Arctic Beetle

June, July, August, September and October were five runners on a sprint whose approach and departure flashed simultaneously. November quickly followed before I recognized the five had just been within sight. At the start, only June and July were bound to be mentioned in the above sentences but time dragged on such that with each monthly effort to finish this entry off (and free myself from scientific writing), a new runner is supplemented to the list. My intention was to illustrate how I struggle to succeed at writing amidst the previous semester, but the timestamp obviously tells otherwise. I write now to tell you of this struggle and what makes it one, in lieu of my failure to illustrate it.

Let it be known that every time I write, I trip over one of these four ruts:

1. My thought is rarely monogamous and it is never silenced save when I am asleep. It shuffles through the extant tabs in my head like a typical ladies’ man who experiences dissatisfaction from sticking around with a single partner for long. And it certainly doesn’t help to have pairs of eyes and hands which constantly demand that I find something to occupy their attention. In between my trouble to focus, I get to fiddle with the wash bottle on my table, repeatedly insert the key into my drawer’s keylock, and visit the bathroom and unwind with the current roll of tissue in the dispenser.

How I rise up: Buddha is my ever-dependable henchman. I get on my meditation stance and follow every thing written on this article. After a good 2 minutes, I immediately start relishing the whole duration I pounce on the keyboard. No kidding.

2. The portion of my brain involved in processing language regularly experiences bouts of verbal constipation. (My gratitude goes out to Sedric for his accurate diagnosis. He’s definitely on his way towards becoming a great doctor.) I usually have a general idea of how my sentences will explain themselves. The difficulty comes up when I plod though my limited database of words and pick ones which, upon subjection to the loooong process of putting them into order, will satisfy the expression I pictured in mind.

How I rise up: I literally rise up from my seat and descend the stairs to consume a bottle of Yakult or depending on its availability, several spoonfuls of powdered milk. I have this notion that the ounce of sugar contained in either will instantly supply my brain with ample ATP.

3. I am rarely in the mood to finish my sentences.

How I rise up: I hold off any attempt to write, and only set my brain in motion as early as when everyone in the house and most of the people in my messenger are asleep. The perfect ambiance is completed when the sole source of light left in my room is the laptop screen I am facing right now.

4. Any combination of (1), (2) and (3) since they almost always come as a package.

How I rise up: I don’t. I can only solve one problem at a time so I’d like you to consider the invaluableness of each instance I that I write here or successfully submit a paper.

I am completely aware that my writing rituals are placebos.

Up to this point, yesterday is indistinguishable from that magical day of May I set aside writing for the global welfare. That is to say, I did not merely wallow in inutility during the months I was not seen because as far as the humanity is concerned, the counterintelligence measure used against the recent unpublicized zombie attack in Manila is my brainchild. It was rough both physically and mentally, and if you conceived an inquiry having come across the word zombie, then allow me to verify it: fancy schmancy plants do not stand a chance against zombies; however, a brilliant brain does. Superb story to compensate for my 1 year absence, yes yes?

In the first few weeks of the update deadlock, a “creature” (I’m pretty sure it was Smeagol’s brother) had come to my presence and informed me that my blog is under the surveillance of my parents. My dear parents, I’d appreciate it greatly if you’ll give me at least the comfort of not being reminded of the reality where its URL is no longer strange to you. Immunity from the unsealed dinner time discussions is one of my motives when I started this. Nonetheless, I assure you that the deficiency in kinetic energy of this webspace is exclusively dependent on the variable I dub procrastination.

On another note, it appears to me that my hit counter had recently gotten a generous kick of nitrous boost, thanks to my auto-refreshing browser equipped with the ability to switch IP addresses anytime so I may also be under the impression that I have unique foreign visitors. My cheap statistical means of dividing the total hits over the total number of days the data was collected suggests that my browser refreshes this blog at a rate of 2.73 hits/day. This figure surprisingly coincides with the recent trend in my daily hits. I take it to mean that this general direction taken by the cosmos is plainly a consequence of the strong foreboding given off by my heroic return.

