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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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May 13, 2005
Ticking Time Bomb

< now i'm just plain mad >

   The sooner my anger dissipates, the sooner I'll leave.  But I've been in here for the better part of an hour, resisting the urge to explode.  It's a good thing I have this blog handy, else I'll wrap my hands around the neck of the next person I see.

   Now I'm typing like mad.  By the time I get to review this entry I would perhaps be entreated to random gobbledygook I would not understand by the time I'm done.  Worry and anxiety is not the buzz of this week: it's plain and simple anger.  I'm in the right state of mind to blow up a few buildings at school tomorrow... but not before I find myself a rocket propelled grenade.  The clock is indeed ticking, and I don't know if some people will survive my anger tomorrow, the day after, or the coming weeks.

   The clock is ticking... it's 6:14 PM.  By 2 PM tomorrow, things will get very, very interesting indeed... like a flick of the wrist or a snap of the fingers.  No time for Marocharisms now...

   Ka-BOOM!

Posted at Friday, May 13, 2005 by marocharim
Revolt!  

Muppets

< this is, again, unusually freaky >

   Let's talk about "freedom of speech."

   I don't believe it at all.  Constitutionally, I'm granted the right to sit here and talk about whatever I want.  I could go to web forums and speak out my mind.  I can approach somebody and talk about anything.  I can go out to the streets and rally for whatever reason I want (or in most cases they want).  In short, I am free to talk, to write, to draw, to express, without any fear of political or social repercussions except when I go overboard with it.  That's freedom of speech and expression.

   Yet at the end of the day (to imitate my friend Abel), it all boils down to another issue of inequality.  Look at it this way: I have a blog, and compared to the other guy at the other end of the computer shop playing Gunbound I am much freer than him, in the sense that I have more writing space and flexibility.  He, on the other hand, can only type "waah" when he's starting to lose the round.  The taxi driver I talked to yesterday has interesting thoughts on politics, yet I have access to a computer, while he has to make the rounds every day.  In class I ask the teacher a lot of questions, which makes me a pest on the academic universe of UP Baguio, and some other people are happy sitting down there and watch a debate go on right in front of the classroom.

   Truth is, there are some people who are freer than others.  Freedom of speech is not a gift.  Ever watched "The Muppet Show" and feel that those two old guys, Statler and Waldorf, are free to critique the whole show, on the grounds that they're sitting up there on the balcony while Kermit and the rest of the crew are limited by their scripts?  Or because the audience does not talk at all?  Or because Professor Melonhead and Beaker are more interested in those science stuff they do?  Heck, the Swedish Chef would rather throw around vegetables in a miserable attempt at a salad than to talk about something like how long Gonzo's nose really is.

   The same is true with society in general: there are some of us who are able to exercise that freedom more than others, and freedom of speech is something we shouldn't be too proud about.  There is no doubt in anybody's mind that people are free to talk about whatever they want.  But really, did it cross your mind how free you are?

   The worse thing is that some people don't do their own talking anymore, falling back instead on worn old catchphrases and ideas not unique to them.  People use words like "imperialism" and "activism," all that big whoop I've grown used to over the years not to take seriously.  How many people say that, how many people use that, and more importantly how many people are that?

   How free are you?

Posted at Friday, May 13, 2005 by marocharim
Revolt!  

May 12, 2005
Cold Shoulder

< weird... but what's so new? >

   I'm angry, what's new?

   Recently my office-mates in the school paper have been giving me the proverbial cold shoulder.  Pffft, like I care.  I suppose a boot up my arse is in order, and these are the times when I get what I put in.  Big whoop, then, right?  But it's starting to get to me, to grow on me...

   I kinda like it.

   Yeah, the thing is that when people are itching at the prospect of giving you the boot it grows on you.  I don't mind having to shine their shoes clean by stuffing a rag through my mouth, nor do I mind having to brush my teeth by sticking a toothbrush up my rectum, whichever way they choose to do whatever they want to do with me in the first place.  I don't mind getting the cold shoulder from them.  It was my idea in the first place.

