Seiri
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*NOTE A new platform has been created, a new team, and Seiri reveals a new objective. Not only do we aim to clout the contemporary Filipina, now the whole of the Filipino youth. In the wake of the June rains that sheathe the city, a cleansing of sorts could be applied, a new cycle of life as a new season arrives. Cardigans and little umbrellas stuffed in bags (if they weren’t already during the summer), and a viable excuse to sport knee-high boots in the tropics amidst the horrid traffic and commute; a boost in hot chocolate and ramen sales, and one cannot miss the fog and raindrops condensed on one’s car windows en route home, and the music that can only suit the monsoons billowing the scent of Manilean concrete. May this issue either highlight the beginning of a season a number of us abhor, cherish, or maybe banish its presence for a short few minutes, or hours.
Ishka Mejia
contents IT COMES IN THREES
STILL
ART A Tropical Nomad’s Art Intimate Graphics, Heavy Words Realism and Erin Fitzpatrick
MARGARITA
FILM Well, Well Enough It’s Not Porn if It’s French LITERATURE Poetry Playlist { 1 } Prisoner of Consciousness A Petit Litfolio MUSIC Issue 5 Playlist: Monsoon Wanderland and its Worth Saxo Deep House
CONFABULATION A Study of What it Means to ‘YOLO’ What Do You Do to Help the World?
email: seirimag@gmail.com
www.seirimag.com
CORE your offerors of alternative culture Lian Dyogi features editor
Christine Imperial literary editor
Nina Martinez art editor
Jade Castro music editor
Erika Morales graphics editor
Kirsten Raposas illustrator
Patricia Padilla managing editor
Ishka Mejia editor-in-chief
IT COMES IN THREES art film literature music
art an antidote to emptiness RACHEL HALILI A SOFTER WORLD ERIN FITZ
A TROPICAL NOMAD’S ART
Passionate and divergent Rachel Halili’s art and photographs – whether infused or independent of each other– would please and tingle the nomad within each of us; just like this collage, which is a style of hers.
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he’s a graduate of Art Studies from UP Diliman and a lover of travel, local travel most especially. She doesn’t do traditional art except for the occasional doodle, but her works that are mostly created through Photoshop, the program her own mother recommended to her, and her distinct eye for the real world through the lenses of her DSLR and GoPro will only stun and take you where she’s been. She is Rachel Halili, and her travel photos are none like any other. They are real, and most of them are taken only a stone’s throw from Manila. See the interview in the next pages.
A Tropical Nomad’s Art
I see you travel a lot. Does traveling definitely affect your art? I get inspiration from my travels. From nature, from the beauty of it, the sunset, the sunrise, the stars. It really affects the way I create my art. After every travel I’m just so excited to go home and look at my pictures. I want to do something about the photos, I don’t just want to upload them, and do something different. That’s why I make collages. Like, after every trip I have a thousand pictures, I only want to post less than a hundred.
Do you take selfies? No... Maybe, sometimes with friends, but solo pictures? Not a fan of selfies… only on snapchat or something like that. *laughs* I kind of hate tourist shots. Like whenever I’m traveling and my friends are, like, ‘Rach! Let’s take a picture here…’ I try to think of more creative shots, like I’m on a tree or I’m doing something. I just don’t want to smile and the focus is on me. [Also] maybe sometimes with my GoPros… with my monopod.
You have a monopod? Yeah [for my GoPro], but not like the ones for the phones. Why? *grimaces* Pang-GoPro lang yan’.
Which do you prefer taking photographs with, your DSLR or your GoPro? GoPro. Cause’ you can bring it underwater and it’s tiny. You can just drop it. [With my] DSLR, it’s a hassle, but I still bring it, because I really want to take NICE shots.
I’m curious. How do you use your GoPro? I have a lanyard and I use it mostly underwater... [Actually] there, I only take selfies underwater. When everybody’s swimming off somewhere, no fish... so I just take a picture of myself. *laughs*
You love the sea? Yes. Super. My parents were both swimmers when they were young, so growing up, they just taught me. Everyone in my family knows how to swim. Like, it’s a must, it’s a requirement. I joined MBS (UP Marine Biological Society). I’m always at the beach.
Quite the type of photograph one wishes to be nothing but be part of.
