A Note of Indignation

After Manny Pacquiao and Efren Peñaflorida remarkably caught the world’s attention and brought home the bacon for the country, another explosive issue catapulted the Philippines under the world’s scrutiny and has put the country to the international lime light. Only this time, it is a bad light.

News flash: the Philippines just recently bagged the title for being the first in the list of the world’s most dangerous places to be in for journalists and media practitioners; now beating Iraq who used to hold the title. Cool, right? Or is it?

Yesterday was a day of national mourning for the poor victims of the genocide in Maguindanao which took the life of 57 innocent civilians, 30 of which are journalists and media workers. We all know the story: the journalists were among the convoy of a political family who were supposed to file candidacy papers for a gubernatorial spot in Maguindanao. But the caravan ended up in a senseless bloodbath as the convoy was ambushed by heavily armed gunmen and systematically slaughtered the group. The mass grave was then discovered in a deserted land – buried among the slaughtered bodies of the victims are some of the victims’ cars. Standing beside the shallow mass grave is a huge backhoe bearing the name of the province’s incumbent governor.

This massacre is said to have marked the highest number of journalists killed in a single instance of senseless slaughter, and among the many instances of extra-judicial killings under Gloria Arroyo’s watch since she assumed office in 2000.

As we mourn the death of the victims of the massacre, we mourn the impending greater and more catastrophic death of the country’s democracy and the people’s trust in the government and in the country’s justice system.

“When the government fails to deliver, the people become cynical,” says Maria Ressa. Once again, as seen on national television everyday, PGMA’s government is playing dumb on this issue of killing innocent people and taking the lives of helpless civilians. This diabolic act isn’t just an attack against democracy. This is a blatant attack against humanity. And the government hasn’t shown any strong indignation to condemn the act and to punish the perpetrators of the crime. What we have witnessed so far is the police’s cowardice to enforce its police power against crime doers and the government’s special treatment for the primary suspect; a free chopper ride with PGMA’s Press Secretary himself, Jesus Dureza; tight security detail and complete medical attention to ensure that Mr. Ampatuan is in good shape. And he still has the guts to wave his hands to the media people covering his so-called “arrest.” That makes me want to spit on his face.

How can this government who has mercilessly shown iron hand and sent war tanks and full military forces to arrest mutineers in Manila Pen two years ago fail to bring punishment to evildoers this time? How can the PNP, who has shown how bad and cold they can get in hot pursuit of possible suspects when they arrested Ted Failon et al, fail to press charges against the only name which everybody in Maguindanao names as the evil plotter of the crime? How can this government who arrested journalists even without warrant during the Manila Pen siege fail to identify the criminals who slaughtered these people in the wee hour of the morning? Is the gigantic backhoe with the shouting name of Ampatuan not visible enough to be seen? Sino’ng tanga? Ang gobyerno o ang taong-bayan?

How come that this country who prides itself as a free, democracy-loving country in Asia be the first in the list of the deadliest places on Earth for journalists?

This culture of impunity – the government’s failure to punish or even identify criminals who are responsible for killing journalists and activists in the Philippines – has contributed a lot in the decaying state of Philippine democracy. We have seen how the government puts behind bars those who are identified as “enemies” of the State as quickly as they can. We have seen massive efforts by this selfsame government to gag the mouth of the media and to silence journalists even to the point of harassment and death. Having said all these, who is the real enemy of the State? Those who fight for freedom, change and a corruption-free Philippines? Or those who seem to protect criminals, abridge freedom and democracy, and pretend to mourn when all they have are empty words and scripted litany?

True enough, this government has lost all the moral ascendancy to govern. The “state” – PGMA’s government – might have already become the real enemy of the true State – the Filipino people it governs.

The massacre in Maguindanao heralded the official campaign period for the forthcoming presidential election. As the 2010 election draws near, how much more of these senseless killings will we see as power-hungry monsters struggle in an all-out battle for the highest seat of power in Philippine soil? God forbid.