   The idea of taking a "vacation" from "work" is entirely mine.  Hey, I've been through a lot the past few months, don't I deserve a break from the usual faces?  I don't mind talking to my ex, but I just don't want to do it.  I don't mind having to discuss paper operations and upcoming issues with the editorial board, but I don't want to do it.  I don't mind talking to the staff members or training them for the next term, but I don't want to do it.  Lack of commitment?  I doubt it: what I'm doing to myself right now isn't self-destructive, as it is some form of therapy for me.  I need some sort of vacation.  In short, it's all for a selfish reason:

   I need some space.

   Where have I heard that before?

   I find it odd that for a while people have been taking a free, cannibalistic lunch out of me (more like a feast), in the sense that there's this feeling that I'm missing out on a few things on my life because of work.  Don't get me wrong: I love what I do.  Maybe it isn't the most rewarding job a student can have, but it's the best job a student should have.  Being a campus journalist is something that we all should try at least for a few days.  But to stand for the same job description for eleven years since second grade, and working for the same paper for close to three years, that kind of gets to you after it grows on you.  Pretty soon you forget that you have a life too.

   Commitment is something that's relative: maybe people can afford not being committed to themselves and their lives, but for a while I seem to have been alienated from that very significant other: myself.  Think of it as a much-needed recharge.  I rekindled my old, forgotten relationships with some friends and made new ones in the process.  My closest school friends for the past few years were the very people I worked with, and these people wouldn't hesitate to stab you in the back anyways, so what's the point?

   For a while I've been carrying a burning hot cross on my back in the form of ideologies, rhetoric, polemic, and for quite a while now, work.  Time to let it go for a while.  And a bit of ice on a third-degree burn helps a bit... some people will just have to accept that.

Posted at Thursday, May 12, 2005 by marocharim
Revolt!  

May 11, 2005
Smooth Vibrations

< kids: again, please turn away >

   Lately, the hallowed halls of the Experiment has been, well, filled, with discourses on sex.  It's not that I'm oversexed, it's just the summer heat.  There's nothing else like it... and I don't know why I even wear a trench coat to boot.  It's the heat that kills the few remaining healthy brain cells you have, you know.

   I got my hands on a nifty new toy: a vibrating condom.  Odd, but I don't really understand it.  After a few on-off cycles I got sick of it.  It's not funny.

   Really, I don't understand why nowadays I'm starting to get a bit cold (not frigid: different context) when it comes to dealing with things that would make a high school guy giggle with suppressed hormonal cycles.  Just last night, for my STS paper on sex scandals and their relationship to science and technology (trust me: there's a connection), I watched a few sex scandals and I didn't get anything out from it except the usual serious look on my face.  Like, huh?  If I were back in high school I would have repeatedly crossed and uncrossed my legs or started shedding cold sweat.  Now it's a different story.  It's just another cup of coffee, another walk in the park, another bit of breakfast (three things I don't do) for me.  It's not something out of the ordinary.

   Which brings me to vibrating condoms.  No, I don't have to proclaim my innocence and categorically state that I am an innocent young man (let's stop there).  But please, what is it with all the gadgetry and gizmos?  Why must everything have something to do with smooth vibrations?

   Funny how that comes into play.  Is it greed, selfishness, or kink?  Maybe there's a reason why whenever my barkada plays Tekken there must always be vibrations on the controller (handy when you're playing Steve Fox).  Kink is an odd thing, though, since sex is a natural thing: human beings were not built with that kind of mechanical (by "mechanical" I mean machine) motion in mind if the sole end of the act is to procreate.

   More like a Kafka-esque approach, if you asked me.  Think "The Metamorphosis:" if we all turned into that mechanical object of desire what would happen?  I can see it now:

   "One morning, as Marocharim was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in his bed he had been changed into an enormous..."

   I'm going to stop here.

Posted at Wednesday, May 11, 2005 by marocharim
Revolt!  

May 10, 2005
Full Metal Object

< kids: turn away for this entry, please >

   I suppose that you're like me and you wonder about trifle things like, "Why do kids like ice cream?" or "Why do toilet-paper manufacturers cut up their paper that small and that square?"  I have no idea, but something's been bugging me lately.

