Welcome to Volume 6 of The Marocharim Experiment. This blog is authored and maintained by Marocharim, the self-professed antichrist of new media.
Marocharim is a 21-year-old college senior from the University of the Philippines Baguio, majoring in Social Anthropology and has a minor in Political Science. He lives with his parents, his brother and his sister in Baguio City - having been born and raised there all his life. He is the author of three book-versions of The Marocharim Experiment.
Most of his time is spent at school, where he can be found in the UP Baguio Library reading or scribbling notes, and sometimes hanging out with his friends or by himself in the kiosks, or the main lobby. During his spare time, he continues writing. When not in school he hangs out with his friends, or takes long walks around Baguio City to, as he puts it, "get lost."
Marocharim suffers from a nervous condition that has left him suffering constant migraines, nausea, and attacked his vision and sensory perceptions in his left-side extremities. While aware of his condition, this does not stop him from vice and his love for writing, reading and learning. He is also active in various cause-oriented groups and freelance writing for some local newspapers.
The Marocharim Experiment Volume I: The Trial of Another Mind, Subject to Disclosure is Available Now
The Marocharim Experiment Volume II: The Nevermind Chronicles is Available Now
The Marocharim Experiment Volume III: The Sentence Construction of Reality is Available Now
"The Marocharim Experiment," "Marocharim" and all the contents in this online web log are the sole intellectual properties of Marck Ronald Rimorin and are protected by existing copyleft laws. Any attempt to copy and/or reproduce the contents of this site, either through electronic or printed means, must be accompanied with the express written consent of the author.
The Korean grocery at Porta Vaga has become an informal embassy for many South Korean expatriates: if only for the bulletin board filled with what I assume to be job opportunities, all written in Hanggul. Many establishments in Porta Vaga - and beyond - have become sort of an analogue to Seoul. Almost every place in Baguio screams of Korean-ness: Internet cafés, churches, coffee shops, bars, restaurants, the works.
As a Baguio resident, I find myself in a quandary whether or not I should accept the "Korean invasion." I consider myself a multiculturalist, but even the tolerance multiculturalism provides has its limits. Suffice to say, multiculturalism is not a denial of cultural identity: it is the assertion of cultural identity. It goes beyond mere recognition: it means respect. It means a place. The late scholar Edward Said explicates this in his seminal work, Orientalism: a misrepresentation towards misrepresentation. Prejudice is a matter of place.
In today's issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer,Baguio evangelists have mounted a "Love Baguio or Leave Baguio" campaign, directed towards migrants who have started "changing the rules" by disobeying City ordinances, by establishing businesses, purchasing properties, and basically becoming the "new blood" threatening to displace the resident hemoglobin of Baguio City. At first, it comes across as an exercise in "bigotry," but you only need to hear of stories of sexual harassment by Koreans, dubious titles and business permits acquired by Koreans (from what I've heard, it's against the law for a foreigner to establish a business in sovereign Philippine territory), underpaid tutors in unaccredited Korean tutorial schools, and shoplifting cases.
To be honest, I have yet to experience "discrimination" from a Korean, but I can't help but feel discriminated reading a bulletin board for job offerings or housing opportunities written only in Hanggul. Yet all this talk of "discrimination" doesn't deny the fact that the term itself is nuanced: there will definitely be Koreans out there who will feel "discriminated" against by the likes of abusive taxi drivers and business establishments that cheat them out of fair prices. A Filipino's disdain for kimchi only leads to a Korean's disdain for dinuguan, if you catch my drift.
Perhaps I can take a cue from my activist roots and call this "imperialism," but I would opt against it: even that term is nuanced, on who is on what side of the fence. Who isn't a "victim" nowadays? This "Korean invasion" thing could have easily been remedied with a sound, non-corrupt immigration bureau that would have kept checks on foreigners, but just where exactly do you draw the line when you're the friendliest country in Asia?
In the words of Marilyn Manson, the theory surrounding my thesis is practically a "mechanical Christ." I don't take to the analytical approach too much: the phenomenon is far more important than the theory. As a friend of mine says, my theorizing has erected a rampart around the virtual environment: like King Leonidas in the movie "300" (onomatopoeic "a-woo" heard three times), I used the theories of a few dead people and a living philosopher to create a wall by which to... I don't really know what said wall is for.