Let us not take this matter sitting down. The chilling effect that this gives to journalists (and future journalists like me) has never felt this cold. Kinakalampag namin ang gobyerno at ang lahat ng mga nasa posisyon para bigyang hustisya ang pagkamatay ng aming mga kasamahang namatay sa Maguindanao, sampu ng lahat ng biktimang walang awang pinatay.

Speak up for those who cannot speak. Protect the rights of those who are poor, helpless, and needy (Proverbs 31:9).

– Jello Bryan de Los Reyes
for the Blue and Silver

Suddenly…

Suddenly…

…a backhoe has become a symbol of macabre death and a blatant attempt to bury the rotten truth with earth and dirt.

…the sight of a backhoe gives chills and goosebumps to anyone who sees it; for it now carries the dark vestiges of a grim and gruesome story of a mass slaughter which happened in a deserted remote hill called Death.

…the name “Ampatuan” has become popular in the entire country, but only in a bad sense. And that the selfsame name is now being taken to mean “death, evil, and violence.”

…the writ of Amparo has been invoked by cold-blooded killers and vile warlords to protect themselves from the haunting of their helpless victims and from the iron hand of justice; the same writ conceived to solve extra-judicial killings and forced disappearances in the country.

…everyone paid attention to the news, and everyone noticed that journalists are being killed senselessly but the government turns a deaf ear to their cries.

…the government is in an all-out war against monsters and killers which they themselves have put into being. We now see them very busy taking back the arms and ammunitions that they themselves have supplied.

Suddenly, we all cry for JUSTICE after seeing the violent fate that our Filipino brothers have suffered in the hands of our fellow Filipinos.

May we never forget the stories and tragedies behind this dark scarlet stain in the history of Philippine democracy. May the blood of our fallen comrades always remind us of the freedom and democracy which everyone has fought and died for since the beginning of our history as a nation. And may there be no more bloodshed needed just to get us back to our senses that we ought to continuously protect it, embrace it, and respect it with our entire being.

JUSTICE for the victims of the Maguindanao massacre!

Jello De Los Reyes
for the Blue and Silver

If this day would be your last…

If this day would be your last…

If this day would be your last, how would you want to be remembered? How do you think would people remember you? What legacy would you want to leave after you left?

No, no. I’m not dying. Pardon me for a very morbid and absurd opening. Do me one last favor by reading my column, and I hope that at the end of this piece you’d be able to answer these questions. I would also recommend listening to Nichole Nordeman’s song “Legacy” afterwards.

I don’t mind if you’ve got something nice to say about me

“Nagsusulat ka pa din ba sa dyaryo?” my seatmate (whom I barely know) surprisingly asked me one day in class. “Pa’no mo nalamang nagsusulat ako sa dyaryo?” I asked. “May mukha ka dun di ba? Tsaka ang galing mo eh…” Then I secretly blushed at the compliment. Thanks dude!

Being in the paper for years have exposed me to a vast array of people with a colorful variety of responses to what I’ve written. Aside from hate mails and below-the-belt criticisms which I so consistently receive from faithful critics, I’ve also received several compliments from my dear readers in my years of service.

And though I enjoy an accolade like the rest, I don’t mind, really, if you’ve got something nice to say about me. “And you could take my picture and hang it in a gallery of all the who’s-who’s and so-and-so’s that used to be the best at such-and-such.” After all, human beings are forgetful beings, right?

Besides, what I’ve done as a student journalist is nothing extraordinary from what I’ve been called to do: to serve. What Napoleon did with his sword, I will do – and have faithfully done – with my pen. After I’m gone, I want to be remembered as more than just the back porch poet or the newspaper’s boy next door.

I want to make a mark. I want to leave a lasting legacy.

To make a mark on things

As a student journalist, I have always been committed in advocating policy change for the best welfare of the students. My very first column in the Blue and Silver entitled, “Guess the Title” (January-February 2006) dealt with issues regarding certain school policies on haircut and dress code along with some slip-ups on the conduct of some security personnel. I was summoned at the Office of Student Affairs back then and was told to “not lift a finger on school policies.”

