Thirty Thousand Fishes

"Abnormal"

2010-03-18T23:09:00.000-07:00

I have to tell you this while the smoke of memory is still trapped in my foggy mind. I was under the flyover. The massive cement block dark like a starless sky above me, I waited in the middle of that busy highway without a thing in my mind waiting for the signal to beat green. A rush of energy suddenly flowed within me from nowhere taking away the pain, the worries and the ghosts that haunt me. Then the go signal. A mute brisk. There was the homeless man almost hunch back sporting a toothless smile a worthless effort of begging from people passing the busy road. I was happy to see him. I was ecstatic to see the embers of a dying soul ignite a life. I ran and saw secret lives passing through the corners of my eyes. Beads of sweat dropped slowly to the ground. The ground was nourished by sweat because the rain has done a great abandon.

Few hours ago two women were in my sight languishing from pain. They sought help because of desperation. They talked about connections, of buying judgments, of having developed profound mistrust. I talked of keeping faith when I know very well that it is like now where everybody prays for rain and nothing else comes but futile promise of rain clouds that quickly dissipate in the skies.

Memories of the Heat

2010-03-07T01:29:00.000-08:00

The heat is becoming very unbearable these days. It’s funny to tell you that I am hiding on the bedside to avoid the scorching rays of the sun that enter my room through its wide windows. I am trying to sleep but the heat just steals everything and it keeps me against my desire to be awake.

I don’t know how to begin this. But years before when my family has been in the downside of life, staying under the heat of the sun was quite as natural as say reading a book. By now, you must have heard of the whole story, or maybe pieces of it, that during some days in the past, I walk for miles just to reach a solitary hut beside the river carrying breakfast, lunch or dinner for my father as the case maybe. I am trying to remember those days when walking in the middle of the day with the might of the sun for at the most mostly an hour was just an ordinary event or daily undertaking in my life.

It was a sad story you see because looking back, I really never wanted myself to do it and I basically questioned and blamed everything that my father had reasoned about to make such duties logical and necessary in the scheme of things. I hated it because, first of all, I will be missing my friends and their playful journeys at the back of the house of my cousin Badong and I detest the thought of people seeing me in a pitiful state carrying a container of water and bayong which is often filled with big casseroles and all. I detest the thought of my classmates in the highschool next our town where I am attending to seeing me doing that thing and them thinking that I am just a poor boy raised in a poor family trying hard to meet both ends just to study in such school which is the painful truth and fact.

And that I was able to do the long walks for years together with my siblings never made me rest into accepting that it was a necessary thing to do under the circumstances and I went into believing that my father did that to us in order to persecute us and to bring shame in us because he believes and I saw him utter this words that we, his children have no future and that we are bound to fail in whatever road we will take. I thank him somehow for telling that to me because in all the years after that and until now I am trying my best to prove him wrong.

It went like I said for years, walking and walking and walking everyday every night that passed and creative I did some things to make the activity a mental one and to push myself into believing that I should humble myself to lessen the negative impact of it into my being.

Sometimes just to get over the heat I think and pray for rain. With the mind of the child, I put stories in every step I take, in every house I pass through, the stones by the roadside, the dikes in the paddies, the haystacks, the bliss of seeing beauty in a barren field with the parched land crumbling upon the footsteps, and that God loves me more than ever.

Seeing the nearing hut as I approach it gave immense comfort to me like a mirage in a desert. For all the years of walking, I developed this weird attachment to the beauty of it making me think that someday I will build the same hut for my own family as a rest house. When my father sold the property against his will, he didn’t mind that in his sadness comes a painful awakening in me for the last time that we will never have the power to cling to things which make us happy forever and that poor people as we are, we have the least of control over things in this world.

I was not so much relieved by the fact that I will end up the story of me walking for miles, passing through the once happy houses and homes I envy so much by losing the hut and the pond. Sometimes I really get emotional especially during these days I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s because of the heat and the memories that came with it.

New Chapter

2009-06-28T02:08:00.000-07:00

It’s a Sunday afternoon and I have nowhere to go. I should have slept half-naked there in my tepid shelter with only a rusting industrial fan to ventilate it but my feet are yearning to stride somewhere my mind doesn’t know about. So I have decided to walk and survey the neighborhood. I live in the city and in this part you can rarely see empty spaces where your eyes could find rest. On every imaginable lot stands buildings, apartments, schools, all roads lead to high rise structures, so barren and distressing. A soaring condominium rises above the horizon surrounded by scaffoldings as it is yet to be completed and where the train lay near its base.

I have settled here for weeks now since I started working in a law firm as an associate. I commute every day taking two jeepney rides just to get to the office. Oftentimes, I arrive late because I have yet to adjust myself waking up early in the morning in order no to be caught up in traffic jams. I have no choice but to let myself be employed for the meantime and not to put up my own law office for lack of resources and experience. But don’t get me wrong, I enjoy working under the supervision of an Atenean. I am learning a lot of things including certain realities I have yet to digest and understand.

From here on, I will be transferring vignettes of my life to a new site entitled: The Fledgling Lawyer. I can’t help but be sentimental about this. I have lurked in this corner for years and have wept all the tears and shed all the blood that came with what Frost once described as one’s love quarrels with this world. I tried to trace back what made me decide to put up and start this blog and has realized that little has been really devoted to telling the story of the death of thirty thousand fishes.

The death of thirty thousand fishes refers to my childhood. It spans years of being with fishes every second of my younger days. We have this small fishpond near the river and miles from our house which I used to tend for years before it was later mortgaged and sold by my father. I have witnessed many splendid moments and miracles in that pond which I used to tell my sister will be later captured in a memoir I will write before I die. I used to be left alone in that small hut standing in the dike near the river to look for cranes which will dive in the pond and eat those little fishes which I tediously feed everyday. Those little fishes which I must protect according to my father because it is because of them that we get to eat three times a day.

There are many unforgettable memories among them is the fondling of a swarm of hungry fishes as I put my hands full of caked feeds underneath the water, the nibbling of thousand gentle creatures, the splashing of salt water, the scorching heat and the sparkling sight of fishes reflecting the light of the sun through their silvery scales…scenes I could not just leave behind the pages of forgotten reminiscence. The water spout which passed by the river on that stormy day in June; the sound of the motor banca and the feeling of its nearness in the middle of the night; the packed dinner which my father delivers to me every night, always late and leaving me starved; the bickering between me and my father and how he almost beat me to death; the sight of him lying in the banca prostrate and almost dead. Rich and haunting experiences that molded me into what I am now.

From here on, this blog will be devoted to those recollections. Whenever I will have the time to ponder and reflect on them, I will make sure to immediately write them and rush to an internet shop to post it here. I will say goodbye to this journal for now and make it a repository of my past. A cathartic activity I hope to share with you. It was a pleasure to meet all those who had time to visit this blog some of them fellow bloggers who share the same experiences in life. Ciao…

Love on Paper

2009-06-13T19:44:00.000-07:00

A blot of ink
starts a serenade
of words.

On an infinite line
flows a rush
of feelings
only this pen could attest.

A gentle grip
and then slither
a smile, a thought
that runs
in a complicit
intertwine
between love
and paper.

And you hope,
again,
a smile.
Could it ever be
written on this scrap
when all that it is waiting
is a period
to end,

this love
on this paper,
now flying
in the air.

Translated in Spanish

Amor en papel

Una mancha de tinta
comienza una serenata
de las palabras.

En una infinita línea
los flujos de un apuro
de sentimientos
sólo que esta pluma puede dar fe.

Un agarre suave
y, a continuación, para resbalar

una sonrisa, un pensamiento
que se ejecuta
en un cómplice
entrelazan
entre el amor
y el papel.

Y que espera,
otra vez,
una sonrisa.
¿Podría ser
escrito en este trozo
cuando todo lo que está a la espera
es un período
a fin,

este amor
sobre este documento,
ahora que enarbolen
en el aire.

Ravaged

2009-05-11T01:16:00.000-07:00

It was like an atomic bomb has been dropped in my little town. As the bus passed along villages, one cannot waver at the communal feeling of sorrow and sadness because of homes destroyed and lives lost as typhoon “Emong” (codename: Chan Hom) wreaked havoc Thursday evening, May 7th in Western Pangasinan. Our house in Bani was not spared from the ravaging storm packing winds of 150 kph with gustiness of 185 kph uprooting electric posts and trees, toppling off cars and trucks, displacing thousands of families from their homes.

I have never seen first-hand such a tragedy and stark irresponsibility in my whole life. It is in these times that you ask immediate relief and aid from the government and you get nothing in response but the same voice that you heard while you say those words. News came Friday that relief operations were on the way to affected towns and communities but as to when will those promised help filter in to the helpless families who have no roofs under their heads while torrential rain continues is still a million dollar question (not so during election time of course). Only in the Philippines. Families are left on their own to fix their homes while they put makeshift shelters near the road local government officials sit down and talk about how they would deal with loots brought in by the automatic release of calamity funds. Our incarcerated community leader has been filling in news from his cell that families will receive aid equally whether rich or poor and it made the poor people cry foul necessarily but what do you expect from a mad man who has no sense of justice at all. So that compounds the gravity of the problem: bad leaders plus ravaging storms plus poor communities equal: catastrophe.

So here I am, appealing to you all who will have the chance to read this to help in spreading the news that our communities need help in order for families in this part of the country rebuild their lives which were gravely disrupted and shattered by the recent calamity and the irresponsibility of the government. What they show and feature in the news is a minute reflection of the overall disaster here in Pangasinan. Government officials are always quoted in the news commenting on the damage to the fisheries owned by a few affluent businessmen but where are the countless people left homeless and what about the efforts to help them? We have yet to see and get help.

The Boy is now a Lawyer

2009-05-05T19:31:00.000-07:00

Heavy downpour hits Baguio this morning. Visibility is low and the temperature drops as well.It's my second time to visit the city since news came that I passed the Bar exams. It's my first time to visit the city as a full-fledged lawyer having taken my oath, having signed in the Roll of Attorneys and having given my corresponding Roll number. The bliss and excitement naturally had died down by now and I am off to face the realities accompanying the event, the fact and the truth. I still have no concrete plans to share with you about how to direct my newfound career. People in my small community have all been coming and visiting the house at Pangasinan to congratulate and to consult me about legal problems and whether I like to accept their respective cases and bring them to court. Problems like land disputes, election bouts, and collection of sum of money (that made me think whether I really uplifted my standing to a higher level or whether I demoted myself into being a mere collector of debt) have been flooding in making my life a little busier than before, a little bit dignified, if I may say, a little bit fulfilled that I am finally experiencing things which only happen in my dreams. I am also caught in a dilemma of whether to pursue private practice without capital making me more alluded to the insinuations of my father that I must accept cases without intial payment and have the proceeds of the case slashed into half in my favor and my uncle’s horrific statement that I should no longer let myself taste poverty by all means or whether to pursue work in the government or in a private company allowing me to have a fixed income for the meantime with prejudice of course to my career advancement and litigation experience. I am more bent into working with the Supreme Court having said everybody I meet with pride that I will be working there soon. However, uncertainties regarding that surface and I am now yet again bothered as to how I will pursue both worlds: a stint in the government and private practice. . .as to how I will reconcile both. . .well, I must figure that out soon.

So here I am, documenting a workshop here in Baguio for the meantime, letting myself drift away from all the realities I am facing. Letting myself indulge while I am booked at this classy hotel in Gibraltar Road necessarily surrounded by thick pine forests because it is still near the Camp John Hay Reservation area. I am booked here in this hotel where they pretty serve sumptuous food that pleases my gastronomic tastes; where a piped in music with endless jazz music reaches even the toilet and into unimaginable spaces; where a grand piano lies there at the ballroom waiting to be played; where laughs and giggles pervade rooms and halls even during an “unconventional”mass; where I felt for the 2nd time that I am shredded into pieces and had levitated in the air for a while only because of a heart-shaped paper that was given to me by that dame that always give me shivers. . .because in that paper she wrote something I will never forget in my life.

I am finally a lawyer and although some friends who likewise passed always say that fact of being such has yet to sink in their minds, in my case, it long before did. My success could not in any way be attributed only to my capacities but to many people who have supported me all the way, always believing in me and never letting me feel discouraged. I dedicate this to them. Although still a big responsibility lies ahead on how I will pay this forward rest assured that efforts are on the way including an online legal aid forum which I will put up soon that will be devoted to the public to help them in their legal concerns.

Finally, while I look back to all the experiences I went through in law school and during the review some of which are captured in this blog, I honestly felt and ask how did I make it considering that I almost gave up everything. But look at the beauty of life and happy endings. The boy who once witnessed the death of thirty thousand fishes is now a lawyer.

Bar results will be out any minute from now

2009-04-03T03:15:00.002-07:00

Without Words

2009-03-16T17:30:00.000-07:00

I am grappling for words to say
To capture my feelings on this day
Words fall out and wither away
Suddenly my world became mute
Mute to tackle despair and despondency
I throb in pain and take them in
I swallow the bitter and the harsh
Digest them and find succor
About their absence and cleansing
Still they are here creeping silently
In the midst of equilibrium they weigh
Equally on both scales
Scale of tranquility, scale of hostility
Scale of tranquility to blight
Scale of hostility to magnify
Now I am wondering how it is painful to be a man
To experience love and its sudden loss
Both cathartic and devastating
Makes me think the process of love is a wheel
It will end up miserably somewhere
After bliss comes melancholy
The cycle will stop, it will
If it won’t then insanity spills

Holding Back

2009-03-11T03:31:00.001-07:00

Lately, there have been many times I wished I could write down everything that has been happening on my mind. But every time I try to sit down on the swivel chair, open a blank document and start to frame my mind the words the rich thoughts vanish in thin air. I could not point to a specific factor that blocks the stream of thought from my brain to my fingers. . .on to the keyboard and into the screen. Maybe it’s just that I have too many concerns right now, too many problems at hand, too many obligations to perform, too many expectations to meet. I am overwhelmed by the fact that I can’t barely make a scratch or a dent out of all these. I mean I can’t even run the process of figuring out what to do with them. It’s like I am staring blankly at all of them pokerfaced devoid of any emotional attachment. To me, they’re not stars, they’re not a school of fishes whirling around in the water, nor a rainbow. . .they’re just a pale and dull book from the cover waiting perpetually to be read. As I stare at them, they breathe infinite silence and I do not want engage in them.

I wished I had the freedom to mention them here so that I could finally liberate all the hitches inside me but I loath about other people and the world over knowing the details unnecessary for them to know. I mean everything has a boundary, a wall that needs to be fortified, an enclosure that needs to be secured. Every man who does not want to shed all of him would know the feeling of hesitance. There are regrets of deciding not to remain anonymous here in this corner for I am now bound to keep secrets and not write them here. So, I would have to limit and become a rigid writer for days to come not until I decide to leave this refuge which I started about three years ago and have the archive tell the visitor that the last post of the author would be on this day. That has been the case ever since. Back in college, I remember a professor in a writing class tell me that I write in general terms. . .that I hold back too much of me. Not until I had the opportunity to explore in another writing class to tell haunting stories about my childhood and the unexplainable torment I had to go through. Not until I thought about blogging and had the venue to pick up the pieces little by little. However, this I tell you that whenever I end up writing something about my life there’s something inside me which tells me: I wish I could have told you more. . .I wished I could narrate the back stories. There’s still too much to spill to erudite you and myself over.

I have to breathe deeply for most of the time. Heave a sigh. Imagine a scene in my childhood where I stand in a door opening, stolid like a post, watching the shafts of light penetrate the window and hit the floor illuminating the room and creating an incandescent look. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. I could see the sun glimmer. I stood there until the sun was finally lost in the horizon. I stood there alone seeing the sun reflect its last rays of light for the day among the leaves of the trees, on rooftops, on children’s faces throwing cracks of laughter with each other; reflected in a child’s eye who was wondering how could have the sun brought momentary peace to him. I stood there wanting to be with the fading sun forever.

I don’t want this feeling. Experiencing dualities: bliss in the evening, and struggle the morning after and not being able to chronicle such travails here in this corner.

Being 27

2009-02-14T20:07:00.000-08:00

Another year was added to a growing number of years of a not-so-constant trend in living a life that seemed to be so intricately intertwined now. I was born on Valentine’s Day, 1982, so my mother says and my birth certificate indicates. Foggy memories of an estranged mother always speak about a crammed room full of unmarried women in their late 20s giggling, a traditional birth attendant preparing birthing paraphernalia, boiling water in a kettle shooting hot vapor. The cynic in me always thinks about loose perspectives brought about by excessive infatuation with the idea of a child’s birthday falling on February 14th, of the idea that it is too emblematic of a lover’s fruit so executed in complicity, of the idea that so a relationship may be glorified in the height of its heydays. Maybe it was on the 13th or the 15th or on the 29th and because of the fears of a drought in leap years.

But it is, 14th etched indelibly in the registers consistently. All those years when I get to be socially active and was entering the realm of social environments did I come to realize that there are some consistencies, commonalities within the celebration of a birthday so engrossing for people except me. Why aren’t you named Valentino? was a question never to be not asked because it’s a protocol and You must be kulang-kulang because you were born in February was a supposition I can quite vouch? For 27 years I have been rammed up with those conjectures that sometimes distress me for their built-up ordinariness and sometimes elate me because I am a figure or a ¬go-figure elated to have more and more people remember my birthday and be a recipient of all their bright and common wishes of a longer life, many-more-birthdays-come, and wishes of well-wishers of a sumptuous treat at a fancy restaurant (just-kidding).

Yesterday I had a steamed white chicken for breakfast at a Chinese Restaurant, a call from my mom all the way from Oregon, a morning song from my love streamed all the way through my ear canal like a cleaning cotton bud tickling the softest part of me, a dinner treat from my boss at a Korean Restaurant with her lovely daughter seated in front of me were the best gifts I ever had. There are wishes, yes, like enrolling in the Environmental Law Program of the Lewis and Clark Law School, a better economy at the close of the year, bright prospects for this year, my name included in the Rolls, a cure for my sickness, a life with my love still intertwined strongly beyond a boa-constrictor’s capability, purging in the government, more rights for the underprivileged like me, alleviation of poverty, more sincere and true leaders for this country and more aftertastes of coffee from my love.

27 and I am old. Woke up early this morning quite a bit terrified by the documentary on the ice meltdown, the rising sea levels and the cataclysmic consequences. There’s not enough action to stop it, taking out of the picture the role of governments, the fact is that there is really no stopping now the phenomenon because all the efforts to cut carbon emissions today if and when the IPCC’s instruction will be followed without skirmishing sovereign egos, will really never halt anything except only to mitigate the catastrophe. The documentary has a footnote on climate change refugees, its rise and its probable impact on matters of survival, dwindling resources, and state-to-state conflict. There’s a lot ahead really. I may never cross through such events within my time but it keeps me wondering about the future of the world and generations. Sometimes this news really makes you old but the inescapable fact is that you’re part of it.

So here’s my definition of being 27 in this century. It is about thinking, trying to belong to a world of causes making even the slightest of difference, making one’s voice heard, trying to blend love with every issue that comes, trying to live life to the fullest while you can, achieving for others, and just being me, being you.

Pursuing Little Stars

2009-02-08T18:43:00.001-08:00

On January 23rd we cruised the bay
Calm and still waters
Lying beneath
Silent witnesses of flourishing love
Our eyes meet somewhere
There at the ebbing tide
The moon-shadowed beach
Wind lashed waves
There at the harbour
A lamppost
That illuminates lovers
Regaling a night
Of bliss
Pursuing little stars
That blanketed the night sky
And mirrored in our eyes
In the depth of the waters
Sparkling

Lovers' Footprints

2009-02-01T02:33:00.000-08:00

Remembering Fewer Things

2009-01-29T01:28:00.000-08:00

I didn’t remember that I’ve been here for two weeks, lethargic it may seem.

I didn’t remember that I’ve taken the Bar almost six months ago.

I didn’t remember that I’ve lived in a room alone for six months starting April of last year with only thick books and litters of papers, photocopies, mixed-up post-its of different colour plastered on the wall near the reading table almost devouring the half space of the wall.