   No, love and all of its discontents can wait for later on... people don't pay me enough for that (if you're reading, don't close this window: it's a freaking joke).  Nowadays my testosterone levels at are an all-time high, considering that it's summer and the heat can get to you.

   I don't have time for all this paliguy-ligoy.  Let's get to it: why must the male genitalia always be associated with some sort of metallic tool?

   Don't go all moral on me, people.  The thing is I find it so irritating, from a masculine standpoint, to have my... appendage compared to some sort of tool.  Jackhammers I can understand, but drills?  Screwdrivers?  I get insulted!  Perhaps if you're male, you get my point.

   The act of sex itself does not involve rotations or vibrations involved in drilling or using a screwdriver.  Unless one is adventurous, acrobatic or a walang magawa sa buhay type who gets his kinks and kicks spinning around clockwise during sex... well I suppose I should stop there.  But really?  Screwdrivers and drills?  Outside of cheap Japanese porn found all over the web, I don't know of a man who can move his hips as fast as a jackhammer's bit could.  Talk about the human machine, but please!  Talk about mechanical animals... I don't even want to listen to Marilyn Manson anymore.

   Guys, don't you think that when your, manhood, gets compared to screwdrivers and drill bits there's something really, really wrong with the world?  I suppose that it's punishment for centuries of oppression.  But hey, I don't know of any man who carries with him something that thin, that cold and that small (I'm referring to drill bits).  Just think of the curliques and edges of the drill bit and tell me if that's what you have to deal with every time you go to the comfort room... ouch.  And what about the connotations of cross-heads, or even worse, flat-heads?  Nah, I suppose that when people talk about "tinuturbo," especially in those cheap P5 tabloids where the publisher has only enough money for red ink, you don't mean that only after about two minutes the guy has to undergo hip replacement surgery.  Now oil wells and derricks are different stories altogether... black is not the best color for anything.

   What's worse is that "bird" is not proper for the male organ of reproduction.  Birds fly.  Even Superman does not use his penis for propulsion.  That's something off the page of an issue of "Heavy Metal" if you asked me.

   Why must women have better euphemisms for their genitalia?  Commercials for douches and vaginal wash always have something to do with butterflies and flowers... though the butterfly may be all too male, considering the insect's proboscis.  Now that's beyond an insult.

   At least when my friend talked about him being "faster than a speeding bullet" I just laughed.  Don't ask me why.  Something tells me he either talked of the gun or the bullet itself.

   I'm betting on the bullet.

Posted at Tuesday, May 10, 2005 by marocharim
Revolt!  

May 9, 2005
Consumption

< ok, i made the theme a bit more... tolerable, if you will, for firefox users.  there, now you happy? >

   Don't ask me where those fancy background images went.  I decided to be a bit friendlier to Firefox users.  It's the content I'm after, anyway, not that I'm good in that department anyhow.  Insistent public demand, however, will get me placing them little fractals back again.

   I'm so tired, so here's a poem.  Try to catch my drift:

Gently, silently, I cradle your head and your body
Into the six foot deep hole I dug for your grave
Through the daggers you planted in my back
I watch you... and I see that you're only human after all.

Do you remember the pain you caused me
After all I have given you and all that I have sacrificed for?
Do you even have an idea of how much pain you have caused me
Long after you've gone, when the memory still remains?

I take up earth and cover up your body
Corrupted by the very essence of lust
I watch you gasp for air as earth enters your lungs
And I continue on, gasping... choking... laughing at your fate.

You will be lost
And then I move away
To walk the path
I should have gone all along.

Revenge... sweet.  All too sweet.

Odium... hatred... abhorrence... is all I feel for you.

You will never fathom my hatred
You will never understand my loathing
If there's one thing I know by now
You never really understood anything.

I will be consumed
Until the last gasps you take
And in that final moment
I will be satisfied.

I watch as the final mounds of earth cover your corpse
And in your death I hope you realize how much you caused
But then again, apologies will not be accepted from the dying
Those pathetic souls wailing for a final chance at redemption.

Do you even remember how to breathe at all?
After hate has flowed through my veins all these days!
Fear not your death for it is your escape!
Fear not your life for it is mine to take!

I watch you, all I see is your great escape
But I know you would not make it in time
Until the death knell rings for you and your demise
Shall I gently, silently, walk away from here.