I also consider myself as a headstrong advocate of campus journalism and press freedom in the campus. My longest column by far, “The Gag Show,” published in the paper’s January-February 2007 issue fearlessly criticized attempts to put “restraints” against the Blue and Silver after some administrators allegedly instigated a complaint against the publication because of our December 2006 Lampoon issue. The paper’s funds have been withheld, causing delays and difficulties in the Blue and Silver’s operations. My most recent column, “My Suicidal Note,” (January-February 2009) was an intellectual comeback against unsubstantiated and unfair accusations that “the Blue and Silver is not doing its job.” Fortunately though, I haven’t been summoned yet again to face furious administrators who have been implicated in the aforesaid column.

As a molder of public values and opinions, I also see to it that I advocate change in values within the community. “MACARTHUR: Ang Pagbabalik” (August-September 2008) was a soft satire to point up distorted PCU values and cultures which didn’t seem to change even after I was gone for a while. This marked my re-entry in the paper a year after I wrote my heartrending final column (Closing Time, March 2007) and left school. My column, “Faith, Character, Politics?” (November-December 2008) was written amidst issues and controversies which marred President Suarez’s administration late last year. It was a jolting reminder that PCU is a Christian University and that it must go back to its driving maxim: Faith, Character, Service. Because we are Christians, not politicians.

I may not be as brilliant as Dr. Jose Rizal to be remembered as a national hero or to qualify as a promising propagandist who practically changed the way Filipinos live. I may not be as well-loved as Tita Cory who vigilantly protected democracy until her final breath. I may not be as fearless as Conrado De Quiros, nor am I as good as Armando Doronilla. But I have the same heart as theirs which beats for truth and freedom.

These are what I’ve fought for – on which I want to make a mark. I will continue writing and will not let the ink of my pen dry up, for this very same ink runs in my veins. May this ink – my passion for truth and service – leave a mark in the public whom I have served and in everyone around me. I will continue serving the students from the back seat. Real servants don’t need the spotlight to serve after all.

But if people would eventually forget my name or my mere existence just as how forgetful human beings always tend to be, it wouldn’t matter. I’m not after the recognition either. I will find solace in seeing everything which I protected and fought for to the bitter end still evident and still being protected, not just by the Blue and Silver but by every student who desires quality education and by every administrator who longs for change and unity.

I want to leave a legacy

Here is an inventory of how I want to be remembered after I’m gone:

I want to be remembered as a student journalist who, once in the history of the Blue and Silver, has fearlessly fought for campus press freedom and responsible campus journalism.

I want to be remembered as a student leader who, through the ink of my pen, has protected the best interest of the students through my writings while risking my own comfort and protection just to deliver the truth and to fight for what the students need to know.

I want to be remembered as a mentor who eagerly trained and transferred everything I know to my apprentices without reservation.

I want to be remembered as a student who was always willing to learn more; who is humble enough to admit that I still have so much to learn and that I still fail and commit mistakes because heck, I’m human.

I want to be remembered as a friend who loved at all times; a lover who gets hurt, yet still chooses to love even more; a child who dreamt for a brighter future for the family; and a penniless writer who tried to impact the lives of his readers by what he writes.

I want to be remembered as a child of mercy and grace who blessed His name unapologetically.

I want to leave that kind of lasting legacy.

Mi Ultimo Adios

The Blue and Silver is turning 60 this year. Many people have been where I am and have also fought for the same cause which I’ve fought for. Thinking about how old this institution already is gives me Goosebumps. It’s just overwhelming to note that I belong to an institution which is actually older than my parents.

The Blue and Silver’s legacy is about scrupulously ferreting out the truth and responsibly reporting it to the public. It is about having a strong passion and commitment for excellence. And as the paper presses on, it is my hope that everything will still be done under the same driving maxim: to “speak up for those who cannot speak. Protect the rights of those who are poor, helpless and needy.” (Proverbs 31:9)

I hope that this legacy will live on and will still be protected, not just by the incumbent Blue and Silver Editorial Board and Staff, but also by the countless generations who would come behind us and would be heirs of this publication which I have come to love with my entire being. May this writing reach you.