I didn’t remember the fascination of reading on the uppermost floor of the UP Law Library looking through transparent glass windows giving a view of blooming acacia trees and a looming thunderstorm far distant.

I didn’t remember how Eunika always remind me to hear mass at the dome-church after the review classes and early in the morning right after the break of dawn during Saturdays together with veiled matrons.

I didn’t remember that I had stomach cramps every eve of the Bar exam and how I have clung to Maalox for temporary relief.

I didn’t remember how a person intruded my life, my privacy, too bluntly, and how I liked the idea of exchanging vows rather than marriage.

I didn’t remember how the time ran after September of last year, how quick events took place and how near the results would be released.

I didn’t remember why I cried last night.

I didn’t remember why I had this stiff neck today.

I am trying to remember the good things in life that had happened and relishing the memories. Like bubbles they burst in an instant, have ephemeral life but lingering aftertaste. They jolt the eerie landscape and disfigure it for a better view.

I am trying to remember those days when I sit on the dike of the pond watching the sun set finding comfort in rages of red, the fading light, and the softness of the breeze, trying to think while ripples continue to disturb the water below how the little fishes living within will survive another day of heat in summer.

I am trying to remember how time and one’s life progressed and how they reconcile each other.

I am trying to remember how astonished my friend was when I showed her my own version of Scream by Edward Munch in oil pastel crayons.

I remember the two cans of putty from Lydia and how it relieved my stress.

I remember the dinner two nights ago, the tenderness of the steak and the great gravy.

I remember that I have a home to return to and dogs waiting for me.

I remember my plans before the tempest and the drive to bring it back to consciousness again.

I remember that only two days are left for this holiday and I am back to work again.

Thursday, 3:00 pm

2009-01-25T03:41:00.000-08:00

Since I have no motivation to continue my work on the glass ceiling phenomenon (a research on the problem of women climbing up the corporate ladder and tracing such problem on the case of women who experienced such phenomenon and ended up becoming entrepreneurs) , alone in the room with nothing to do in mind, I just have to talk to you. Yes, you.

You know, I don’t feel like as in okay today. I feel so very unproductive lying on bed almost all day punctuated only by the call of nature, the call of my stomach, and other calls of what have you. Of course, I don’t spend all day lying only because that would be transgressing the desires of the mind. So from time to time my friend and I watch DVDs of all sorts. The one that made me broke into thunderous laughter is Marley and Me. And who’s not, the Labrador is just so adorable his masters just can’t throw him away with all the wreck that he is causing the family. It made me so envious. The dog brought prosperity out of all the shards he left each day of his existence. He brought materials for the writer to pen in his column, a bond to keep the love in the family, and a lot of guffaws and licking that warm the heart. Marley’s a horrific mad dog minus rabidity. Perfect.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button may be some kind of a lullaby that keeps on weighing down your eyelids forever. But it has definitely a unique story: a man who’s born to grow backwards, literally. The plot is quite worth the guess at the start. Okay, yes, your guess is as good as mine: two lovers . . .one’s growing backwards (counter-clockwise) the other growing, ah ,normally (clockwise). Of course, you might say like me that they would surely meet at one point in time where they both have the same age. They surely did, hah. The periods close or near that meeting point are cloud nine. But imagine a wife nursing his husband at old age. . .quite terrible. Terible. But of course if love really matters, faithful and forever. . .as Kenny Rankin has proposed. . .then that isn’t quite a problem except that the baby-husband should be bottle-fed now. Seriously, what I like about the film is its different take on the problem of time. . . love is blind, age doesn’t matter neither height, ah-ah. Benjamin might have changed his mind he wanted to become a Dracula instead than to look old, clueless. F. Scott Fitzgerald might have other reason why such portrayal. Better read.

Still with me? Just had cheesecake doughnut for snack. The fan’s spinning since last night because it’s hot as hell inside. The beach is a perfect getaway. We might dip ourselves tomorrow. A siren could be heard from here. A piano’s being played slowly. Then just the sound of the fan. . .A framed picture of two lovers in front of me. A soul who would like to be freed. . .Bye for now.

Living out of a Duffel Bag

2009-01-21T02:01:00.000-08:00

A throbbing pain in the head, clammy feeling over my whole body, oily hair that shines until now because of the wax I put on yesterday, empty thoughts, load of writing engagements in the wait, hushed overtones of a bad day ahead. Had doughnuts and two bananas over milk as breakfast alone because my friend had just left me here in his flat. I wasn’t able to sleep last night because I watched the inauguration of Barack Obama as the 44th President of the United States of America. Had to stay up until past three in the morning to watch the whole coverage of CNN of the event at Capitol Hill. My friend told me that he’s been there and said that the space underneath where the podium stands lies a fountain . “What’s the statue at the top of the dome?, “ he asked me. I said I have no idea. He said that it is Lady Freedom and that there is a policy in Washington that there will be no other structure that will be built in the state that will be higher than Lady Freedom. “But it seems that the Washington Monument is taller than it?,”I asked. He said that it is not. I don’t believe him (but I never told this so as not to embarrass him). I just have to google it. He was fascinated by the frozen pond and the people walking on it. It seemed (it actually is) that everybody’s freezing but the news feed just showed that the people we’re feeling like it was 17 degrees. With the hordes of people that must be because they produce body heat that could higher the temperature around the area. At least one million people have shown up to hear Obama at Capitol Hill. The world has watched him speak of global unity and a new era in US leadership. Obama’s rise to politics and his election as President will be an inspiration and a mark of a new dawn in history if he will be able to deliver his mission to win global cooperation in response to the pressing needs and problems of the global community only a leader as charismatic as him may be able to achieve.

As for me, hah, don’t feel well now. I have to eat my lunch and pack my things in a duffel bag, laundry (lot of it) caused by my days of stay here in southern Philippines. It’s been a blissful week that ended with, well, learning that every day is a growing battle, not fought, not won over neither lost, but a battle that stretches to infinity only I could imagine. A friend has a good idea of how our personality becomes a hero and anti-hero at the same time. She said that in the process of finding ourselves we become protagonist and sometimes antagonist clinching in a battle deep inside us. It is a painful process she says and then abruptly, “I hate you.” “For what?”, I asked. “I don’t want to read you, it keeps me nostalgic.” Cannot do anything about that.

By the way, to you who’s reading this, I will bitterly miss the aura of a French villa, the chirping of caged birds, and the quiet solitude of a flat which you told me to treat as my mi casa. Baguio, here I come.

Comeback

2009-01-20T02:56:00.000-08:00

I am hundred miles away from home. I have come this far to pursue happiness. Never sure if I will really find it here but I am hoping that the journey to it would bring me back to my old self: the secured, content, and vigorous me. I don’t know if my foresight still works for me to plan things ahead. What I do know is limited to the time and space which surrounds my existence at the moment. I am too young they say to think about these things, to think about dark solstice and frozen nights. I myself can’t imagine why I have become the person that I am now; to reach this phase where life seems to weigh down on your being so much: a stomp to the reality that life can never be for those who slack behind and wait till the coming of the inevitable ending.

So here I am trying to make an impression out of things that I am not yet bound to live miserably if I choose not to be. So here I am returning to what I love most: telling you my story.

Portal at Room 206

2008-11-04T20:26:00.000-08:00

It was night at Room 206 when it was day outside,
The drapes in auburn and black fall like veils taunting time.
They fall down deep into the mystique recesses of two souls,
Far, distant they thwart two worlds.

The lone window shrouded and now opaque,
Like a fortress, it gave sanctuary for us to revel,
The warmth of nights, without light,
Only a gleam that escapes the drapes,
Glowing there at two corners,
Tamed yet foreboding.

Like a portal to a hostile world,
It speaks no reason against happiness.
We have our own here at Room 206.
Though one departs early than the morning zephyr,
One says I am here.
The other whispers, the memory will live.

Life is a metaphor

2008-10-30T03:03:00.000-07:00

My love to moonlight caused this poem. It read:

5:18 in the afternoon

my sunshine,

let me be the wind that gently brushes your face
the melody that echoes through time and space.
let me be your light when the stars in heaven aren't so bright
to walk with you in path's so dimly lit.

your face is like the breaking of dawn
the very promise of a new day,
the dusk that soothes my worried mind
that gives me the best of good nights.

the face that made me glow everyday in our stay,
that makes me smile in every glance i make
the face that i want to see before retiring the day,
the very same to see the morning i awake.

i painted you in my memories,
with vivid colors that i made.
i will treasure you, today, tomorrow and the days to come,
framed with love and sealed by fate .

Early in the day, I made this in response,

For you, moonlight, 6:27 am

you're so far, yet so near.
you seemed to have brought with you
the joys left
in this solitary soul.

but mornings are like
sweet souvenirs.

i remember now
like strings gently swayed,
that your heart kissed mine
and stamped a mark
that glowed together
with the break of dawn
to remind me that
our love springs eternal.

a cycle unbroken
by time and distance

Peek-throughs

2008-10-19T04:38:00.000-07:00

A lot of things happened I should say. It has been a very, very long month that has mutated into years. I have waited for six months for the bar to come and another six months for the results. I have been incognito for a long time because the whole process almost sucked the marrow left in my life. I still didn't give up the flat I rented back in the university and I couldn't imagine the feeling when I return there next week to pack my books and my other belongings. The picture of the narrow pathway shadowed by plush acacia trees, the lonely walks there for months rain or shine, the silent houses I pass through, the patio of the nearby hotel where someone plays beautiful pieces on the piano every Friday nights. All of it that has become part of me, I never said goodbye to when I discreetly left.

The exam was truly a heartbreaker, not to mention a shatterer of health, sanity, and well-being in itself. I had ulcer because of stress and the pain caused by it still lingers up to now. I hope it would still be cured through medication. I am quite fearful of the visit to the doctor tomorrow.

Sometimes I am left with the thought. . what would I do next? I know it's a general feeling of most of those who took the bar but what delineates me from them would surely be the quality of support system I have. Loosely I would say, I have myself and the world. All the brunt I take as they come.

And then there was this transient love. A love grown out of peek-throughs. Peek-throughs through the heart. How fond it is to rekindle the experience and live through it day by day. It's one of the reasons I try to exist and live now.Would you believe?

Wake me up when September Ends

2008-09-15T04:34:00.000-07:00

A pail of tears, now.

I remember you, thirty thousand fishes, drifting in a pond like fallen silver leaves catching the last rays of light in that morose afternoon.

Would there be bliss when September ends?

Thank you, Mom. My confidant, my comrade in battle.

Post to Heaven

2008-08-18T22:14:00.000-07:00

19th August 2008

Dear Lord,

The last time I wrote to you as far as I could remember was 8 years ago. I remember that I made the letter in one afternoon. I just came from the school empty-handed, troubled, and embattled. I had only 1,50o pesos in my hands and my tuition costs around 4,000 pesos. It was supposed to be my second semester, my first year in college. I had survived the past semester full of hope that the university would finally grant the subsidy I have requested. Unfortunately, it did not.

It was an afternoon. I am resolved to go back to the province to scour every possibility of getting additional money from whomever. I remember that I suggested then to You that my sister in Dagupan help me. I remember telling you that it seemed to me that it was the only possibility. But I came home just the same, empty-handed, troubled and embattled. I kept the letter, slipping it in between the pages of a dilapidated dictionary I left back in my Baguio apartment. It actually survived after so many years. My sister accidentally read it few years ago. She told me that she cried while reading it. It was also read by my little brother, Mark. He asked me later if he could do the same. I told him that yes he could write to You whenever he wants to tell You things he would rather keep to himself.

When I tell my friends now that You work in mysterious ways, I remember the things that happened after I wrote that letter.

The day after I arrived in the province, people from the Student assistance Department at the University surprisingly visited and did some interview. The head, Manang Pen Facunla offered assistance right away without any solicitation and told me to go back to Baguio. She would later be You, dear Lord, supporting me all the way until I graduated. She gave me a job, private scholarship. Without her, there seemed to be no silver lining.

As I look back, I wonder if that letter was not written at all. Would You have performed a miracle just the same? I recently bought a handy Bible. A friend reintroduced me to You. One of my favorite passages is Ephesians 3:20. It speaks a lot about what happened. You spoke that You will do far more than we would ever dare to ask or even dream of; infinitely beyond our highest prayers, desires, thoughts or hope.

I am writing on a used paper. I hope You don't mind. I felt the conviction to write again to You about a plea coming from my heart. Few days from now, I will take the Bar exams. The greatest challenge so far and a key to what will I become years from now. Dear Lord, I wouldn't have reached this far without You lifting and carrying me everytime I falter down the road of life. You blessed and showered me your graces more than what I deserve. You gave me this flat with me effortlessly cashing out money. You gave me true friends who supported me up to the Bar review. You gave me a mother who specially sent me a smile from far away just to remind me that there are millions of reasons to pursue this dream and to take the challenge with a mighty heart.I couldn't ask for more.

Thank you Lord. while I continue to hurt You every now and then, please understand that I will always be your Son who always searched and yearned for You at the end of the day.

And while the days are closing in, I want to tell You that I will remember to walk the path You have opened and showed me.

The letter I once wrote was made yellowish by time, moisture has blotted the blue ink. But still it remains Lord and so is your unconditional love and my enduring faith.

Your son

Everything Gone

2008-07-20T08:15:00.000-07:00

I am just trying to fill up a white blank space right in front of me. There’s not much to tell you about my thoughts and my life right now. I am technically saturated right now with so much information in my head to the point that my brain had become a full-blown sui generis in a matter of months. With all the legalese, I hope not to tell anybody I come across tomorrow, a caveat, that I don’t mince words right now. All I think now is that there’s a storm yesterday and downpour tomorrow.

It is late, 20 minutes past 10 o’clock in the evening. I am tapping on the keyboard, still staring on the computer screen, the blank space slowly taking form. I am annoyed by the kid standing at my left side coaching his friend mouthing words I don’t understand. Their group had just left and I am alone now in the shop. Chairs empty, static computer screens, the breathe of the CPU is silence.

The inflation has been soaring wildly says the news. The President ignoring the latest survey showing that most of her constituents hate her, more than they hate the past two despots. Students are on the streets lately in protest of the rising costs of everything and the apparent misdeeds of the government. My sympathy is with them. I too, want to join street protests if I have the luxury to indulge. Sorry for the word. To me, time is diamond in these difficult times. Even the lowly mangangalakal would tell you that there is so much in the garbage right now and he won’t miss the chance and let others take the loot. Even the child at bombero would tell you that shining shoes for the indifferent passengers in jeepneys stopping along PhilSci is the heart of the matter. What do I mean by this? Well, it’s so simple the poor is chained with time, they could not do the clamor.

I had my chance to join street protests back in college. The one I joined which benefited me directly was the call for the abolishment of ROTC. Bleh. What is needed to spur up the enthusiasm of the people to flood the streets and barge into the gates of Malacanang to demand what is just I don’t know. Few and few people are joining rallies maybe because there won’t be any result anyway. And that is painfully true. Who would the poor people turn to in these times, where soup kitchen is so much an important event than, say, a rally. That the President and every politician in the country are demons being a factoid doesn’t anymore bring about constant harangues. People are sick and tired; and they still have work to do for them to end the day with eyes open, pulse beating.

Are the Filipino people too helpless? So I ask. Class D and E doesn’t require any such question anymore. Class B and C, not too much. But is it really a matter of socioeconomic classes, so I ask again. Filipino refers to every natural-born whether he belongs to any of such classes. But, where’s the unified Filipino spirit? Gone?

How could we pounce on the government if there’s no unity in our actions as a people? But who will lead us? There’s got to be a leader. Help me on this, but have you identified any? Where are leaders produced? Someone says in UP. The so-called pillar of leadership. But where are they? Someone says they joined forces with the government. Another one says they’re too busy attending to the centennial celebrations. My gawd! The First Quarter Storm days gone? Gone, gone, gone.

Everything gone. . .Please UP Bangon! Hindi ka lang pang UAAP!

My sanity, please be with me.

Forum for Filipino Bloggers

2008-07-20T07:08:00.000-07:00

Ebloggers.ph, Forums for Filipino Bloggers

Ebloggers.ph, a blogger forum catering to the Filipino bloggers community has just become open for memberships on the 3rd day of July 2008. Everything about ebloggers.ph is designed especially for the fast-paced lifestyle of the Filipino blogger. A quick visit to the forum followed by an equally hassle free registration process gives every member a chance to enter a significant and highly-interactive yet comfortable world of Filipino web writing enthusiasts.

This fresh new forum by Mr. Joedel Sanvictores is the sanctuary of Filipino bloggers who aim to create and maintain networks within the Filipino blogger's community with zero difficulty. Not only can members easily link up and gain access to the blogs of other members of the forum, they may also publicize their own blogs or help in promoting the blogs of the other members. This makes endorsing the blogs a lot easier and even mutually favorable for all involved. Anyone within the forum is allowed to announce updates regarding his blog; aside from that, posts putting forward the latest entries and other news are constantly available to keep all members informed.

Another perk offered by joining the forum that would positively stir up the interest of countless bloggers is that ebloggers.ph contains several threads and topics focused exclusively on teaching bloggers how to earn money through their blogs. Opportunities are made available for members who wish to make money from blog entries such as film and music reviews and about other topics of interest.

Interested Filipino web users who have not yet tried blogging are also invited to join the forum. This forum provides blogging tutorials. Not only that, all members of the forum are free to impart useful tips and to share their knowledge on blogging to first timers.

--
http://JoedelSanvictores.com/ in Real Life!

To Slay the Dragon

2008-06-22T03:53:00.000-07:00

Therapied. If there's such a word. I'm back determined to slay the dragon. Life's too short for me to make it shorter.

"A Prayer"
(by Max Ehrmann)

Let me do my work each day; and if the darkened hours of despair
overcome me, may I not forget the strength that comforted me
in the desolation of other times.

May I still remember the bright hours that found me walking over
the silent hills of my childhood, or dreaming on the margin of a quiet
river, when a light glowed within me, and I promised my early God
to have courage amid the tempests of the changing years.

Spare me from bitterness and from the sharp passions of unguarded
moments. May I not forget that poverty and riches are of the spirit.
Though the world knows me not, may my thoughts and actions be
such as shall keep me friendly with myself.

Lift up my eyes from the earth, and let me not forget the uses of the
stars. Forbid that I should judge others lest I condemn myself.
Let me not follow the clamor of the world, but walk calmly in my
path.

Give me a few friends who will love me for what I am; and keep ever
burning before my vagrant steps the kindly light of hope.

And though age and infirmity overtake me, and I come not within
sight of the castle of my dreams, teach me still to be thankful for
life, and for time's olden memories that are good and sweet; and
may the evening's twilight find me gentle still.

Leaving you,

2008-06-04T06:04:00.000-07:00

Tracing footsteps once left. Will say goodbye to you for now to find something. Thank you for following me. Sorry to leave you behind. . .

Tribute to you for being with me in those times. . .

Till then.

Kill-me-Croon

2008-05-25T06:25:00.000-07:00

I took the train one Monday night never minding the flood of people joining in the rush. It was drizzling outside as crisp charges of light illuminate the dark sky. It was no cold to be out there that night. The city remained as it was . . . hot weather, bawling cars, infinite chatter. James Blunt's concert was at 8 pm at the Coliseum. I left home temporarily for this one. Left my books half-open, room's partially lit, the scent of sadness enveloping the room locked behind closed doors.

I was happy for a moment to hear hymns for lost souls played live. James Blunt made me feel better for a while. As I sat there at a dark spot where darkness seethed, the music entered my nerves and broke me into pieces. The atomized pieces of me were like the scene from the street few minutes before the rain: garland of yellow scallops falling gently into the air as small birds swoop into the descending petals; the birds trying to catch and save it from gravity.

James Blunt sang as if he was once in the hollows of the earth and that he knew everything. . .his music conveyed and crossed, probably, all human emotions. He wailed, laughed, made eccentric things like banging his head while playing the piano and erratic waltzing while strumming the guitar. He sang my favorite “I’ll take everything” like there’s no tomorrow. . .extending his left arm pointing to the vacuum in everyone’s spirit as he mellowed through the line in the chorus.

James Blunt made my night. It was a once in a lifetime experience to see him sing live at the Coliseum and to see myself mirrored before his songs. . .before everyone in the nameless crowd trying to digest a sad truth before us: that music is passion. . .and that passion couldn’t always come as easy with one’s life like in music and in any other art.

