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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 17, 2005
Marocharim's First Film Review

< it is my first film review... >

Movie: "The Magdalene Sisters"
Starring: Geraldine McEwan, Anne-Marie Duff, Nora-Jane Noone, Dorothy Duffy, Eileen Walsh
Directed by: Peter Mullan
Genre: Drama

   There's a reason why I don't wash my own clothes by hand.  One: we have a washing machine at home.  Two: I'm still stuck in a chauvinistic P.O.V. that if I do it I subtract a portion of my manhood.  Three: I really don't know how.  Make that three reasons.

   Interestingly enough, after watching "The Magdalene Sisters" for quite a few times I'm liable to add it as the fourth reason why I don't wash my own clothes, relegating them instead to the laundry bin and let my mom or sister do it, while I go about my business mopping up the floor or something more manly than that.  It's a tragic tale of women in Irish penitential asylums ("Magdalene asylums"), where women correct the wrongs in their lives by taking a vow of silence and wash clothes by hand in order to earn money for the asylum.  All this happened as late as the 1960's, when women's liberation movements were at their height.

   Geraldine McEwan plays Sister Bridget, the mother-superior of the Magdalene asylum, who subjects girls and women to that proverbial theater of cruelty: the laundry room.  Anne-Marie Duff plays Margaret, a girl who is raped by a boy at a wedding, files a complaint and is treated like a common criminal, sent to the asylum.  Nora-Jane Noone plays Bernadette, a precocious young girl who flirts with boys and is sent to the asylum doing so.  Dorothy Duffy plays Rose, a girl sent to the asylum fpr having a child born out of wedlock.  Eileen Walsh plays Crispina, who is frequently abused in the asylum and dies of anorexia afterwards.  A little weak in the head, she screams out, "You're not a man of God" 27 times in a scene towards the end of the film, as the priest frantically takes off his clothes from a really mean rash after, ironically, it was washed in the asylum.

   "The Magdalene Sisters" is technically a film about labandera's, but it does so with such panache and pathos that we are led to believe that this film is too good to be true.  Well, it tries to convince us that it is, towards the end of the film.  I could buy Crispina dying of anorexia in a lunatic asylum, but for Bernadette to become a beautician is not something I'd buy immediately.

   In some twist of fate, I watched Nora Aunor's "Atsay" right after I watched "The Magdalene Sisters," and both movies convey the same message (although Ate Guy's accents and intonations still have to convince me of two things: either she's a really great actress of our times, or she really was on drugs).  It doesn't convey a feminist message, much to my relief.  The movie is, at least from my perspective, apolitical: it's not an attack on anything but a detached portrayal of an actual historical event.  The movie spares us of dehumanizing scenes as "THX 1138," or of scenes of human misery as "Angela's Ashes."  It is a portrayal of atrocity that doesn't make you cry or plunge you in anger, but it just leaves you that way.  The mad scrubbing of clothes with salt and soap leaves you with no idea.  It brings you to a nirvana of morality: a proverbial tabula rasa.

   Watch it, and you'll never even think about washing your own clothes again.

Last words: Excellent film, dragging in some scenes.
Rating: 8/10

Posted at Tuesday, May 17, 2005 by marocharim

Whiskey In A Jar

< searchin' for metallica? >

   I don't usually post lyrics, but before I get to the usual entry:


As I was goin' over the Cork and Kerry mountains
I saw Captain Farrell and his money he was countin'
I first produced my pistol and then produced my rapier
I said stand and deliver or the devil he may take ya

I took all of his money and it was a pretty penny
I took all of his money and I brought it home to Molly
She swore that she'd love me, never would she leave me
But the devil take that woman for you know she treat me easy

Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack for my daddy-o
Whack for my daddy-o
There's whiskey in the jar-o

Being drunk and weary I went to Molly's chamber
Takin' my money with me and I never knew the danger
For about six or maybe seven in walked Captain Farrell
I jumped up, fired off my pistols and I shot him with both barrels
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack for my daddy-o
Whack for my daddy-o
There's whiskey in the jar-o

Now some men like the fishin' and some men like the fowlin'
And some men like ta hear a cannon ball a roarin'
Me I like sleepin' specially in my Molly's chamber
But here I am in prison, here I am with a ball and chain yeah

Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack for my daddy-o
Whack for my daddy-o
There's whiskey in the jar-o

Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da

Posted at Tuesday, May 17, 2005 by marocharim

May 16, 2005
While She Slept

< literary effort... kind of dark )

sleeping in the coldest of evenings
   i see her shivering...
      i hear her teeth chatter and clatter from the cold
      i see her shifting to be bathed in the dim light
      so as i may see her sleep
         and get the most rest she could.

the fog that has cloaked this scene
   i see her clothed in it...
      i try to cut through the fog to see her body
      i try to slice it in half to make sure she's all right
      so as i may be convinced
         that she gets the most rest she could.

so i tried to see through what i can
   and i'm left wondering...
      what did she dream about while i stood guard
      how did she find her slumber through the night
      so as i could know
         if she got the most rest she could.

until morning came and i saw
   a pool of blood streaming...
      her body just shook and started to convulse
      i saw her from under that crimson ocean
      and then i knew
         she got all the rest she could.


