was she crying on something she would never get?  I don't know.  I don't specialize in the slash-me-quick-and-get-it-over-with type of heartbreaking, I do it as gently as I can but I do it quite quickly.  But I didn't break Rona's heart consciously: I broke it without me even knowing I did it.  Over and over again.  How could I!

   Right now is something I like to stay on for quite a bit.  Did I make a mistake?  Probably.  Now that they're playing Sponge Cola's version of "Crazy For You" I should start to cry my brains out and live off the fourth straight day of being in the Milky Way, but I couldn't bear to do so lest these Ragnarok and MU Online characters come to life and eat me alive.

   In the words of Ray Bradbury, there will come soft rains, and there will come hard rains.  I never thought someone cried when I did, and for parallel reasons.  I don't consider myself an ingrate when it comes to these things but now that I come to think about it I had no right to cry when someone was crying more than I did.  And now they're playing "Jeepney."

   I couldn't think of any reason or justification for Point #2, or what can be summed up by Freestyle's/Ogie Alcasid's "Bakit Ngayon Ka Lang."  My worst fears of Rona figuring herself to be little more than a proverbial panakip-butas for whatever's found in my chest (except for my lungs which are a step away from getting cancer) is getting me into those alternating phases of guilt and self-loathing.  All I know is that I'm back to square one and I don't like it.  She's entitled to what she has to say.

   Like I said, there will come soft rains, and there will come hard rains.  We both drowned, and we both need time to heal.  But time can never heal a broken heart: it's like salt rubbed into your wounds.

   It's going to rain hard, and it has drowned me to the point that I'm gasping for a lot more things than answers to questions I'd probably never answer by the time I'm done finding a way out of this flood and into high ground.  A bit closer to heaven?  Maybe so.  But here I am, swathed by her tears.  I don't want her to cry anymore, but I don't see any sense in letting go of someone I haven't had a hold on to just yet.  I don't want to break her heart anymore.  I'm sick of it.  I want to be the one to make it whole again.  It's the only way I can make it up to her.

   I haven't given up on us just yet.  There will come soft rains, there will come hard rains.  We drowned, and that's because we weren't holding on to each other in that flood.  We were away from the ark.  This vast expanse of tears will be very difficult to traverse, I know it, but I will find her and offer my heart and my soul.

   There will come soft rains... there will come hard rains... but it wouldn't rain forever.

Posted at Wednesday, March 23, 2005 by marocharim

March 22, 2005
The Tekken Boys

< and now we continue on with our regularly-scheduled non-love-related entries until i feel like it >

   Meet The Tekken Boys.

   It's summer again, and it's back to the proverbial old grind.  Me, five other boys, a PlayStation 2, and Tekken.  It's not the best way to spend a summer break, but hey, it's not as if we're the club types.  We're not exactly diehards or addicts, and Tekken isn't exactly the reason why we became friends.

   So read on.

   The Tekken Boys (me, Andrew, Garry, Noel, David and Neal) were borne out of quite... interesting circumstances.  I'm old, I can't recall.

   Anyways, the common denominator between and among us is our propensity to play computer games.  We weren't and aren't exactly the Counterstrike Peepulation (this group would involve, in one way or another, Saroot and Wong [who happen to be not Chinese]) or the Ragna Cum Laudes (seeing that I don't play Ragnarok), but as far as I know, we're the only group in our high school classes who played Tekken religiously... well, save for me who would never in my lifetime would ever block low frequently.

   The idea is that we were Tekken fanatics, to the point that simple discussions over canteen burgers and shakes (which proves that we're ancient: the BurgerShake combo costs around P10) would revolve around tenstrings and ways to avoid the Phoenix Smasher (which was the cheesiest move back in Tekken 3).  Now we have graduated to more meaningful discourse, like our love lives and politics, but we still play Tekken.

   So again, meet the Tekken Boys... and how they play Tekken (kaya nga Tekken Boys eh!).

   Andrew is the Mishima sage, although he ocassionally uses Xiaoyu (which doesn't matter).  Proficient in juggles and in canned strings, Andrew's the man when it comes to manipulating the game from mid-range.  Garry, on the other hand, was (just to make that clear) a Tekken junkie and holds the claim/record of "knowing" most of the characters.  This guy thrives on juggles and could kill you off one (or two, or three, but most of the time a shatload) of launchers.  Noel is a power player, the master of cheese, and spends most of his time attempting just-frames which either kill you, or in most circumstances, kill him.  When it comes to counterhitting, Noel is the king of the nonexistent hill.

   David is a throw-man: nobody will ever be able to pull off King's chain throws like he does, and that means nobody.  On the striking end he will own you with kicks given his proficiency with Hwoarang and Baek.  Neal is our group's master turtle: he can kill you by just standing there and blocking all your shots until he finds that opening to crush you.  He's a really good defensive guy, but he's not really keen on offense.