Losing strangeness, taking pains

2008-05-17T23:30:00.000-07:00

The storm yesterday left as quickly as a transient tourist. The strong winds blew off roofs, branches and leaves of trees, and more leaves for minutes then the wind dissipated. Fresh leaves blanketed roads and pathways as if it was deliberately done, unfortuitously, created by some art maniac installing a 3d art. Left the house at about 3 o'clock to buy lunch and upon seeing the swarm of wet litter a passing thought kicked up a rumpus in my mind.

Summer has ended once more and it's the start of the rainy season. The transition's really too fast leaving no traces to remember that yesterday's only summer. It's been a month since I arrived here in my new home as a stranger. The place has been very hospitable to me that a month's adjustment didn't even get a bruise out of the cynic in me. There's this new friend a 5-year-old. His name is James, the grandson of my landlord who frequently visits my flat in 'unusual' moments. He would barge in my room without me knowing it. He would come as if he knew me a long time ago and happy to know that finally he'd met me again. The boy would climb up to me, never taking any apprehension of disturbing my reading sessions, he would try to sit on my lap. The last time he visited he was so enthusiastic about another horror story from me. He would listen with so much intent but would always be terrified in the end asking me to cut the story short. And that would always make me laugh.

He would ease moments of pain which I've been frequently succumbing into.

Many successful Bar passers are telling that you should leave all your baggages whatever they may be when you jump into your review, for you not to lose focus. I have tried to leave all those baggages behind. Sadly, they've been here with me all along. . .haunting me like ghosts in the night. It's been a struggle for me the past few weeks to take control and to force my nose in a book. It's been an overwhelming emotional battle which left me thinking very deep into the pitch-black well of my past. And that the logical becomes rather an elusive and restraining issue for me now is inexplainable. At some moments I take a pause in studying and look far beyond my vision's reach and ask myself who I am, where I am.

Am I losing this battle? Will I be able to halt and reverse this downward spiral?

There are times when I want to take on a job for some kind of diversion, but that too would necessarily divert me from my review. It's my dilemma lately. . .losing at both ends.. .

Yes, my friend, I've been struggling. I'll try my best not be knocked off by these emotions. I'll try my best to survive even if it means more wounds, more scars to bear. . . This is torment in its purest form. The defining element and storyline of this boy's life.

Remains of the Day

2008-05-09T03:27:00.000-07:00

For you, moonlight

May 9th, 6:15 am

the remains of the day gently flowed within my longing heart
assuaging the loneliness caused by your absence
your beauty mirrored upon my mind
every minute, every second that passes
you will always be here locked in the warmth of my spirit, the essence my being
the sweetness of your voice, the scent of your body will be carried by the wind that will always reach me here on my bed as i wake up like before
longing to feel you next to me
our body and soul intertwined in a beautiful morning
the wind will reach me here on my bed
as i wake up hoping to hear it whisper that you will be there waiting for me even if it means forever

The Perfume

2008-05-05T01:36:00.000-07:00

It's not that easy living alone. I've been trying to live by myself for more than a decade now but the sad fact is that I still find even the narrowest of spaces oblique and cold. I will always be a warrior, a wounded one.

A warrior of light
is capable of understanding the miracle of life,
fighting to the end for something
in which he believes and, then,
listening to the bells that the sea sets
ringing on the seabed.
(Manual of the Warrior of Light)

***

I always find reading a refuge. This is one of those pieces I will never forget and will forever relate with.

Forwarded mail. June, 2001

THE PERFUME

As she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of
school,
she told the children an untruth. Like most teachers, she looked at her
students and said that she loved them all the same. However, that was
impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a
little
boy named Teddy Stoddard.

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he
did not play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy
and
that he constantly needed a bath. In addition, Teddy could be
unpleasant.

It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in
marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then
putting
a big "F" at the top of his papers. At the school where Mrs. Thompson
taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put
Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in
for
a surprise.

Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready
laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners. He is a joy to be
around."

His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well
liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a
terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle!"

His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death has been hard on
him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest
and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."

Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't
show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and he
sometimes sleeps in class."

By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed
of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas
presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for
Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper
that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it
in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to
laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones
missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of perfume. But she
stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the
bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her
wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long to say,
"Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to."
After the children left, she cried for at least an hour.

On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing and arithmetic.
Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular
attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come
alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the
end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the
class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the
same,
Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets."

A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her
that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then
wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was
still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things
had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and
would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He
assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher
he had ever had in his whole life.

Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time
he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go
a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and
favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer,
the letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.

The story does not end there. You see, there was yet another letter
that spring. Teddy said he had met this girl and was going to be
married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago
and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit at the
wedding in the place that was usually reserved for the mother of the
groom.

Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that
bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. Moreover, she
made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered!
his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.

They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs.
Thompson's ear, "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me.
Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me
that I could make a difference."

Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said,
"Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that
I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you."

New Sanctuary

2008-04-27T22:37:00.000-07:00

Whole week has passed. It has not been hard for me to adjust to a new environment as I have thought. I am lodged here at an unknown flat, an unknown place where different modes of nuisance abound yet comfort and silence play intercourse like fighters drawn to dripping blood.

There’s not much to talk about a community of illegal settlers. They’re here to have roofs above their heads like anybody else. Houses here are a lot more decent than what you might think. Here in my rented space I have my own sink, my own bath, my own bed, a foldable table, a chair, an antique bed to look and gaze at when my eyes get tired of looking at words ad infinitum. Outside my dwelling is a garden where two tall trees stand. Their fruits and leaves occasionally fall and litter the ground.

Am always reminded by my portly landlord who always catches his breath to lock the gate and have a separate padlock for the front door. Just to be sure that my belongings will be secure from thieves. As long as thieves won’t learn to eat books I will definitely survive. I brought three big boxes of books from Baguio and they’re now lined up waiting to be read by this slacker in me who’s more interested in reading fiction M & M

Murakami & S. Meyer. Thank God they’re nowhere to be found.

The Bar, yes the Bar. Thinking of it gives me feverish thoughts. I want to believe there’s such a thing as sadism by way of loading your brain with too much information. But, the painting of Michael O’Toole remains an icon. It’s entitled Racing the Wind. A sailboat on a tough spot amidst rough waters. The strong wind drawn through high waves in a deep blue shade. I bought it three years ago. It now found its place on a barren white-washed wall. It would always follow its owner’s changing sanctuary.

***

A drifting message in a bottle has found its way to the shores, west. Thanks to you Lydia for filling something in me that’s long been empty. It’s just that I couldn’t find the right word to describe that filled space. I hope you continue to pursue your interest in learning to play the violin. A teacher once told me that it’s never too late to bow the strings and produce the most sacred sound on earth. I enrolled as a beginner back in December 2006 only after years of planning and yearning. It’s a joy to realize a childhood dream. Follow the beat of your heart always and you’ll find happiness.

Redemption

2008-04-21T17:50:00.000-07:00

Today's the second day of our bar review and I am already exhausted because of the stifling heat. Yesterday's temperature surged to 38°C. The review hall's four heavy-duty air conditioners didn't work against the heat. Everybody still perspired and made their own way of fanning the heat out.

Don't have so much to tell you about how the review process is going. There's nothing to talk about yet because I'm still primping my mind. I have to pretend to be organized as yet and make a schedule. The sad fact is that there's so much trying involved. And that must not be. Call that the Great Squander. Yes. And I am losing balance.

The heat. Yes, the heat is stifling.

And there's a lot of Old school here. A lot of old man with hoarse voices. From the black woofers a blast from the past; a redolent feel of listening from a 60's radio show; from a vintage radio.

Bulging eyes, sagging face, thick lenses, the old man welcomed the 700-strong crowd like an announcer at a circus show. Welcome, welcome. If there's one thing I remember from his long speech it's about the call to Redemption. Sheer redemption, yes. “By way of passing the Bar, you will be redeemed of your mistakes, of all your sins from the past.” How true, how true.

Amidst the stifling heat, you indeed made a horrible assumption. And what is that you told about: “Yes we're willing to give you a mock bar after July. . .yes we, will. . .if (devilish grin) you will give us something for our effort.” Oh, please repair your air conditioning system first will you?

The heat. Yes, the heat is stifling. And I don't want to be redeemed anytime soon.

Magistrates at the Forest

2008-04-08T22:27:00.000-07:00

Last night was a rather monumental evening. We had dinner at the renowned Forest House along Loakan Rd. at half past 8 with friends having a dismal experience over a research “deadbeat” action. You know, burning-the-midnight-oil-until-there’s-nothing –left-to-be-burned drama for the sake of keeping within the hour of donor moguls right up there. That’s what soon to be discovered donor-driven life is. (Credits for me please!) Hahaha

The resto’s country appeal is reminiscent of the log cabins of the by-gone era-the breathe of Legends of the Fall minus the sepia look on faces. People here come and go for the experience not much for the menu although the cakes are great. So we’re there last night full of gaiety fast approaching until we realized how the political crisis months ago was replaced by the food crisis, what a shocking transition.

We sat by the veranda which is close to a ravine, casually exchanged discourses until someone announced that the SC justices are there sitting at a long table. What they’re feasting I didn’t see; their mumblings I didn’t hear but I did see Justice Chico-Nazario’s face enthralled at being serenaded by angelic voices beside the piano. I thought probably an en banc decision is in the brew right there, that night. Maybe, deliberations in restaurants are becoming the fad again hehe or just maybe they’re just there period.

Personalities are populating the restaurant that night, indeed. After a while, a group of oldies sat beside our table. I recognized that the bald old man was Lumbera and the woman wearing thick glasses was Pantoja-Hidalgo; my cue was, okay, the group was talking about poetry. What do I expect?

After being “star struck”, for lack of term of feeling dumbfounded at the fact that I didn’t know about Tuesday’s being Personalities Night and that Wednesday’s is Ordinary Night, our group remained constant in dealing with the rice shortage. People in the province are lining up in NFA warehouses for 1 kilo of rice while families there in Sagada are much well-off with rations from DepEd. Sec. Yap was quoted as saying that what matters is the sufficiency of rice in the country and that he doesn’t damn mind if the people can’t afford it. Sufficiency, Yap, sufficiency. Being a mere minion, Yap lives true to the faith of his master. Because he don’t damn mind the price of rice, his master approves that the solution to this is to increase the wages of the labor force anew. Yes, and she’s an economist. Thank you Gloria but it’s like this: You want to increase your height, so that you won’t embarrass yourself any more by asking your assistant to put a high stool at the podium every time you address people, and drink Growee.

So we’re there at Forest House last night enjoying the evening with the SC justices and the men and women of letters of the land. I just don’t know but I feel like a scene in Storm in June is brought to life and the macabre in O’Hara’s Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos reenacted. Weird.

LlB, (Sigh)

2008-04-07T04:55:00.000-07:00

“A white briefcase for you my child.”

“What’s inside?”

“Tools for you to beckon when you grow up. Did you say you wished to be a doctor?”

“Yes.”

Nineteen years ago when I was about to turn six, my father gave me a present encapsulated in a med kit complete with stethoscope, syringes, gauzes, matchboxes with Rx imprints on it, sets of syringes again, a pen, and a prescription pad. The tools were very much in place they don’t run about there assigned spaces even when you toggle the med kit. The syringes had a Velcro to secure them, so too are the stethoscope and the others.

I played around that med kit with my sisters, trying to be the astute role-player diagnosing the baby dolls and teddy bears of illnesses I have heard from eavesdrops. Little Ana has cancer. . .Baby has tuberculosis afterwhich I will doodle on the prescription pad like doctors do because I still don’t know how to write.

Eventually, everyone got tired of the new toy until it found its way a feet under the soil. Like old toys do. My mother believed that someone steals our toys but lore has it that at the least, two-year olds are dug deep into a hole at the yard. Chickens would run afoul at the hornet’s nest and would search for feed around the area with all the burrowing until the old toys are uncovered. It would always follow a scream of cacophony. . .from my mother. hehe

A year after that when my father had his vacation again, the same thing was his present to me. Apparently, my mother told him that the first white briefcase was destroyed.

A year after that I had a stethoscope, a real one.

Two years after that, he bought a whole set of medical encyclopedia.

A decade had passed, and I saw myself choosing between economics and mass communication. I chose the former because it sounded money and our family is in dire need of it. Reality bit me so hard I found myself, after earning degrees in economics and psychology, submitting resumes and getting rejected twice.

And then my father wanted to me to enroll to a college . . . of law. Apparently, because he wanted to use me to get back at his second wife for a breach of promise to marry-after all of his fortune went to the drain and it’s better if his son would pursue the case for free.

Four years after, I finally earned this law degree (although million steps closer to being a full-blown attorney in shining armor of his dream). I am consequentially happy. Far from being a law degree holder, I took a leave from self-torture (because there’s still the Bar) and I am waiting for someone to tell me something like: “You did one hell of a high-wire act. Bravo!”

I am consequentially happy, right. Because I never saw myself reach this far. And I want to end my life story with a happy ending the way the story “The Perfume” ended. There’s a million reasons to stay put when all appear to be in shambles. There’s my benefactor for one who remained the anonymous payor to a lot of paychecks. (Please, reveal your identity now!) And friends who dragged me all the way up to here not minding if I sustain bruises, cuts inches deep and all. Thanks to you.

. . And God who responded to a letter I sent Him on a stormy night.

I need nothing but prayers for the Bar. Please pray for me.

Shut Up JDV!!!!

2008-03-28T03:22:00.000-07:00

I'm sure pundits have seen the recent interview of JDV in ANC regarding the controversial tripartite agreement between Japan, Vietnam and the Philippines that is the JMSU. The right word to describe it is: fanaticism.

JDV is so enthusiastic on the perceived results of the joint exploration going to the extent of defending it even if its validity and the regularity it went through is in question. I can't say that JDV hasn't flexed his oratorical skills this time. He was so articulate as usual and the substance of his rhetorics doesn't go by the humbug. The man behind me asked: Ricky Carandang wasn't able to crash the gates? He didn't because basically JDV was so domineering. I asked: Would someone like JDV allow himself to admit something which will make him a clown on national TV?

He boasted that Philippines will no longer take a longer route to find oil because the technical expertise of the Chinese will ensure that oil be produced and delivered to Filipinos from nearby Spratlys. He boasted that Filipinos will no longer be burdened by the high-priced oil and that electricity rates will go down. Oh well, then that'll be good for Juan dela Cruz. He bragged about the Philippines joining the bandwagaon of economic intergovernmentalism. According to him, the JMSU will pave the way for regional cooperation between Asian States. JDV said: Like the euro there will only be one Asian currency. . .the peso will no longer be a peso but will form part of a strong Asian currency. Like duh? so much braggadocio of you JDV, this is only a tripartite agreement Asia does not comprise of China, Vietnam and the Philippines only and the JMSU if you haven't dissected its essence yet, it is a joint exploration, you oil man! If there's a union it will create out of the agreement it will simply be a union of greedy and foolish states-the foolish states compromising whatever sovereignty that's left in them for the sake of what have you.

JDV, the statesman, right then and there averred that the JMSU will prevent war between claimant states. According to him, rather than the Philippines risking itself to go into war it should necessarily ink this deal. Yeah, and JDV is claiming himself to be a statesman while talking of a too sensitive topic such as a war too prematurely which even China has not been heard of mentioning. JDV also mentioned a jargon: the doctrine of auto-limitation. But, this doctrine could only be applied on the premise that an international agreement has been validly agreed upon which in the case of JMSU is not present and auto-limitation as far as I know does not definitely cover elements which create a State such as giving up part of the State's claimed territory.

Take for example the treaty between East Timor and Australia, JDV enthused. According to JDV, East Timor is now reaping the fruits of the treaty. The what? Clearly East Timor's experience is not parallel to the Philippines. East Timor is a new country which is prone to compromises while leaving its power of self-determination in the shadows. Philippines has been independent since time immemorial; it can't definitely act in the way East Timor gave up its claims over the Timor Sea. And again what fruits are you talking about? East Timor has nothing but the left-over from the buffet "bullish" Aussies had munched over. It seems you're not updated.

What else, JDV?

You might as well take a bow. The night is over. Please seal your lips forever.

Lost Tune

2008-03-06T17:52:00.000-08:00

Rush of cold wind pounds heavily on the glass window creating silent noises; the creaking of the dilapidated door, the rustling leaves, the tranquil sound of wind chimes and howls from stray cats. The fusion of these sounds reminds me of a lost tune, melody and lyrics which kept on playing round my mind albeit so soft and low like the sound of a breath. The song which left me imagining about the beauty of a sunset, the smell of moistened hay in the morning, the tiny ripples in the river caused by the breeze coming from the north.

You’re lying in that small hut. Tired and exhausted by the day’s work. You feel the cold wind enter the little openings on the wall soothe your burned skin. The night is silent and you could see the crescent moon and wonder if you could really sit on its tail and fish stars. A blurred sound comes out from an old radio. You could barely hear and decipher the lyrics but the melody resounded a deep thought that crossed boundaries. It broke your heart. A teardrop for a barren and void feeling flowed through the temple into the ear.

The song is being sung by the cold wind. I have just finished reading Irene Nemirovsky’s two-part novel. I leafed through the pages once more.

“Music is a demanding mistress. You can’t abandon her for four years. When you return to her, you find she’s gone.”

. . .Like a passing glint of a coin submerging in a murky water as it catches the last rays of light? Still, I said to myself that I will be her lover forever even in absence; even in abandonment.

When I was a little child I remember asking my grandmother about a virtuoso she’d known.

“What had happened with your uncle’s violin?”

“It was sold after he got sick and nothing could be spent for his medication. It was the saddest part. To let go of something which became a part of his life.”

“Could we still find it and buy it back?”

“Of course my child, but not now.”

"I have few pesos here. Would this be enough?

A smile made her eyes glitter for a moment.

"If it could only be that easy my child. But, you could always wish for it if you want."

The Noble Tea Project, On Whoring around and the Best Scandal I’ve Ever Seen

2008-02-23T03:06:00.000-08:00

I have finally came to terms with the bouts of depression I have been going through for the past months. Basically, because of the fact that I am officially resigned from my job where most of the root pains come from. To me, it was kind of a graceful exit. There were hurt feelings, okay. But ultimately, I am relying that time will heal it and those scars will find its way to erudition. For in those years where I forced myself to learn a job which required mostly sitting on a chair, fortunately, the grasps of reality providentially poured down right into that finance cave where I lie. Stories from afar that breathed rich exchanges from the grassroots. Stories related by a friend-confidant that compensated clear enough the vacuum I felt while doing an NGO work. Yet, I still have to kill the sentiments of leaving physically the place where I have become attached to. First, the office, of course. Second, the cat. Third, the schizo.

And so now for the meantime I’ll just be working here in my flat during the day and have classes in the evening. A generous friend has got me something to busy myself with. I called it the Noble Tea Project. I was assigned to do web content for a tea site his company will put up soon. The income from that will surely help to augment my savings for the bar review which will start on April at the UP Law Center. Hopefully, my millionaire-friend (gasem!) will be true to his words and sponsor all the rest of the expenses. I am just a bit uncomfortable dealing with him because he speaks in dollars and most of the time when he throws numbers I have trouble doing calculations with the ever fluctuating exchange rates. haha

* * *

The rain is pouring heavily on the roofs this afternoon spoiling the Flower Festival in this mountain city to my delight. A friend of mine asked why I call Baguio a mountain city rather than the infamous portrayals of public officials like City of Pines or City of Character (Yuck!, I want to puke). . .because they’re all lies. I call Baguio a mountain city to depict the barren slopes and the reprehensible land use proffered by the desires of government officials to bring in jobs so they say, to bring in tourists. I’m reading the daily just now and it reported that the Panagbenga will expect 200,000 visitors. Oh my gawd! That’s a gargantuan flock!