A Tropical Nomad’s Art
The artist with a winning smile – in her jogging outifit.
A Tropical Nomad’s Art
Like, what am I without art? NOTHING. It all leads back to everything I do. Music; it’s art. Every time I travel, I see nature, [and] that’s art. Look at the sky, [the] flowers... I like finding beauty in everything. Do you have an instagram account? Yes. @rachelhalili I don’t post current events, usually travel photos, and sometimes, people are like, ‘Is this today?’ and I’m like, ‘No it’s an old picture.’, and they’re like, ‘Why didn’t you put #TBT?’ DO I HAVE TO PUT TBT? I just want to post and I want to share. *laughs* Sorry people for not informing you that this wasn’t taken today. But I usually post my art, places… not selfies.
Craziest traveling experience in the Philippines? Calayan [island]... and my MBS induction! Didn’t take a bath for 4 days, was wearing my bikini for 4 days straight, no sunblock. *proceeds to show me this photo of her and a friend climbing down this massive rock formation in Calayan they just came out from* This is really high. We just climbed down without anything, and I was just bringing my camera. If you fall you would really die. During that time I was just thinking, ‘Why am I doing this?’ We just found this secret place. Also, I’ve never felt so far away from home in Calayan. No signal, no wifi. Meron naman smart, but I’m globe. Journey was 15 hours, 6 hours on the ferry boat. My friends though they were going to die, they were already throwing up. The waves were really crazy. We were the only people there. We slept by the sea. And when we woke up, takbo kaagad sa dagat. [We just ran towards the sea] This is the life!
A Tropical Nomad’s Art
How about museums, you don’t like visitng them? Vargas Museum? haha I don’t really like museums, or nag-sawa lang [I just got sick of it].
Zambales, 2013
Pampanga, 2013
And what, for you, is Art? Like, what am I without art? NOTHING. It all leads back to everything I do. Music; it’s art. Every time I travel, I see nature, [and] that’s art. Look at the sky, [the] flowers... I like finding beauty in everything. I want to inspire people to really go out, and EXPLORE the PHILIPPINES. A lot of people my age are in the office. Every time I say, ‘The Philippines is so nice, it’s so beautiful’, parang hindi nila ma-grasp [it’s as if they can’t grasp it]. We have so many [beautiful] islands.
INTIMATE GRAPHICS, HEAVY WORDS by Erika Morales
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Softer World is a thrice weekly webcomic created by Emily Horne and Joey Comeau; it first came online in February 2003. A three-panel strip combination of visual and verbal poetry, A Softer World is a unique execution of narrative art that is dark, moving and often, pretty sad. Strips are usually funny and thought-provoking, poetically exploring the themes of loss, love and depression; they sometimes dive into the worlds of zombies, science fiction and other absurdities. Horne’s photography is intimate while Comeau’s words are heavy, at times quirky, but always skilfully phrased. Together, they have offered the world of webcomics something raw, relevant and outstanding. References: http://www.asofterworld.com/ http://www.ohnorobot.com/archive.pl?comic=796;show=1;page=25
THE REALISM OF ERIN FITZPATRICK
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ealism as an art movement had the main objective of going against the concept of idealizing the subject to be painted, which means whatever was painted by the artist was how it was in real life, no corrections, just the thing itself. Goya and Corot, among the many classic realists, would never have seen an Erin Fitzpatrick, or Erin Fitz, enter their scene. Erin Fitz of Baltimore has seemingly established her own movement; a contemporary fusion of geometric impressionism and realism. Alongside the 21st century’s ultimate tolerance of individualism, Fitz – who uses mostly uses oil paint– might as well be today’s Leonardo da Vinci. Excavated portraits of hers 500 years from now shall be a pride of ours as the human race is portrayed in this style– Erin Fitz’s style. Pam could be the neo-Mona Lisa.
Pam
Oil on Wood Currently for sale at Saatchi Arts collection
FILM watch closely SEIRI’S TAKE ON MALEFICENT IT’S NOT PORN IF IT’S FRENCH ABOUT TIME:
Well, Well Enough
REVIEW: MALEFICENT
by Nina Martinez
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here is nothing immediately magnificent about Maleficent. Despite the story’s potential to stretch over the length of a sprawling Hobbit-esque epic, it retains the trademark Disney running time of 90 minutes. Its visuals, while serviceably pleasing, offer nothing new – save for a singularly exhilarating shot of a winged Maleficent wheeling above the clouds. The script itself is rather simple, sometimes even lazy – as if it had predicted in advance that Angeline Jolie would carry all of the film on her shoulders. She most definitely did, but this article is here to sing the praises for something else.
