This day...

Ngaung umaga mayroon kaming tournament sa trigo...
2ngkol sa graphing ng trigonometric function...

groupmates q cna raph caballes at ryan sy..

naka 23 kami!!! kami ata ang highest sa mga wildcard sa section namin...

pagkatapos BIO...

lesson ulit s immune system...

sa fil...


wala si sir...


writing period ata... nasa lib lang kami..


tapos socsci...

may something anout rome...

may tatlong leaders...

may anim na peasants..

may pitong artisans..

at the rest ay islabo...

tapos si jovick naging dinosaur... pinatay niya ung isang islabo...

tapos nagbell..


POPLAW na!!!

last lesson n lng tungkol sa IP...


tapos s break... kumain lang kami.. kasama ko tatlong magnesium tapos dumating si vince at si lyndon, mikhail at si Mr. Uga...

nakita namin sa leo abella at nagkwento sa amin ng sobrang daming jokes....


tapos 1:40 p start ng class..

and the physics.... Yeah WORK!!!
nakatulog si MAX DOLOT!!!

tapos chem.. PRACTIE para sa PRACTICAL TEST!!

tapo ayun... nagweigh ng sodium bicarbonate.. naghalo ng H3PO4 sa water....

tapos P.E...

natalo ni mac sai emil kaya may laban pa sila sa monday...


tapos na sa dorm na nagpingpong..

tpos ngaun nagawa ng sobrang daming homework sa poplaw..

Lupa ng Pagkakaisa, Lupa ng Payapa

At ngayon mga kaibigan, ang tao ay malaya na. Hindi nakakapagtaka na ang tao na ginawang alipin ay nasanay ng maging alipin. At hindi rin nakapagtataka na pagkatapos ng tatlong siglo na nakakakadena na walang kalayaan at walang pag-asa nawala na ang kanyang tindig at tikas bilang isang malayang tao at naging baliko, mali ang hugis, tamad, mabangis at kaawa-awang nilalang. Sinong mag-aakusa sa kanya. Sino ang tatayo sa mga hudyo laban sa taong ito na nabawasan ng dignidad dahil sa tatlong siglong pagpapahirap. Ang tao ay hindi pumunta dito upang mahusgahan kundi manghusga. Pakinggan niyo ang kanyang mga akusasyon at mga salitain:

Inaakusahan ko ang mga Kastilang Encomendero na gumawa ng mga buwis na imposibleng tustusan.
Inaakusahan ko ang mga nagpapautang na nagbibigay ng malaking tubo na imposibleng bayaran.
Inaakusahan ko ang mga iresponsableng pinuno na nagpapahina, gamit ng armas at sariling kapangyarihan, ng aming tapang at mga tiwala sa sarili.

Sinasabi mong hindi ko sinusuportahan ang aking pamilya. Palayain mo ako at papatunayan k0 na ika'y nagkakamali.
Sinasabi mong ako'y ignorante. Ang "panginoon" ko ay kumikita sa aking pagiging ignorante kaya wala akong magawa. Palayain mo ako at papatunayan k0 na ika'y nagkakamali.
Sinasabi mong ako'y tamad. Nguni't ako'y tamad hindi dahil sa pagkawalan ng pagnanais ngunit sa pagkawalan ng pag-asa. Bakit ako magtatrabaho kung lahat ng dapat ay matatanggap ko sa trabaho ay magiging pambayad ko sa utang kong hindi mabayad-bayaran. Palayain mo ako at papatunayan k0 na ika'y nagkakamali.

Bigyan mo ako ng lupa. Isang kalupaan na sa akin lamang. Lupang hindi hawak ng kung sinumang pinuno. Isang lugar na magiging malaya. Bigyan mo ako ng lupa dahil ako'y nagugutom na. Bigyan mo ako ng lupa nang ang mga anak ko ay hindi mamatay. Ibenta mo ito sa akin. Ibenta mo sa akin sa tamang halaga, tulad ng isang malayang tao sa isang kapwa malayang tao at hindi tulad ng isang nagpapautang sa isang alipin. Ako ay mahirap ngunit ito'y aking babayaran. Ako'y magtatrabaho, magtatrabaho hanggang ako'y malaglag sa aking kapaguran para sa aking pribilehiyo at sa aking hindi dapat mawalang karapatan na maging malaya.

At kung hindi mo ito ibibigay sa akin... Kung hindi mo pagbibigyan ang aking huling pabor, itong pinakamatinding demanda. Magtayo ka ng harang sa iyong bahay.. gawing mo itong mataas at matibay.. Maglagay ka ng banatay sa bawat kuta. Dahil ako.. na naging tahimik sa talong daang taon ay pupunta sa gabi habang ika'y nagppiyesta, kasama ng aking hiyaw at bolo sa iyong pinto. At nawa'y maawa sa iyo ang Diyos.