You should bear in mind, perchance you clamor for more updates, that  I put the well-being of the humanity above all else. It should be out of your anticipation that updates are to follow thereafter this for zombie scourges are anything but timed and proverbial.

Cheers for the upteenth start of The Arctic Beetle.

It’s a conspiracy, I say! The cosmos is machinating a plot to impede my intent to ramble and jog every now and then. (In point of fact, the hues and cries should be steered towards me. No matter which view you will look at it from, the blame should be laid on me for perpetrating a vacuous act of deleting the core files that maintain this URL’s existence. However, I’m no different from a n00b so permit me to focus the spotlight on the vast cosmos — which I think has more excuses to offer, like the adage “Sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down.” — instead.) Alas, I am not going to budge, not even a nanometer.

Since this comes right after a post (that I just barred from Muggles’ eyeshot) which says I’m on hiatus, I’m afraid this signals the third dawn of Arctic Beetle. I want none of the EP1C PH41L stamp again and of the pokes I frequently get from my tightwad self, complete with a mini-monologue about how I am wasting my sister’s dough with this whole enactment of flaunting my own domain with modicum content.

Before this post, before that Twitter widget, before that amputated beetle lodged on the upper right corner of your screen, before this white layout that probably caused your pupils to dilate abruptly, there were Arctic Beetle numero uno and numero dos. Let’s have a moment of silence in memory of them. And after that deafening silence, ladies and gentlemen, let me ramble again until I cross the demarcation line of your patience. Well, maybe not.

Out of curiosity and an intent to be conceited at least for a minute or so, my official blog came out to be the source I wanted to extort –yes, extort– my self-vanity from.  An extortion would only be given thought in the real world if it was successful enough, or at the very least, created a brouhaha which is quite a mundane scenario in the political affairs of the Philippines. In my case, I could only be granted a lawsuit if, for one, I can still admire my former works with their impact on me unchanged or two, if I can still find any trivial literary effectiveness in them. Unfortunately, I found none and the sad thing about it was, there was no fraying at the edges done before they completely lost their glimmer (if they had any, to begin with).

For the first time among my passed summer vacation days which were entirely spent for the pursuit of hedonism, I felt that I had to accomplish something, in addition to reading a book or attaining the ideal statures I am dreaming for my in-game characters. It felt really urgent, to the point that when light reached my eyes at the speed of 300 million meters per second, I knew that I had a calling of wiping from the face of the Earth or at least from the biggest entanglement in the world weaved by I-dunno-who the words I once butchered English with, exaggeration aside. Truth be told, it wasn’t just urgent — I felt excitement on my part too!

Reading my previous posts can be synonymous to pitying myself and wondering how I could have written such works– with no visible coherency but has visible teensy-weensy grammatical errors and magnified literary failure– and in the end, be still proud of them.. until yesterday. Reading other blogs whose writers are way superior than I am (for calling them better is an understatement, a shame on their part and a piece of flattery for me) doesn’t make things any better. However, a ‘Touche!’ for them for imparting a hit more than adequate to wake me up from my delusion of being an exceptional writer and for making me recognize that the moral of my story, at the end of the day, is to be not conceited no matter what.

What you are reading right now, lucky fellow, is the beginning coming from my same blog’s end (reference to a song is slightly intended). This time, I am hoping and calling upon in supplication to God and to the minor god of writing that they (and He, for God) may help me create a better and less-serious blog, wishing as well that what I said moments ago will not be classified as a violation of the first commandment since it only mentioned not having a god before him and not otherwise. Oh please, may the 27-page copy in Tahoma 8 of my previous works be not a repeated mistake in the time yet to come.

A word after a word after a word is power as stated by a local radio station in one of their self-made commercials. Nonetheless, it’s still better if that power can still be radiated with words arranged tactfully; hence, start of this blog aimed to achieve that. Welcome to the Arctic Beetle’s world!