Maleficent, while only average in some aspects of film, throws something relatively underused onto the tabletop of Hollywood: the idea that female characters could participate in a story or relationship just as meaningful and riveting as one with men. The industry is brimming with these - buddy comedies, old cop/young cop thrillers, blockbusters starring hulking bodybuilders in their superhero team. The public is in love with the dynamic of two Hot Dudes who Fight Crime/Save The Day all while discovering The True Meaning of Friendship. Why then, asks the film Maleficent, can women not do the same?
Something surprising about the movie is that it portrays Maleficent not as a morally gray, deliciously chaotic anti-hero, but as an unquestionably sympathetic victim of the trials the story tosses at her. While she does retaliate in some not-so-good ways, there is no doubt that the loyalty of the audience stays with her all throughout, from her wingclipping to her infamous dragon showdown. Plenty of viewers were understandably put off by this. Why take Maleficent, selfproclaimed Mistress of All Evil, one of the most iconic villains of Disney, and make her go soft? Is it to say that a woman in a story is only worth your time if she is good? Your mileage may vary on this. In fact, I won’t resent you for considering it a poor writing choice; it really is a bit of an eyebrow-raiser that the producers didn’t think to utilize the original Maleficent’s unique brand of unreserved villainy. But if you ask me, I feel as if I can see why they decided to turn green into gold. It was to make way for the very singular friendship between Maleficent and Princess Aurora. There is nothing natural that bonds these two ladies together. They are not sisters, nor mother-and-daughter, not even fairygodmother-and-daughter. In fact, what brought them together in the film was Maleficent’s spite for the now wicked King Stefan, and the curse she had put on his newborn. But this is why I adore their relationship. In the same spirit of malebuddy movies, where two unrelated men forge a bond based on nothing but their experiences with each other, Maleficent and Aurora grow to love each other as any two friends might. Maleficent cares for Aurora because of how much joy and kindness she sees in her, and Aurora cares for Maleficent because she is grateful for her protectiveness and wisdom. We see only snapshots of their friendship in a disappointingly short film, but the bond is most definitely there.
The movie itself is an alternative retelling of the original Sleeping Beauty story of Disney, albeit with a twist at the end that further emphasizes the love between the two leading ladies and has grown to become my favourite film ending of the year. Stories like Frozen and Maleficent, while needing some polishing, are most definitely on the right track in the mission to make Hollywood more female-friendly. It’s about time to erase the idea that women are only significant when they are the leading man’s girlfriend or sister or daughter. They are sailors of their own stories, no male captain required. Thanks to Maleficent’s flawed but laudable effort, a more feminist Hollywood is no longer just something we knew once upon a dream.
The Allure of French Cinema IT’S NOT PORN IF IT’S FRENCH A Scene from Jeune Et Jolie Oh, just your naturally beautiful French heroine, naked on the beach.
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rançois Ozon’s films have always been an exotic bunch, or maybe they’re just foreign, or simply just French. Nonetheless, amid them stands Jeune Et Jolie (2011), starring Marine Vacth as a 17-yearold urban courtesan set in Paris. The setting alone puts a ready impression of nudity and unbearable weirdness, yet more than its expected nature, the main attraction is the unfolding of this heroine’s life as an ad hoc pute, in spite of her rather comfortable life - with supportive, working parents who still fuck each other, and a loving brother. This mystery that always seem to cloud French films is a desire that can only be satisfied by the most destructive of uncanny risks and cursory action, which is usually what either keeps the viewer lodged to his/her seat – or bed– or starts him/her to end the film by plainly pressing the pause button (to ponder if it still must be watched), then the stop button, altogether with ejecting the disk. This film specifically ticks off the list of French cinema’s defining qualities: 1. Paris 2. Unpretentious nudity 3. The sexy-without-having-to-try lead (just because she’s French!) 4. The fatal attraction to smoking cigarettes by the window. 5. Parisian slouching 6. Mother-slapsdaughters (hard) scenes 7. The vignettes, which are usually a lighter cross process, yet high in contrast, with grain, oh, lovely grain 8. The distrust, as the film rolls to the end, and the awe at both the characters and creators 9. and of course, the blessing of sophistication if one sees it through to the end. Jeune Et Jolie is a favorable film to see a light premise swirling into a blackhole of internally screaming, ‘WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?’ ten million times during the rest of the film.