Posted at Monday, May 16, 2005 by marocharim

May 15, 2005
The Street of God

< hmmm... >

   Save for exceptionally meritorious circumstances I don't blog at 9:30 in the evening, but after talking to an American street evangelist I suddenly have the urge to do so.

   It was supposed to be a brief five minute interview with the guy, but it lasted for fifteen minutes.  So there we were, at the bottom of Session Road, with a pretty heavy video camera.  The thing is that instead of getting annoyed, I got a bit fascinated.  I wasn't listening to anything that he has to say, at all.  My brainwaves started to act up at extremely high frequencies - the level of which was off the scale that I had to get to a computer shop one way or another and write about it.

   I consider myself to be spiritual, although I am not religious.  The thing is I don't have any faith problems whatsoever, if at my age I decided to detach myself from any form of organized religion.  I only get to believe in a godhead for whatever exceptionally necessary reason, like if I am bound to wrap my hands around someone else's neck and only some supernatural force can save their lives.  The rest of the time, I get by without the slightest knowledge or need for a god, a church, or a religious relic.  Buddha beads and rosaries strike me as Freudian... although that's just me.

   Though yeah, I don't take anything against street evangelists.  I think that it's kinda nice that the Christian faith is reaching out to the masses more and more.  Casual Christianity is now giving way to proactive Christianity.  The new Pope, Benedict XVI, is getting to that, I suppose, in the footsteps of his predecessor Pope John Paul II.  It's something that should have been done long ago, if in the interest of my soul, now condemned to Hell for all eternity.

   Like I said, I'm spiritual but anareligious.  Even if I did believe in God I wouldn't take his word for anything more than peanuts: I am, after all, a thinking, acting mammal.  The thing is that people are free to believe whatever they want without question or doubt.  I think that's one of the major misconceptions towards me: I am not an atheist.  I am, strictly, anareligious: I don't practice or participate in any religious activity on the grounds that I give more command and priority towards the workings of reason.  Although some people may contest that... I have this tendency towards some form of intellectual and political hypocrisy, induced by people who misinterpret whatever I say and put it one some form of pedestal.  That's why I have a sort of cult following: my friend Cheryl said it best.  I am hermeneutics personified.

   Basically, what do I think about street evangelists?  I'll spare them the negatives for now.  There's nothing better than religion reaching out to the masses.  As long as they don't reach out to me and sell me a statuette or salvation.  Religion may be the opium of the people, but even Karl Marx did not say anything about religion being an opiate.

   Something tells me he was high when he said that.

Posted at Sunday, May 15, 2005 by marocharim

The Sun Comes Down Tomorrow

< hmmm, doing this in a rush >

   Tomorrow's quite a bad day for anything, especially for giving answers.  The fact that absolutely nobody can handle the truth is quite something for talk, although I've resigned myself to the fact that there are some things that should happen if I'm going to escape this reality with my soul intact.

   They want answers, they'll get it.  Nobody can handle the truth.  Neither would they be wont to ask me for anything other than that.  The machine may be paralyzed, but I could care less about it functioning with one gear less.  But if the sun does come down tomorrow there's nothing else I could do...

   No betting your dollar bottom here.  Tomorrow's going to be one helluva day.

Posted at Sunday, May 15, 2005 by marocharim

May 14, 2005
Video King

< something tells me taking videos isn't right >

   It took me the better part of five hours to make a 45-minute video.

   I dunno: I may be good with the written word, but my visual skills just plain suck.  Which explains how dirty this site has become (it has character), why I'm unable to take a good picture of myself even with a webcam, and why I thrive working on fractal images than honest-to-goodness pictures.

   I went around Baguio carrying my video camera (VHS: I like it better than digital) and took a "documentary" for my uncle and aunt and all their friends and family at Seattle, Washington.  Odd, but why me?  I can think of a few reasons:

   One, they gave me the camera;
   Two, I speak good English;
   Three, no one else wants to do it and;
   Four, I pass for a foolish tourist.

   The idea was for me to go around Baguio and show them everything my city has to offer.  Now that I've reviewed my footage most of it was of a boat ride around Burnham Park's lagoon.  I did, however, capture a nice view of the sunset, and watch tourists wave to my camera... as if they become instant celebrities by the time the tape gets to Seattle.

   Funny how I took some shots of Seattle's Best Coffee and Starbucks... that really got to me.  I suppose my relatives wouldn't mind that, except that I still have to look for where the Space Needle is, and if I should take shots of original licensed copies of Microsoft Office.  Maybe I could open up the camera again and let them see what their nephew does for kicks on a boring afternoon... or evening... I don't blog on mornings.

   I figured right then and there on a career in broadcasting: hey, to be perfectly honest about the video it sounded right off a History Channel documentary, although the visual effort was nothing short of disgusting.  I suppose my blogger friend Tintin would like a copy of the video... that's until she really asks for it (wink).

   The worse part of it was when I was up on the rooftops of Session Road taking a shot of Session Road when this security guard told me to knock it off, on the grounds that it was illegal.  He had a point: only voyeurs would go up on top of a building that high with a video camera.  Well, you can't have them all.

   It's AFV material... or maybe Paris Hilton is just itching to avenge her name.

Posted at Saturday, May 14, 2005 by marocharim

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...


Posted at Friday, May 13, 2005 by marocharim


< 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

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

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

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