(O.. ayos ba ung tagalog version ng Land of Bondage, Land of the free ni Raul Manglapus..)

-salamat :)

Peaceful Text..

i2 ay isang required text sa english.. basahin niyo na rin.. baka magustuhan niyo...


Two Kinds
My mother believed you could be anything you wanted to be in America. You could open a restaurant. You could work for the government and get good retirement. You could buy a house with almost no money down. You could become rich. You could become instantly famous. "Of course, you can be a prodigy, too," my mother told me when I was nine. "You can be best anything. What does Auntie Lindo know? Her daughter, she is only best tricky." America was where all my mother's hopes lay. She had come to San Francisco in 1949 after losing everything in China: her mother and father, her home, her first husband, and two daughters, twin baby girls. But she never looked back with regret. Things could get better in so many ways.
We didn't immediately pick the right kind of prodigy. At first my mother thought I could be a Chinese Shirley Temple. We'd watch Shirley's old movies on TV as though they were training films. My mother would poke my arm and say, "Ni kan.You watch." And I would see Shirley tapping her feet, or singing a sailor song, or pursing her lips into a very round O while saying "Oh, my goodness." Ni kan," my mother said, as Shirley's eyes flooded with tears. "You already know how. Don't need talent for crying!" Soon after my mother got this idea about Shirley Temple, she took me to the beauty training school in the Mission District and put me in the hands of a student who could barely hold the scissors without shaking. Instead of getting big fat curls, I emerged with an uneven mass of crinkly black fuzz. My mother dragged me off to the bathroom and tried to wet down my hair. "You look like a Negro Chinese," she lamented, as if I had done this on purpose. The instructor of the beauty training school had to lop off these soggy clumps to make my hair even again. "Peter Pan is very popular these days" the instructor assured my mother. I now had bad hair the length of a boy's, with curly bangs that hung at a slant two inches above my eyebrows. I liked the haircut, and it made me actually look forward to my future fame.
In fact, in the beginning I was just as excited as my mother, maybe even more so. I pictured this prodigy part of me as many different images, and I tried each one on for size. I was a dainty ballerina girl standing by the curtain, waiting to hear the music that would send me floating on my tiptoes. I was like the Christ child lifted out of the straw manger, crying with holy indignity. I was Cinderella stepping from her pumpkin carriage with sparkly cartoon music filling the air. In all of my imaginings I was filled with a sense that I would soon become perfect: My mother and father would adore me. I would be beyond reproach. I would never feel the need to sulk, or to clamor for anything. But sometimes the prodigy in me became impatient. "If you don't hurry up and get me out of here, I'm disappearing for good," it warned. " And then you'll always be nothing."
Every night after dinner my mother and I would sit at the Formica topped kitchen table. She would present new tests, taking her examples from stories of amazing children that she read in Ripley's Believe It or Not or Good Housekeeping, Reader's digest, or any of a dozen other magazines she kept in a pile in our bathroom. My mother got these magazines from people whose houses she cleaned. And since she cleaned many houses each week, we had a great assortment. She would look through them all, searching for stories about remarkable children. The first night she brought out a story about a three-year-old boy who knew the capitals of all the states and even the most of the European countries. A teacher was quoted as saying that the little boy could also pronounce the names of the foreign cities correctly. "What's the capital of Finland? my mother asked me, looking at the story.All I knew was the capital of California, because Sacramento was the name of the street we lived on in Chinatown. "Nairobi!" I quessed, saying the most foreign word I could think of. She checked to see if that might be one way to pronounce Helsinki before showing me the answer. The tests got harder - multiplying numbers in my head, finding the queen of hearts in a deck of cards, trying to stand on my head without using my hands, predicting the daily temperatures in Los Angeles, New York, and London. One night I had to look at a page from the Bible for three minutes and then report everything I could remember. "Now Jehoshaphat had riches and honor in abundance and...that's all I remember, Ma," I said. And after seeing, once again, my mother's disappointed face, something inside me began to die. I hated the tests, the raised hopes and failed expectations. Before going to bed that night I looked in the mirror above the bathroom sink, and I saw only my face staring back - and understood that it would always be this ordinary face - I began to cry. Such a sad, ugly girl! I made high - pitched noises like a crazed animal, trying to scratch out the face in the mirror.And then I saw what seemed to be the prodigy side of me - a face I had never seen before. I looked at my reflection, blinking so that I could see more clearly. The girl staring back at me was angry, powerful. She and I were the same. I had new thoughts, willful thoughts – or rather, thoughts filled with lots of wont’s. I won't let her change me, I promised myself. I won't be what I'm not. So now when my mother presented her tests, I performed listlessly, my head propped on one arm. I pretended to be bored. And I was. I got so bored that I started counting the bellows of the foghorns out on the bay while my mother drilled me in other areas. The sound was comforting and reminded me of the cow jumping over the moon. And the next day I played a game with myself, seeing if my mother would give up on me before eight bellows. After a while I usually counted ony one bellow, maybe