the only animator in the world whose work actually speaks to me. nothing—no one has even come close to making such an impact in so few frames.
dun dun dun….
testing my new tablet!
REBLOOOOOOOOOOGGGGGGGGG. seriously, I don’t ask anyone to reblog like..ever, but this is for my great friend Sid and I want people to see what an amazing artist she is! SO DO ITTTTTTTTT; PLEASE.
As I sit here fixing my friends’ hard drives. This scene quickly came to mind. Fittingly, days before, one of my friends mentioned how I was so much like Anakin in my approach to things.
And now, I can relate to him in that he realizes that there are some things beyond fixing through mere tinkering.
when i was a child, i used to play with these guys all the time. i always wondered then why other plants didn’t do this. and i concluded that since this behaviour was more animal than plant, the makahiya must be more animal than plant. what a silly child i was….
the plants name is called “makahiya” and hiya in tagalog means “shy”.
whenever you touch the plants leaves, they immediately fold up together looking as if its really shy hence the name.
amazing
next time i’m going to the philippines, i’m hunting for this.
The Space Between
“The space between the tears we cry
Is the laughter keeps us coming back for more
The space between the wicked lies we tell
And hope to keep safe from the pain”
-Excerpt from “The Space Between” by Dave Matthews Band
The space between the world and I.
When I was a lot younger, I was very distant from everyone. Parents. Brother. Everyone. My friends were few and I refuse to concede to my need to find more. I was an island. For the longest time, I thought that this was fine—that this is my choice and that by my will alone, I will be all right. After all, what is wrong with this choice? I hurt no one. I do my own thing. And through years of practice, I have found great proficiency in doing this on my own. I was a self-sufficient island. And by remaining internal, I believed that everything external was unaffected. Untouched. Unhurt.
I was wrong.
The space between he and I.
My mother came to me one afternoon and spoke of my father the night before. She told me that he cried himself to sleep because of me. I was at a lost as to why. I haven’t done anything to him. I did not say any disrespectful words nor did I do anything harmful. She said he blames himself for my isolation. That somehow, he failed as a parent in being unable to instill in me a sense of openness. That it was his fault that I could not become approachable and thus I could come to him for whatever it was in my mind. He looks at my brother and sees how expressive he is. Then there was I—the guy who barely speaks, barely smiles, barely shows anything. “Where have I gone wrong?” he wondered.
The space between my heart and I.
And there was the part that hit me. I wanted to tell him that it was all right. It wasn’t his fault that I am the way I am. He did not push me away. This was my decision. But he blamed himself for my own decision. Of course I wanted to tell him that that was not his fault. I wanted to tell him I’m all right.
I couldn’t. I have become too much of what I decided to be. And when the time came that I had to leave the island, I couldn’t. I was stuck. The one person who cared so much for me and deserved the most reassurance did not get it.
The space between then and now.
He always said to me before all of this that he wanted me to consider him not just as a father, but as a good friend. He wanted me to feel comfortable enough that I can come to him about anything, talk to him about anything, and he will listen, comfort, and defend. I couldn’t. I didn’t have really good friends then and I thought that talking about things were but mere irrelevant discourses. Of course now, I know better. Sometimes, talking about it is good as it allows an outlet for yourself. Of course there are other outlets; this blog is one of them right here. But to be able to look at someone and tell them what you feel, to see them put to bear all their knowledge and experience just to comfort you, to see them share your worries because they care that much…. That provides such a higher form of comfort. Of course you needn’t always say what you feel. Sometimes there is comfort in solitude in itself. But I learned not to dwell in solitude. Because not only have I deprived myself of finding comfort among others, but I deprive them of me. This is important, you see; the few people who genuinely care for you wishes you only to be well. They’d give anything to see an authentic, unpained smile. They are happy when you display that smile. And my father was so happy when I started to talk to him slowly about things going on around me. It was a slow start, but at least it started. And as the years went by, we began to understand each other more. I am so glad that this happened. The number of years we may have with one another are diminishing sadly, so we need to take the time to make best use of those years.
The space between you and I.
So to my good friends whom I love the most, please, please, please if you are comfortable enough with me, share with me what aches you. I care for you so much that the slightest thing that affects you affects me gravely as well. I wonder about you so much that I always ask how can I make my time with you even better. And I would like to think that I have come to know you so much that I can see within seconds when something is bothering you. And most importantly, if you seek silence, let me know so I may give it. And in the space between sadness in pain is where I’ll wait to try to soothe your mind. The space between our meeting now and the next is where I only think of how to make your lives greater. The space between our two hugs is the time I cherish most. The space between where I pick you up and drop you off is heaven. The space between what you desire and what you have is where I’ll hope to bridge. The space between you and I is the space I want to diminish.
