| The Red Cross Ladies |
[Oct. 5th, 2006|04:33 pm] |
The Republic has just formed the Red Cross Association a month ago and this is a very good opportunity for the organization to reaise funds for the soldiers who are sacrificing their lives at the frontlines.
Through these funds, we will be able to off little something somethings to the soldiers. And i thought that it would be a better idea if the Red Cross Ladies be the ones to transport and hand the gifts to the troops. It would be such a wonderful sight. It will not only bring them joy
but a spice of hope as well. I can only imagine their joyous faces.
At the same time, these ladies would be able to report to the association the sufferings and the other needs of the troops. This will help the Red Cross Association to be more efficient in helping the troops.
I've gone into battle severel times already. And every minute i step foot on the battle field and psych myself up for the war, i consider myself dead already.
But with those little gifts, my soldiers and my people wouldn't have to think that. It will definitely build their morale--the morale to fight harder... to win... to live another day.
That is the least that the association can do before the soldiers go back to battle field.
"If at that moment, the enemy attacked, there is no doubt that they would have died first before abandoning their posts!" |
|
|
| What the f*ck?? |
[Oct. 5th, 2006|04:19 pm] |
i just signed my resignation letter a few days back. I'm through with all these. i really can't take it. the Filipino troops are just so disorganized and uncontrolable. i cannot continue leading them.
But apparently, no matter what i do... i am stuck. General aguinaldo has just rejected my resignation.
hijo de puta.
what can i do now? |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Sep. 20th, 2006|11:25 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | On this night of a Thousand Stars - Agustin Magaldi | ] |
On this night, I feel as if a poem will do. Neruda will not though, for tonight is a night of rejoicing. A birth has occurred: mine. I do not pretend to know what I am. I know who I am and that is all that matters. Many men have died, or at least gotten severe headaches trying to figure out who they were. I am blessed. I know. As my words have yet to come to me(I surmise they are still floating around in my metaphysical brain), I think an old Spanish poem ought to suffice for a poem; even if it is not of my own making.
Hijo de la luna:
Tonto el que no entienda.
Cuenta una leyenda
Que una hembra gitana
Conjuró a la luna
Hasta el amanecer.
Llorando pedía
Al llegar el día
Desposar un calé.
"Tendrás a tu hombre,
Piel morena,"
Desde el cielo
Habló la luna llena.
"Pero a cambio quiero
El hijo primero
Que le engendres a él.
Que quien su hijo inmola
Para no estar sola
Poco le iba a querer."
Luna quieres ser madre
Y no encuentras querer
Que te haga mujer.
Dime, luna de plata,
Qué pretendes hacer
Con un niño de piel.
A-ha-ha, a-ha-ha,
Hijo de la luna.
De padre canela
Nació un niño
Blanco como el lomo
De un armiño,
Con los ojos grises
En vez de aceituna --
Niño albino de luna.
"?Maldita su estampa!
Este hijo es de un payo
Y yo no me lo callo."
Gitano al creerse deshonrado,
Se fue a su mujer,
Cuchillo en mano.
"?De quien es el hijo?
Me has engañado fijo."
Y de muerte la hirió.
Luego se hizo al monte
Con el ni?o en brazos
Y allí le abandono.
Y en las noches
Que haya luna llena
Será porque el niño
Esté de buenas.
Y si el niño llora
Menguará la luna
Para hacerle una cuna.
Y si el niño llora
Menguará la luna
Para hacerle una cuna. |
|
|
| An Introduction |
[Sep. 20th, 2006|10:23 pm] |
Izzy writes:
And here we are again. After almost two days of toying with this infernal contraption known as LJ, this page still has those tacky advertisments on it. I shall find some innocent CSS whiz to make this more presentable. I made such a wonderful background, but it can't be seen because of the stupid advertisments and because I don't know how to toggle the opacity or transparency of the text-boxes. Hell, I don't even need to know that; I just need them shunted off to the side so that my design can be seen. I spent ages looking for the proper pictures and fonts for that. Oh well, this is nothing. I'm just proud that I did anything at all. Usually my journals are simple affairs in black and white and red. This was a triumph for me, even if I'm not happy with it yet.
