What is great music? (An ambiguous word, that, but that's the essence of the emphasized word in the question. What is great in the rubric of music?)

Anything great in the arts--be it in literature, music, drama, poetry, etc.--would be its insurmountable power to capture the participant's intellect and imagination and emotion into a world of novelty, of recreation, that exists solely in his head. In music per se, listening to "great" music would demand you to shut all your other four perceptual senses--close your eyes, ram cotton balls into your nose, shut your mouth, hold your farts, and sit / lie still in a tranquil position such that air wouldn't even stir--to maximize your auditory expedition wallowing into the music that moves you poignantly into the realms of the unutterably irrational, ineffable, indescribable, illogical, incomprehensible, arousing random images, scenes, emotions, etcetera, of a particular time and space that are only inherent in you. You recreate the music with your historicity--your accumulated experiences from the day of your inevitable cellular mitosis in your mother's womb, up to the very second you reach the period at the end of this sentence. You revivify a thousand experiences from the dung of memory in your head, be it yours or some other snippet you captured from the television or your history class. Either way you draw those things from yourself, from your head, from your historicity. It's not the music, damnit, it's you who make it. And music is the mere instrument that propels you into that irrevocable experience.

Such is Antonio Vivaldi's violin compositions. There's nothing like classical music in its blaring grandiose trapped reverberating in the four walls of your room.

I want to eat tuna fettuccine. GAH. HUNGRY.X0

Got drunk yesternight, which is bad, because I have promised myself not to drink and smoke anymore (Didn't really promise myself, mind, I was only driven by a fit for change.) and now I have even disrupted my internal sleeping clock for I have slept for three hours this afternoon on top of the five hours of beauty rest this morning.

I awoke at 4 a.m., with bodies sandwiching me on a single bed. My throat was so parched I had the temerity to think of getting up and quaffing half a liter of water from the kitchen downstairs. The house is said to have been haunted, known for its disappearance and reappearance of things otherwise consciously left in a specific location: a pen in the middle of the bed without any potential of even walking towards the edge by itself, would relocate under the bed; ashtrays from the window sill would relocate at the foot of the door, etc. Then there's the mysterious faceless lady in white walking in and out of Ik's bathroom. Then there's the man in black standing in strategic positions, usually at the foot of the stairs. But my mouth was so dry and my cells refused to work due to the lack of fluids in my body, to keep my internal organs--intestines, liver, heart, lungs, gall bladder, etcetera--belabored as they should be, deconstructing water into molecules of hydrogen and oxygen, the latter to be distributed to the brain by the raging rivers of blood. I wanted to stay in bed, even with my back aching from the static position in between two other bodies clasping me side by side. But my body wailed for water. So I got up and tiptoed among the other bodies sprawled on the carpet beside the bed. I unbolted the door and peeked outside the hallway down to the direction of the stairs. Utter darkness. I thought my eyes were still closed. I groped for the light switch, found it on one wall, flicked it on, when lo! It's not working. So I retrieved my cellphone from my back pocket and lit my way down the stairs to the kitchen. You wouldn't believe what happened next. I searched for another light switch, found it, clicked it open when to my aghast, there was a cockroach on the wall staring right at me...

I'm bored.

School – we discussed too much technical matters on writing that I have been recently cautious of the way I write, leaving spontaneity behind, which just nullifies the very purpose of writing in the first place. The fiery afflatus resting at my fingertips is sodden, extinguished never to be revived again. Unless... I put all the technicalities behind and punch in rapid-fire speed without having any sense of direction whatsoever.

We're going to read 16 novels for English 12. o_o

English 12. The professor is a walking edified yawner I swear. She was droning about the tuition fee increase and how it won't affect the professors' salaries and everything. She prattled discursively about UP's administration system, the government, public schools, budget allocation, then the country's trillions worth of debt. "Of all these talk about billions and trillions of money," she blabbered, "you people--even if you're still not working--already owe more than a hundred thousand pesos even at the very day you were born." I raised my hand and commented, "Pardon me, but that's actually approximately P44,000 worth of debt per person." "Oh really?" she said partly indifferent to her baseless assumptions and continued, "But by the time you graduate the foreign debt would have had escalated due to interest rates, and with the peso inflation versus the dollar and all that, each of you would owe about a hundred thousand." "Excuse me," I interrupted again, "you forgot to factor in the increasing population rate against the decreasing mortality rate." "Ah huh?" she stared at me slightly bewildered. "With those counteracting factors," I added, "every individual's debt would most likely gravitate at that same given amount, about 44 to 50,000, by the time we graduate." She was rather pissed off and changed the topic to Homer's Iliad.

I abhor the SUB at Comparative Literature 111. The sub's actually my previous professor in Creative Writing. She's fine, but ionno. Maybe it's her fat deposits bulging from her tight clothes. Or maybe I'm just saddened by the thought that the most admirably respectable writer-slash-fictionist in modern Philippine Literature is not standing in front of me, thus sapping my expectations of having a real writer teach me real stuff. The substitute teacher herself is a Palanca Awardee but ionno. Whatthefuckever.

Word did you say?

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