Do not hesitate to ask me for anything. Do not hesitate to tell me anything. I’m sure you’ve heard me say this many times before. My greatest fear is if you no longer find me worthy of providing you comfort and solace. I consider it my second greatest failure if I am unable to put to bear my own experience to quell the troubles of your soul. I consider it my greatest failure when I am not provided the chance.
I understand fully now why my dad cried that evening. And I know now that it is such an unbearable pain. And please understand my only wish with you all—the only favour I ask of you all—is that you be happy. This overrules all. If you find this through sharing or through silence, then I shall uphold either, for I uphold you.
ryan look. it’s batman. he came to ikea LOOOLLL.
loooool…!!! that’s how i get to work, actually! :D my car is the batmobile at 5 am hahaha…
Where The Beautiful Bows Before The Precious, The Pretty.
“Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”
I just got back from Kelowna this afternoon. And though the trip was fun and availed myself to many new experiences, there was one highlight of that entire trip that resonates within me: people’s beauty. The entire time I was there whilst I walked around the clean streets of the small (relative to Vancouver) towns of Kelowna and Penticton, I would almost certainly ignore the natural scenery of the rolling hills or the ever-changing, temperamental clouds and instead focus on the people walking against me. I would focus in on the women’s faces to check for balance. A wonderful nose. High cheekbones. A proportionate mouth. Hair. Skin. The whole lot. The telltale signs of beauty. But then I lock on to the paramount feature: the eyes.
Yes, I’m a sucker for eyes. Everything else can be for naught when compared against these windows to the soul. Whereas the other things listed earlier are but the physical, and may or may not play a role in the personal, eyes, however, and I maintain this despite whatever science you can conjure to prove otherwise, tells a lot about a person. They can tell if a person’s tired or energetic, happy or depressed, or, more importantly, genuine or pretentious. And to me, they are what separate the pretty from the beautiful.
Wait, the pretty from the beautiful? Yes. I am under the unshakable belief that beautiful people are far easier to come by than pretty people. That pretty is a higher state than beautiful. That “prettiness” is so valuable, so rare, that it is barely noticed, underrated and overshadowed by its more highly-coveted, every-try-hard sister, the “beautiful”. I was asked about why I think this many times by many friends. And in my recent answer, I gave the following:
”to me beautiful is something that you can manufacture. it can be an intentionally forced aesthetic whose sole purpose is to please the eye. as a result, it becomes too perfect. and as it was said: “perfection has one grave defect. it’s apt to be dull.” pretty to me implies a more subdued form of physical pleasantness. it is natural. it is untouched or undefiled by vanity. it is a reflection of what is within. it will have flaws and a few blemishes here and there, but those only serve to highlight what is right and what is proper. it is thus not dull, because some parts are unexpected.”
A person who concentrates too much on appearance and vanity often do so for she lacks the inner confidence and strength of her natural self. She is void of beauty within so she concentrates on beauty without. So she can emphasize on all the make-up and what other man-made aesthetics her bank account can produce for her, but her eyes… her eyes will betray her.
And this is where the eyes come in, and why I love them so: I have yet to meet an unredeemable person with wonderful eyes. And eyes, to me is a major factor in separating the pretty from the beautiful. Every kind, gentle soul I’ve met has had the best set of eyes. Their eyes allow them to see nothing but great beauty (or should I prettiness?) in the world, and in turn their personalities will reflect this. And finally, we see these personalities within them. Prettiness is both within and without. Internal and external. Physical, and more importantly, beyond.
A cohort once commented on another person’s appearance—questioning how she always manages to look so gorgeous in every picture and in every real-life situation. Maybe she was half-joking, but I can’t help think that the reason is so obvious: “because you know her.” She is pretty because you know her in real life. You know her personality and you, perhaps secretly, admire it. You know of her as a very kind person. Not just nice, but genuinely, kind. The kind that will immediately get up and grab you a napkin. The kind that will run just so she can open a door for you. The kind that will immediately stop and apologize the moment a hint of uneasiness is seen in your face. That kind. That very rare, very desirable, very honest kind. And if you were to draw her face, every stroke, every line will be done so gently but with a smile because you adore everything about this person and as a result, you wish only to replicate the prettiness of her face and personality on paper. That is prettiness right there. And perhaps now you understand why it’s so rare; it’s more than appearance, it is a state of being. You have to knowthe person. And though I have called many people beautiful, I have only called four pretty. And I’ve been counting since I came to this country in 1993. And those four I have known quite well as friends. They indeed are the prettiest people on the earth thus far. And if I find another, maybe having her as a friend shall not be enough….