The theory is basically what I call "fragmentation." The "fragmented self" is not something new or groundbreaking: you would see a more articulated version of it in a reading of Jacques Derrida or Michel Foucault. Those of you who may have played SecondLife would probably have a good idea of what I mean by it. Put simply, "fragmentation" is the process by which the coherent, united, singular notion of the self becomes incoherent, deferred, and to a certain extent, chaotic. Selfhood is nothing more than organized difference, further differentiated because of a computer, because of the connection made possible by having a presence in a virtual environment even in a condition of absence.
So as not to give you a "nosebleed" situation, think of the mirror you look into every morning. Now break it into many pieces (forget the seven years of bad luck). So there is a self, but at the same time, there is no self: rather, there are many different selves. Committing anything into the relative permanence of a linguistic sign (in writing or in trace, to invoke Derrida), is to "kill" the self.
Just think of said mirror, you'll get what I mean.
Owing to a power interruption, what was supposed to be yesterday's Blog Action Day entry disappeared, so even the thought of what that entry was supposed to contain disappeared. In the spirit of the day, I'm going to post an old "Rocko's Modern Life" YouTube video here. This is even though I promised myself never to post a video in TMX. Anyway, here goes:
THE RECYCLE SONG
R-E-C-Y-C-L-E recycle! C-O-N-S-E-R-V-E conserve! Don't you P-O-L-L-U-T-E, pollute the river, sky, or sea Or else your gonna get what you deserve
The ozone is in horrible condition From fluorocarbons in our atmosphere They're too small to be seen with normal vision But there's getting to be more of us each year!
We come from a variety of places Like Styrofoam containers and aerosol cans We love to eat the ozone, it's our favorite dessert And if you don't have an ozone then the sun... can... really... hurt!
I must admit we make a lot of garbage This dump is filled up way above the brim If we don't make an effort to recycle The future could be looking mighty grim
Someone's cutting down the O-Town forest It's not enough to sit around and grieve If we don't protect our flora and our fauna Then we won't have the oxygen to breathe
R-E-C-Y-C-L-E Recycle! (Recycle) C-O-N-S-E-R-V-E Conserve! (Conserve) Don't you P-O-L-L-U-T-E, pollute the river, sky, or sea Or else we're gonna get.... what we deserve!
A friend of mine asked me a rather interesting question: is there really such a person as "The One?"
My mind entertained the thought of Keanu Reeves, but not for long. Not only is Keanu's character in "The Matrix" fictitious, but one can also make the case that Keanu's acting talent is also fictitious. Ah, "The One:" that single person destined for someone, that one that would be loved and cherished and desired, that One where one's life will be surrendered to. Not in the religious sense, but in the romantic sense. Ah, romance...
Yea, verily: we all talk about destiny. We all dream about destiny: of beautiful shaded walks lined with flowers, birds chirping in the air, of sitting in a stone bench with trellises of flowering ivy while we have that one special person seated beside us on the sunniest of spring mornings. We dream of church aisles covered with rose petals, sprays of magnolias lining the pews, the groom in a black tuxedo and the bride with a long train of silk and lace, exchanging vows on a beautiful June afternoon.
As much as I'd like to take a long bath and wash away the shame of writing the previous paragraph, such wishful thinking is something I am also guilty of. Searching for the right person is often a struggle of Quixotic proportions: looking for that just one ideal person often leaves us defeated, taking windmills for dragons, and thistle for roses. It often leads us to that day, that ordinary day, just trying to get by, for that boy/girl, that ordinary boy/girl, who was looking to the sky.
News got late to me that some of my younger friends in college have resorted to cheating in a long exam. Now that could have been OK if it were some podunk college, but I looked around to see if there was some break in the fabric of the universe that made it all possible: an act of cheating took place in UP.
I'm not saying that I never cheated before: if by "cheating" you mean copying an assignment passed around the corridor, then yes, I have cheated before. But for all the pride that there is in being an overstaying student of the UP system, I have never cheated in a long exam. Failure and shame are both risky prospects, but I'd rather risk a failing grade than to put the good of my name at risk.
If you truly pride yourself on being an "Iskolar ng Bayan" and would tout it in the streets, you should be a paragon for scholarship. You should live, breathe, and eat the motto emblazoned on the front cover of a blue book: "Honor, Excellence." At least in a long exam: if you can't be excellent, you might as well be honorable. Never mind that UP students cannot all be excellent, but the least thing expected of a UP student is to have a sense of honor.