two at most. At last she was beginning to give up hope.Two or three months went by without any mention of my being a prodigy. And then one day my mother was watching the Ed Sullivan Show on TV. The TV was old and the sound kept shorting out. Every time my mother got halfway up from the sofa to adjust the set, the sound would come back on and Sullivan would be talking. As soon as she sat down, Sullivan would go silent again. She got up - the TV broke into loud piano music. She sat down - silence. Up and down, back and forth, quiet and loud. It was like a stiff, embraceless dance between her and the TV set. Finally, she stood by the set with her hand on the sound dial. She seemed entranced by the music, a frenzied little piano piece with a mesmerizing quality, which alternated between quick, playful passages and teasing, lilting ones. "Ni kan," my mother said, calling me over with hurried hand gestures. "Look here."I could see why my mother was fascinated by the music. It was being pounded out by a little Chinese girl, about nine years old, with a Peter Pan haircut. The girl had the sauciness of a Shirley Temple. She was proudly modest, like a proper Chinese Child. And she also did a fancy sweep of a curtsy, so that the fluffy skirt of her white dress cascaded to the floor like petals of a large carnation.In spite of these warning signs, I wasn't worried. Our family had no piano and we couldn't afford to buy one, let alone reams of sheet music and piano lessons. So I could be generous in my comments when my mother badmouthed the little girl on TV."Play note right, but doesn't sound good!" my mother complained "No singing sound.""What are you picking on her for?" I said carelessly. "She's pretty good. Maybe she's not the best, but she's trying hard." I knew almost immediately that I would be sorry I had said that."Just like you," she said. "Not the best. Because you not trying." She gave a little huff as she let go of the sound dial and sat down on the sofa. The little Chinese girl sat down also, to play an encore of "Anitra's Tanz," by Grieg. I remember the song, because later on I had to learn how to play it.
Three days after watching the Ed Sullivan Show my mother told me what my schedule would be for piano lessons and piano practice. She had talked to Mr. Chong, who lived on the first floor of our apartment building. Mr.Chong was a retired piano teacher, and my mother had traded housecleaning services for weekly lessons and a piano for me to practice on every day, two hours a day, from four until six.
When my mother told me this, I felt as though I had been sent to hell. I whined, and then kicked my foot a little when I couldn't stand it anymore. "Why don't you like me the way I am?" I cried. "I'm not a genius! I can't play the piano. And even if I could, I wouldn't go on TV if you paid me a million dollars!"My mother slapped me. "Who ask you to be genius?" she shouted. "Only ask you be your best. For you sake. You think I want you to be genius? Hnnh! What for! Who ask you!""So ungrateful," I heard her mutter in Chinese, "If she had as much talent as she has temper, she'd be famous now."Mr. Chong, whom I secretly nicknamed Old Chong, was very strange, always tapping his fingers to the silent music of an invisible orchestra. He looked ancient in my eyes. He had lost most of the h air on the top of his head, and he wore thick glasses and had eyes that always looked tired. But he must have been younger that I though, since he lived with his mother and was not yet married. I met Old Lady Chong once, and that was enough. She had a peculiar smell, like a baby that had done something in its pants, and her fingers felt like a dead person's, like an old peach I once found in the back of the refrigerator: its skin just slid off the flesh when I picked it up. I soon found out why Old Chong had retired from teaching piano. He was deaf. "Like Beethoven!" he shouted to me: We're both listening only in our head!" And he would start to conduct his frantic silent sonatas.Our lessons went like this. He would open the book and point to different things, explaining, their purpose: "Key! Treble! Bass! No sharps or flats! So this is C major! Listen now and play after me!"And then he would play the C scale a few times, a simple cord, and then, as if inspired by an old unreachable itch, he would gradually add more notes and running trills and a pounding bass until the music was really something quite grand. I would play after him, the simple scale, the simple chord, and then just play some nonsense that sounded like a cat running up and down on top of garbage cans. Old Chong would smile and applaud and say “Very good! But now you must learn to keep time!"So that's how I discovered that Old Chong's eyes were too slow to keep up with the wrong notes I was playing. He went through the motions in half time. To help me keep rhythm, he stood behind me and pushed down on my right shoulder for every beat. He balanced pennies on top of my wrists so that I would keep them still as I slowly played scales and arpeggios. He had me curve my hand around an apple and keep that shame when playing chords. He marched stiffly to show me how to make each finger dance up and down, staccato, like an obedient little soldier.He taught me all these things, and that was how I also learned I could be lazy and get away with mistakes, lots of mistakes. If I hit the wrong notes because I hadn't practiced enough, I never corrected myself, I just kept playing in rhythm. And Old Chong kept conducting his own private reverie.So maybe I never really gave myself a fair chance. I did pick up the basics pretty quickly, and I might have become a good pianist at the young age. But I was so determined not to try, not to be anybody different, and I learned to play only the most ear-splitting preludes, the most discordant hymnsOver the next year I practiced like this, dutifully in my own way. And then one day I heard my mother and her friend Linda Jong both after church, and I was leaning against a brick wall, wearing a dress with stiff