LITERATURE “We turn into what we digest on a daily basis” POETRY PLAYLIST { 1 } HUNTER S. THOMPSON A PETIT LITFOLIO
POETRY PLAYLIST { 1 }
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curated by Christine Imperial
n the Philppines, June marks the arrival of rain--the washing away of remnants of summer, reminding us that our built up routines are merely fleeting familiarities, and that our niches change with the changing of time. The featured poems don’t necessarily evoke the end of summer, but rather some of its corresponding feelings of disillusionment, loss, and renewal.
Black Sea by Mark Strand One clear night while the others slept, I climbed the stairs to the roof of the house and under a sky strewn with stars I gazed at the sea, at the spread of it the rolling crests of it raked by the wind, becoming like bits of lace tossed in the air. I stood in the long, whispering night, waiting for something, a sign, the approach of a distant light, and I imagined you coming closer, the dark waves of your hair mingling with the sea, and the dark became desire, and desire the arriving light. The nearness, the momentary warmth of as I stood on that lonely height watching the slow swells of the sea break on the shore and turn briefly into glass and disappear... Why did I believe you would come out of nowhere? Why with all that the world offers would you come only because I was here? Taken from Man and Camel (Knopf)
Rain by Jack Gilbert Suddenly this defeat. This rain. The blues gone gray And the browns gone gray And yellow A terrible amber. In the cold streets Your warm body. In whatever room Your warm body. Among all the people Your absence. The people who are always Not you. I have been easy with trees Too long. Too familiar with mountains. Joy has been a habit Now Suddenly This rain. Taken from Jack Gilbert: Collected Poems (Knopf)
She goes through what must be gone through: the catalogue she is pitching out mildew spores velvet between the tiles soft hairs, nests, webs in corners, edges of basins, in the teeth of her very comb. All that rots or rusts in a night, a century. Balances memory, training, sits in her chair hairbrush in hand, breathing the scent of her own hair and she thinks: I have been the weir where disintegration stopped. Lifts her brush once like a thrown thing lays it down at her side like a stockpiled weapon crushed out the light. Elsewhere dust chokes out the filters, dead leaves rasp in the grate. Clogged, the fine nests bulge and she is not there. Taken from Atlas of the Difficult Word: Poems 1988-1991 (Norton)
PRISONER OF CONSCIOUSNESS
Hunter S. Thompson and his literary badassery.
by Ishka Mejia
“ I
have read only one of his books, and primarily as a whim that was ignited by the interest in the silver-gray cover of The Rum Diary my boyfriend constantly lugged around and never actually finished. I asked if I could borrow his copy. The author’s name was alluring enough. Hunter S. Thompson. American lit. A genre which I didn’t like very much, though I gave it a shot anyway. This was back in 2012. Flipping through old notes, I stopped at the heading I wrote, “Prisoner of Consciousness.” I noticed a lot of penned quotes following such. They were from when I was reading the book. I couldn’t remember whether such a line was copied from the book or my own personal thoughts. Nonetheless, I didn’t want to think too much about it.
PRISONER OF CONSCIOUSNESS
”
It created a mild definition of how one might observe Thompson’s work. So vivid were his words, and so earnest as to expose the truth he sees around him; more than arousing the senses, but a full consciousness of everything. He was a prisoner of consciousness which is probably why he chose (or had no choice rather) to douse this state of being by immersing himself in substances that either heighten or sedate it. It didn’t take me much time into the book to imagine Hunter S. Thompson’s life. If most literary productions are so easily entwined with their creators, no one could capture his own life through a long string of words that may hold less true or intoxicating as what he actually does, which paradoxically speaks more of Thompson than anything else. Here’s the literal literary badass. And if his own true schedule as a real human being puts you on edge, so will his book and, I’m assuming, all his books. It’s been too long, seems I need to hunt myself another one.
An article showing Thompson’s daily routine
This is what you call ‘dope’.