Lately, I found myself in a sort of quandary, with regards to my thesis. It's not that I'm proud of having 240 pages for a draft, but I find myself in a sense of doubt. "So what?" is a very good question. Not just for me, but for all of us.
It's not often that I find myself ruminating on life's most basic questions: not because I have four stomachs, but because life often hurls you a question that is difficult to stomach. True: we all have a sense of purpose, but exactly what purpose are we talking about? To what purpose does the sense lead to? If all roads lead to Rome, why aren't we all in Rome?
I think my adviser should keep score on how many people I've consulted for my thesis. Writing letters is part and parcel of thesis-writing: while there's nothing wrong with barging in, I've learned how to write letters to complete strangers, respectfully asking for appointments. They all have been very gracious, and a professor at school even went at length to call me up at home.
However, I can't seem to sell my "fragmented self" theory to my adviser. It's basically snake-oil: I'm selling a theory that goes against the grain of the entire discipline of psychology. Not that there's nothing wrong with it: self, in my view, is not a coherent unity but differences in flux. The technicalities and brouhaha of it is something I would gladly talk about with anyone interested (bring enough cigarettes, San Miguel, and a bucket to throw up in), but it's a hard sell, especially if you're hawking it to a professional psychologist.
I could rant and rave all I want, but to echo Karl Popper, everything must be subjected to criticism and debate to truly merit the term "science." I do believe in Thomas Kuhn: the route to science is a route of different paradigms that arrive at some explanation of truth, and not truth itself. Basically, I can't tell if my theory will hold up until I can get someone to argue with me. As long as I set an appointment.
If anything, I've been arguing for the past few months with people I do not know. Not that it matters, but I feel the spirit of Shakespeare in me: of "Alas, poor Yorrick."
Big things come in small packages: that is, if you can't afford the big thing. Almost everything nowadays comes in "economy-size" packages, which says a lot about the state of the economy. Laundry detergent, toothpaste, and shampoo come in economical packages where you get "more." It's not really "more," as it is another way by the elite to further humiliate lumpens. In this day and age, you are worth what you buy: your own sense of self-worth can now be conveniently packed in a sachet.
A few months ago, much to my amusement, my friend Jay showed me a souvenir he got from a recent trip to Abra: a sachet of Ginebra San Miguel. Apparently, the Philippines has already descended into so much poverty that drunkards can no longer buy a small bottle of Ginebra. I don't know how you drink gin from sachets, but I can surmise the kind of abject personal humiliation that comes with partaking vice from small sachets that evoke "Downy Fabric Softener" or "Joy Dishwashing Liquid." I can keep on surmising: Marlboro 5's - five cigarettes that come in a foil pouch - are not yet sold here. They're only available in Metro Manila.
I was reading The Philippine Star today when I came across a full-page ad for Marlboro 5's. A friend of mine, way back, once thought that Marlboro 10's are a disgrace, but now I figure that he'll be staging a revolution against Marlboro 5's. To me, though, the idea is pointless: don't we already sell cigarettes by the stick here? Can't you just do what we common plebian smokers do, in approaching a takatak vendor and buy a few sticks of cigarettes to get by?
Reading the ad, I realized some salient points I've been missing out on smoking: the pouch is meant to preserve flavor. It is a way to keep cigarettes from getting stale. I don't get it: I don't fall into the immediate rubric of people who smoke because of the flavor that's in it (because I'm a common plebian smoker, I don't smoke DJ Mix). No smoker out there would savor the taste of the cigarette. Marlboro 5's also aren't a way for smokers to control their habits: they sell vice.
But like I said earlier, these are times when your own sense of self-worth can be packed into a sachet. Connect the dots.
I don't usually do "blog reviews..." no, wait, I have never done a single blog review. The least I want to do is to come across as an "expert" on blogging. Besides, I'm extremely subjective, and I admit to it. The way I see it, I should be the last person to write about other people's blogs. Besides, the word "review" strikes me as playing to the role of a Roger Ebert or an Alfie Lorenzo.
I managed to access four new blogs from Marifi Villegas' class on Online Journalism (Journ 113), which are class requirements. I'm not a Journalism student, but I have been blogging for close to three years now that I feel the need - no, the urge - to write about other people's blogs. By any means, these are not "reviews," but my thoughts on the J113 group blogs.
