public ramble, w00t
coding is all that's keeping me sane. i haven't been feeling well these past few days and i'd like to slate it up to PMS but when you have this body, you really never know. it's been hard to focus, fall asleep and stay asleep. someone remind me how to zen.
in the meantime i go crazy talk ok? got this lovely song off a music blog i failed to bookmark and listening to it over and over has got me thinking...
Ragheb Alama - El Hob El Kebir
i'm not an expert in arabic by a long shot, but i thought i heard the phrase "ana asif" somewhere in the refrain. "ana asif" (i'm sorry) was one of the phrases i learned from my uncles, who used to work in the middle east.
when i was little, my uncles taught me so many foreign words and told me so many stories and i loved them all, though the oil countries at the time seemed like a grim, bleak place. i loved how they told me how the filipino workers there would make the best of things and get away with as much merriment as they could. i loved hearing descriptions of women with exquisite eyes who were otherwise covered in black cloth from head to toe, of the customary haggling in a foreign marketplace, the soul-rending sight of the desert.
even as a child, i loved stories. i will now unabashedly admit that i come from a family of storytellers. my father's father was a storyteller, and my father was a storyteller, and my father once told me of a certain great-great-uncle who was renowned for his gift of gab. "pababa pa lang ng hagdan, tumutula na," my father quipped: just stepping out of his hut, and he was already speaking in rhyme. this particular relative had been a spectacle in every local festival; people traveled from other far towns just to see him participate in the "dupluhan," a local show/contest where orators engage in a public extemporaneous debate using clever idioms and rhymes.
i forget his name now, and i'm not even sure my father remembers it. his accomplishments, however, will live on in the memory of my family for many generations to come.
i'd like to think my sister and i inherited our ancestors' love for words, even if i personally didn't inherit much of the storytelling skill. i've come to believe that a love for words runs in the blood, something you can't help but pass on even if by some deus ex machina, you are unable to deliver a diatribe like this to your offspring.
it should be no surprise, then, that stories about storytellers tend to strike home. for example, one of my favorite characters is Rhysling, the blind singer of Heinlein's spaceways. and one of my father's favorite fictional characters is Shahrazad (whom i'd always called Scheherazade, until i found a spelling that i liked more). incidentally, the illustrated 1001 Nights was one of my treasured books growing up. now and then, my father recollects one of his favorite science fiction potboilers, the title and author of which currently escape me: a time traveler goes back in time and quickly falls in love with the woman who is telling stories and consciously leaving her stories open-ended. i remember that the way the woman speaks and the way the events unfolded are very much like a page out of 1001 Nights.
then the woman falls in love with the time traveler as well, and asks to be taken back with him to the present time... but the traveler fears that if he does this, he will be destroying the legend of Shahrazad. back in the present, the woman assures him no legends will be ruined: she is not Shahrazad, but her lesser-known younger sister, Dunyazad.
one day, a few years back, i woke up and joined my father in front of the television. it was shortly after the iraq takeover was declared. we watched baghdad burn. my father didn't say anything for a while, even when i asked him what was going on. so we sat in silence for almost an hour, then my father said: "child, they're burning the city of Shahrazad."
i remembered how much i loved my uncles' stories, and the children's book i've long since lost. and most of all, i remembered one of neil gaiman's shorter illustrated works: "Ramadan," which i read as part of the collection Fables and Reflections.
in that story, the caliph of baghdad at its golden age, harun al-rashid, ponders that the magic of his city is not meant to last. wanting to preserve the golden age for all time, he strikes a bargain with the Dream King. so the Dream King traps the golden age in a bottle, and while it can be dreamt, the greatness of baghdad would live on.
as the story ends, we learn that all this is nothing more than a tale told to a crippled child who roams the war-torn streets of modern-day baghdad. the child walks through the ruins with the splendor of the ancient city's spires in his eyes.
Which Tim Burton character are you?
