Quote

AM Blues 2

Between what is said and not meant
And what is meant and not said
Most of love is lost.

—Khalil Gibran

I’m at my wits end. When it comes to you, there’s just more questions than there are answers.

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NBA Bitches

I didn’t even have to lift a finger to find out that the NBA season has started. Why bother googling when you have NBA fanboys as orgmates?

I once complained about how I didn’t need to follow the official Twitter account of the LA Lakers because Kuya Sonson already handled the job of tweeting about every noteworthy play of their game. Kuya Renz and Kuya Alver did the same with OKC. It’s annoying, at times, how their pro-ball passion often mutates into a ludicrous exagerration of their biases for their respective teams. But I can’t say I don’t get where they’re coming from.

I used to spend my Math 53 breaks watching reruns of the games of Dallas. These so-called ‘breaks’ would turn into hours of background checking on Dirk, Shawn and the other Mavericks. But ever since Cardinal, Kidd and Terry were traded to other teams, my NBA enthusiasm dwindled.

I actually miss the hype, though I don’t know which team I’ll be rooting for this year. Maybe I should stay as a Playoffs Parachute Expert while Dirk still hasn’t retired? That, or probably log off this site and start on my org grunt work.

Lysergic Acid Diethylamide and Architecture

It’s amazing to see what some of the more eccentric architects are willing to do to design aptly for their users.

While leafing through reference materials for Bibliotheca, I saw this write up about by Kiyo Izumi who was commissioned to design the Yorkton Psychiatric Center. To fully sympathize with the needs of his clients, he took LSD under professional supervision (he even tagged his wife along his experiment, which, I thought, was kind of unnecessary).

The results were intensely personal. His senses were heightened, but he wasn’t able to properly decipher the difference between space and time. It was psychedelic, as expected, with certain bursts or episodes of art history hallucinations. But of course, the greater predicament lied on the smooth translation of the test’s outcome into feasible architectural solutions.

Maybe Isabel and I should try that next time (not the drugs *facepalm*). An unconventional immersion for a design project before graduation would be nice.

5.00

She told me it was her first time. It hurts so much she was taken aback by the thought of its looming recurrence. She saw it coming, though. Now, she wants nothing but revenge. In an effort to make her feel better, I said that it also stung during my first time; the succeeding instance didn’t hurt any less. But even with my sweet disposition, I wouldn’t dare to recall that heartbreaking experience ever again.

That blond bombshell from Black Eyed Peas once said, “big girls don’t cry,” so I didn’t. She asked if she should tell her parents, so I said, “you shouldn’t.”

Ilocaust

Damn, she’s beautiful.

It makes me want to raise her on a glass pedestal, so I could stand as a pleased spectator acknowledging her grace. But I can’t. And even if I can, I won’t. I know there’s more to what I can see and judging her by mere face value would do her injustice.

Her beauty makes me weep. Why didn’t I see her before?

Monkey Business

I can’t sleep. I’m bothered by the fact that the sembreak’s almost over and I still haven’t seen you. But you said so yourself; you often watched distances push people farther apart and you pleaded guilty of not doing anything about it.

I don’t know if it’s just me but even after we called it off, I feel like you still see me as one of your suitors. It’s as if you’re always waiting for me to initiate our every interaction. It’s as if I’m obligated to bring something whenever I visit you. It’s as if I’m required to ‘fluff’ you emotionally whenever you implied it.

It’s largely my fault for letting myself be played around like this. But I loved it when you dropped your guard around me. You’d spill all your immature rants and boast about your sexual exploits. You’d expose your superficiality like it was your most prized possession. (Though I did cringe when you called me ‘Bes’ for the first time; I hate pet names.) And I know it may sound far-fetched and romanticized but it appeared as if you had trusted me with your imperfections.

It’s highly masochistic and I ought to hate myself for it. But I miss you. (Fucking cheese balls. Kill me now.)

Oh, and here’s another one of David’s pubmats. Maybe I should commission him to do the layouting of our boards for Bibliotheca.

David Pubmat 2

God, my eyes are burning.
(c) David Manalang