white petticoats. Auntie Linda daughter, Waverly, who was my age, was standing farther down the wall, about five feet away. We had grown up together and shared all the closeness of two sisters, squabbling over crayons and dolls. In other words, for the most part, we hated each other. I thought she was snotty. Waverly Jong had gained a certain amount of fame as "Chinatown's Littlest Chinese Chess Champion." "She bring home too many trophy." Auntie Linda lamented that Sunday. "All day she play chess. All day I have no time do nothing but dust off her winnings." She threw a scolding look at Waverly, who pretended not to see her. "You lucky you don't have this problem," Auntie Linda said with a sigh to my mother. And my mother squared her shoulders and bragged: "our problem worser than yours. If we ask Jing-Mei wash dish, she hear nothing but music. It's like you can't stop this natural talent." And right then I was determined to put a stop to her foolish pride.
A few weeks later Old Chong and my mother conspired to have me play in a talent show that was to be held in the church hall. But then my parents had saved up enough to buy me a secondhand piano, a black Wurlitzer spinet with a scarred bench. It was the showpiece of our living room. For the talent show I was to play a piece called "Pleading Child," from Schumann's Scenes from Childhood. It was a simple, moody piece that sounded more difficult than it was. I was supposed to memorize the whole thing. But i dawdled over it, playing a few bars and then cheating, looking up to see what notes followed. I never really listed to what I was playing. I daydreamed about being somewhere else, about being someone else.
The part I liked to practice best was the fancy curtsy: right foot out, touch the rose on the carpet with a pointed foot, sweep to the side, bend left leg, look up, and smile.My parents invited all the couples from their social club to witness my debut. Auntie Linda and Uncle Tin were there. Waverly and her two older brothers had also come. The first two rows were filled with children either younger or older than I was. The littlest ones got to go first. They recited simple nursery rhymes, squawked out tunes on miniature violins, and twirled hula hoops in pink ballet tutus, and when they bowed or curtsied, the audience would sigh in unison, "Awww, and then clap enthusiastically. When my turn came, I was very confident. I remember my childish excitement. It was as if I knew, without a doubt, that the prodigy side of me really did exist. I had no fear whatsoever, no nervousness. I remember thinking, This is it! This is it! I looked out over the audience, at my mother's blank face, my father's yawn, Auntie Lindo's stiff-lipped smile, Waverly's sulky expression. I had on a white dress, layered with sheets of lace, and a pink bow in my Peter Pan haircut. As I sat down, I envisioned people jumping to their feet and Ed Sullivan rushing up to introduce me to everyone on TV.And I started to play. Everything was so beautiful. I was so caught up in how lovely I looked that I wasn't worried about how I would sound. So I was surprised when I hit the first wrong note. And then I hit another and another. A chill started at the top of my head and began to trickle down. Yet I couldn't stop playing, as though my hands were bewitched. I kept thinking my fingers would adjust themselves back, like a train switching to the right track. I played this strange jumble through to the end, the sour notes staying with me all the way. When I stood up, I discovered my legs were shaking. Maybe I had just been nervous, and the audience, like Old Chong had seen me go through the right motions and had not heard anything wrong at all. I swept my right foot out, went down on my knee, looked up, and smiled. The room was quiet, except for Old Chong, who was beaming and shouting "Bravo! Bravo! Well done!" By then I saw my mother's face, her stricken face. The audience clapped weakly, and I walked back to my chair, with my whole face quivering as I tried not to cry, I heard a little boy whisper loudly to his mother. "That was awful," and mother whispered "Well, she certainly tried."And now I realized how many people were in the audience - the whole world, it seemed. I was aware of eyes burning into my back. I felt the shame of my mother and father as they sat stiffly through the rest of the show.We could have escaped during intermission. Pride and some strange sense of honor must have anchored my parents to their chairs. And so we watched it all. The eighteen-year-old boy with a fake moustache who did a magic show and juggled flaming hoops while riding a unicycle. The breasted girl with white make up who sang an aria from Madame Butterfly and got an honorable mention. And the eleven-year-old boy who was first prize playing a tricky violin song that sounded like a busy bee. After the show the Hsus, the Jongs, and the St. Clairs, from the Joy Luck Club, came up to my mother and father."Lots of talented kids," Auntie Lindo said vaguely, smiling broadly. "That was somethin' else," my father said, and I wondered if he was referring to me in a humorous way, or whether he even remembered what I had done.Waverly looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. "You aren't a genius like me," she said matter-of-factly. And if I hadn't felt so bad, I would have pulled her braids and punched her stomach.But my mother's expression was what devastated me: a quiet, blank look that said she had lost everything. I felt the same way, and everybody seemed now to be coming up, like gawkers at the scene of an accident to see what parts were actually missing. When we got on the bus to go home, my father was humming the busy-bee tune and my mother kept silent. I kept thinking she wanted to wait until we got home before shouting at me. But when my father unlocked the door to our apartment, my mother walked in and went straight to the back, into the bedroom. No accusations, No blame. And in a way, I felt disappointed. I had been waiting for her to start shouting, so that I could shout back and cry and blame her for all my misery.