You should see how Baguio looks like after the two parades. It’s like a raped city mourning over the stolen puri. In Burnham park where tourists/vandals are allowed to put up tents as early as eve of the main events, garbage including human waste is everywhere. Too grotesque. Water is scarce during these days to accommodate the needs of tourists in hotels and commercial establishments so that water supply is diverted to these b*******s to the prejudice of local households. The local government boasts of the influx of tourists as, allegedly, it will translate to income. Yes, they’re right! The festival will definitely bring in floods of money for loot. Loot by none other than the City Hall evils and bitches to borrow the name-tags being mouthed against the President. A recent report by the Commission on Audit here questions: where has the Panagbenga “Trust” Fund gone??? The hundreds of millions of income generated by the City Government out of corporate sponsors like SMART was reportedly missing. For venturing in another event like this, the City Government could no less than be whoring around at the expense of such a pristine place like Baguio. There is really no such Baguio in Bloom as they advertise and promote to attract tourists. All those flowers used in the festival came from a near-by town. They’re not natives of Baguio. It’s a farce! Just yesterday I have seen these city aides rushing to plant these fancy blossoms along islands in Session Rd. Yes a day before the main event. It’s being pretentious at the extreme level. It’s like a whore trying to dab a make-up to make her saleable after so much drag.

Apathy looms in every corner of the country. Seeing the recent NBN-ZTE scandal grow profusely beyond norms of “clean-corruption” is more than awful. The government stinks. It stinks from within; right here in my place corruption is likewise brazenly executed with impunity. But it’s different when you experience it firsthand. It’s like you want to be a legal murderer for God’s sake because you don’t want those City Officials justify and win over a self-serving resolution allowing the procurement of SUVs to be given to each of them so that they could visit daw their constituents from time to time. Para namang ang lawak lawak ng Baguio! And contrast this vis-à-vis the deteriorating public health system and the exigencies of addressing the concerns of the urban poor. It just sucks. So when I went home one time in the province and caught my father too much engrossed in the proceedings at the Senate I sat at his invitation never minding him asking from time to time what’s my opinion about that conjecture, “how about that objection”. . .I had too much of it. Only to discover after sitting for about an hour in front of the TV screen, Lozada’s face parallel to Atienza’s who is giving his testimony, that I am likewise engrossed already. For the drama and comedy, thanks to the NBN-ZTE scandal.

Swimming through a Slough of Despond

2008-02-05T07:59:00.000-08:00

Dear,

I haven’t written you for a while. It’s just that I’ve been suffering from some kind of sickness which deterred me from indulging in such exercise like this. You know, the past few months had been long and dragging for me. I know you could have well asked if I am okay if you’re here with me now. For some certain reasons, the answer would come necessarily in an instant. I would necessarily say that I am not and I am on the verge of hitting the lowest point that borders on extreme depression. But, here I am anyway; confiding to you the things I could only convey to the blank wall or by way of deleterious stare to nothingness.

If Kundera’s way of speaking such phrase as the condition of the unbearable lightness of being begins to be repugnant and annoying to the senses, it’s like abhorring and rebuking "Einmal ist keinmal" (once is nonce); however true, we have only one life to live and one being to bear that would continuously disrupt the levitative aspect that underlies the premise.

I’ve been bombarded with dissociative experiences lately and one couldn’t just imagine how I live each day with so much desperation. Pictures of myself vividly tell how I grapple with so much burden. . .so much pain. There I am almost losing balance while sitting on a stolid chair as I lie extendedly on the rest as if it was the old rattan which lulled me mostly during siesta there at the province. It happened there at the library. Everybody looked and I was embarrassed. There I am loitering along empty streets few hours before sunrise. I felt sadness at the sudden nocturnal life. I felt I had enough of this world when the radio stations sign off in the middle of the night leaving me with words of prayer: let us have our day’s rest it says. . .so what now? I ask myself. I have yet to finish these deadlines. There I am throwing these bad jokes about considering the mode of ending a perturbed journey: wires? Ropes? Wrist? Woolf’s way. . .which prompted me to tell someone that the reason behind writing about the sea is that I opt to follow Woolf’s path on deciding eternity.

There I am flunking an exam after an exam. I’ve not been performing and sometimes I tell myself that it’s high time to assess although it’s too late. Still, something inside me mysteriously drives my way pass these conundrums. It’s like an antibody. Is this some kind of an epic then? a personal legend, dear guru? Is this leading somewhere to nirvana?

The accountant has a nibble of wisdom to share. While cursing on his worksheets almost tearing them to pieces just because of that 40 centavos he can’t balance, he shrieked. Maybe, like numbers appearing on two opposite sides of the chart, my life also needs to be. . er. . balanced?

I have so much to share. . .This is the end for now.

Funambule

2008-01-23T06:03:00.000-08:00

He’s no stranger to dead silence

Lights beam on this lone performer

Lights beam in a grandstand

To lift those strangers’ spirits high

To lift all their glares right into his balancing act

Life for a night

Captured by the tightrope walk

Spreads his arms into the air

And mind an immeasurable end

Press his weight on the middle of nowhere

Importune everyone’s uproar

Slip and fall!

They fear for him,

And water will pour.

He would seek life on the thin line.

Leave it only to find,

That forever he will be crowned

So that comfort he may find.

Sea

2008-01-20T00:25:00.001-08:00

What is it with you, still a hounding mystery.

You calm this wretched spirit like no one can.

As I sit on this enormous rock that sparkles because of tears that dried up,

You hush me in serenity, softly.

You sedate this enduring pain which leaves a hollow mind.

That’s why I long to seek you.

Please, let me feel you once more. Drown me.

Drown my soul.

Perished Poinsettias, Dying Holidays

2007-12-22T06:00:00.001-08:00

(Or was it only me who’s in the horrid mood? A holiday survey showed that there is slight increase in people- across all socioeconomic classes-, compared to the previous year perceiving that their respective Christmases will not be spoiled by Scrooges.)

Last year my boss called me to pick up several potted poinsettias to make livid a seemingly lackluster office that’s being run by a non-disciple of the school of embellishment. Those poinsettias whose lush bracts were flaming red decadently lost their beauty until what are left of them are the desiccated stems and the cracked soil; the vestiges of a past, ephemeral celebration of Christmas. The Christmas shrubs were easily forgotten as soon as the season ended, that was after Epiphany, but I guess it ended much earlier than that. Their beauty actually lost charisma right after the office party last year. Right after the office party, the potted poinsettias lie there at the veranda together with immensely accumulated rubbish. The potted poinsettias are dead by now, so I guess. They’re gone. Their flaming red bracts dwindled fast post-Christmas like blossom petals torn apart by a demented beau seeking instant answers on love. In reality, they were feasted upon by hungry worms.

Or just, it is an all-wise scheme of shadowing the gripes of the worst experiences and painful realizations in life. In pure attempt of ratiocination, I tried to gather as much information to understand a festive and supposedly jovial mood that is required of Christmas and Christmas per se and this is what I found.

Christmas developed from paganism. Early Europeans celebrate during winter solstice to alleviate their longing for longer days and extended hours of sunlight. They slaughter as much cattle which they can’t feed and have oversupply of fresh meat at the end of the day. The Norse does it by burning large logs and feast until the fire die down with the belief that each spark created represents a pig or a calf that would be born the next year. The Christians adopted this tradition and approximated that Christ was probably born at such point although many skeptics believe that He was probably born early in spring because shepherding could not be possible during winter. And so it is believed that the birth of Christ is probably between the months March and April. Traditionally, Christmas has been celebrated every December 25^th.

In the early 17^th century, the celebration of Christmas was changed in Europe because of major religious reforms. The Church particularly was said to be the cause of the decadence in its celebration because it allowed varied ways of celebrating it. For instance, the existence of such “lords of misrule” (mostly beggars) leads to pandemonium when they terrorize members of the upperclass who fail to give them the best food and drink upon demand. Christmas was cancelled by the Puritans when they took England because of this. It was only restored during the time of Charles II by popular demand.

Because of the entry of religion particularly Christianity, values were infused in the celebration of Christmas. The Christmas upshot came to the extent of pacifying the mood in 1914 when German and British troops declared a truce among themselves on the dawn of Christmas day. In the Philippines, the first Christmas mass was celebrated in Pangasinan by an Italian monk at around 1280 to 1320. The Italians back then planted the first Christmas tree. Experiences of Christmas during the Early Hispanic period is not that quite documented, so I guess again. An article of Ambeth Ocampo details the experience of an American woman during her first Christmas in the Philippines. Although quite ordinary as I see, the account was rather an outline extant of local tradition and only vibrates the festive mood of the expatriates who brought with them nostalgia of homegrown tradition. How about the Indios?

Hah. Well, it came late to my senses that it is already 9 o’clock in the evening and I’m still here at the office alone typing on the keyboard, having occasional goosebumps. I haven’t bought gifts yet maybe will join the rush tomorrow. Looking back, the past eleven months were quite easy on the way to look at because they’re shredded and still here in the box right at my corner. But, realistically, they’ve been a truckload of yoke I don’t want to commit to memory. Early in the week, I came upon this article by Fallows, the parachute journalist who got a bird’s eye view of the country with a damaged culture. He was writing post-EDSA and from there assessed the renewed vigor of democracy which mirrored hopes for social change and progress. My initial reaction was: “I want slit this vein and die!” because, in my opinion, the essay taken as a whole was bitterly true. It was written in 1987, but I was like reading fresh from the page of the daily I bought from the newsstand on that day.

Last December while walking down Session Road I nearly collided with a young girl whose begging late in the night from penny-pinching passers-by. She gave out a smile and wished me a Merry Christmas. I asked her to go with me inside the store where we nearly banged but she was reluctant and said that she will wait outside instead. She watched and leaned on the glass wall while I buy the box of Donuts for her. I remember her while I hand a 20-peso bill to a bunch of kids who sang carols for us in the office late in the night. I remember that experience when I witnessed this person yelling at a mendicant who’s asking for a peso or two. I can’t find the wisdom of help in its truest sense when you refuse to give the monetized value of a minute of your labor and adding insult to the injury by telling the poor person that she/he must work rather than beg. I can’t find the wisdom in rebuking street charity and all in all vilifying the dignity of a beggar whose suffering is overwhelmingly cruel than yours.

I realize as I write these thoughts that Christmas celebrated since childhood by me was unutterably unhappy. And it grows unhappier through the passing of years. Nonetheless, when the season strikes, I try to pretend to be jolly and all but never being pretentious in living its spirit even just for a week or so. Even just for a week or so, other people should be the Ebenezer Scrooge depicted at the last stave.

Finally, I want to tell the world that I’d be finally quitting my job for God’s sake, I mean for school’s sake. My job for three years in an NGO had been full of learnings and realizations but time has come when you just have had enough of bleak and false realities haha but I’m happy to enter a new industry which has grown promising for me so opined by a good friend who’s based in Shanghai, CN.

Still a Long Walk for the Farmers. . .

2007-12-09T03:33:00.000-08:00

After convening in Baguio, summer of 1997, the Second Division of the Supreme Court finally decided on the controversy brought before it regarding the validity of the “Win-win resolution” which originated from the Office of the President through Deputy Executive Secretary Renato Corona (settling the issues posed by the biased decision of Executive Secretary Ruben Torres) by allowing the farmer-beneficiaries of Sumilao, Bukidnon a share of the 144-hectare land allegedly owned by Norberto Quisumbing. In that win-win resolution, the Office of the President ordered the distribution of the 100 hectares to the farmer-beneficiaries and the remaining 44 hectares to be devoted to the conversion plan proposed by Quisumbing and approved by Torres.

After a long and arduous wait, the Sumilao farmers who have long been fighting over the ownership of their ancestral land finally had the attention of the nation after taking their pleas before the streets of Manila. On October 9, 1996, these farmers staged a hunger strike in front of the DAR office, supposedly in charged of implementing the CARP which is supposedly aimed at redistributing the vast lands of hacienderos to tenant-farmers. That hunger strike was devastating to the government as it was boasting the fruits of economic growth back then. Thus, it intervened, albeit harshly against the farmers, at first, when it issued an order approving the conversion plan applied for by Quisumbing which covered the entire area of 144-hectares. It modified subsequently its own order upon pressures from the church and civic groups. Corona issued the so-called win-win resolution granting the 100 hectares to the farmers and the 44 hectares to Quisumbing. . .a little too late.

A little too late because back in the province of Bukidnon, the local government units have been in haste adopting the first order issued by Torres; a bitter betrayal for their own constituents.

And as if to validate the fact that justice does not come easily for the underprivileged, the Second Division held that the first order issued by the Office of the President is already final and executory, thus, could no longer be assailed. To quote the ponente, Justice Martinez:

Now to the main issue of whether the final and executory Decision dated March 29, 1996 (Torres’) can still be substantially modified by the "Win-Win" Resolution.

We rule in the negative.

The rules and regulations governing appeals to the Office of the President of the Philippines are embodied in Administrative Order No. 18. Section 7 thereof provides:

Sec. 7. Decisions/resolutions/orders of the Office of the President shall, except as otherwise provided for by special laws, become final after the lapse of fifteen (15) days from receipt of a copy thereof by the parties, unless a motion for reconsideration thereof is filed within such period.

Only one motion for reconsideration by any one party shall be allowed and entertained, save in exceptionally meritorious cases. (Emphasis ours).

The Supreme Court ruled out based on technicalities. But in the same ruling, the Second Division apparently misquoted how equity is weighed in controversies affecting the marginalized sectors of society.

Be it remembered that rules of procedure are but mere tools designed to facilitate the attainment of justice. Their strict and rigid application, which would result in technicalities that tend to frustrate rather than promote substantial justice, must always be avoided. Time and again, this Court has suspended its own rules and excepted a particular case from their operation whenever the higher interests of justice so require.

As if to castigate further the petitioners on the misavoidance of the rules , the Supreme Court added:

In the instant petition, we forego a lengthy disquisition of the proper procedure that should have been taken by the parties involved and proceed directly to the merits of the case.

Supreme of all, the Supreme Court erased any silver lining that should supposedly be gleaned upon from this sad plight of the farmers. It ruled no less that the MAPALAD farmers are not real parties-in-interest. In its own words:

The rule in this jurisdiction is that a real party in interest is a party who would be benefited or injured by the judgment or is the party entitled to the avails of the suit. Real interest means a present substantial Undoubtedly, movants' interest over the land in question is a mere expectancy. Ergo, they are not real parties in interest. interest, as distinguished from a mere expectancy or a future, contingent, subordinate or consequential interest.

And so Norberto Quisumbing really had his day in court without even stepping into the hall of justice. The petitioners were peculiarly the local government units of Bukidnon and the Corporation owned by Quisumbing. The defendants were Corona and the DAR defending the validity of the win-win resolution the former issued. The MAPALAD farmers filed a motion to intervene, but the Supreme Court denied the same. Few years after, the conversion plan approved by Torres did not materialize instead Quisumbing conveyed the questioned land to the SMFI. SMFI is now claiming ownership over the land and is now developing it into an agro-industrial estate divesting further the claims of the farmers. And so the long and arduous walk. . . Protesting to suffer or to suffer in protest?

The long walk by the Sumilao farmers from their lands to Malacanang to press the government to order SMFI to return their lands which were subject to CLOAs previously could never be a shooting for the moon even at this stage where legal ownership has already been vested to SMFI. It is a continuing struggle that transcends any legality constituted improperly and based on wrong and malicious political favors. However, it is very distressing that the suffering of the farmers for relentlessly invoking a right has gone this far. The long walk is pregnant with symbolism. It no less than confirms that the government was too far for the South. It was unable to reach out for centuries even at this point of time. Not even a Senator who’s born from Mindanao could disprove the fact that services are too controlled to trickle down south. Really, if the Honorable Senator has the balls to mediate and reach out to the farmers, at the least to assuage them because of their torn lives right there at their homeland, he won’t be waiting for that photo-ops outside the Senate: he, extending his right hand to one of the protesters who was squatted there under the blistering heat of the sun. Disgusting!

I still have the faith that the struggle of the farmers would end with the farmers reclaiming the lands taken from them. But I’m sure there’s still a long walk to take with the current administration’s disregard for even the most basic of human rights. There’s this news, for instance, which reported that the government would finally intervene before the Left gets into the picture. Imagine!

There was an Earthquake Here!

2007-11-27T19:16:00.000-08:00

There was an earthquake here past noon. It registered a 6 on the Richter scale, reports say. It registered a 9 based on the Trauma scale, if there is any, among the people causing a little like hubbub over this mountain city. Sirens deafened all ears as paramedics rounded the business district moments after. At a nearby university, hordes of students came rushing in exits leading to a busy road causing severe traffic downtown. The mayor ordered classes and public offices suspended this afternoon in anticipation of aftershocks. In our office, the manager who was casually chatting with us about development issues was shocked by the sudden and prolonged tremor (about a minute, I think). The rest of the people at the building were seen heading for the front door at the instance of the manager; defying panic with the slow and calm pace. We stood by the front door with all the cloud of doubt around our heads if it’s the safest place to be with all the rootless and decomposing tall pine tress and electric posts before us. Nonetheless, the epic ends there as the tri-colored building cat prowled over downstairs toward our direction in that quotidian comportment. What would you expect from such aristocat lounging over after feasting from the leftover menu of a fine-dining resto right next to our building? A blessed cat indeed.

So life for this day went on but, of course, not without shoo-in roundabouts that slowly surfaced memories of a tragedy more than a decade ago. One shared something like her friend who happened to be pregnant at that time feared that her baby would be like a rotten egg. Another shared about trapped survivors eating their excrements for food and urine for water. Those were the last survivors of a ruined hotel who managed to hang on with their lives for weeks until rescuers found them deep in the rubble. Still, another shared how antipathy works among Filipinos even in times of catastrophes as when foreign relief like quality sleeping mats and tents are malversed and transformed into local banigs and mosquito nets instead. More than a thousand were killed in this city alone on that fateful day, July 16, 1990. That tragedy is being commemorated ever since. There’s this policy (or is it a moratorium only?) for instance prohibiting the construction of tall buildings more than two stories high which, however, never came into play as evidenced by high-rise structures sprawled all over the business district. In my school, for example, a 10-storey building was recently completed without any opposition. As it comes, the monuments of development (or mere urbanization) are like mushrooms ubiquitously springing up even in most peculiar scenarios like a mall in a forested hill or a flyover in an open and traffic-less junction road; very surreal phenomena indeed.

On a more personal level, I remember Murakami’s stories in After the Quake; on how the earthquake in Kobe became a subtlety to the different wrought directions mustered by the lives of different lonely and pervert individuals; on how such a devastating quake proved to be less than devastating compared to a person losing his sanity with a mammoth worm and a super frog in mind and another Komura who’s too engrossed with live TV footages on the shattered Kobe unnoticing the abandonment meted on him by her not-so-beautiful wife. I remember myself as a grade-school student being prodded by the teacher outside because of lack of fear and too much interest in solving a math problem on my notes. As we were crouched on the wide open space right next to our classroom where the flag ceremony is being held, I noticed that most of the pupils were looking up in the skies as if waiting for some kind of manna. In our small village, talks about a relative wailing for her daughter who was then billeted at the Hyatt Hotel together with a Japanese became an overbearing news much like a television series where every scene is sumptuously awaited and devoured. The teleserye ended abruptly days after because of a news which mentioned a Japanese sounding name as one of the survivors together with the relative’s daughter. They were apparently enjoying at the Burnham lake when the earthquake hit. In sum, the quake left me nauseated all through out the week with all the shaky experience not to mention the hullabaloos-the most glaring of which was the scene of confessed sinners similarly wailing because of their presumed perdition.

Earthquakes are occurring regularly, so too are ineffable discomforts rooted on tragic memories, and like a seismologist so opined, most of them no longer pass our thresholds of feeling.

Safest place to be

2007-11-10T23:52:00.000-08:00

Two fowls at two opposite and distant directions desperately cluck to announce the coming of dawn. The sound magnifies a mournful of spiel, so traumatic and daunting to bear. They consistently return each other’s clucking as if indulging in an operatic discourse that’s plagued with itinerant swings of joy and sadness. In my mind, they seemed like harbingers of death perpetually lulling the cockles of the heart to sleep and die with truth. The feeling’s like this when you refuse to believe that someone you loved is at the other end of the line, trying to breathe her last and rummaging whatever is left, few minutes after the pumping of life; memories of important events in her life which includes a bittersweet understanding of a lifetime of sacrifice. A sacrifice devoted to a generation ahead but so close to her heart.