Remember my words: for the good of the service. Respect the legacy. The studentry above all else.

My years in the paper have all been worthwhile, and as my introspections will now be laid to rest, my only hope is that may the screams and pleas of my silent introspections all these years did not fall on deaf ears.

To everyone who cared and read my column; to my mentors and professors; to the friends I’ve come to know; to my friends and school supporters; to my best friends Jo Anne and Serg; to my family; to the Blue and Silver; and to the Greatest Writer and Author of my life – my deepest appreciation and gratitude to all of you.

This is my final introspection. My final farewell.

Now think. How would you want to be remembered…?

***
Published in the July-August 2009 issue of the Blue and Silver; my final column in the paper which I have served for four years.

A Love Story

Tension and bewilderment overwhelmed the entire heavenly armies one day. Millions of warrior angels are taking arms; the archangels and their battalions are readying for deployment, awaiting the Chief Commander’s command. It was a day like no other. All the angels are talking among themselves about a gruesome story which they have been told thousands of years ago – a story that was about to take place that day.

The entire Kingdom was filled with tension, questions, restless mutterings and heaves of heavy sighs. Could it be true? Is it really happening?

Yes. It was the day of the Crucifixion.

The funeral cortege has begun marching. Slowly, very slowly. Under the scorching heat of the desert sun, hundreds of people flocked together; showing no big deal about their thirst, and their sticky sweat adulterated with dust from the dunes; not to mourn the death of a Rabbi, a Doctor, a prophetic Savior. But to put to death an ambitious carpenter, a blasphemer, a dissenter of the accepted religious and social order.

Slowly, very slowly. A man carries the colossal pieces of lumber nailed together in the form of a cross, the very symbol of his death which will be remembered even thousands of years after. Blood and sweat flow out from his beaten flesh. His eyes barely seeing, blinded by tears and blood from fatal wounds on the head. But he continued marching. Slowly, very slowly, up the hill called Skull. He is the Chief Commander’s son.

“Aren’t You going to do something?” asked one of the archangels, puzzled; troubled by the Chief Commander’s silence. His name is Michael.

But the Chief Commander is silent, probably lost in deep thoughts. What He is thinking, no one could tell.

At this, Archangel Michael, holding a spear in his right hand (the spear with which he attacks Lucifer) flew away, with his majestic wings shining in all its splendor, and convened the rest of the legions of angels. He sought the company of the other archangels: Barachiel, Uriel, Raphael, Jegudiel; all thousands of them. Michael was not the only one puzzled by the Commander’s silence.

Archangel Michael, failing to comprehend the Commander’s thoughts, approached the Archangel Gabriel for he holds in his hand a mirror of green jasper which signifies the wisdom of God as a hidden mystery. But Gabriel himself could not explain what was beginning to transpire before the heavenly realms, and what the Commander was thinking or planning to do for the wisdom of God, like what was told, is indeed a hidden mystery. Being a warrior and a commander, the Archangel Michael saw to it that the entire army of the Heavenly Kingdom is prepared for battle. All of them, clad in armor and war suits, are standing mightily – steady, but not still; mighty, but moved. Strong, but heartbroken by what is happening. One order from the Chief Commander would be enough to send all of them – millions of them, if necessary – to the battlefield.

His son was about to be killed, yet the Commander refuses to speak.

The cortege has finally reached its destination. Up the hill of Golgotha, the Son’s feet have been burnt and wounded by the blistering earth and the jagged rocks along the road. Thirsty, weary, abandoned by his friends. He looked up… alas, no sign of heavenly rescue. Surrounding him was a throng of angry mobs – his students, his patients – cheering and jeering; wanting him to die.

“Just a single order. Just say ‘go’ and we will stop them from killing the man. Why don’t you command us NOW???” Archangel Michael, now growing impatient, went back to the Commander.

But the Commander is unmoved. His eyes are near to tears. “Give me a moment alone,” He said, almost whispering. His lips are shaking. Michael, surprised at the intense emotion he felt, bowed down, apologized and left.