A PETIT LITFOLIO by Christine Imperial
On Being in The Park on a Saturday Afternoon 1.If you find yourself standing in the park on a Saturday afternoon, think of the man raking leaves behind your back. His mornings turn into afternoons through the movement of sunlight on the concrete. He has long forgotten the beauty of an orange sunset, while you still have the luxury of looking at a wide sky without worrying about the passing of time. 2. If you find yourself, lying on a bench, in the park on a Saturday afternoon. Mind the passing stares of children on their way to class. Keep your head high. Breathe. Forget what stirs violently inside. Remind them you are human, but you are better than them—it is pure skill that led you to where you are; pretend you chose to lie here, keeping your palms close to your chest, believing that everyone is paid their dues in the end—even though they move without wondering if they’re going too far.
3. If you find yourself slouched against a tree in the park on a Saturday afternoon, wait for the apple to loosen enough to fall on your head. God, you’re hungry aren’t you? What do you want? To stretch out your cupped palms? Do you remember the night she lay in your bed and you begged for more, hoping that desperation would lead to desire? Do you still think about the frequent calls from your mother, how she would shudder as you told her about living on last month’s last pay? Do you recall the moment of removal, your belongings kept in boxes marked to be given away, and how every moment of rest was just another means of wasting away. On a flyer, you read acceptance takes time. Dignify yourself. Laugh at the attraction: the woman speaking in tongues, her frightened audience of scoffers and persuadable tourists, the 5 cents, the occasional bill, the almost modest meal, the decreased hunger, the—Remember Jesus never made a fool of himself, he let others do that for him.
4. You have found yourself in the park on another afternoon, staring at the man you once were, thinking of the responsibilities that arrest him: the routine of stale coffee spilling on paperwork, of sustaining someone else’s love, of days into deadlines, of a life you knew shattered by a single uniformed phrase, ending the night in—Stop. Look at you. One of us: Nomads. No, explorers, turning empty spaces into makeshift homes until someone barges into the abandoned building, the crumbling tunnel, the rat infested alleyway, assuring us that no one belongs here. As you sift through the remains of a woman’s fallen purse, forget there was any comfort in waking up to the same alarm, the same sunrise, the same “today will be like every other day,” and pretend it will be your choice when you want it all back.
Excavate and in a swift, ancient fury I am reminded that the company you keep is the company I spend my whole life trying to avoid conversations where the only sign of substance resides in between the collapsed furrows that house the people you hate and the ones you wish you never knew everyone else is a verse screaming, “Let me be the one” and everything you say, a series of long-winded sentences trenches, ends marked by the lack of any recognizable forms of life I can only remember the faint sign of a period— the crucial point of finality— that reminds me of the build up, you turning your back, and my trembling fists so close to your face—I dig through your patterns, collecting crumbling artifacts to find the small inch of hope measured by my ability to carry on without you
music there is more to music than the ears can fathom MONSOON WANDERLAND 2014 KLINGANDE
MONSOON curated by Jade Castro
Seiri’s fifth mix, ready to play at: www.8tracks.com/seirimag/demi
WANDERLAND AND ITS WORTH
by Ishka Mejia
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t was not as packed as the last one, but the people kept their fashion, the grass was ever greener, the sun still shone with all its scorching glory, and alcohol was still served - albeit an attestation was required of your age at the entrance. The Ransom Collective unfortunately played only three songs, and as if by kismet, the clouds got a little teary as Lucy Rose was onstage, with the naturally respectable and calm British accent that commented, ‘It’s always raining in London.’ That one was unexpected, the rain I mean, as weather reports claimed only 1% chance of rainfall. The Last Dinosaurs was disappointing compared to their psychedelic solo gig in Black Market last year, but The Royal Concept’s sound check though. Architecture in Helsinki redeemed the night, ultimately. As I have tweeted: Architecture in Helsinki last night and the incitement of silly dancing was – in the most simplistic hyperbole ever – the best. Nonetheless, more than the musicians, the event still bore out to be one of a kind. The only kind, at least here in Manila. Sure, we may describe or even chastise it as a meager comparison to Coachella or Primavera Sound, but it’s here on Philippine soil. Our own soil. It shouldn’t be meager to us, now that it’s an annual event that could only come out even greater. Wanderland proves a myriad of things, and you have to understand this.