This journal was born because I (and the members of group J, whom I have yet to contact) signed up for extra work and was assigned by Mister Tristan the topic of Antonio Luna. I supposed that the point of this exercise was to provide information (which I(we) plan to do), make reactions (ditto), and to just generally give ourselves a fresh outlook on History. [edit: I nearly lost the stupid page there. I pressed the Ctrl button and the backspace button at the same time and I went back a page. Thank God I didn't lose what I was writing.] However, I wanted to make this a more interesting project.
The members of group J (depending on if they want to participate in this little exercise) will be writing as themselves, and as Antonio Luna. We will provide the necessary links to all the factual things about Luna, but we have taken the liberty on creating a friendster account as a sort of summary of all that. We shall also be writing as Luna, creating a histocial fiction piece from his times at Ateneo, in Barcelona, in Madrid, during battle, and whatever else strikes our fancy. We will also have reaction essays written in our perspective, but these will be in the comment section of the blog, as after all, it is Luna's blog. Not ours. Without further ado, I give you: the mind of Antonio Luna.
[edit: Due to the confusion casued by the groups picking their topics without meeting, I have relinquished control of this journal to Group A. My group's project (group J) can now be found here. Izzy] |
|
|
| Acceptance |
[Jun. 7th, 2006|12:05 am] |
Death. I've always wondered how it felt like to die. To hear your heart beat its last and then... nothing. There would be silence. I read somewhere that hearing is the last sense to go. I suppose they were right as I heard Mrs. Aguinaldo, the general's mother, ask, "Nagalaw pa ba iyan?" even when I thought I had already died. I imagine that someone would've come near, probably kicked me to see if I was still alive. But I wouldn't really know. I was dead rather I am dead. Time really doesn't matter as it is all the same. Have I been dead a day, a month, a year? There's no way of telling from where I am.
I do remember my last entry though. I will tell you what happened and perhaps you will understand my bitterness and my anger:
Last June 2, I received a telegram from Aguinaldo ordering me to go to Cabanatuan. As he is my superior, I complied and left Pangasinan. I, along with Paco and a few aides, arrived in Cabanatuan Catholic Convent on June 4 or 5, I cannot remember, only to find that Aguinaldo had left for Pampanga! Of course I was furious! It was a long and tiresome journey! Oh, curse my temper, for immediately I started cursing everyone! And to add to all my frustrations, I spot soldiers I had ordered to be disciplined for insubordination! They were part of the presidential guard! Armed and everything! So I did what any general would do, cuffed them but not without cursing them, I admit. Oh my god how they turned against me! They kicked and stabbed and shot me! I managed to get to the plaza where my faithful Paco came to my side. We both died there I think.
You see how and why I cannot be sorry and you would have to forgive me for being not so. They had killed me. Soldiers I had once commanded. The betrayal is greater than any that I have known. But I may not be sorry in uttering such words yet I do not mean some of them. The last five words specifically. I do not wish for Aguinaldo, whether he be the invisible hand that drove the knives into my flesh or not, to fail. I do not want the revolution to fall. Maybe, with my death, the troops will be united. Maybe, they will instill in themselves the discipline that I desire in my soldiers. But I am placing too much importance in my own death. I am not Jose Rizal. But then, I was a great general. My death will be felt in the battlefield. I feel that I will be missed.
Is it unusual that I feel sad about my own death? But then, death really is a
sad topic. It is one surrounded with sad poems.
Poems. I remember I started my life with one. Maybe that's the reason I find it appropriate that I end it with another. It is not for me though. It is for you who are living. It is a warning I hope our Aguinaldo will yield.
Ozymandias - a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
With this I bid you goodbye. |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
iwaseclipsed's journal