Edward Bloom
You're positive outlook is endearing, but your tales are far-fetched.
Click Here to Take This Quiz
Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.
in the meantime i go crazy talk ok? got this lovely song off a music blog i failed to bookmark and listening to it over and over has got me thinking...
Ragheb Alama - El Hob El Kebir
i'm not an expert in arabic by a long shot, but i thought i heard the phrase "ana asif" somewhere in the refrain. "ana asif" (i'm sorry) was one of the phrases i learned from my uncles, who used to work in the middle east.
when i was little, my uncles taught me so many foreign words and told me so many stories and i loved them all, though the oil countries at the time seemed like a grim, bleak place. i loved how they told me how the filipino workers there would make the best of things and get away with as much merriment as they could. i loved hearing descriptions of women with exquisite eyes who were otherwise covered in black cloth from head to toe, of the customary haggling in a foreign marketplace, the soul-rending sight of the desert.
even as a child, i loved stories. i will now unabashedly admit that i come from a family of storytellers. my father's father was a storyteller, and my father was a storyteller, and my father once told me of a certain great-great-uncle who was renowned for his gift of gab. "pababa pa lang ng hagdan, tumutula na," my father quipped: just stepping out of his hut, and he was already speaking in rhyme. this particular relative had been a spectacle in every local festival; people traveled from other far towns just to see him participate in the "dupluhan," a local show/contest where orators engage in a public extemporaneous debate using clever idioms and rhymes.
i forget his name now, and i'm not even sure my father remembers it. his accomplishments, however, will live on in the memory of my family for many generations to come.
i'd like to think my sister and i inherited our ancestors' love for words, even if i personally didn't inherit much of the storytelling skill. i've come to believe that a love for words runs in the blood, something you can't help but pass on even if by some deus ex machina, you are unable to deliver a diatribe like this to your offspring.
it should be no surprise, then, that stories about storytellers tend to strike home. for example, one of my favorite characters is Rhysling, the blind singer of Heinlein's spaceways. and one of my father's favorite fictional characters is Shahrazad (whom i'd always called Scheherazade, until i found a spelling that i liked more). incidentally, the illustrated 1001 Nights was one of my treasured books growing up. now and then, my father recollects one of his favorite science fiction potboilers, the title and author of which currently escape me: a time traveler goes back in time and quickly falls in love with the woman who is telling stories and consciously leaving her stories open-ended. i remember that the way the woman speaks and the way the events unfolded are very much like a page out of 1001 Nights.
then the woman falls in love with the time traveler as well, and asks to be taken back with him to the present time... but the traveler fears that if he does this, he will be destroying the legend of Shahrazad. back in the present, the woman assures him no legends will be ruined: she is not Shahrazad, but her lesser-known younger sister, Dunyazad.
one day, a few years back, i woke up and joined my father in front of the television. it was shortly after the iraq takeover was declared. we watched baghdad burn. my father didn't say anything for a while, even when i asked him what was going on. so we sat in silence for almost an hour, then my father said: "child, they're burning the city of Shahrazad."
i remembered how much i loved my uncles' stories, and the children's book i've long since lost. and most of all, i remembered one of neil gaiman's shorter illustrated works: "Ramadan," which i read as part of the collection Fables and Reflections.
in that story, the caliph of baghdad at its golden age, harun al-rashid, ponders that the magic of his city is not meant to last. wanting to preserve the golden age for all time, he strikes a bargain with the Dream King. so the Dream King traps the golden age in a bottle, and while it can be dreamt, the greatness of baghdad would live on.
as the story ends, we learn that all this is nothing more than a tale told to a crippled child who roams the war-torn streets of modern-day baghdad. the child walks through the ruins with the splendor of the ancient city's spires in his eyes.
Which Tim Burton character are you?
Edward Bloom
You're positive outlook is endearing, but your tales are far-fetched.
Click Here to Take This Quiz
Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.