I had assumed that my talent-show fiasco meant that I would never have to play the piano again. But two days later, after school, my mother came out of the kitchen and saw me watching TV. "Four clock," she reminded me, as if it were any other day. I was stunned, as though she were asking me to go through the talent-show torture again. I planted myself more squarely in front of the TV."Turn off TV," she called from the kitchen five minutes later. I didn't budge. And then I decided, I didn't have to do what mother said anymore. I wasn't her slave. This wasn't China. I had listened to her before, and look what happened she was the stupid one. She came out of the kitchen and stood in the arched entryway of the living room. "Four clock," she said once again, louder."I'm not going to play anymore," I said nonchalantly. "Why should I? I'm not a genius."She stood in front of the TV. I saw that her chest was heaving up and down in an angry way."No!" I said, and I now felt stronger, as if my true self had finally emerged. So this was what had been inside me all along."No! I won't!" I screamed. She snapped off the TV, yanked me by the arm and pulled me off the floor. She was frighteningly strong, half pulling, half carrying me towards the piano as I kicked the throw rugs under my feet. She lifted me up onto the hard bench. I was sobbing by now, looking at her bitterly. Her chest was heaving even more and her mouth was open, smiling crazily as if she were pleased that I was crying."You want me to be something that I'm not!" I sobbed. " I'll never be the kind of daughter you want me to be!""Only two kinds of daughters," she shouted in Chinese. "Those who are obedient and those who follow their own mind! Only one kind of daughter can live in this house. Obedient daughter!""Then I wish I weren't your daughter, I wish you weren't my mother," I shouted. As I said these things I got scared. It felt like worms and toads and slimy things crawling out of my chest, but it also felt good, that this awful side of me had surfaced, at last."Too late to change this," my mother said shrilly. And I could sense her anger rising to its breaking point. I wanted see it spill over. And that's when I remembered the babies she had lost in China, the ones we never talked about. "Then I wish I'd never been born!" I shouted. " I wish I were dead! Like them." It was as if I had said magic words. Alakazam!-her face went blank, her mouth closed, her arms went slack, and she backed out of the room, stunned, as if she were blowing away like a small brown leaf, thin, brittle, lifeless.
It was not the only disappointment my mother felt in me. In the years that followed, I failed her many times, each time asserting my will, my right to fall short of expectations. I didn't get straight As. I didn't become class president. I didn't get into Stanford. I dropped out of college.Unlike my mother, I did not believe I could be anything I wanted to be, I could only be me.And for all those years we never talked about the disaster at the recital or my terrible delarations afterward at the piano bench. Neither of us talked about it again, as if it were a betrayal that was now unspeakable. So I never found a way to ask her why she had hoped for something so large that failure was inevitable.And even worse, I never asked her about what frightened me the most: Why had she given up hope? For after our struggle at the piano, she never mentioned my playing again. The lessons stopped The lid to the piano was closed shutting out the dust, my misery, and her dreams. So she surprised me. A few years ago she offered to give me the piano, for my thirtieth birthday. I had not played in all those years. I saw the offer as a sign of forgiveness, a tremendous burden removed. "Are you sure?" I asked shyly. "I mean, won't you and Dad miss it?" "No, this your piano," she said firmly. "Always your piano. You only one can play.""Well, I probably can't play anymore," I said. "It's been years." "You pick up fast," my mother said, as if she knew this was certain. " You have natural talent. You could be a genius if you want to." "No, I couldn't." "You just not trying," my mother said. And she was neither angry nor sad. She said it as if announcing a fact that could never be disproved. "Take it," she said.But I didn't at first. It was enough that she had offered it to me. And after that, everytime I saw it in my parents' living room, standing in front of the bay window, it made me feel proud, as if it were a shiny trophy that I had won back.
Last week I sent a tuner over to my parent's apartment and had the piano reconditioned, for purely sentimental reasons. My mother had died a few months before and I had been getting things in order for my father a little bit at a time. I put the jewelry in special silk pouches. The sweaters I put in mothproof boxes. I found some old Chinese silk dresses, the kind with little slits up the sides. I rubbed the old silk against my skin, and then wrapped them in tissue and decided to take them hoe with me. After I had the piano tuned, I opened the lid and touched the keys. It sounded even richer that I remembered. Really, it was a very good piano. Inside the bench were the same exercise notes with handwritten scales, the same secondhand music books with their covers held together with yellow tape. I opened up the Schumann book to the dark little piece I had played at the recital. It was on the left-hand page, "Pleading Child." It looked more difficult than I remembered. I played a few bars, surprised at how easily the notes came back to me.And for the first time, or so it seemed, I noticed the piece on the right-hand side, It was called "Perfectly Contented." I tried to play this one as well. It had a lighter melody but with the same flowing rhythm and turned out to be quite easy. "Pleading Child" was shorter but slower; "Perfectly Contented" was longer but faster. And after I had played them both a few times, I realized they were two halves of the same song.