Everyone is looking down – the angels, the elders, the heavenly creatures, the archangels; the entire heavenly hosts. All of them, watching as the people insult and injure the Son.

Finally, the soldiers tied him down; his back against the thick wood. He did nothing to retaliate. His blood spilling against the barren earth. But the people are still discontented with what they are witnessing.

All of a sudden, a soldier, with a big nail in one hand and a hammer in another, aimed for his hand. Coldly, mercilessly, the soldier lifted the hammer high above the air…

“NO!!!!!” Archangel Michael shouted. The rest of the angels covered their mouth and gasped for air. The Chief Commander, looking away, sobbing silently. His eyes drowning with tears.

And strongly – oh so strongly – he hit the hammer against the rusty nail placed over the Son’s hand…

“THUD!!!”

The angels – all of them – altogether, covered their eyes with their wings. Their hands pressed against their ears. They couldn’t bear the pain and the agony they are witnessing. With every hit of the hammer – every thump, every thud – everyone is weeping. Wailing loudly.

And they lifted the crucified Son high above the hill for everyone to see, like an exhibit to be showcased.

“Father, why have you forsaken me?” The Son asked, almost losing his strength.

Everybody’s gaze suddenly shifted to the Chief Commander.

But the Father wasn’t looking. For He himself couldn’t bear to see him that way.

“Why… why didn’t you do something…” Michael was crying.

“I love these people so much that I need to sacrifice my son for them. I know, I know… you don’t understand. Nobody would. There are things which only love can explain and only the God of love can understand… But trust my wisdom, for I know what I am doing. My glory will be displayed. My Son will be glorified.”

A few more moments. After a long, agonizing silence, they saw that the Son is dying. Tears continue to flow. The angels’ wings, which used to be splendid and beautiful, are downcast and dull; looking sickly and without life.

And with full theatrics – massive earthquakes, graves cracking open, and thick temple curtains being torn apart, the Son pronounced the denouement.

“It is finished.”

Life escaped from his body as he breathed his last.

It was the day when the Father did nothing and everything… all for love. All for love.

Jello De Los Reyes
for the Praise Theme

Story…

We had a storytelling exercise in our speech class wherein we were told to share our most unforgettable experience. Since I couldn’t think of any unforgettable story to share, I wrote this one instead. Fortunately, I received a high grade because of this. And my classmates and my professor were moved by what I shared. I just thought of sharing it with you, too. Here it goes…

When you encounter a fork in the road, be sure to take the right path. I happen to run across one, and it was a big turning point for my life. Mine is a story about love, friendship, and the risks and complications that come with both when they meet in a complicated intersection – a fork in my road.

In my life, I consider only two persons as my real best friends. One’s a girl; the other one’s a boy.

I met her nine years ago at a youth camp in a nearby church. I may say that we got along very well. She tells me her stories, I tell her mine. Years went by and our friendship started to grow until we became real best friends. I say “real” because what we have is something real and genuine. No adulteration. No vested interest. No strings attached. She’s like an older sister to me. And she said that she found a brother in me. We are best friends for eight years now.

I met him four years ago in school. We both passed the school paper’s qualifying exams. We got along pretty well. He tells me his stories. I tell him mine. We practically became part of each other’s routines. From going to school, covering news stories, and doing press works, to washing our clothes, cleaning the house, eating, and yes, sleeping. I may say that in him, I found a constant companion. He’s a real brother to me. And what we had is the kind that I’m willing to defend.

Until everything seemed to fall apart. We reached a forked road and the decisions that each of us has to make changed the course of history.

I fell for her. Paulo Coelho, in his book The Zahir, says that love is much like a dam. When you allow even just a trickle to form, that trickle will start to form a big crack that will eventually collapse the entire structure. And when that happens, there’s no stopping it. Getting past the first stage of whether to tell her or not was difficult. Will telling her about how I feel bring about positive outcome? Or will it restrain the free, “no holds barred” friendship that we nurtured for a long time? What if she doesn’t feel the same? And what if she does? I love her. And I need to find out nonetheless.