I waited for few minutes at the station for the bus to come. Booked for the first trip and ended miscalculating the time, earlier by half an hour. Everyone has their jackets and sweaters except me. This is the early days of January and the cold front still sets low reaching this part of the country. I don’t feel the cold. My body is numb all over. Smoke comes out of my mouth occasionally because of heavy and deep breathing. It is still dark. Few people roam the streets. A number of passengers boarded the bus as soon as it arrived. Never passed a glance at their faces like I used to. For quarter of an hour until I boarded myself my eyes are focused at only one direction, to the skies. The bus left the station at about 4:45.

At 4:45, a distraught man was seated at a lonesome bench. His aura effused a certain feeling, so desolate and unknown. The bus maneuvers towards his direction until it finally sweeps the dust in front of him. He was still all the while; his presence pregnant with undefined emotions.

Grief, they say, is abstract until it crosses your path. Unlike any other emotion, grief is seldom felt in our everyday life until someone close to our heart leaves this physical world. When I was on travel to attend the wake of my grandmother, I witnessed the coming of dawn like never before. As the bus runs along lines of trees, paddies and finally the shores along the gulf, the bulwark of the spill of light gradually swallowed up the dark and venomous abyss on the horizon. The beauty of the coming of the new day has never been this overwhelming yet, for a moment, my heart was unable to respond.

For almost a year after her death, I paid a visit to her grave and brought few dozens of white roses. Shed a tear for the wonderful memories and told her that I will never be the same again; like a stolid marble sculpture of a human figure with broken arms. “I suddenly remember you telling me that you will spook me even in broad daylight if I still don’t get married after you pass away. Go on Nay, won’t bother.”

At the Hangar Market and Beyond

2007-10-19T03:44:00.000-07:00

It is but an ordinary day here at Hangar market, October 17, 2007 at about half past twelve noon. The sky above us is grayish and forebodes a rather reluctant downpour amidst a humid air. This is a very busy place like no other. The small stage where the band BINHI will perform is occasionally surrounded by spectators who are mostly laborers: haulers, stevedores, vendors trying to sneek a little of their time to see a different yet familiar milieu in their time. This is where the foils of the earth seethe into growing and unkempt nails; into tonic muscles that reflect woven veins, dead-beat yet sardonically resilient. The smell of air undulates a deferential mixture of smoked fish, aroma of freshly picked and washed vegetables, the stink of the sewers, and the stupor of sweat. This is Hangar market; the heart of trade; trades of all kind. The place of payout for hard-earned work and produce.

The amplifiers worked to stir curiosity among the busy crowd; to attract each and every one in the market that something’s happening at this side, more than minutes of entertainment, this is to celebrate and dignify your labor: the fruit of one’s blood and sweat. Please come, please come. This event is simultaneously conducted nationwide to press the government to live up to its promise and to its covenant in meeting the Millennium Development Goals, one of which is the eradication of poverty in the country. The government pledged to this undertaking more than a decade ago. Four administrations bore witness to many reminders, events like this at Hangar market. It pledged time and again to eradicate poverty through institutional policies and hard-on statements of immediate action. Unfortunately, we’re here again to remind. Years have passed and the goals remained to be goals. Goals that are difficult to realize and achieve. The supposed timeline until the MDGs are reached is from 1990-2015. Previous administrations were able to cut poverty incidence by only single-digit percentages. Half of the population in the country is still living in poverty as of this year. They’re waiting for the Gods.

Why? Because there is no definite and sincere action from the government; only “motherhood” statements and initiatives. The current 10-point agenda of the Arroyo administration to eradicate poverty in the country is but a show-off; a metaphorical set of words perpetually inscribed on a tablet. Policies and programs adjunct to her agenda lacks any clarity and definitiveness. Programs being monitored by the National Anti-Poverty Commission implemented by national agencies breathe the ardor of traditional practices that could never be a rung to the fulfillment of poverty-reduction goals. What the country needs is an aggressive and motivated effort. Not mere mascots like Mang Pandoy and the Bangkang Papel sort that further annihilates hopes for a positive change.

But still, what will you get from a government which settles down at saying: “We have infused P1.5 million for the health care services of geographically isolated and depressed areas; P2.5 million in health care financing in the form of grants and subsidies . . .blah, blah, blah” http://www.napc.gov.ph/govt_poverty_reduction_programs.htm (and more than a billion for the defense? Defense from what?).

And so here we are again. Reports say that this event has drawn more than seven million people all over the country pledging to end poverty. Here at Hangar market, the audience numbered at approximately 200+ individuals: mostly vegetable haulers, vendors, common tao or maggagawa as you may call them. Most of them listening intently to the music of BINHI while someone at a nearby stall plugged his ears with his two hands because of a newfound noise that stirred the latter’s usual life at the market. Another at the side was busy washing the soiled carrots and packing them in a transparent plastic bag. The woman peeking at the window of an old building is staring blankly at the skies. I looked up. The man standing beside me looked up, the others looked up. Our stares pierced the gray skies. After a few moments, BINHI ended the event with their finale song “Lalaya” which narrated the struggles of the Filipino people from the hands of the conquerors to the realms of poverty. BINHI sang the undying hope for freedom and the struggle that must be for its attainment.

As the sounds fade away, the crowd slowly dispersed until what’s left around the space is the small block of wood used as the stage and the inanimate words spoken before it that slowly drifted into the air like a feather dust blown by time. Hangar market was busy. . .busy until the end.

Quarter of a Century

2007-09-15T03:40:00.000-07:00

Nine tall bamboo poles make up the raft that is hitched in one of the mangroves in the bank. It is there stagnant during weekdays. Its life mostly limited upon leveling itself to the tides of the river. It is a forsaken bamboo raft, abandoned by its owner and left to the whims and caprices of whoever will come by and use it. Its existence shrouded by a grasp of communality among the members of our village, fortunately. So that for long years, the raft became a childhood refuge of many who wished to paddle it along the river after a furious whipping by the masters of a house or after a delirious infatuation with a childhood crush.

Mike will later on be the first one to learn how to swim. He frequents the river more than I do. He was my younger brother and more often than not, during those days, he’s the one between the two of us who could discreetly pass by the back of our house [at the prompt of the head of the gang who will signal the boys through a distinct whistle] without being caught by our stern mother; both hands clutching two white plastic water containers for his added floatage in the water. He will run fast as he could towards the road without anyone knowing it till he produces that violent shriek when he’s already on the road to boast of an ephemeral but joyful freedom. There was never an attempt to drag him back home, not even with the presence of nanay, who will just put up a squalid face while muttering to herself: “That wily child.” It’s my brother’s price for pursuing happiness in spite of fear, in spite of consequential punishment. His being quite a liberal will help him later to sire a beautiful child sooner than his older brother. And all I could say afterwards is that: “You seem to be more-good-looking than me.”

I drowned three times in that river; saved only by Badong in that three, sporadic, and failed attempts in trying to swim without the help of two, white water containers. He may never remember it anymore that for a time I consider him as a savior, a life-saver in that morose river. He may never remember it anymore that for a time I have been religiously reminding him that his birthday will come soon and, when privileged to have saved coins and paper bills in that cylinder coin bank, a modest gift on his special day [hehehe]. . . for the gratitude and brotherhood of not divulging such fact for me to continue my swimming endeavor. [or that, unconsciously, you had just let it pass?]

The last incident of drowning happened in a rainy Saturday afternoon. I was crouched on the middle of the raft looking on the splashes of water coming out in between the poles as they jump from it into the river when the raft suddenly overturned together with me. I struggled to stay afloat but I was blocked by the raft above me till my cousin pulled my hair up all the way until my head was above the surface of the water, effortlessly like a tiller does in uprooting onion bulbs. I drank water more than I should need on that day. My belly’s protruding with liters of salt water in it. In spite of it all, I was still able to joke on him: “Your arm seemed to have stretched too long. How did you do that?” The ordeal was quite fruitful for the day after I saw my self doing the dog-swim till I reached the other end of the narrow river.

I am now twenty five. Lived on this world for a quarter of a century already. The atmosphere these days is very, very different decade ago. Not just because of the hard times and physical changes I have gone through but rather because of the knowing feeling that a clock is ticking somewhere even if you persistently and consciously don’t wear a watch on your wrist or don’t hang a clock in your room; and days passing by even if you try to detest the existence of a calendar, its leaves torn down discreetly at the glimpse of an eye. This seemed to be a period for me where I try to measure up relentlessly the things I have done and the choices I have made in those years that contributed to my emotional and spiritual growth. The search now could be likened to a lost pin amidst a fine shrubby ground. The search is even worse if you’re living in a secluded island like me.

One night, in one of my evening classes, Atty. Abiog, a professor in Forensic Medicine lectured on the importance of death to legal matters. Prior to her lecture, however, she gave a lengthy introduction on death in a positive manner to displace the seeming morbidity attached with the subject. An antidote to the succeeding discussions on antemortem lividity, putrefaction, the oozing of lipids, the occurrence of maggots, etcetera, etcetera. Death, according to attorney’s philosophy, is an inevitable circumstance which should be dealt with as it is, as it comes. Death, to her, because of its inevitability, should be taken in the context of day-to-day living. Her talk sounded like an overgrown philosophy much of a passé minus the relenting attitude of neglect because of the I’ve-been-hearing-this-again-and-again kind of distaste. Her voice streamed through like a fresh whisper in a jaded ear that gave a positive reaction felt as far as my strained toes.

My last visit at home was a certain kind of awakening. I had this sentimental walk to our favorite hangout. The river is just a few meters away from our house. You will just pass by three houses, the two-storey house of my aunt, the family home of my cousin Badong, his name appearing on a black, rectangular board that hanged high in the front wall, underneath his name spelled his achievement : certified public accountant, and the house of Apong Konsing, the sister of my beloved lola. Beyond those three structures you will turn left and pass by a small concrete bridge leading to an inner sitio. Few feet away from that bridge is a pasture land and near it is the river bank where we leave all our clothes before we soak ourselves in the water. To my surprise, there’s still a bamboo raft drifting along the bank and I supposed the worn out and dilapidated raft lying there on one side is the one we used to play with? It looked very dry, without life and seemed inutile at its state. I tried to push it to the river and let it drift for one last time.

Waiting. . .In the Bank Waiting

2007-09-01T00:52:00.000-07:00

A brown suede shoe incessantly taps on the white tiled floor, rhythmically, as if carousing in a joyful beat of music. One-two. . .One-two. . .One-two. The sound produced by the tapping wistfully creates a disturbing thought that dances in a sound-proof room devoid of any motion, beat, and understanding. The bank usually gets busy when the week starts, usually a Monday; or after the seceding of spates; tropical storms which interrupt business operations for long days; or after holidays. However, I have never been trapped in a bank for just one transaction for long hours, waiting and waiting and waiting, as if eternally, like a groom torn by the sudden breach of promise to marry by her bride-to-be after the former waited for long hours at the entrance of the cathedral. It’s just like a hopeful waiting. Like a thought of waiting for something, something which has died away long before, some resolutory condition that is not going to happen, or an inevitable circumstance which suddenly become avoidable.

Flashes of faces passing by tired my vision. For once in my whole life, I have never tried to guess the personality of a person by the look of his or her face this much. And as I’ve said, the very judgmental undertaking is tiring. This husky man beats her wife, that old woman is a primadonna, that man who whistles away his irritation is a meek person, that lady crouched on one of the belchers has her semblance with Julie Delpy; her eyes lovely and calm, her lips resembled a mound of a thousand shiny red apples, so polished that they reflected every man’s eyes who looked through them. Her eyes pierced mine, for a split-second I saw her strumming the chords of a guitar, her hand dropping so gently as if caressing and feeling a fragile object (hehehe). Then I asked intently: “Could you sing me a waltz?” Out of nowhere, the voice of a child pounded in my ears like a high-pitched note that almost broke my eardrums. “Ma, could you buy me a toy later!” The mother whispered in the child’s ear: “I will, hon.”

It’s half past twelve. The line’s slowly moving. Teller number 4 and 5 went out of their compartments to have a break. Only two tellers are now accommodating hordes of clients continuously flooding the lobby. Looked at the clock again, its second hand drops heavily, the ticking becomes the beat of the pulse palpitating strenuously because of stress and various forms of agitations. The rancid air aggravates the torment. Suddenly, the walls became sources of comfort.

Framed poster No. 1 taunted the time wasted as if doing a mockery of alienated lives trapped in the four corners of the bank for a day. Sir Emilio spoke cordially:

Huwag mong sayangin ang panahon. Ang yamang nawala’y mangyayaring magbalik, ngunit panahong nagdaan na’y di na muli pang magdadaan.-Emilio Jacinto

Okay sir I got your point. Thank you for such veritable wisdom you have there and for keeping this idleness robust with great learnings and wonderful ponderings like what you’re doing with me now. But, really, the day’s great today the sun’s up and the wind’s blowing smoothly along trails of flowers in the park, its gentle coldness rushes up to here, hours spent waiting should have been allotted for leisurely walks in the park. Nah, but I won’t give up my seat for nothing. Hours wasted are wasted, can’t do nothing about it.

Framed poster No. 2 is quietly reneging my last statement.

It is a useless life that is not consecrated to a great ideal. It is like a stone wasted on the field without becoming a part of any edifice.- J.P. Rizal

Okay sir I will remember that. But a stone is a stone. Objectivitism would tell us that a stone’s destiny does not always end up happily in structures you know. Like, a big stone- rock could attain greatness in itself. I know, you’re referring to small rocks capable of being thrown but it’s just the same; a small rock could attain greatness in itself without being commixtured with sand and cement. A desolate raspy voice whispered in my thought. “I know kid, enough with the stone. This could well be a faulty metaphor, but at least, the adage suits nice with how the stone’s depicted.” Okay, okay. However, idealism cannot feed thy stomachs these days. It can nurture you but it can’t feed you. And it’s really hard being idealistic and being practical at the same time you know.

Framed poster No. 3 flared a paintly red face of Bonifacio in rage because of my last statement. Think of our nation above anything else. . .hmmmm. when almost everybody is thinking of something else.

Walang mahalagang hindi inihandog ng may pusong mahal sa Bayang kumupkop; Dugo, yaman, dunong, katiisa’t pagod, buhay ma’y abuting magkalagot-lagot.- Andres Bonifacio

There was a rush of relief when teller no. 3 blurted out the word: “Next!” As if the word propounded as much wisdom as the framed posters which immortalized heroic ideals. I rushed towards the teller, she never looked at me. She quickly checked the amount and the payee on the check, stamped on it and let me sign. She counted the bills with her hand leafing through them, double checked on the counter and handed the bills to me. There was a sudden feel of monotony with her as she automatically grumbled on saying “Next!” every after transaction, every after client she serves.

A realization came to me as an afterthought. Money’s quick in revolving and revolving round these halls. Money bills come and go. What’s my point? Well, nothing hehe it’s just that I discovered a different kind of life inside the bank while I am waiting. It’s me just trying to make sense of wasted time. . .could I still consider it wasted? [Poster No. 4 luring: “Former Secretary Teves still got something to tell!”]

A Letter to My Son the Day before the World Ended

2007-08-03T22:13:00.000-07:00

Encrypted: Capsule Casket Code: 22445544 Origin: Pacific

Year of the Earth: 2500 A.D.

Last entry in memory:

July 21^st, 2050 4:00PM

Dear Son,

The last news I heard about you is that you are chosen among those to be billeted to the Greenhouse, scientists erected in Mars. You’re lucky son, for all you know part of your genes which helped you to be qualified in the gene test screening came from your father who is now living afloat somewhere in the Pacific in a transparent capsule casket, scientists have provided for those who were not among the short listed and those who chose to stay and witness the coming of Armageddon.

The world became inundated since the spark of escalating temperatures, which melted the ice left at the arctic and antarctic regions. I am telling you this in the frailest of hopes that somewhere in time this history could be imparted to you in your Martian refuge. I do not know how will this be possible since you were allegedly been reprogrammed in a tabula rasa state. They have meted out on you the worst of all crimes against humanity, and that is to take away from you the earthly memories you have. Scientists have long been floundered on including ethics as part of their constitution but not to this harshest degree. According to them, their intention was for your flock to start waywardly anew in that habitat and to cleanse your understanding about harmony with the world. This may be true but this leaves you to be eternally detached from your ancestry, your mutual connection to those you have left behind including me, your forlorn father.

I have never seen the beauty of the skies this much, son. I am living each day like a castaway in this compartment the size of my body. But, the experience is unexplainable. I am lying buoyant for exactly sixty days now and I never got to see in my lifetime the splendor of the first light of day and the descent of the sun below the horizon. The magical play of the Divine creates million of hues at the big dome making it an infinite canvass where a billion of portraits and landscapes are painted every second. Two days ago, an albatross alighted on the curvature of the capsule, which eased a momentary feeling of solitude in me, and stared at me for a minute. That stare took me several miles to your heart; for the bird’s eyes reflected a lost son in his father’s embrace.

This is the day before your scheduled trip to the Greenhouse and I am bidding you goodbye for now. Today is the end of the world to me. This capsule is made to give you choices. The inventors did a good job for injecting freedom in this small and lonesome space. There is a portable switch at my right hand’s reach for the suicide and on my left the switch to record in memory my testament. In lieu of an epitaph-like memento mori, I would like to make a letter to you, son with the hope that somehow in the distant future, the memory of this capsule would be encrypted and relayed to you. Some scientists projected that in a few more decades, the waters will recede and will rapidly evaporate into space, and this planet will soon look like your new habitat; a desert. I am not sure if this will happen soon in your lifetime and what will happen to this hopeful capsule. But, in any case, the possibilities of imagination are always at hand to bring your presence to somewhere else together with your doting father and recover the time unspent and the foregone joys of being together. But, still, experiencing it firsthand is still primordial. Letting you know the sincerest desires of your father of finally meeting you and being with you for a moment through this letter could well be the last wish of personal happiness I can demand before the world ends.

Two days ago, my capsule collided with three other capsules. The two I was able to ascertain, are now resting in peace while the other gleefully looked at me and thrust a thumb’s up. Millions are said to have chose to float by themselves maybe because they already lost their loved ones and are living by themselves like your father. The earth is now but a pool where floating caskets abound. I do not want to see this as the last hurray for humanity’s proclivity for his ego but for the unending road towards his search for his own being. Noah’s ark would become a commonplace for people wanting to immerse themselves and thrive again in a community. However, since the tragic consequences brought about by such age-old idea, people in this ending era now want to regain themselves and try to live out a Tom Nealish adventure.

The water is still and quiet today. A thunderhead could be seen on the far north, however from here I could see the crispness of the lightning sparks which reminded me of a childhood memory I want to share with you. When I was a little boy like you, I used to travel for miles a day, walking along footpaths which traverse hectares of paddies to reach a small cogon hut where your grandfather stays after a long day’s work of feeding the fishes he cultures in a little pond near the hut to bring him his dinner. Usually during the interregnum between the coming of the rainy days and summer’s ending, I travel early in the afternoon to the hut because I am afraid of the lightning and the thunderclaps, which usually happen at dusk especially that I travel along wide-open spaces, which I believe would bring greater chances for me to be struck. One afternoon, I was late in preparing for your grandpa’s baon, so unfortunately I was caught up in the dreaded walk along the paddies. The lightning was crisp and the thunderclaps were deafening. I ran fast as I could to reach the hut but when I was midway I tripped and fell down flat on my face with all the rice and the ulam splattered on the ground. All I could do was to cover my ears and stay put until the storm will pass. It did not rain, and when the thunderclaps were gone I looked at the sky and saw a big mushroom cloud on the north that illuminated brightly like a big firefly in the night. The feeling of dread was transformed into joy. For in that moment I experienced a sudden rush of relief, the kind which made my heart euphoric. I heard your grandpa calling my name. He rushed towards me, lifted me up and carried me on his back to the hut. We didn’t eat that night. We decided to sleep and have a full breakfast the day after. Before we slept, however, I told him about what I saw in the skies and in return, he told me a tale about thunderheads. He said that behind those thunderheads lie an enormous gold castle where fairies and giants live. The lights produced behind those clouds signal that there is an occurring war in their kingdom. When it rains thereafter, it means that the good ones lost in the battle and that the rain symbolizes the tears the noble ones shed in the war. When it does not rain, it means the otherwise, that the bad ones lost and that the kingdom is rejoicing for yet another victory.