-Amy Tan

ANG POST NA MAY SAYSAY!!

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BIRTHDAYS!! (peace)

Nkakainis naman!!



Ang daming may BIRHTDAY ngaung September...



...bkit kya???



siguro... kc masaya ang september........




Ang tagal pa ng birthday q.. nkakainggit.. 7 months pa..



... nkakainip....



Bad Trip!!

.. pero at least.. wla nang pasok..




hindi n ako required manlibre.... HAHAHA.. :)

Ala lang.. Isang tula..

O Captain, My Captain
a poem by Walt Whitman

O Captain, my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

One's Expression of Feeling..

Why do you hate him
Why did you make him leave
There’s nothing wrong with him

Why do you hate him
You want him crucified
Is it the way he looks
Or the way he speaks his mind

Never hear this song playing on the radio

O there’s nothing wrong with him
But it’s you and your friends

Never hear this song playing on the radio

All i ever did was talk about her
She’s done what she has to do
Having to raise two kids without a father

You just stood by idly watched her suffer
You think you’re something special
Boy you blew it! this conversations over..

Never hear this song playing on the radio

O there’s nothing wrong with him
But it’s you and your friends
F*** you and your friends

Never hear this song playing on the radio

A Peaceful Song

It's a time of joy, a time of peace
A time when hearts are then set free
A time to heal the wounds of division
It's a time of grace, a time of hope
A time of sharing the gifts we have
A time to build the world that is one

It's the time to give thanks to the Father, Son and Spirit
And with Mary, our Mother, we sing this song
Open your hearts to the Lord and begin to see the mystery
That we are all together as one family
No more walls, no more chains, no more selfishness and closed doors
For we are in the fullness of God's time
It's the time of the Great Jubilee

It's a time of prayer, a time of praise
A time to lift our hands to God
A time to recall all our graces
It's a time to touch, time to reach
Those hearts that often wonder
A time to bring them back to God's embrace

It's the time to give thanks to the Father, Son and Spirit
And with Mary, our Mother, we sing this song
Open your hearts to the Lord and begin to see the mystery
That we are all together as one family
No more walls, no more chains, no more selfishness and closed doors
For we are in the fullness of God's time
It's the time of the Great Jubilee

Open your hearts to the Lord and begin to see the mystery
That we are all together as one family
No more walls, no more chains, no more selfishness and closed doors
For we are in the fullness of God's time
It's the time of the Great Jubilee
It's the time of the Great Jubilee...

Maglalagay na lang ako ng song lyrics this day para may laman na...

Is this the real life?

Is this just fantasy?