   As far as I go, I suck.  No, wait, as far as I know, I have crushed each and every Tekken Boy with characters nobody uses: Jack, Roger, Kuma... but what I lack in juggles and combos I play the cerebral game, the thinking man's fight.  And then I end up losing... but not today.

   As you may have noticed, we are a house divided when it comes to gameplay mechanics and fighting styles (Jin can never be a common denominator among us: among us, only me, Neal and Noel don't know squat about him).  As far as our subjective opinions towards the world's biggest asskisser (whose name will not be mentioned here for fear of virtual contamination), or our political stands, we are pretty much united.

   As far as I'm concerned the Tekken Boys are one tight group.  Yes, we had our differences before, especially between Andrew and Noel.  What they couldn't do in terms of physically hurting each other we settled in those epic Tekken Tag Tournament matches, which until today still bring some poignant fight-scenes worthy of being videotaped and sent to TekkenZaibatsu (although personally, I'm getting bored looking at Jin/Kazuya vs. Paul/Lei matches).  What we fail to do academically we compensate at Tekken.

   Now we have practically evolved.  Now we talk about stuff that still revolve around Tekken, but in a different way.  My usual quotable quotes still revolve around something like, "Love is like a tenstring - you can't hit them all," or "Political awareness is like hitting Law's Junkyard Combo: in order to hit the full b+2,3,4, you hit mid, low, mid.  Sometimes you also have to hit high."  That second one I invented just now... so get me drunk.

   Yeah, maybe other groups and barkadas would fancy coffee or pizza or clubs, but we don't do that.  Tekken is perhaps the most cost-efficient addiction we have had, since the days we hung around Avengers (or Abangers, whatever) waiting for a vacant PS1.  Never mind the sweaty smells we get hunting for PlayStations.

   Now that I come to think about it... there's nothing really wrong with being a Tekken Boy.

Posted at Tuesday, March 22, 2005 by marocharim

March 21, 2005
Beautiful Alone

< continuation to "milky way..." it's happening all over again >

   I'm not exactly the biggest fan of Weiss Kreuz as much as I am an El Hazard fanatic, but anyway, the title for tonight's entry will be "Beautiful Alone."  So don't mess with me just yet.

   Tonight, after a few rounds of Tekken 5 to ease the pain of being not able to say a proper goodbye, was a night where my heart wasn't exactly "broken" by anything at all - after all, I was the guy responsible for breaking Rona Dale's heart, even though I don't want to admit it.  I never knew how I was able to do that, or if I'm going to do it all over again.  I don't know about it just yet: I will never know.  That is, after all, my specialty nowadays.

   But whatever that is, tonight, and for quite some time after I hit the "Publish" button, life's going to be, well, beautiful alone.

   I wasn't able to bid her a proper goodbye.  Now, I'm hanging on by a moment, just hoping for that slim chance that she'd change her mind and not move to UP Diliman.  It's not that I'm not ready for a long-distance relationship if that's what it is (I'm bordering on being assuming, but that's all I can do right now), but I... well, it's another "me" thing.  I think I should stop thinking of myself for just this second and start to ponder on other things aside from what I want.

   So I sent a text message: a blunt "ok, marx out" just to finish off something that I couldn't bear.  Why, or how, I could seem so insensitive is not a question I'm not too eager to answer.  I suppose it's more of my problem that their problem.

   Why I couldn't just have said "ill miss u" or something more heartfelt than that I don't know.

   Anyway, right now I'm once again in the Milky Way.  It's not regret: it's yet another frustration.  I couldn't torch bus terminals or send bombs a-flying on every lowland province in the country to convince her to stay.  I don't have to lie about it: I don't like it.  But this isn't about me: if she wants to pursue her studies somewhere else I can't stop it.  Biting my nails every night and talking to my stuffed shark about it wouldn't change anything at all.  I can only hope against all hopes that maybe things will turn out my way...

   And that is the most unfair thing I have ever thought of in recent history.

   Rona said it herself: love is never fair, and it is, was and forever will remain a struggle.  If I am going to do everything in my power to stop something that would inevitably happen I am close to calling myself a god.  I am human, all too human, and whether I like it or not I'm going to have to fess up with facts.  As much as I can't convince her to stay, all I can do is stay and watch her go.  Even though the "I love you's" echo over in that abyss between me, her and nothing in particular, the best I could do is live my life and love it... for her sake and mine.

   So now is the beginning of beautiful alone.

   I don't know how long I'm going to stay in this seemingly indescribable state, but I'm not staying here for far too long.  I know she's going to come back - I just know she will - and I can never tell what would happen if that happens.  It's just too far into the future, and even if it's near, I'm still way over the Milky Way to see it.

   ...I can't write anymore...

   This is going to be a beautiful alone.

Posted at Monday, March 21, 2005 by marocharim
(1) vomitted  

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