Guess what I did. Yes. I told her. Her answer was vague and indistinct at first. But to cut the chase, luckily, she feels the same. She told me she loves me. What started out as friendship began to rise to a whole new level. You know, it isn’t everyday that best friends fall in love with each other, especially in our case. She’s a couple of years older than me, and I’m definitely so out of her league. And knowing that my best friend feels the same about me is something… no, not something, it’s everything!

But I’m sorry to burst your bubbles. No, that’s not the end yet.

Unluckily, he is also in love with her. I wish I could tell you the whole story but that will take me another 45 minutes to narrate, and the last thing that I want to do is to bore you with my emo cheesy story.

Causing pain to my best friend is never in my Christmas wish list. I’m the kind of person who treasures friendship a lot. Tell you what; I choked myself up in tears many times because of this. I’m not the typical guy who walks up to a girl, asks her name, and says, “Hey, I think I like you. Would you mind going out with me sometime?” I rarely fall in love. And when I do, I want it to be the kind that opens a million flowers in a field. I want it to be perfect. Well who doesn’t? But this is far from being a perfect love story.

Now what do I do? Should I forego this chance of a lifetime so as not to hurt my other best friend? Doing so will hurt her. And I wouldn’t want to hurt her. More so, what we feel is something true. I know that I love her. More importantly, I know that she loves me just the same.

Will you call me a traitor and a friend-deserter if I choose to pursue what I feel? Hard as it seems, I did. I had to choose between two options.

Today is actually the first year of when it all started. August of last year. After a year, she’s still with me; we are still best of friends. Just best of friends. But he isn’t anymore. I’m not so sure if things are still going to work out just fine someday. Regretting isn’t good, especially when the decision that you made is what your heart dictates. The road ahead is still fuzzy and uncertain for the three of us. I just hope things will turn out for the better real soon.

Apparently, fairytales are only for those who sleep. Not all roads lead to a happy ending. And not all “once upon a time” end with “and they live happily ever after.”

And when you encounter a fork in the road, be sure to take the right path.

JELL-O

“JELL-O is JELL-O and not creme brulee…”

- Julia Roberts, My Bestfriend’s Wedding

When my best friend’s kid Canadian cousin heard that my name’s Jello, he laughed really hard and, grinning, he asked, “Why is your name ‘Jello’?”. Well it wasn’t the first time.

My father named me after a punk rock band’s vocalist, Dead Kennedy’s Jello Biafra (Eric Reed Boucher is his real name). I heard that he’s an intelligent man; ran for both mayor and president in San Francisco; was involved in political activism and supports leftist political causes. Biafra (or Boucher in real life) created his stage name as an ironic combination of the brand name JELL-O, a nutritionally delicious treat, and Biafra, a short lived country which apparently failed to secede from Nigeria in 1966, a country of horrific mass starvation. “Jello Biafra,” says Urban Dictionary, “is now the sexiest 46-year old ever to live.” Hehe…

I visited urbandictionary.com and scoured for some meanings to my name. Here are what I found which really amused me.

1. Jello – the sexiest food alive. Yum… Jello…

2. Jello – mediocre sex. Sex is like Jello. When it’s good, it’s really good. But when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good.

3. Jello – short hand for jealous; to be jealous without reason.

4. Jello – ass, usually that of a female booty. Make it wiggle like Jello – the Pack!

5. Jello – a person who is known to break girls hearts and do it continuously; also known for cheating on girlfriend with girlfriends bestfriend!

6. Jello – (i love this one! Haha!) hot, attractive, good looking male, boyfriend, husband, etc.

7. Jello – (here’s another one!) a word standing for totally sweet, awesome, nasty, hot, super, etc.

8. Jello – a woman’s breast. Check out the jello on that chick.

I have no idea why most of the matches have something to do with sex. I’m not so sure but I guess all the Jello’s in the world are sexual. Haha…

Eleven Minutes

This is something you ought to keep in your bookshelf for another read in the future!