Caught in a landslide

No escape from reality

Open your eyes

Look up to the skies and see

I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy

Because i'm easy come, easy go
A little high, little low

Anyway the wind blows,
Doesn't really matter to me, to me

Mama, just killed a man
Put a gun against his head
Pulled my trigger, now he's dead
Mama, life had just begun
But now i've gone and thrown it all away

Mama, ooo
Didn't mean to make you cry
If i'm not back again this time tomorrow
Carry on, carry on, as if nothing really matters

Too late, my time has come
Sends shivers down my spine
Body's aching all the time

Goodbye everybody - i've got to go
Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth

Mama, ooo - (anyway the wind blows)
I don't want to die
I sometimes wish i'd never been born at all

I see a little silhouetto of a man
Scaramouch, scaramouch will you do the fandango
Thunderbolt and lightning - very very frightening me
Gallileo, gallileo,
Gallileo, gallileo,
Gallileo figaro - magnifico
But i'm just a poor boy and nobody loves me
He's just a poor boy from a poor family
Spare him his life from this monstrosity

Easy come easy go - will you let me go
Bismillah! no - we will not let you go - let him go
Bismillah! we will not let you go - let him go
Bismillah! we will not let you go - let me go
Will not let you go - let me go (never)
Never let you go - let me go
Never let me go - ooo
No, no, no, no, no, no, no -
Oh mama mia, mama mia, mama mia let me go
Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me
For me
For me

So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye
So you think you can love me and leave me to die
Oh baby - can't do this to me baby
Just gotta get out - just gotta get right outta here
Ooh yeah, ooh yeah

Nothing really matters
Anyone can see
Nothing really matters - nothing really matters to me
Anyway the wind blows...



Kahit luma na..(hindi naman sobrang vintage) masarap naman pakinggan...

Mga trip kong joke....

Sa mga nagbabasa..... SORRY kung na-corny-han kayo.....


SA BAKERY:

pulubi: Ale, palimos po ng cake....


Ale: ABA!! Ambisyoso ka!! Cake pa hinihingi mo.....
O ayan...... Pandesal....


pulubi: HELLOOOOHH!!!
Birthday ko kaya!!!!

SA ISANG TAHANAN:

Isang ina ang nagsilang ng PAGKAPANGIT-PANGIT na sanggol...


Ina: Isa siyang KAYAMANAN...........



Ama: Oo nga....



...... IBAON NATIN



SA ISANG BAHAY:

NANAY: Hala sige!!!
Layas!!
Wag ka na bumalik dito s bahay!!!
Mula ngayon... WAG MO NA AKONG TAWAGIN NANAY!!!
AT DI NA RIN KITA TATAWAGING ANAK!!!!
Naiintiindihan mo!?!?!


ANAK: Cge FRIEND........
Alis na me.....


SA KALYE:

Bata1: Lahat tayo nagmula kay Adan at Eva......



Bata2: Hindi yan totoo....
Sabi ng papa ko nagmula tayo sa mga UNGGOY!!!



Bata1: Hindi natin pinag-uusapan ang pamilya mo....
Wag kang EPAL!!!!







Sori sa mga na-corny-han......

Last day ng required blog...

Ngaun ay Universal Break...

Kakatapos q lng ng physics problem set....

Tpos knina... may game kmi s MATH!!
Formal Theme s English!!
Writing period sa PINOY...
At may group activity s soc sci knina!!

Masaya ako at Peaceful kasi hindi ako nalate!!!

Ano na nga ba ang nangyari sa LARGE HADRON COLLIDER???

pero basta peaceful....

The World is at Peace

Ngayong araw na ito ay sobra payapa at sobrang tahimik as in it is very peaceful....

Kasi may CHEM LONG TEST at LARGE HADRON COLLIDER na sinasabing makakagawa ng BLACK HOLE na HIHIGOP SA ATING MINAMAHAL NA MUNDO!!!!!!

Ngunit buti naman ay hindi nahigop ang mundo kasi kung nahigop ito ay MAWAWALA TAYONG LAHAT!!!

Alam nio ba na sobrang bilis ng particles na maiikot nila ang LARGE HADRON COLLIDER ng 11,245 beses sa isang segundo na kasimbilis ng 99.99% na halos isang daang bahagdan ng bilis ng liwanag!!! Di ba peaceful yun!!!

Itong LARGE HADRON COLLIDER ay ang magiging INA NG LAHAT NG ATOM SMASHERS!!!

Ito pa ang mas peaceful diyan!!!

KAhit isang maliit na BLACK HOLE ay maaring mahigop ang mundo!!
Pero dapat anumang oras ay maging handa!! kasi baka mamaya ay magulat ka na lang na ang ginagamit mong personal computer ay unti-unting gumagalaw at sunod na ang mesa at ang inyong bahay....