Posted at Monday, May 09, 2005 by marocharim
Revolt!  

May 8, 2005
Sad But True

< made up my mind >

   Reading through today's issue of The Phillipine Daily Inquirer I came across a very interesting editorial on China withdrawing its support for the Communist Party of the Philippines.  Read it here:

http://news.inq7.net/opinion/index.php?index=2&story_id=36291&col=84

   Interesting.  Sad, but true.

   I've always been interested in the Filipino Communist, on the grounds that this is a guy fighting the government for 35 years and still hasn't given up hope.  I mean, I've been fighting the government for a few years now and I'm starting to feel the strains.  The idea being, that the banner of people leaning to the left is of "matagalang digmaang bayan," or in layman's terms, a really long people's war.  But how long has it been?  Perhaps the demonization of the Communist has reached such great heights that even their supporters have given up on them, or maybe it's because it's been too long.

   Don't get me wrong: to a certain extent (although not wholly) I subscribe to some snippets of Communist theory and practice, but what I don't get is that all this time, the Revolution still remains to be fought somewhere in the countryside.  It's been 35 years: if we count its antecedents it has been over half a century since.  And yeah, they're still fighting.  Interesting.

   That's strange, considering that China has now trimmed its proverbial pangil to turn friendly to the West, and in the process gave the CPP a good view of its ass.  That's something the CPP has taken offense to, now that they have been "orphaned" by the biggest bastion of Communism in the world since the fall of the Soviet Union.  Again, sad but true.  Doesn't it seem that the idea of "revolution" has now become more of a punchline?  Do tell: sad but true.

   Imagine this: the common horde, the masa, may or may not support Communism, but it's true that they're not drones.  If they get sick of democracy and then put the Reds in power then so be it.  True, it's the the system that has the problem: not the form of government.  But it's sad to see that after 35 years there's still no sure sign of the Revolution happening.  Again, sad but true.

   Prove me wrong.

Posted at Sunday, May 08, 2005 by marocharim
Revolt!  

Tantric Marocharisms

< i have no idea what i'm talking about... yet again >

   Now that I'm a man on a mission to fill up every day of May with blog entries, I'm running out of topics.  I'm usually the guy who can write about anything and everything, but it's getting to me.  Today's Mother's Day, but I don't want to write about it.  It's not that I'm bitter about Mother's Day, but I just couldn't steel myself to waste all this cheese on someone who's not a fan of my blog anyways.  Haha.

   Anyway, tomorrow's F4 day.  They're playing "Meteor Garden..." again.

   Prior to today's entry I was checking out Justine's blog, and lo and behold, Jerry Yan's .gif was there, and he was singing.  Probably "Meteor Rain."  That got me thinking: what else is there to talk about on a boring Sunday afternoon when come tomorrow, everybody will be tuning in to watch "Meteor Garden" again?

   It's a pretty bad time tomorrow to wear my brand-spanking "new" trenchcoat: it's a good thing I tie my hair back lest I be mistaken for Vanness Wu.  I can just imagine so many people asking for my autograph, but that's just in my dreams.  Making pasikat is something I do occasionally anyhow.  So why stop there?  I could sing "Can't Help Falling" tomorrow and perhaps shed off the last vestiges of sanity that I have.  Time to do the monkey.

   Anyways, aside from F4-ish blahs I'd like to make a few comments on... myself.  Recently I've been getting quite a lot of comments that this blog is "unreadable" because of my unintelligable satsat, my writings reminding my Soc An 128 and 191 instructor of Jack Kerouac.  I like to think of myself more as the Antichrist of the written word than anything - screw form and function in your writing and just write: that's my little, ahem, philosophy of writing.  And by the way: this is not writing: what you have been reading over the... months, has been an exercise in Marocharism.  Welcome to my world.

   Yyyah... that's something worth your while.  On a relatively boring day I tried reading my blog through Tantric meditation, and it kind of rocked.  Don't ask me where I got my title.

Posted at Sunday, May 08, 2005 by marocharim
Revolt!  

May 7, 2005
Work Harder?