Your grandpa was a good storyteller. I owe him much all the wisdom I learned from the stories he shared with me. I hoped I could impart to you the wisdom as well but time and destiny won’t allow that to happen now. I love you son. The sixty days will be enough to add up to the days, weeks, months and years of not being with you.

Your Father

An Evening with the Bar Topnotcher, the Singer with a Sultry Voice, and the Peddler of Festooned Ylang-ylang

2007-07-22T05:23:00.000-07:00

We ‘re all asked to dress semi-formal that night. It was a mere request actually for it turned out that some are really stubborn in acceding to the magnanimity of the one who requests. So that in the ballroom, fully-carpeted, chandeliered, and plush with royal curtains, you can see someone parading her backless gown. . .and there’s another one doing it on the ramp with her seductive, strapless suit. The latter caught all the guys’ attention because of her obtrusive pinning-down-the-aisle-along-the-red-carpet motion. “Och, you can do that more gracefully!,” said one. The people on the table at our back were hushing around. “Is she one of the honorees?” asked one. She answered herself: “Think she’s not. She has no flower brooch; think she’s just an usherette.”

The Bar passers, and apparently along with Bar flunkers were being honored that night.

The nobility behind such event is beyond reproach, the college head expresses his compassion to those who tried their best but unfortunately failed, : “We’re still here for you!” However, the wisdom behind it has its own cracks. Oh well, this explains why, as I later on realize while lying on bed after that gruesome four hours and a close-to-being esculent dinner, why someone from the corridor was overheard saying that one of the testimony-giver that night was undeserving. That was mean. Never mind him retelling incorrectly, what the school head previously told about self-transformation being the mission of the school. He proudly said: “We should always remember what Sir told us; that beyond all these achievements of our great school, what matters is our self-confirmation!”. . .what aggravated the fact is that he repeated this over and over again.

The Sir was unabashed, maybe. . .just maybe, the two concepts correlate each other or that he was not just listening previously. I said: “Forgive him for his grammatical errors but not for keeping the dinner waiting because of his one-hour long-standing speech which circled around self-confirmation.” hehehe

Over dinner, a svelte lady and a guitarist climbed up the stage to soothe everybody’s indigestion, apparently because of the lousy menu: creamed chicken with vegetables, tendered beef with gravy sauce, sweet and sour fish fillet [am not really sure about the real name of the dish; just judged it by the way it looked and tasted] , rice, and a supposedly bottomless serving of iced tea which will never be true in a place where waiters taste and drink what they serve at the back kitchen. (I must confess: I saw three of them gulping down from the pitchers!)

While the people were busy devouring what is there to devour on their plates, the singer was also busy (what else?) singing and trying to get helplessly the attention of the deprived attendees of this grandiose occasion. She even used her eyes and hands. . .her graceful hands reaching and swaying and luring the people to look at her and listen. . .in vain. (Except me miss. . .If you’d only look at this direction. . . .pssst, here, here.) She sang smoothly in my ears. . .in that classy jazz style. . .Moon River, The Way You Look Tonight. Her performance being interrupted by little applause until she was wrapping up. “This will be my last song for tonight. Hope you enjoyed?” [Yes, yes, your croon’s different, I mean distinct from all. . .look at my plate I didn’t even touch it because I watched and listened to you. Your show’s great. Please, please. . .more, more] And I’m probably the only one who’s in that line of thinking. . .the host thanked her and said: “If you want to catch her she performs at Gilligan’s and The Manor.”

The host called the man of the night. He was apologetic upon standing at the podium because according to him, he did not prepare a speech. [But, judging by the way he delivered, this man’s a certified orator]. He started by relating how the past few days, weeks and months has been perceptively too long for him. Too long because in that past few days, weeks and months, the aftereffect of meeting the high authorities of the land still lingered in him. Imagine, he was able to meet the “bantam” president and the Supreme Court en banc. He shared a piece of him: when he was a kid he wanted to be an astronaut; to live up to his dream he entered college and pursued a degree in engineering; when he got bored he took up accountancy. . .passed the licensure thereafter; got bored again, entered the college of law and passed the Bar besting all examinees all through out the land. [look at what boredom worked for this guy; how I wish my boredom worked that way] He continued: “It’s a matter of reinventing yourself.” “My classmates before probably didn’t know about this; that I am continuously reinventing myself.” [He was not at the top of his class. The Dean just after the bar exam results were released was caught pointblank when asked by a reporter to comment about the guy.]

How to hurdle and slay the dragon? He reached for the microphone and emphasized his tip to all of us. . . [all ears]. . . “Do you remember the movie Gattaca?” “Well, in that movie there are two brothers competing with each other. . .” Gattaca is a futuristic film. The story’s centered on two brothers. . .the one’s strong while the other one’s a weakling . In one of the scenes, the two brothers agreed to prove themselves in a swim-fight to test their respective strengths. They ran from ashore to the ocean. The weakling eventually won the fight because he was able to surpass his brother. The weakling was then asked how he did that. He answered: “Because I’ve put all my energy in my swim to the ocean and did not mind the swim back.”

The chandeliers above us were strikingly beautiful with the dynamic steel formations it possessed. They breathed life. Took a deep breath and told myself: “This night is enduringly painful.” Painful in two aspects. One: the food and the waiting. Two: wisdom imparted that’s starkly true and real creates a big balloon in my head. . .not that it’s overwhelming but because it is parsimonious yet relatively elusive.

I was bombarded by cold air on my way outside the hotel. It’s half past midnight, the crescent moon illuminates in the sky. While on my way to the coffee shop to warm myself, I passed along a peddler holding festooned ylang-ylang. I asked: “Do you still sell that?” “No, I’m about to throw them.” “No, let me have it. How much?” “They don’t have the smell anymore.” “It doesn’t matter. I’m not after their fragrance anyway.” “Okay, you can have them.” . . . . Saw him pass by the shop. He looked at me and bore a smile, which spoke to me intuitively: “A lonely man, you are.”

Too Much Sex in a Foggy Evening

2007-07-14T04:10:00.000-07:00

The city’s been experiencing gloomy afternoons & evenings lately with all the drizzling showers and descending clouds that smudges melancholic mist among lonely souls. Been forgetting to bring the umbrella consciously to become wet from head to toe at the day’s end and feel the soothing spray of rain on my deadbeat face. The occurrence of foggy afternoons in this mountain city is so rare these past few years except in cases of violent storms which never allow someone to walk along the streets and feel the feel of such blissful mist. A decade ago, while touring the city; me and my little friend Nico almost got lost in Burnham Park because the visibility is so low ; worsened by our astigmatic eyes clogged with hazy glasses. Little Nick said: “glasses with wipers are yet to be invented.”

* * *

The excitement of today’s wisdom-gathering was defined by the common thread of topics which came out from the mouths of no less than our three teachers, Atty. G., Atty. T (which was the subject of an earlier post because of her seeming pedantry) and the salacious Atty. E. For the first period, Atty. E discussed, to the pleasure of his students, the intricacies of the crime of rape. . .particularly its history: how it became a crime against persons from being a mere crime against chastity; about the impossibility of it not being committed in its frustrated stage because of peculiarity. The Campuhan doctrine explains how the crime of rape is committed in a very esoteric manner. . .(the language of the Supreme Court sometimes beguiles the reader as if it is a lyrical prose). Atty. E, drums up the beat, “Do you remember class [pause] [winks at Ms. Beautiful seated at the right aisle] . . .the words of the High Court in People vs. Campuhan?” “Who’s under me in Criminal Law I. . .Criminal Law II. . .[no one answers] [all is stale, some docile] Atty. E continues. . . “Ok, I’ll refresh your memory.” He scribbles on the board, left hand in his pocket, his swaying right hand carouses on the gleaming writing board and produces a cursive script, too cursive. . .extant of any angular form which may impress on Atty E’s frugality with style and reproach on the rubbish. He faces the class and points on the board. . . He read his writing thrice. . .

“Mere bombardment of the castle of orgasmic potency or mere shelling of the citadel of passion is only attempted rape.”

“But mere bombardment of the drawbridge is invasion enough even if the troops did not succeed in entering the castle.”

On the third time, upon Atty. E’s cue, his students read aloud like in a nursery class his point (Atty. E’s style of teaching could be compared to a Sunday worship- the Amen affirmation thing). For the fourth time: Atty. E’s repetitive act became annoying. . . “Meeere. . .” Class: “Bombardment.” Atty. E: “. . .of the castle.” Class: “of orgasmic potency.” However, I’m still grateful with this. At least the retention is positively great!

Atty. E wants to illustrate his point further. He tells the class: “You know class how it is easy to illustrate and to act out the crime of homicide/murder like what we did the other night but in the crime of rape it is nigh impossible. He advances: “Di ba Ms. Beautiful Lady seated on the right aisle?” Many sniggered. . .then came a passing thought: we’re all preoccupied. Who says he’s not?

* * *

Then came Atty. T whose eyes always glimmer in mystique that I can’t keep myself from staring at them, straight and uninterruptedly, within that short and ephemeral sixty minutes. Atty. T speaks in rapidity, with minimal and short pauses, one just wonders where she gets oxygen and the necessary fluids to maintain her vocals. She started with the provisions on legal separation and related these with void and voidable marriages. Atty. T underscored the mutual responsibility of married couples to copulate in order to actually consummate marriage. Impotency could be a ground to annul a marriage. Likewise, excessive desire to copulate on the part of one spouse that border in perversity could be a ground for legal separation. “. . .so that if one spouse is either suffering from nymphomania or satyriasis, the normal spouse could petition the court and ask for legal separation.” She continues: “However, if such perversion is consensual as between the spouses, for instance both engage in sadomasochism, one spouse could not later on complain that she/he is aggrieved by the sexual conduct and behavior of the other spouse.” Very Freudian huh. The imagination flickers in the air, speech balloons popping out tremendously above everybody’s head. One slouchy student appears to be aroused. . .the one beside her drools. . .like a deprived Pavlovian dog. I particularly diverged myself and remembered the bonobo chimpanzee and Freud’s definition of love: “Looove is the instinctual derivative of sex.” Quite true. [Me: And when sex disappears in this world, what would most likely happen?] [Flourescent bulb: Earth would be renamed the Insanity Planet!] The tantra was ended by Atty. T’s violent closing of her little black book that produced a shocking and embarrassing sound that somehow implied that we’re not allowed to indulge at the moment. She strutted her way out, passed the aisles her left hand clutching at her “hairy” handbag.

* * *

Atty. G walked in the classroom holding a plastic cup splattered with coffee stains on one side. . .took one sip before he began talking. “Okay, class where did we stop last time?” Atty. G is quite demure in his ways but he occasionally blurts out his repressed thoughts. His discussions mostly punctuated by green jokes on girlie-night bars and the indispensability of going nocturnal on weekends. While explaining the national ID system that was previously rendered unconstitutional he joked on his other companero who is apparently Atty. E. He said: “You know class, on hindsight, I think the ID system would benefit persons like Atty. E, because in such case Atty. E wouldn’t appear to be a Don Juan at the pleasure of his virile students who go nightly at his favorite bars using his name when asked at the entry point by bouncers.” Nothing but sex keeps the house alive on this soporific and supposedly romantic evening with all the mists and the lonesome walk at dark alleys partially illuminated by the dying light of lampposts.

Of Pre-Made Lawyers & Robotics

2007-07-05T18:13:00.000-07:00

Lawyers are made; they are not merely born to be in such profession.

What we want to settle here is: are lawyers predetermined beings right from the start or are they developed by their environment. Would an unconditioned gene survive the path where it ought not to take? Or is there really such restriction that pervades the human system? My stand is in the negative.

Lawyers like doctors, musicians, artists are not, right at birth, destined to take the fields they belong to. They are molded by their environment in the course of their development so that they, as human beings, choose the path where their social consciousness dictates them to take. These social imperatives are more likely to manifest in the law profession.

Ask a law student about the reasons why he chose the field and I am hundred percent sure that he would not answer that it is because his genes are programmed for a lawyer. Law students, those who are really motivated by their ideals, would likely cite reasons pertaining to social order: the improvement of the present justice system; to bring justice to the marginalized sectors or at least make money in the profession.

It is well settled in psychology that nature or the environment has the biggest impact in the development of children. Many studies have shown that the biological factors bring in less impact to child development as opposed to the role of environment. One notable breakthrough in the field of psychology is the concept of emotional intelligence proposed by David Goleman. Emotional intelligence is an overhaul in the age-old thinking that intelligence does not have a relationship with the affect side of the human being. As opposed to conventional intelligence, EQ is not innate; it is developed. EQ is a product of the social environment where a person grew with. EQ, as Goleman asserts, is more likely to be determinative of the success or failure of a child in the future.

How can you say that intelligence would suffice? Disregarding the fact that abnormalities come out like that of a person who has low IQ, intelligence even average for that matter, rely on the quality of environment which is either facilitating or neglecting. An illustrative case, for example, is an 11-year-old juvenile delinquent, who spent his crucial developmental stage in prison. Would this child, in your opinion, even if he has the innate intelligence, grow up as an intelligent person in its truest sense? Compare the child to one that has a nurturing family, would it be the same even if he has only an average IQ? Common sense would dictate us that a difference between the two children’s potential in the future is manifest. Nevertheless, it is worth noting that a bad environment also develops resilience so that in certain cases intelligence flourishes alongside personal strength. Van Gogh never had facilitating childhood experiences, but his craft was honed.

In the 17^th century the French philosopher René Descartes set out views which held that people possess certain inborn ideas that enduringly underpin people's approach to the world. The British philosophers Thomas Hobbes and John Locke, on the other hand, took a more empirical approach emphasizing the role of experience as fully contributing to behavioral development. It is Hobbes and Locke’s views that find acceptance in many scholars. You can find the evidence in persons who are acculturated by a different societal framework. Now you can see Filipinos acting and behaving like Americans but, of course, never Americans acting and behaving like Filipinos except in exceptional circumstances.

On a side note, I want to share a joke on lawyers: A man went to a brain store to get some brain to complete a study. He sees a sign remarking on the quality of professional brain offered at this particular brain store. He begins to question the butcher about the cost of these brains.” How much does it cost for engineer brain?, asked the man “Three dollars an ounce, answered the butcher." "How much does it cost for programmer brain?.” "Four dollars an ounce.” How much for lawyer brain?" "$1,000 an ounce."
The man cannot accept the price so he went to ask: "Why is lawyer brain so much more?" The butcher proudly answered: "Do you know how many lawyers we had to kill to get one ounce of brain?"

Lawyers are indeed created and destructed by their environment. It is not intelligence, per se, that would determine judicious and fair judgment that lawyers must embody in their ideals. Intelligence is mechanical and robotic. Let alone, intelligence will muster over the ends of justice.

True lawyers are brought into the world, not by the order of nature but by the impinging concerns that slowly kill the society.

Inside the President's Mind

2007-07-01T02:11:00.000-07:00

Spasmic synapse explosions are occurring at both sides of her brain. She has in particular three ominous and protruded thoughts that flutter somewhere in the anterior portion. They imprint their specific categories in spyro-like pattern that glitters passionately ahead of other predilections. These are power, power again and wardrobe. She has seen privately, the TLOR trilogy and witnessed how Smeagol turned into the lustful Gollum. Her ponderings were concentrated on the ring and the nibble of wisdom it imparted. She threw Gollum into the subconscious and shoved her memory of the ring in the prosencephalon, anyway, this is the object she can highly relate to. She liked the ring, and the feel & power of invincibility it possessed. From then on, her pons responded spectacularly with the sight of rings. In her blank state, when struck by sudden impulses she pulls out her most precious wedding ring, and calls out in the open air, silently, in spite. . . “Maaay preeeciioushhh.” Her granddaughter was shocked and terrorized by her semblance of that monster in TLOR; child called her dad at the other room and told him that she just saw Gollum. Dad: “Little darling it’s just your lola!”

Her memories’ repulse with bits and pieces of I-should-get-that-trophy moments. She’s hungry for achievement. Her heart’s fraught with the absence of failures and dignity and respect for others lives. This might be the result of childhood insecurity. As the family poses for the camera circa 1960, her reluctant smile was captured by the monochrome shutterbug. The photo shoot was scheduled in the morning that day. She was frank with her emotions and her father cajoled all that there was to convince her baby. He even promised her a gold plated trophy as tall as her in vain. Her father was then surprised to see her in a yellow plaid dress and well-shined tresses. The father appreciated such meekness and understanding but nonetheless, her little girl returned a vicious smile. The lens-man was preparing his doodads when the family arrived. Two wooden chairs that shined in antiquity were placed at the center. “Mister President you could sit on the right. . .that’s it. . .the little boy could stand beside you. . .the little girl could. . .” until little Glory interrupted the unassuming man. “No! I will stand by my father.” Her voice was plush with authority and it echoed round the hall, which put everybody at a standstill. It was like a riveting explosion albeit silent in its nature that distracted momentary peace. Her father was not nettled by the sudden commotion and gave her sour response approving of her little child’s demand to be at his side. The little girl could be seen biting her lips and hiding one of her hands at her back. The flash of light was blinding and everybody except little Glory turned away from the camera’s focus.

The petite features of Gloria defies the rabid power and discretion she exercises over her constituency. How can that be? There’s parallelism with the irony imposed by her physical features vis-à-vis her insurmountable power with the case of the twins that lead the Karens. But unlike the children rebel leaders her stay in power is not grounded on idolatry nor tradition to say the least. Her continued existence could be well-explained by bribed support and wily tactics. It is likewise reinforced by the citizen’s apathy and the decline and corruption of vital institutions. She couldn’t stare at herself on the mirror while her personal servant does her make-up few minutes before her appearance in Congress to appraise them and the nation of the state of the country. She rubbed her faced violently with her two bare arms, so fiercely that her attendant moved feet away from her fearful and shocked at the sudden outburst. “Please, get out of the room,” she appealed. She continuously asked her spirit, relentlessly as if she wanted to prove herself something and that she wanted the answers in an instant. In bare futility, all her efforts transformed into a blabber. . .words cascading themselves away from her; from logic and reality. She finally realized, her reign is close but no cigar.

She stepped out of the room composed but surprisingly docile. All’s well that ends well. Forget the means in achieving a prejudiced end. She succeeded in power because of the people’s revolt. She was not the best option but all was in high hopes. She promised a lot. Those promises speedily dropped like flies. Her academic achievement was astounding. She could have used it very well in the service of the nation. But power’s influence is really expansive. Optima corrupta pessima (the best things corrupted, becomes the worst) She has three years remaining to prove whatever she has to prove. She gave us a glimpse of her ambitions: she wants to remain in power at all costs.

Authority intoxicates,

And makes mere sots of magistrates;

The fumes of it invade the brain,

And make men giddy, proud, and vain ...:

By this the fool commands the wise,

The noble with the base complies,

The sot assumes the rule of wit,

And cowards make the brave submit.
(Hudibras, Butler, 1680.)

The use of metaphor in her speeches has never been so disorienting to the learned. She banks so much on the people’s inability to evoke the sovereign will. But will this prosper? En route to Malacanang by a plane, a cabinet member was astonished and emphatic as the president quipped, while staring blankly at the window which gave a good view of the green islands, “ano kaya ang pwede pa nating magawa para mapaunlad ang ating bansa?,”. The cabinet member, in one of her interviews, revealed the observation on the president’s sincerity because of her unrelenting concern for public good even in peculiar moments. She was indeed a GOOD ONE. The same cabinet member later recanted such conjecture. She was only trying to be good. The president has only one thing in mind, the cabinet member realizes. Power. Forget the wardrode as stated earlier. The emperor has no clothes!

Note on my desk, December 10, 2006

2007-06-25T20:58:00.000-07:00

Note from Prof. delos Reyes:

Thanks Det! Hold on and persevere. I am confident that you will have a bright future. Take care!

Dear Ma'am,

My bowing has yet to improve. The music of my violin doesn't satisfy me. I will yet to settle on playing vicariously on my pc. . .am playing now edelweiss and moon river. . .The music is infectious and comforting. The wind is blowing hardly on the leaves of the tree outside my window. . .the holidays. . .fast approaching. See you soon.