Eleven Minutes is a story of a young girl named Maria from a small Brazilian village. After being heart broken in her first innocent encounter with love, she developed this stigma: Love is a terrible thing that will make you suffer. By some twists of fate, Maria finally ended up working as a prostitute in Geneva. She developed fascination with sex. There, she slowly drifted farther away from real love. But her despairing view of love was put to test when she met a painter who sees in her an “inner light.” Maria was brought to an enigma where she has to choose between two diverging roads: pursuing a path of darkness or risking everything to find her own “inner light.”

This wonderfully written novel is an interesting study of scared and profane sexuality in the context of real love. Dealing with a myriad of emotions, the novel carefully and skillfully touched issues on sacred sex and sadomasochism. Coelho’s candid and utter simplicity brought about unreserved sophistication, capturing the readers’ emotion.

Soulful and expressive, the novel was filled with vivid illustrations and visualizations through the author’s unreserved literary expressions. His understandings of sex as a prayer – a way to touch divinity, and his ability to show the co-mingling world of sex, love, pain, and loneliness, showing these things through characters that are enticingly human prevailed in the entirety of the novel.

Caution: this book is certainly not puritanical. Some scenes and moments in the book are sexually charged, hoisting the story in its zenith. This book is highly recommended for people who are open-minded.

“Eleven Minutes is an exploration into the things we crave most out of life presented in a way that will awaken your soul and change the way you love and make love.”

Continuum

The long wait is over! Featuring its carrier politically aware single “Waiting on the World to Change, John Mayer is back to the mainstream musicscape as he releases his third studio recording album “Continuum.

After two years of hibernation since “Heavier Things, the grand slam Grammy Award winner is back from being the backseat poet as he flaunts his way to the lime light once again with songs written and performed in his own genius in-your-face blues, jittery beats, witty wordplay and guitar-slapping strums. Continuum is a collection of the guitar and vocal maestro’s pop/rock songs all packaged in one soulful, enthralling hybrid and artistic fretworks display.

Having performed with some of the music scene’s bigwigs and iconics like Eric Clapton among others, John Mayer redefines himself as a music master who exceeds beyond genre boundaries. In this album, John Mayer showcases his musical influences in his songwriting and music-making blitz. Continuum features lounge-ified grooves such as “I Don’t Trust Myself (With Loving You), “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room, and the Sam Cooke-influenced “I’m Gonna Find Another You. Also, keep in-step with John Mayer’s signature in his new songs “The Heart of Life and “Stop This Train.

Guess you’ve already heard “Waiting on the World to Change creating huge impact on your radio frequency. Buy this album and prepare to be caught up in an emo trance with the bluesman’s guitar-slinging and the soulful vocal’s music masterpiece. Find yourself a comfy spot while enjoying the guitar genius’ artistic blips and cutthroat lyrics all included in one great album that all John Mayer fanatics should never miss. Or if you’re not, Continuum might be a turning point for you. Grab it and listen up!

Don’t wait on the on the world to change! Look up for this album in the music store near you and grab a copy of John Mayer’s Continuum!

Facing the Giants

Get yourself a hankie, grab your pillow, or go find some huggable companion before watching this film. I’m pretty sure (and that’s a “sure” sure) that you’re gonna have a good cry afterwards.

Facing the Giants stars coach Grant Taylor (Alex Kendrick), Shiloh Academy’s high school football coach, who, in his six years of leading Shiloh Eagle’s puny bench, has never led the team to a winning season. That, and his other austere personal crises, makes giving up the best and the easiest escape. But not until some heaven-sent ¬visitor managed to get him back to his senses, reminded him to take heart and “prepare his fields” for God’s coming rain.

Directed by Kendrick himself, Facing the Giants is a film which surely hits a soft spot in all of us. Though the film exhibited conventional camera angles, framing of the shots, and not so out-of the-usual cinematographic style, Kendrick gave well-deserved justice in hoisting the story in its zenith through the film’s sheer simplicity, matched with brilliant script and story line. I myself had my eyes watery and felt irresistible goosebumps several times while watching the film. Find yourself crying one moment, laughing so hard the next, or cheering your heart out for Shiloh Eagles the other, for this film will surely get you to the edge of your comfy seat while watching it.