Don’t try to be the fashion police. The Philippines has a growing population of individuals who have distinct interpretations of indie/hipster/music festival fashion, and they’re not afraid to flaunt it, even with a little more skin bulging from their tightly closed sunflower-decked denim shorts, crotch area peeking. There’s no judging where everybody judges what everybody is wearing. It cancels out.
Unknown artists are better discovered LIVE. We love music. Well, everybody does, but if a line-up of musicians, from ones you see on a weekly basis at a nearby local bar to those who may never have heard of the country as much as we don’t know them, not knowing the lyrics to certain songs is absolutely welcomed. It may sound bourgeois for one to have to attend a concert before becoming a fan of an artist or appreciating his/her music, but it’s actually more thrilling that way.
Equality exists, but only for a few hours. The sense of equality in the place is daunting. Randomly seeing local celebrities, even politicians, just laughing with their friends without anyone having to freak out about their presence is trés cool. They appreciate the same music you do, without the hierarchy of a VIP section making one feel as if they’re more important than you, which shouldn’t be the case, but sadly – most of the time – it is. Only in Wanderland does such social equilibrium ever happen in the case of local Filipino events.
It’s a big world with a lot of fans. Our very own music is placed in an international pedestal. Some of our fellow South East Asians and other foreigners actually come here for some good music. Not to mention the IS kids who always seem to rattle the place with their stoned faces and tall physiogomy, local music is vis-à-vis a melting pot of an audience that it sure would not obtain anywhere else. Hopefully, more locals would be able to play sooner or later.
The local bud of music festivals
Clockwise: Paper Kites performing; Free ink care of River Island, one of the event’s sponsors; and the field filled with so-called ‘hipsters’
SAXO DEEP HOUSE
Credits to Agenda Culturel
S
ince M83’s Midnight City, it seems no other musician has yet caught the human ears by delightful surprise with the graceful mesh of the saxophone and modern elements of music as that of EDM (electronic dance music). Well, until one chances upon this song entitled Jubel.Who could have been responsible for such beautiful jazzy, yet jolting music? Apparently, since the 1980s a sub-genre of House Music described by Stuart Cosgrove as “mixed old disco classics, new Eurobeat pop and synthesised beats into a frantic high- energy amalgamation of recycled soul.” that was begun in Chicago has emerged as Deep House. The latter is usually associated with House Music that retains a jazz/ electro-funk and acoustic feel that ‘touches the soul.’ In the 21st century such has been turned over into a sub-sub genre that one may call ‘Saxo(phone) Deep House’; and one prime mover of this wonderful genre of music is the French duo Klingande, the producer of Jubel. Although Klingande considers its music as Melodic House, with their truly soul-touching beats, the rhapsodic piano, and of course, the belligerent saxophone, so easily identified amidst the electronic dance vibe, one cannot miss the dominance of the latter. With merely Punga and Jubel to their charge, the brevity of the number of hits only testifies to quality’s superiority to quantity. Let’s hope more is to come from these two.
The Klingande Logo Although expected to mean a little more, the logo just incorporates the letter ‘K’ with no other special signification as explained by the duo in their interview with the French magazine, Karma.
Stil
with Carla Lim
Margarita
with Meggie Ma単ago
CONFABULATION POUR ME ANOTHER DRINK & LET’S TALK ABOUT
What do you do to help the world? What a stupid question.
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was riveted and a little stumped by a question recently. What do you do to help the world? Am I the only one who is feeling the most discomfort when it came to the subject of volunteering for non-profit organizations? Well as it happened, that was the context. Why is helping the world, moreover saving it, so important? Why does volunteerism boost resumés or anyone’s reputation at that. Too many bad people use this tool to show they ‘’care’’, as if cleansing them. Coincidence has blessed this question as I stumbled into this line from Amrita by Banana Yoshimoto: Why is it people feel they’ve got to do something for others, even when there’s nothing in their power? An ocean is an ocean, nothing more. It draws near and pushes back, violent at times, and so forth. I want to go through life in the same way that the presence of an ocean evokes myriad feelings and emotions, just by being there – arousing disappointment and fear. My presence, just being there, drawing near and pushing back. I realized something intensely important after much rumination. I don’t need to be Jesus Christ to be a good person, moreover to know that I am a good person. What is a good person anyway?