To be honest, I've lost touch with my roots in campus journalism, and even if I didn't, I used to be a particularly difficult editor to please. But beyond that, I decided to let go of my journalistic wedgie and I'm here to present you with the J113 group blogs.
To be perfectly honest, I'm not an environmentalist, and while this blog didn't make one out of me (be it a tree-hugger or a Chin-Chin Gutierrez), I like the way the articles are written. Granted that I didn't expect such style from people trained to be journalists (as "high-schoolish" as the articles may seem), but it speaks of a kind of nostalgia that is much lacking in reporting today: the honest, no-pretenses innocence of the first-person.
The potentials of reporting about the environment are very much evident with D'Others' choice of topics: trees, the mining situation in the Cordillera, plastic bags, urbanization, and so on and so forth. While I wouldn't suggest that you get research material from here (or from any other blog for that matter), Enviro-Net offers readers the first-hand look on the experience of the report, which, in a way, humanizes environmental reporting outside of scientific garbles and press releases.
My idea of "gastronomic delights" involves a hundred pesos, a trip to the Slaughterhouse Compound, and an order of dinuguan and pinapaitan on any table with a full view of the spires of the Iglesia ni Cristo just around the corner (no offense). But deep-fried Coke, pinakbet pizza, santol sisig and assorted recipes for beetles may appeal to some other people. Foodster is just for you.
This site appeals to "weird food" lovers everywhere, and actually provides recipes. Think of this site as a Del Monte Kitchenomics free recipe booklet (it even looks like it). Conventional eaters may find themselves repelled at the thought of "tuna shake," but this site appeals to the non-conventional, those who experiment in their kitchens raiding fridge ingredients and garden snails. You know what they say: If it looks good, eat it. I would pass on kalabasa chips, though.
This site, like my own blog, is written under an assumed character. In this case, it's "Red," who writes about life away from home. Red writes about boarding house experiences, love, mathematics, and even experiments in his kitchen with ice-box raids (although it's a bit sosyal for a college student to use beef chunks, but that's just me: here I am nursing a stomachache from pancit canton).
While there aren't too many thoughts of Red to go around, Red will talk about anything that has something to do with college life, offering snippets of his own experiences to save the average freshman from a skinning from neurotic boarding-house ladies and bad eggs hanging around in the egg carton in need of a good scrambling. I'm looking to see more Red in the future.
While I'll be the first one to (healthily) disagree with many ideas in YrocK, in the sense that Japanese rock belongs in the immediate category where Britney Spears' rendition of Joan Jett's "I Love Rock N' Roll" can be found. But if you disagree with me and you believe in "rock" as multicultural, subject-referring, and beyond things you would hear in backmasked vinyl records of Sepultura, this site offers a fresh perspective on rock as something that crosses mullets, big hair, and stage pyrotechnics.
This site also offers links to videos, Multiply playlists, and pictures. While it's an easy way to hitch free multimedia (not that I'm telling you to do it), it's also a way for us to understand other contending issues on rock, to read a new perspective on what makes rock "rock."
* * *
Read 'em all, course your tags and comments to the sites of these new bloggers, and make them feel welcome in the blogosphere.
The other day, I saw a friend of mine in a turtleneck sweater. "Higad," she says, showing me the raised patches of skin that came with her encounter with a woolly bear. Her neck was pink and puffy like a turkey's, even made more rosy by a liberal swathing of Caladryl.
Itches have a great power for suggestion. I felt the urge to scratch like hell, feeling a bit itchy seeing her irritated skin. Because this is Baguio and it's the rainy season, the time is ripe for woolly bears crawling over everything. Just awhile ago, I accidentally stepped on a woolly bear, not heeding the admonishments of old fogeys that the critter's soul will exact its revenge by giving me one bad itch. I say, bring it on: it's not the first time I've scratched like crazy because of a woolly bear.
Then I saw another friend whose kid had a bonnet. Cute, I thought, until my friend said that her little girl had just come from a dermatologist after she had her hair treated for hair lice. Since itches have a great power of suggestion, I started to unconsciously scratch my head. I know what Kwell shampoo feels like: I bet that the kid would rather scratch her head like crazy than to burst to tears with caustic shampoo burning through your scalp to liberate your hair from six-legged biological terrorists.
So the saying goes: I thought I had it bad when I had no shoes, then I saw a man with no feet... nah, he kept on scratching too.