Facing the Giants is a story about trusting in the power of faith and discovering the strength to persevere; about giving God your best, and letting Him do the rest. It is about facing your giants, i.e. family struggles, personal crises, and emotional chaos.

This film really has it all so I encourage you not to miss this one. Since it’s family-friendly all the way, there’s no way I won’t recommend watching this film to everybody. Better yet, buy your own DVD copy so you could watch it again and again and find out that a new revelation is in store for you each time.It’s rated five-star so don’t miss it!

Martha

It’s stupid to ask for that one constant thing in this world of shifting sands…

A story was told about an Andalusian girl who works in an antique shop somewhere in the dry region of Southern Spain. Her name is Martha. This is her story… along with the relics that surround her fragile world.

Everyday she goes about her routine – carefully wiping every piece of priceless artifact made more valuable through time. This she does with extreme cautiousness. She needs to be very careful since the pieces of stuff around her have been in this earth centuries even before she was born.

A simple yet elegant vase on the last shelf in one corner of the room was her favorite. A day won’t come to pass without her sweet strokes and mild caresses touching its fragile exterior from its mouth to the base. This vase never loses its luminescence and elegance because of the love and attention that Martha gives to it.

Many times, the vase nearly falls from its place in the shelf. Good thing Martha is always within the proximity to save the vase from its fateful end. Martha loves the vase. And the mere thought of losing it gives her heaves of sigh. She nearly cries every time she thinks of it.

Martha’s worst nightmare had finally morphed into reality. Caderousse, the store owner, approached Martha. His news was shocking. Martha was stunned. She was fired from her job for no apparent reason at all. She cried. Martha just lost the job that she dearly loves.

“Please Señor Caderousse… I can’t afford to lose this job. All my life I’ve been doing this job. This is my life. I’m begging you Señor Caderousse… Please let me stay,” Martha was on her knees. But Caderousse didn’t budge. His heart was as hard as stone. “Leave now and never come back,” he adamantly, but coldly, answered. Martha had no choice. She left.

Before finally leaving the antique shop which she considered her home and refuge for such a long time, she stopped by to have a final glimpse of the vase at the corner of the shop. She cried her last beside the vase that she loves so deeply. Her cuddle was so tight; a child could have been suffocated at the grip of her warm embrace. Her tears fell on the surface of the vase.

“Can I take this vase with me, Señor Caderousse?” “No. You have to earn a fortune for you to afford that!” was Caderousse’s cold reply. She then left without a word. But tears flooded her eyes.

Martha made it a point to drop by at the antique shop and spend some stolen time with her favorite vase. Everyday she would visit the vase at the corner of the room as if it was her child. But Caderousse would always drive her out of his antique shop. It hurts her every time.

Months passed and Martha was hired at an antique shop in the neighboring town. Inevitable it might be, because Martha soon became preoccupied with her new job. And she soon got used to not seeing her favorite vase. She also grew tired of Caderousse’s rejection. She then found another lovely antique in the shop that she is working in, a gold plated jar with silver lining in its outlines. Elegant. As elegant as the vase that she used to venerate.

Meanwhile, the vase at Caderousse’s shop lost its elegance and splendor. The elegant vase that used to sit in simple and sheer magnificence at the corner of the antique shop is now covered with dust and dirt. No more Martha to show love and affection. The vase lost its value. Pathetic.

Martha’s attention was diverted to the new vase that had drawn her attention. It became beautiful with every touch and caress. It was adorable. Martha soon forgot about her once-favorite vase at Caderousse’s shop.

Something dreadful happened at Caderousse’s shop. A Chinese merchant went to the antique shop. While clumsily examining every piece of artifact in the shelves, the Chinese merchant accidentally elbowed out the pathetic vase from where it recline…

Did it fall to pieces? Did it break? Who cares? Martha doesn’t care.