The Mythical Finance Cave

2007-06-19T18:37:00.000-07:00

It breathes the ardor of unfinished business. Stacks of magazine file boxes surround the lone gas-lift chair rolling around the space during sloppy afternoons. There are several law textbooks shelved in a makeshift cabinet hanging from the ceiling. The four walls are painted in pink which makes me wonder if they’re the ones who make most days lousy and unproductive. Strewn papers crowd the glass table at the corner. Sometimes when necessity requires the presentation of certain documents to funding officials I hobble around those papers in search for a certain document which I recall was laying down somewhere deep among those garbage as a workmate often calls it. A tall CD organizer is full of mixed up CDs which was once organized to no avail. A white telephone near the door occasionally rings. And when it rings the sound fills the empty spaces in the hall. Rumors have it that spirits populate this room. And the sound of the telephone became a dreadful sound that leaves everybody shocked.

An abysmal cat who’s owned by the old woman at the basement frequently visits until after she was caught in a silent controversy by bringing in her kittens, all three of them. Some say they brought fleas during those rainy months which made all the people feel itchiness to death. One kitten was punished to death by a guest who can’t take the torment not to say the sight of the poor kittens. The cat and her two remaining kittens were never seen again. Two paintings by a student in UP hang in one of the walls. It was rarely appreciated. Once the painter visited, he said he was very much elated to see his works again hanging among those walls. A high window facing the east portion was hardly ever cleaned. Its glass was blurred by the dust that’s probably glued to it forever. One, as tall as me could peek from it. Our neighbor has a playground below. Few children play there and only during Tuesdays. You can hear their shrieks and laughs from here.

A former office mate tagged this place as my finance cave. I can have this lonely place forever she said in jest after our head told everybody that no one can enter this compartment without permission. And so when one’s looking for me they answer in such spontaneity as if my life is only within the bounds of the four corners of this room. He’s in his cave. This is half-true, I stay in this part of the world 8 hours a day; six days a week. I say half-true because my spirit frankly resented the absence of verve. Sometimes I find myself peeking at the window again trying to find sources of comfort among the inert see-saw and swings. Hoping to hear the raucousness and gaiety produced by these playful objects in the hearts of those children during Tuesdays.

Raising Awareness Through MyBlogLog Community Exchange

2007-06-19T01:37:00.000-07:00

We could not be just innocent bystanders in our own country because being complacent on the issues affecting us as a people will do nothing but to murder the ethos left in us. We should just not whine over economic and social problems instead we should make a stand on every issue faced by our nation. It is the least we could do to contribute to the resolution of these issues and problems. Grumbling constantly about the hopelessness surrounding the Filipino nation is an utter indignity. The tremendous blood shedding by our forefathers for this country to be free should not be repaid by passivity. . . because there are thousands of reasons and millions of ways to be patriots of our nation. One of which is joining this meme in support of the call to put an end to electoral killings.

If you believe in sending the message of ending senseless political violence and at the same time reach a wide range of bloggers join the Raising Awareness thru MyBlogLog Community Exchange. The rules are very simple:

Join all of the MyBlogLog communities on the list below.
Copy the list and create a new post on your blog on the victims of electoral violence and paste the list onto your post.
Write a brief paragraph that explains what the game is above the list (just as I have done here).
Add your Blog using the URL of your entry on Victims of Electoral Violence plus 2 or 3 more MyBlogLog communities to the list and then publish the post.
If you want to be added to this list, simply drop me a comment below with your Blog Name/URL and MyBlogLog URL.

Participating in Raising Awareness thru MyBlogLog Community Exchange is just a small step that has the potential impact of raising awareness while increasing your traffic, increasing the number of regular readers as well as help increase the number of backlinks you have pointing to your site. Making a difference thru blogging is a rewarding experience that may lead the way towards a better community not just on the online community but in Philippine society as well.

The Raising Awareness MyBlogLog Community Exchange List:

Pedestrian Observer Join MyBlogLog
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Add Your Site here Join The Above. Drop A Comment Below!

The Liability in Truth: A Tribute to Musa Dimasidsing

2007-06-15T22:42:00.000-07:00

Nobel laureate Jose Saramago’s recent novel Seeing details how the plague of blank ballots would turn politicians vapid and malicious. Saramago’s enchanting story clearly depicted the extent of the power in a vote and how the voting power, when unexercised, would render the whole essence of democracy meaningless. I find such political allegory in Saramago’s words relevant for the Filipino psyche in their understanding of the electoral process and the whole lie that surrounded it during the recently concluded elections.

One of the President’s minion was quoted as saying that why protestations still pervade among the opposition party when the results show that they are leading in the Senate run. Short of saying that: Nanalo na nga kayo, reklamo pa kayo ng reklamo. But the point is, would the citizens be ever so calm and unperturbed in the same way that the opposition party reacted when the election was plagued with violence and widespread cheating? Thank God, the overwhelming voice of the people did not match the political machinery deployed by the incumbent administration to foil the elections. But, unfortunately, lives and rights are trampled upon in their unflinching desire to maintain political security in the next few years. Bitterly, these evil forces wrecked havoc on civilian lives in utter disregard of the laws and the Constitution.

Soon after the Maguindanao COCs were canvassed, everybody could do nothing but laugh. A 12-0 in favor of the administration slate in the province was never been logical to the learned. And there was Musa Dimasidsing, the Chairman of the Board of Election Inspectors in said province, confirming the commonsensical improbability of the results; that massive cheating was done-ballot switching, tampered electoral returns, and all. He exposed the naked truth that backlashed at the ego of the perpetrators, thus his life became the price. His death marked the paradox of the times: that adhering to truth and justice in this country has never been so punitive and that in stark contrast, falsehood is always benefited with deplorable impunity.

There’s wisdom in Saramago’s words: “. . . we pervert reason when we humiliate life, that human dignity is insulted every day by the powerful of our world, that the universal lie has replaced the plural truths, that man stopped respecting himself when he lost the respect due to his fellow-creatures." Quoting and inferring from him, I can say that in this country, reason is often perverted. But still, I believe that many souls in this country refuse to pervert reason. However, they’re constantly dwindling in our country where the government seems to monopolize over its steel hands to shut the horses’ mouth. Maybe, I’m wrong with this. But one can't just help to think in this direction when the present government still stays in power amidst its many blunders.

Hope springs from brave souls like that of Musa Dimasidsing. Let him be a living memory and a constant source of angst among us to live by the truth and to assert before the government and its infamous President that sovereignty always resides in the people!

On Being Emotionally Potent

2007-06-14T01:07:00.000-07:00

Black ants have been rounding about the crevices of the fridge in the office. They’re just like eating up left-over foods that have been filled up with molds because of their century-old existence inside the fridge. And all of us find it weird. Last year these ants were a no-show in this kingdom. maybe this is just one of so many confirmations that this world is heating up so rapidly that most species of insects now thrive in higher altitudes in search of colder climate. One could not just imagine what will conditions be like as living things gear up for the greatest battle of all time, the survival of the fittest.

Anyways, this time I’ll try to write about these persistent and lugubrious thoughts that have been tormenting me this past few days. one: the granting of a wish have never been exaggerated this much. I always prayed that I’d be having dreams at night so that at least I’d be entertained at one moment in a day’s life to break the monotony and the hubris of my wakeful state. and what have I got? nightmares!. Continuously, like a horror series, I’ve been dreaming of ghosts & zombies running after people, cannibals’ rampage over a village and fauns & other creeps from the underworld gloating at me. If this were the result of devouring horror (28 weeks later, 28 days later, the pan’s labyrinth, etc.) flicks this past week, I’d be equally satiated & at the same time appalled. why? I’ve been irked by said movies several times not by the goriness of 28 or the sadomasochistic El Capitan in Pan’s Labyrinth but by the gross inanity of the characters. Little Ofelia is the epitome of obstinacy just like what the siblings in 28 do. While viewing these movies, my cat & I kept whining about why in the world these characters foil themselves into the most obscure situations like Ofelia eating what she’s not supposed to eat and the two siblings in 28 saving their mother and as a result allowing zombies to propagate. My cat & I just sighed at such follies and couldn’t help to shout in duet: “there, you got what you deserve!” back to the nightmares, my short-term memory obliterated every detail of the dreams upon waking up. What I most remember of such flaccid dream experience is that the plots are great and worth the venture to make them into the greatest horror movie of all time.

Two: the impending life in toxicity of being a fourth year learner in the glorious halls of the college of law. I have to make a major overhaul in my planning schemes. Because in the next three hundred sixty five days of my life, I will embark on a journey of making fool of myself. I will try to take on the greatest feat of absorbing information from tons of books into my 1500g-mass brain like no spongebobs had ever done in their dreamlike existence. I will endeavor on the greatest sacrifice that will require no more than mental & physical endurance but emotional potency. On the road to becoming emotionally potent. . . !!! hehehe. And when all things fail as planned (scapegoatism?), I will call it an aside to the true and enigmatic life of a student of law. Knowledge of justice is grounded both on common sense and moral law as one teacher puts it. And when you’re lost in the wordings of the law, knock on its spirit.

Ha! dwelling on these thoughts is consuming. Yep, dearest cat?

Cat: Things will pass, master!

This Silence

2007-06-08T00:32:00.000-07:00

I wished I’ve got the guts to inquire about the pain. I should have tried to reciprocate and shared in your affliction. You seemed so distant and you’re looming in trickles of despair. I might have conquered the distance albeit immeasurable and an eternal journey. But none of me. None of the begotten temerity that cast awe and splendor among eyes of hallowed. None of the kindness and compassion that made sheaves of comfort among barren spheres. I wished I had you here beside me, in this studio, and feel with me this silence. As I try to hum the melodies of time and space to transport the oblivious and elusive memories of you. . . as I gently strike this bow before these strings of detachment to bond spans of futile restoration.

Afternoon Rain

2007-06-06T01:35:00.000-07:00

For whatever reason I caught your attention
Amidst the titter tatter and the ho-hum feeling of being wet under the cold rain,
Our two eyes met.

You coming from down south.
And me, languishing the effervescent kneading of my rubber soles
Upon emerging little lakes of rainwater
That mirror the gray skies and dampened faces.

You threading the sudden gush of water
Piercing on it with your red pointed shoes
And me striding along the flow of water into your direction,
Breathing the scent of nameless persons passing between us.

The scene was cinematic and picturesque
The coldness of the rainy afternoon was subdued by the warm feeling
Of connection.

For whatever reason, the thrill of the moment was devoured
Suddenly, you’re lost in the midst of a swarm of people.
Disguised by the occurring commonplace of grieving black umbrellas,
Your presence became an absence.

Your absence created a hole in my heart.
For now, I remember you as that lovely lady from the past.
Of why this world is always against my pleasure, I don’t know.

I shouldn’t have retrieved a memory so revolting and repulsive.
You’re that lady who owed me fifty thousand bucks and never came back.

Of Kill Bill & the Aviatrix (Points of Departure & Arrival)

2007-06-03T20:12:00.000-07:00

If I start to hear rhythmic whistling in my ears as if in a hiatus of moment in Kill Bill where in a split of second the tendering slices of the samurai upon unnamed and unheard antagonists spurts out splashes of the red ink on cam in an endless bloodbath, I also try to find ways to live out an addiction of inexplicable wandering. I try to burden my back with my bulky mailbag and sore the toes of my feet with this striding-along-addiction with a matter of miles in mind to and from points of departure and arrival. (Weird for you, normal for a natural weirdo.)

Last night, I tried to halt a seemingly unending and non-sense journey by going to my favorite shop in the mall near-by, the second-hand or maybe third-hand or maybe nth-hand bookstore where books go for the price as low as 10 pesos. I saw John Knowle’s Separate Peace in paperback at 15 pesos, got hold of it for few seconds and ponder if I would buy it but settled on considering the morbid drawings in between leaves of harrowing human figures in red. Thought this might have come from the penitentiary, in one of those basement cells where hard-liners and psychopaths dwell. . .grr-eerie.

And so I kept on looking and digging (perpetually) hoping that I could spot a worthy book. Luckily I found one, few minutes before the shop closed, by Beryl Markham. Found it interesting when I read a good comment from Ernest Hemingway at the back cover. Hemingway lauded her style of writing as: “marvelous. . .suddenly I am ashamed of myself as a writer”. What of me to reject West with the Night as his/her previous owner did for 77 pesos? I paid and left the bookshop.

At home, I took out quickly the loot from my bag and read it. Hemingway was candid; she’s one hell of a writer. However, as I scour the pages of this notable memoir, the writing subdued the basic fact of spectacle that this human figure imposes upon the reader. Ms. Markham was an Aviatrix of her time in British East-Africa; The first to fly the skies of the
Atlantic and maybe among the firsts (women) in her continent. Her writing immersed me into the aero-experiential world of the pilot and the romantic intertwining of mobility with the points of departure and arrival. I suddenly felt one with her:

“There are all kinds of silences and each of them means a different thing. There is the silence that comes with morning in a forest, and this is different from the silence of a sleeping city. There is silence after a rainstorm, and before a rainstorm, and these are not the same. There is the silence of emptiness, the silence of fear, the silence of doubt. There is a certain silence that can emanate from a lifeless object as from a chair lately used, or from a piano with old dust upon its keys, or from anything that has answered to the need of a man, for pleasure or for work. This kind of silence can speak. Its voice may be melancholy, but it is not always so; for the chair may have been left by a laughing child or the last notes of the piano may have been raucous and gay. Whatever the mood or the circumstance, the essence of its quality may linger in the silence that follows. It is a soundless echo.”

. . .suddenly I wanted to be an aviator myself and dispense with childhood daydreams as well as those in the night of the transcendental experience of flying with the wind above all matters settling on the ground : )

What About the Death of Thirty Thousand Fishes?

2007-05-30T18:28:00.000-07:00

thirty thousand fishes is a working title of a current pastime where I try to recollect all the memories of a past that had probably inked into my consciousness forever. That past was so powerful and vivid and I thought it was worth coming up with a story initially but the experience had seen me writing a good number of words, paragraphs, chapters and so on. . . am posting the pambungad of an experiment I started for about two years now. . .an experiment which seems to last a lifetime. . .

What about the death of thirty thousand fishes?

It marked the end of a smooth sailing passage into life’s tumultuous moments.
The bulwark of water coming from the water pump reflects the silver moon that hanged in the night. It was way past midnight and my father and I were busy salvaging the repugnant breathing of every fish that’s populating the pond. The froth created by the endless panting by the little fishes was creating an enormous white island in the middle of the pond. My father was standing still at the bank which made me chill more with the damp and cold wind passing from the north. He was a resolute man; resolute and firm. This was summer and he knew very well the danger that is brought by the season.

Muning reads Umibe no Kafuka

2007-05-22T04:09:00.000-07:00

I heeded to the call of Mr. George Moore. . . Muning got to read Murakami’s Umibe no Kafuka and her reaction was like “the pregnant cat was caught wobbling around under a ‘violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm’” Her master joined her: “indeed Muning. . .indeed!”

The rawness of the thoughts of Haruki Murakami; fresh from his subconscious tunnels delivered me somewhere in between the linen bed sheet and the protruding lumps of cotton appearing from a century-old foam bed. I was like hidden from the real world down into the recesses of an unknown world where cockroaches, their eggs, and gazillion of dust moths dance to the rhythm of the movement of lovers carousing their night away on the comfort of this love-bed and the melodious howling produced by a filth of satisfaction. On the warm night of July 25th, I was like thrown away from this world to get to know my repressed thoughts. . .of why a recurring dream during my seventh year of existence hounded me like a persistent apparition behind the enormous acacia tree at noon day; of why I’m so obsessed with slippers and the filth it produces at the end of the day after liters of perspiration stuck and blended to the smell of rubber. . .of why I took psychology in college at the peril of my lifetime’s security. (And by reading Kafka on the Shore all of this mystery was unlocked? . . .and with the effect of an opened Pandora’s box?) No. Actually, all of the mystery just remained in me. They are still there turning the confusing pattern of a mosaic into an infinite and changing and swirling and drowning mirages of color, shapes, etc. like what your kaleidoscope is doing. (I’m a bit confused!) Likewise, the world is but a metaphor. And so don’t fret.

There’s always transference in reading Murakami like no other book has hit me. And after reading Kafka, I never hesitated to peek more into Murakami’s subconscious thoughts like knowing my own. Slipped into Norwegian Wood, drowned myself in Wind-up Bird Chronicle, and soberly squeezed the life of next month’s budget to satisfy such weird addiction. . . and I am more happy, happy and satisfied.

A critic of Murakami’s prose alleged that there’s excessive profundity and name-check. . .of him joining the fanatical bandwagon of authors’ using titles that strike a note among readers. . . The Da Vinci Code, The Dante Club. . .blah, blah, blah could be the ponderings to achieve a marketing ploy. On why she finds Umibe no Kafuka “a book most certainly obscured by weeds and metaphorical ferns” is not in itself a mystery. (http://www.oxonianreview.org/issues/5-1/5-1carr.html) Almost all readers admitted they were lost. Mine was like that experienced by Satoru Nakata when he saw the silver light in the sky and fell into a deep sleep and the whole period of amnesia and fantasy after that. Murakami told in an interview that his novel is one full of riddles. But the critic insisted, if this is one of riddles. . .the answer to this riddle is a riddle and the riddle a riddle and so on. And as to why she’s persistent is quite evident in her choice of character: Hoshino. Yes, more than Kafka and Satoru and the talking cats.

On why I love this book more than anything else is because it defines heaven amidst doldrums. I can definitely say that in a degree of transference this one has traveled the long journey from the hidden part of the iceberg to the obvious and patent. And who will give his second thoughts in empathizing with Kafka’s reason. “There’s a void inside me, a blank that is slowly expanding, devouring what’s left of who I am. I can hear it happening.” We will always be prone to the subconscious pull and it would be often trampling upon logic and norm. The result would be gawkish more likely and you would be more likely to detest it unless you see, at the least, some subconscious outbursts to be normal and useful. Unless one would heed to Kafka’s resolve : “I head for the core of the labyrinth, giving myself up to the void.”

“I probably won’t.” said the pregnant cat. “I’ve been there before and my memory of it is quite murky and hostile.”

“The writer seems to hate cats and likes felicide.”

No. Actually, he’s a fan of your type that’s why you’re always a part of every story he makes.

An Apostasy to Mr. Gump's Creed

2007-05-17T19:22:00.000-07:00

I rubbed my eyes in clear disgust over my clock’s hostility. It’s the 16th of May and I never had an all-night’s sleep but it’s time to get up again and prepare my body for another ordinary day. An enormous cat bristles over the the rooftop of our neighbor’s house signaling that everybody’s up except for indolent beings who remain undaunted by the day’s requirements. I shouted at the cat aghast over his overbearingness of the laid-back life of the animalia kingdom. “You may never know Mr. Cat but destiny may betray you. There’s this news last night that there’s a shortage of meat in the city!” . . .(only to be embarrassed) The cat shouted back in shrill voice: “How are you today? You look grumpy and pale!”

Mr. Cat clearly scored against me. I may never know he is rejoicing at the back of his head. A fact is never understated by those who never had insecurities like Mr. Cat.

Sometimes, or if I may say always, we hoped and prayed for the better. But destiny-wise, many hoped and ended up dying in hope. Life’s philosophy, that according to Mr. Gump, is oblivious and all but passe. True, life is like a box of chocolates. But most of the time it’s only the box that’s left and you’re down to choose from empty and crumpled foils.

Today, the schizophrenic who always passes by our office was in a tight-fit denim shorts. As usual, he does his routine relentlessly: walking to and from his area; the corners of the veranda. He’s thinking deep and prostrate. I could only wish for his sanity. But his tics confronted me intuitively. “The world’s getting bigger and better,” he jostled.

“Tell me, is happiness pervasive there?”