We are born to this world without knowing where we will end up. We get baptized without our consent, and then as we grow up to understand our environment we learn how to either tolerate, be complacent with, or revolt from what lay before us. We either coop up, accept what we have and go with the flow, or explore, learn, have dreams, follow them, and be a great human being. Yet amidst this banal cycle, it seems we are all called to something as if everyone is meant to be something ‘great’ as said by a society. The baker, the construction worker, the doctor, the lawyer, the architect, the policeman… it goes on. Imagine this, you’re 2 months old and hurdles have already been placed on your lane, like taxes, school, and this fathomless expectation to do something for society. If the reason hides somewhere in Sociological, Psychological, and Anthropological readings, even History, then I’d like to be a renegade. I’m a great believer of helping yourself. I heard from somewhere that who we are is already gravely shaped by our environment. All that we are and all that we choose to be has already been fated by the society we shall be surrounded by after birth or how the stars have fathomed our lives. I’m sure a bunch of Malcolm Gladwell books has already surmised a highly possible outcome for a person born on this date, at this time, and come to think of it, everything he says makes sense. Yet has anybody ever thought about this pressure to help everyone in need? Why is ‘What do you do to help the world/humankind/the poor/ the hungry/the discriminated…?’ such a pertinent question? What we have to realize is that we do not owe anything to anyone, we only owe something foremost to ourselves and what matters to us.
Here lies the questions of purpose, success, and independence. Wow. Do I really need to put up with having to do something for the world already when I don’t even know what’s really running the world. I’m sure it isn’t god, and moreover it isn’t me. Too many conspiracy theories about that is ruining lives and minds. As I think about this situation of too much appraisal for those who do volunteer work or soldiers tasked to kill (fundamentally for protection), I remember the fervor and passion Ayn Rand had encapsulated in The Fountainhead with these words: Men have been taught that their first concern is to relieve human suffering of others… To make that the highest test of virtue is to make suffering the most important part of life. The man must wish to see others suffer - in order that he may be virtuous. Such is the nature of altruism. Altruism. Time and again we are reminded of always being kind determines a person’s divinity/dignity. When kindness is from respect, which I guess is the most basic virtue towards any other living creature, but altruism, being overly kind and generous at the expense of ourSELVES that we leave none for ourselves? I don’t think so. “Children in Ethiopia are starving.”We always hear this plea. Altruism is such a lauded act. Philantrophy especially glorified. Donate what you have! We need to feel empathy! Always! Feel bad for not finishing that meal, because, well, others are less fortunate than you and would love to have a big bite of that unfinished burger. Have a a little more money? Spare it for a charity!
and then he lifted his head in wonder. He thought that there must be something terribly wrong about with a world in which this monstrous feeling is called a virtue. Something terribly wrong indeed. People who don’t care, simply don’t care. We all have feelings, and whatever makes each one of us dial the donation hotline or proudly share advocacies, whether that’s saving our very own pawikans from being poached by ruthless Chinese men to getting an ancient building stopped from being destroyed, its historic spirit forever gone, is purpose. Different things drive different people and we cannot always push for a collective task that is considered the bravest, the smartest, the most valiant. Purpose is defined by experience, inherent abilities and personalities that not everyone can ever fathom for one another, even for themselves. As long as they are true, it will help save the world, methinks. Nothing they love will make one thing any more or less than a pathetic standard, pleasing other people, the topmost most of the time.
But if you think lazing around is the answer because that’s what you think you love to do is, then I don’t think that’s fair. What I’d love to see are faces that so work, and feel thirst? Rilke’s words not mine, but I would love them to be. I think everyone must stand Why does pity have to enter the scene? With up to a calling and a desire for that calling. its murderous glare cast by those who I doubt Not anything specific, but a calling to do care any better. I can only wire in Howard something for themselves in a such a limited Roark’s aloofness: ‘ This is pity,’ he thought, time called a lifetime.
What if you’re in North Korea, and you are forced to think that Kim Jong Il is the cutest human being, and there’s no way out of it. Well then, that’s not for me to solve, although I am aware of it. It doesn’t mean I don’t care, but I choose what to love and do something about what I choose. We are human and we are limited. I think everyone should just rest a little easy about everyone trying to help everyone. Helping either comes from the heart, or it doesn’t. Feeling the need to be altruistic, doing some volunteer work when you could focus say on your research on stem cells, your philosophies, even one’s writing, or paying more attention to the little things that actually define us. No need to be too disappointed of of yourself for not having put up one hollow block for a housing project or donating money to church.