< hmmm, weird... >

   Browsing through newspapers I came across a strange pronouncement by our President, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, that the wage hike is out: if Filipinos want a better life for themselves, they should, and this she really said, "Work harder."

   Like... huh?

   I'm not one to tell the President what to do.  If she can't provide a wage hike, nobody will.  And they wonder why people take to the streets to get what they want.  But to "work harder" is something pretty strange, especially for the President, who does as much work as I do: the most work I do is sitting down on a chair.

   Allow me to take you to a little tour of my life: I get up from bed and then sit down to eat my breakfast.  I ride a jeep and sit down up front: I don't really like sitting down at the back of the jeep.  Then I come in about 20 minutes late for my first class, and I sit down and take notes or draw caricatures of my teacher if I get so bored (usually I just leave the classroom and make a beeline for the canteen).  Then I sit down somewhere in the campus for a smoke or a leisurely read (I usually lug around Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Ayn Rand or Pearl S. Buck).  I get up, sit down for lunch with the friends, and then sit back down for more class.  Then I head for an internet cafe to sit down over my blog.  Then I go home, sit down in front of my computer and play.  Then I sit down (to be more exact lie down) in front of the TV to watch whatever.  Then I sleep... most of the time sitting down because I can't lie down properly for the life of me.

   So yeah, like the President, I spend most of my life on my ass.  Pointless exercise, if you asked me.  But I do that much work, why can't I get a raise in my pay?  Maybe it's because I'm a student.  But what about taxi drivers and jeepney drivers who spend a lot of their time on their asses?  Or maybe accountants, government employees and the like who share my same malady of the life-world?

   Work harder?  Up my ass.

Posted at Saturday, May 07, 2005 by marocharim
(1) vomitted  

May 6, 2005
Wag(Wag) The Dog

< guess where i've been >

   Many an episode in my sporadic dreams have I drooled (literally) on my pillows over an overcoat.  Yeah, think Akaky Akakievich in Nikolai Gogol's "The Overcoat," or if I levelled off my terms a bit, Neo in "The Matrix."  But I drool not over Burberry's and leather gangster trench coats: I prefer something more formal and understated: a thick one, something with a tartan cotton lining inside, something to keep my body cooked and my soul totally fried, just the way I like it.  And oh, yeah, not too many buttons.  Somehow I have this certain aversion to them ever since I started to build up a few Levi's 501's in my dresser.  I don't like buttons.

   Armed with P1000 I set out to the ukay shops in Baguio City after class.  It was supposed to be a hunt for Marocharim's Dream Overcoat (now known as the MDO), but I got more than I bargained for.  My allergy to people started to kick up all of a sudden.  I hated having to rub elbows with the common herd, that mass of cattle walking on two legs.

   I don't even get why it's called wagwag.  My Ilocano, while botched in some places outside of conversation, spelling (trust me, I can write in Ilocano) and curses (it's like wiping your ass with silk) cannot comprehend the logic or semantics of the word when all I did was to look up.  By the time I was at Bayanihan I got so relieved when I saw it: the MDO.

   Five-feet-seven-inches of pure wool and polyester.  I look inside and I see the tartan lining I've been craving for all these... days.  Cost: P500.  A bit on the expensive side.  So here goes the tawad portion, something I wasn't good at.

   Dialogue, please:
Marocharim: Miss, P250, puwede po?
"Sales" Lady: Lugi na nga po, sir (note: first time I actually was called "sir"), kinalahati niyo pa.
Marocharim: Payag po kayo sa P260?
"Sales" Lady: OK na po sa P450.
Marocharim: Sige na po, Miss.  Benta niyo na po sa 'kin ng P280.
"Sales" Lady: Sige na nga po, Sir.  Sa P300, last tawad na.
Marocharim: OK na 'po, tinatamad na din lang po akong tumawad.
"Sales" Lady: OK po, sir.  Buti nga po, nakabenta na kami ng ganito... (talak mode, which I actually entertained)

   There's this lady by the time I left who made-kalabit to me and said, "Ading, ang hina mo."

   Yeah, right.  But at least I have the MDO.  That makes for some achievement.

Posted at Friday, May 06, 2005 by marocharim
(2) vomitted  

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