DI BA PEACEFUL!!!

PEACE TO ALL HUMANITY!!!

No Flowers For Terrorists A Cry For Peace
by Linda Lerner
(for those who march against war) All the flowers flying out of your mouths are dead, the air has killed them, someone has poisoned the air, all the 1960’s flowers, can’t you see them as you march thru the grass, dead flowers... deadly flowers How much will you sacrifice for peace? Enough to leave those pretty parks go by Saint Paul’s Church and stare into the dead night of a windowless building’s charred remains till you see people’s flamed wings spread out as they leapt and you feel your own skin burning so bad, you’d kill to stop it, do you want peace enough to look at every photo of those missing since September 11th, read the rosary of names aloud as you once read the names of the South American “disappeared,” marched and petitioned us to help those in Somalia, Bosnia, remember, even went there, some of you, risked your lives for them.... More than 3000 dead buried a few miles from where you live homes some of you left in fear afraid to return breathe air makes you sick, toxic excuses... only the allergies asthma are real and the nightmares you wake trembling from, are you willing to descend into hell till you cough up all the dead fairy-tale flowers, your eyes blaze with anger at what was and isn’t and is, now.... you’ll do anything, yes even wage war to keep this from happening again, do you want peace enough to look at a picture of Hitler and admit that innocent people died then so you can live now stop marching long enough to look around at your city, imagine one woman taking a plane one man entering his office, you’ll do anything to keep them alive this city you love, safe how much do you really want peace? ..................... Look at all the flowers, dead flowers... deadly flowers

Speech sa English!!

Astig!!! May speech sa ENGLISH!!!!

Ang cool nga eh!!

Ito ung speech n kelangan imemorize!!!

Land of Bondage, Land of the Free

By Raul Manglapus

And yet gentlemen, the tao is constitutionally free. No wonder, then that the tao, being a slave, has acquired the habits of a slave. No wonder that after three centuries in chains, without freedom, without hope, he should lose the erect and fearless posture of the freeman, and become the bent, misshapen, indolent, vicious, pitiful thing that he is! Who dares accuse him, who dares rise up in judgment against this man, reduced to this sub-human level by three centuries of oppression. The tao does not come here tonight to be judged — but to judge! Hear then his accusation and his sentence:

I indict the Spanish encomendero for inventing taxes impossible to bear.

I indict the usurer for saddling me with debts impossible to pay.

I indict the irresponsible radical leaders who undermine, with insidious eloquence, the confidence of my kind in our government.

You accuse me of not supporting my family. Free me from bondage, and I shall prove you false.

You accuse me of ignorance. But I am ignorant because my master finds it profitable to keep me ignorant. Free me from bondage, and I shall prove you false.

You accuse me of indolence. But I am indolent not because I have no will, but because I have no hope. Why should I labor, if all the fruits of my labor go to pay an unpayable debt. Free me from bondage, and I shall prove you false.

Give me land. Land to own. Land unbeholden to any tyrant. Land that will be free. Give me land for I am starving. Give me land that my children may not die. Sell it to me, sell it to me at a fair price, as one freeman sells to another and not as a usurer sells to a slave. I am poor, but I will pay it! I will work, work until I fall from weariness for my privilege, for my inalienable right to be free!

BUT IF YOU WILL NOT GRANT ME THIS … If you will not grant me this last request, this ultimate demand, then build a wall around your home … build it high! … build it strong! Place a sentry on every parapet! … for I who have been silent these three hundred years will come in the night when you are feasting, with my cry and my bolo at your door. And may God have mercy on your soul!

Seasons of Peace

For everything there is a season,
And a time for every matter under heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
A time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
A time to embrace, And a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to seek, and a time to lose;
A time to keep, and a time to throw away;
A time to tear, and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate,
A time for war, and a time for peace.

Peace be with you..

If I have been of service, if I have glimpsed more of the nature and essence of ultimate good, if I am inspired to reach wider horizons of thought and action, if I am at peace with myself, it has been a successful day.

There never was a good war or a bad peace.

Peace has to be created, in order to be maintained. It is the product of Faith, Strength, Energy, Will, Sympathy, Justice, Imagination, and the triumph of principle. It will never be achieved by passivity and quietism.

Welcome!!!

Hello sa inyo!!!
First time ko pa lang at kinakapa ko pa...
Sori na!!

Sana wag kaung mag post ng kung anu-ano...

Welcome!!!

Hello sa inyo!!!
First time ko pa lang at kinakapa ko pa...
Sori na!!

Sana wag kaung mag post ng kung anu-ano...