You’re part of the world and you also have your own world you need to nourish. Help yourself if you don’t think you can help anybody else. Become a better person for yourself, effectively this will make a better environment for those around you. It will be like that song, ‘Give a little love’ by Noah and the Whale, except that the love is aimed towards yourself and what you love to do, and so will this love resonate and abound, proving that to be able to put a circle between ourselves and the world will help it. Independence is the only gauge of human virtue and and value. What a man is and makes of himself; not what he has or hasn’t done for others. there is no substitute for personal dignity. There is no standard of personal dignity except independence.
Different things drive different people and we cannot always push for a collective task that is considered the bravest, the smartest, the most valiant. Purpose is defined by experience, inherent abilities and personalities that not everyone can ever fathom for one another, even for themselves. As long as they are true, it will help save the world.
A study of what it means to ‘yolo’ Sometimes it’s not about getting in trouble or intense drug abuse, it could also mean, going down with just a rope.
C
omfort Zone The reason why I decided to take an NSTP (n.) Used to describe a space where one feels on survival, safety, and rappelling is beyond comfortable or at ease me. I thought that it would be okay, I tried rappelling before. I figured it wouldn’t be so YOLO bad the second time around. It was also one (n?) An acronym, which means You Only of the only two NSTP soffered at the time. Live Once. It is often used for motivational The other NSTP on offer was in Engineering. speeches. It is also sometimes used to justify It only had 20 slots and the enlistment center reckless abandonment. was not walking distance. I was already at an enlistment center and I didn’t want to give Never did I imagine that I would ever use up the slot I could already get, so I took it. the word YOLO to describe any of my It only became apparent to me as I made my experiences. I figured I wasn’t a YOLO kind ascent to the top of the 15-foot tower that I of girl (and what that even means, I’m not would have to rappel repeatedly for a month. quite sure). Yet there I was, leaning over the Doing it once is fine, but multiple times? I edge of a 15-foot tower made of wood and wasn’t too sure. I realized, quite belatedly, steel and all I could think of before I made that this was way outside my comfort zone. my slow descent to the ground was, okay What in the world did I get myself into. whatever YOLO. The funny thing about comfort zones is that they demand to be stretched. Quitting I was strapped into a harness and gripping the wasn’t an option, so I had to find another carabiner so tight I could feel my bones in my way to conquer my fear. It was during that hand push hard against my skin. My heart was first descent that the solution presented it beating against my chest and fear was making my self. I was to YOLO my way through it. True focus blurry. My right arm which controlled my enough, that’s exactly what I did. descent, refused to lock into the proper form. This was despite our teacher’s repeated instructions. All As I strapped myself in and held on to the I could focus was my breath, the beat of my heart carabiner tight, I YOLO-ed. As I swung as it went babump babump, and trying not to let myself over the ledge I YOLO-ed. As I go of the rope. If I let go, I would fall to the ground practiced my jumps, pushing off the planks hard and fast. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight. How and swinging in mid-air, I YOLO-ed. YOLO I managed to get myself in this situation, I’m not for me was a means to conquer my fear. It sure. meant that I felt the fear and did it anyway. YOLO became not only a slogan for living in If you haven’t figured out by now, I am afraid of the moment and living for the moments but heights. Heights are way out of my comfort zone. it became an empowering statement for me I am the girl who you cannot bribe into riding a to push through my fear. That’s what YOLO rollercoaster. Yeah, as in, over my dead body. should be, shouldn’t it? A means to be brave and live brave.
That’s what YOLO should be, shouldn’t it? A means to be brave and live brave. In the moment right after my descent, my heart was still pounding in my chest. My hands were trembling and I could feel the sweat start to form at the back of my neck and on my forehead. I would rappel twice that day and five times on the succeeding Tuesday. I was amazed at how, as I continued doing it, I didn’t feel quite as scared anymore but even if I did, I just pushed through it. It’s an amazing feeling, it is in these moments that I feel so alive. Maybe at the end of the month I’ll find that I am a YOLO kind of girl after all.
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