On Atty. T's Pedantry and Cannibalism

2007-05-14T21:10:00.000-07:00

The teacher recited all that happened: “blah, blah, blah. . ..” She was there ignoring all portents that foretell of a sudden mishap. She was there sitting on the royal chair assuming power or kingdomship in an ephemeral space. She gazed imposingly at me to kneel down before her majesty. She gloated at every yes, at every no. She sounded blabber in my thought. Does this pedantic woman remember anything about the social web? That strictness would result to perversion? She kept me standing there for the whole period; taking charge of the flip-flop drama flick of the night. She manipulated all of the consequences and the laughs and the curses. “Disorientation prevents me from your arrogant assertion.” That it is easy to know if Art. 1357 and Art. 1358 will apply when you already mastered what is a valid contract and what is an unenforceable contract. She always mutters that with a devilish grin intruding up to the recesses of your soul and the privacy of your consciousness. “Here, all is prone to being eaten alive. We are all cannibals in our own simple way.”

Summer's Ending

2007-05-08T22:46:00.000-07:00

The smell of rain constantly effuses a feeling that resembles those days in June. This is not the rainy season maybe but the drizzle for three consecutive days makes us feel that we’re up to days of tripping down damp passages and eternal longing for lukewarm baths. The teacher said it was too early for summer’s ending and that if there are really sunny days to speak of for the past months this should not be the time to end it. He has a scheduled vacation in
Palawan next week he boasts. And everybody was envious of course.

Back at home, the memory of summer’s ending is quite downbeat. It was like a mourning of the complete departure of solitary walks to feel the coarseness of the warm sand during afternoons and the endless dipping in the brackish waters of the nearby river during high tide. It was also because of the grown fear of tempests that brought long days of heavy rains and the necessary in-door predilections that breathe a momentary discreet attitude among souls. Continuous outpouring would make dams overflowing with rain water and because we’re near the outlet rivers our lives became prone to soak-yourself-in-floodwaters-in-eternity life. Part-smile and part-frown for the devastation and it makes us love the place more. I don’t know why.

Once in days of childhood, an enormous water spout that visited the community ravaged some houses and uprooted some of late Tinio’s bananas at the back of his house. I saw him came close to the water spout with his bolo swinging in the air like a desperate man trying to outdo the troop of hundreds with his lone bolo in a heroic stance: fighting to death. I confessed such incident to my mother hoping that she would do something to cure Tinio’s psychosis. She only responded with cracks of laugh. I came to know that such is not a sign of madness it was an attempt to shatter the swirling water spout.

There is more to the memories of the start of the rainy days.

But, could the premature downpour be brought by global warming? Oh, and there’s the little child surmising the indelible fact of divinity in the offing. Oh I see, yours is a life of dreams and comic interpretation of phenomena that beat old wisdom and false truths in this world.

V for Vertigo

2007-05-06T23:22:00.000-07:00

Not V in the movie V for Vendetta, the champion of the oppressed in 21st century England (minus the bloody way of vindicating oppression, one just hopes that there would also be a staunch V who would tame ineptitude in the government), but V for vertigo.

Vertigo is the sickness you feel when you’re already pissed off with the sing-songy slogans of politicians running for elective posts this coming elections which bounds from the outmost to the idyllic good. Call them great talkers! Some say they’re pro-poor but, how could anybody believe him when the cheapest value of the things that clothe his being is P20,000++. Some say they’re pro-labor when their big corporations are the blatant violators of labor laws – offering below minimum wage rates and not complying to other minimum labor standards laws. Some say they’re pro youth- and as one senatoriable fervently insists , she’s the voice of the youth (probably the one who’s deaf-mute) not to mention the vendors, women, men, and cats and fishes and worms and leeches like she is, etc. – when in her past terms she hasn’t authored any law or bill on the sectors she’s allegedly advocating. Sycophants! I just wish they would all disappear; all these faux and living paradox in our time.

Election season in the Philippines exudes the most tragic of comedies where the price of even the lowest of positions in the minutest political unit is blood. Elections also make the most comic of characters among candidates. I went home last weekend and was entertained by the campaign slogans of local politicians. One says he’s the “Big Brother” of his kailians. Did he ever come across George Orwell’s 1984? I hope he does not mean what he say. Another lady who posed like a toothpaste model in her ad with all the glittering teeth carries the slogan “Lokin Good” and she runs for Congress. Whoda! Guess why? (Correct!) Her family name is Lokin.

And the cherry of the cake is no less than the COMELEC itself. How tragic! And now the pooped Abalos and the stern-looking Borja might want to do their respective mea culpas for making the most fatal of errors in the interpretation of the law; for “veritably advocating a system of blind voting” according to the Supreme Court in its recent decision declaring as unconstitutional the non-disclosure of nominees of party-list groups seeking representation in Congress. And now, last Saturday in the Inquirer you can make out why such reluctance on the part of Abalos is so. . .his brother Dr. Arsenio Abalos is a nominee of a certain party-list group representing tricycle drivers 0_0 Whoda??? Oh, and there’s General Palparan under the party-list group BANTAY!!!(er, Salakay?) Everbody’s suddenly scared.

Most people I’ve talked with tell about finding themselves in tangle between the devil and the deep sea. According to them, when you’re in a dilemma like this choose the lesser evil.

* * *

Special Thanks to Kuya Cabo (kah-boh)

Not the prohibited act under the Labor Code nor the namesake/pseudonym of those in the progressive block. Kuya Cabo is Rommel Santos, the in-house graphic designer/lay-out artist of PHSSA, the kantatero/guitarero of Emanon, the hunk, the former frustrated lover, now the beau of various Chinese women, the certified PHSSA-jester now in exile in Shanghai, and the designer of my blogger header, a close friend.

Trail-Walking Sagada

2007-05-02T20:03:00.000-07:00

It took us six hours and a half of convoluting trails to reach a dreamy and solitary place. In between miles, a constant yearning arouses in my mind a distant and moribund thought. The unending visions of a sad and gloomy memory take me back to a commune which had complicitly made this return trip part of a piece in a resultant and conspiring circle.My travel companion woke up to ask in curiosity if the trip would be for eternity as the bus slowed down to submit and traverse a sharp curve. The whispering wind would tell us later on that this trip was indeed for eternity.The bus parked beside a lonesome inn devoid of any soul and spirit. I knew that beneath those yearning souls lie buried in the earth forgotten memories of tranquility and comfort. A friend once told that the feeling could never be explained because it will always be forbidden. And indeed as we walked, passed tombs and epitaphs that remind corporeal beings how life recedes into whitewashed graves, a tender feeling gently harps into the unaffecting heart which would inevitably allow a person to ask to himself if the moment would endure.Yes, the moment would endure. . . forever. It clings steadfastly among barren worlds like mine reverberating the height of the experience into one soulful and nostalgic dance.

Where A Hundred Wind Chimes Clanged

2007-04-30T01:08:00.000-07:00

I live in a flat up in the highlands of Baguio and down under. (Huh?) Well, let me explain.

My apartment’s located in one of the lagoons. I myself didn’t know how I managed to find this place and subsequently love it. From the road where jeepneys pass, you will need to walk meters to get to a waiting shed where you will find a steep and nauseating stairs with seemingly immeasurable steps. I don’t find it immense nowadays after living in this corner of the world for almost four years to date. Mornings are always feats of stamina and agility like a mountaineer who just reached the peak of Mt. Everest. Stories from the neighborhood tell of drunk men, children, and disoriented wives who stumbled and tripped while passing to this deathly stairs. Many survived, they tell, but their experience immortalized by dislocated arms, pain in their heads, hemorrhages, and lasting protuberance. But, some unluckily perished. Those who didn’t survive the ordeal of rolling down the Cimmerian abyss left their spirits there, stories tell. At one instance, an old woman cautioned and advised me to bring flashlights as I usually come home late because of my evening classes which last till 9 o’clock. She told me the story of a young little girl’s soul who pushes indiscriminately the backs of those who pass by the stairs. Fortunately, in the whole duration of my stay, I did not stumble nor pushed by any apparition to roll down. My landlady did just few weeks ago. I was shocked when I saw her one morning black and blue. I was reluctant to ask her at first what happened (this might be a case of domestic violence I guessed) but she explained it anyway when she noticed that I was a bit shocked by her sudden appearance (her face was splintered with bruises and her arms considerably clothed with tourniquet). She was one of those disoriented wives who suddenly lost balance while going down.

I guess you can’t think of a man who inhabits this place dying of a heart attack. People here are naturally exercised strenuously by the height of the stairs except for lotus-eaters whom you can hear of something like: “I hoped politicians will donate and construct an escalator here.” or “I wished I would find a partner who will carry me on his back everyday.” (Cruel punishment. Lesson learned: Never marry one of these ladies who lives here.)

From the road, you can see our village like a mound of ramshackles. Many families can tolerate the daily grueling experience. Every time I go to work I see children playing at the stairs not minding the danger they were into. Just imagine them sliding their bodies down the railings as if no one really cared about their lives. And they do this with so much fun. The daredevil instinct in them really shows. Hehe.

A lot of times, I thought of leaving and finding another flat somewhere near the city. But, oh God, I have a lot of books, thousands of them and imagining myself transporting all those books, makes me sigh. I conditioned my mind already that I would stay until I finish from law school, anyway, and hopefully, that’s only a year away. So I’d better brace myself for another year of pandemonium: women’s echoed voices shouting at their husbands at night; drunk men doing relentlessly, and always out of tune, their version of Sinatra’s “I Did it My Way” in their videokes (I think there are hundred units of those in the village); drunk teens throwing empty beer bottles and stones indiscriminately at each other’s houses; gossipers throwing cracks of laugh at each other during afternoons.

When I look back, on hindsight, and ask myself what made me stay for almost four years, I answer with so much conviction: “Nothing”. hehe. I think the place loved me for it gave me so much pleasure. I loved my bed which gave me a clear view of the night skies when I lie down at the end of the day. And oh, I loved the magical and melodious clanging of the wind chimes of every home when storms visit. Last year, the experience helped me to appease myself of so much grieving when in the mood of gloom a rush of wind passed by the village. The roaring woke me up in the night. I got up and looked at my window; it was misty with the continuous rains and splattered with droplets of water. I planted my right ear on the window and the music of hundred wind chimes serenaded me well through into the night.

The “Reptilic” Flying Fishes

2007-04-26T18:36:00.000-07:00

As I write this blog entry polar ice caps are melting significantly in the arctic and antarctic regions. Polar bears, penguins and sea lions are palpitating about their changing habitats and basically how to save their lives and their youngs from the consistent thawing of ice where they used to sing and dance their lives out. (Poor Mumble!) Eons ago this melting drama happened at the conclusion of ice age and will make its grand comeback.

And what would humans become of this complete turn around of events. Living things’ capacity to adapt to its environment would be put to test for sure. Charles Darwin left a legacy of trying to explain and stir Christianity by presenting his theory of evolution; just as remarkable as his theory is the fact that he left among us, in our time, a question a few men have tried to explore. Would humans continue to evolve? We will. (Said who?) Me. Hehe (Uh, okay! Curtains down please the show is over!!!) Okay let me try to expound my hypothesis.

We’re fishes once according to the theory and that’s because there’s no place like dry land before; our planet’s water-filled there’s the air space but God is really good He didn’t make us into birds or we’ll be tiring ourselves flying forever; that’ll be more strange I think than swimming forever. So we’re good swimmers once. We swam the depths and the breadth of the ocean so it’s quite okay that we cannot explore the whole depth and breadth of our seas and oceans because we’re the kings and queens of the aquatic kingdom long time ago. There’s no sense in exploring it again, what’s important is that we knew it before. But when waters receded and formed into ice, dry land appeared before our eyes. Some fishes who were sleeping a little above these lands when this tragedy happened, were left flapping their fins in search of waters to swim through. They didn’t find water anymore because in seconds the water went thousands of miles away from them. Some fishes gasped. Others breathed. Those who gasped naturally died and those who still breathed unsurprisingly lived and became humans to cut the long story short. Hehe.

Millions of years after, humans continue to evolve, nevertheless, interminably from his sojourn in the sopping world. The evolution, however, was concentrated in the innate characteristics not much of the physical manifestations except for some isolated cases of women growing beards, minds mutating into those of crabs’; snakes’; some becoming animals but which is usually not specified out of proclivity. Humans achieved the height of mental prowess but of which mental prowess declined their capacity for reason. Humans knew the logic of things: actions, thus, consequences; from premises to conclusions. Humans knew the logic of things, but in most cases, learnings out of deduction or induction come late; very, very late. And so out of a thousand years of abuse or disuse of the earth’s resources we thought of things being limited and of sustainability. We’re the greatest primadonna in our planet’s time and existence.

Hundred years forward and few land masses could be found. There you could find them at the highest peaks. Expect a mall atop the Sierra Madre or Mt. Apo at that; a basketball court at Mt. Everest. Humans would evolve and would probably have gills and wings, yes, that much sought after wings for flight. But after 100 years, we could only fly a few yards like those of chickens today. Expect a hundred more years for longer flights when humans become leaner because there is no more food to eat. Humans will likewise rediscover themselves as fishes: a reconnection to his previous habitat. Humans would no less than evolve to a different kind of specie: the so-called “reptilic” flying fishes. Humans will have the ability to walk on land, swim through the seas, and fly the skies. Few thousands will remain of the former human specie and that’s because many opted to live the way humans do before conditions became hostile not to mention the return to- what others consider as despicable-“orangutanic” ancestry. Naturally those who accepted the truth survived them.

As “reptilic” flying fishes, they will walk, fly and swim, and get a bird’s eye view of the extent of devastation; the remnants of generations of human living inundated and submerged deep within the waters. A tale of a great civilization which was not able to deconstruct reason in due time.

Still Dancing in the Apocalyptic Tune of Global Warming

2007-04-24T19:52:00.000-07:00

I mean, we still perform our daily tasks, we still eat, we go to work or school, we sleep, we go to the mall, and because it is summer we go to the beach. We go on our daily lives doing our daily businesses in the foreshadow of a looming global disaster that is brought about by global warming. All of us including myself may tire about the news we see on TV or we surf in the internet about the effects of global warming like the current death toll in Iraq or the unending political wars. Maybe, we already became flaccid at the constant spur of bad news. Grabe naman parati na lang bang ganito!!! Many of us might consider the fact that the apocalyptic drumbeat will likely to start rolling not within our lifetime. So why should we care anyway we will not be the ones who will be directly affected by the phenomenon. And so goes the sad story of the earth and its earthlings propounding the ephemeral concept of coexistence and the sordid tale of hushing around and doing the usual blabbermouth at the eleventh hour for a horrendous catastrophe.

And just when the hustle and bustle of life continues as of the moment, I came across this article by Live Science predicting the timeline of earth vis-à-vis global warming outcomes. I remember in my childhood days there’s this show in TV every New Year’s Eve with a cast of foretellers predicting that the “end is near.” Everybody at the house pass upon this joviality like a spoof-grown sitcom that does no less than tickling the human mind. Now that scientists become foretellers of the earth’s doom. We may at least want to “booh” ourselves and have that necessary goose bumps that will help us realize things.

Here’s an excerpt of the portents we might want to reckon ourselves with:

Timeline: The Frightening Future of Earth
By Andrea Thompsonand Ker Thanposted: 19 April 200708:32 am ET

Our planet's prospects for environmental stability are bleaker than ever with the approach of this year’s Earth Day, April 22. Global warming is widely accepted as a reality by scientists and even by previously doubtful government and industrial leaders. And according to a recent report by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), there is a 90 percent likelihood that humans are contributing to the change.
The international panel of scientists predicts the global average temperature could increase by 2 to 11 degrees Fahrenheit by 2100 and that sea levels could rise by up to 2 feet.
Scientists have even speculated that a slight increase in Earth's rotation rate could result, along with other changes. Glaciers, already receding, will disappear. Epic floods will hit some areas while intense drought will strike others. Humans will face widespread water shortages. Famine and disease will increase. Earth’s landscape will transform radically, with a quarter of plants and animals at risk of extinction.
While putting specific dates on these traumatic potential events is challenging, this timeline paints the big picture and details Earth's future based on several recent studies and the longer scientific version of the IPCC report, which was made available to LiveScience.

2007

More of the world's population now lives in cities than in rural areas, changing patterns of land use. The world population surpasses 6.6 billion. (Peter Crane, Royal Botanic Gardens, UK, Science; UN World Urbanization Prospectus: The 2003 Revision; U.S. Census Bureau)

2008

Global oil production peaks sometime between 2008 and 2018, according to a model by one Swedish physicist. Others say this turning point, known as “Hubbert’s Peak,” won’t occur until after 2020. Once Hubbert’s Peak is reached, global oil production will begin an irreversible decline, possibly triggering a global recession, food shortages and conflict between nations over dwindling oil supplies. (doctoral dissertation of Frederik Robelius, University of Uppsala, Sweden; report by Robert Hirsch of the Science Applications International Corporation)

2020

Flash floods will very likely increase across all parts of Europe. (IPCC)
Less rainfall could reduce agriculture yields by up to 50 percent in some parts of the world. (IPCC)
World population will reach 7.6 billion people. (U.S. Census Bureau)

2030

Diarrhea-related diseases will likely increase by up to 5 percent in low-income parts of the world. (IPCC)
Up to 18 percent of the world’s coral reefs will likely be lost as a result of climate change and other environmental stresses. In Asian coastal waters, the coral loss could reach 30 percent. (IPCC)
World population will reach 8.3 billion people. (U.S. Census Bureau)
Warming temperatures will cause temperate glaciers on equatorial mountains in Africa to disappear. (Richard Taylor, University College London, Geophysical Research Letters:)
In developing countries, the urban population will more than double to about 4 billion people, packing more people onto a given city's land area. The urban populations of developed countries may also increase by as much as 20 percent. (World Bank: The Dynamics of Global Urban Expansion)

2040

The Arctic Sea could be ice-free in the summer, and winter ice depth may shrink drastically. Other scientists say the region will still have summer ice up to 2060 and 2105. (Marika Holland, NCAR, Geophysical Research Letters)

2050

Small alpine glaciers will very likely disappear completely, and large glaciers will shrink by 30 to 70 percent. Austrian scientist Roland Psenner of the University of Innsbruck says this is a conservative estimate, and the small alpine glaciers could be gone as soon as 2037. (IPCC)
In Australia, there will likely be an additional 3,200 to 5,200 heat-related deaths per year. The hardest hit will be people over the age of 65. An extra 500 to 1,000 people will die of heat-related deaths in New York City per year. In the United Kingdom, the opposite will occur, and cold-related deaths will outpace heat-related ones. (IPCC)
World population reaches 9.4 billion people. (U.S. Census Bureau)
Crop yields could increase by up to 20 percent in East and Southeast Asia, while decreasing by up to 30 percent in Central and South Asia. Similar shifts in crop yields could occur on other continents. (IPCC)
As biodiversity hotspots are more threatened, a quarter of the world’s plant and vertebrate animal species could face extinction. (Jay Malcolm, University of Toronto, Conservation Biology)

2070

As glaciers disappear and areas affected by drought increase, electricity production for the world’s existing hydropower stations will decrease. Hardest hit will be Europe, where hydropower potential is expected to decline on average by 6 percent; around the Mediterranean, the decrease could be up to 50 percent. (IPCC)
Warmer, drier conditions will lead to more frequent and longer droughts, as well as longer fire-seasons, increased fire risks, and more frequent heat waves, especially in Mediterranean regions. (IPCC)

2080

While some parts of the world dry out, others will be inundated. Scientists predict up to 20 percent of the world’s populations live in river basins likely to be affected by increased flood hazards. Up to 100 million people could experience coastal flooding each year. Most at risk are densely populated and low-lying areas that are less able to adapt to rising sea levels and areas which already face other challenges such as tropical storms. (IPCC)
Coastal population could balloon to 5 billion people, up from 1.2 billion in 1990. (IPCC)
Between 1.1 and 3.2 billion people will experience water shortages and up to 600 million will go hungry. (IPCC)
Sea levels could rise around New York City by more than three feet, potentially flooding the Rockaways, Coney Island, much of southern Brooklyn and Queens, portions of Long Island City, Astoria, Flushing Meadows-Corona Park, Queens, lower Manhattan and eastern Staten Island from Great Kills Harbor north to the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. (NASA GISS)

2085

The risk of dengue fever from climate change is estimated to increase to 3.5 billion people. (IPCC)

2100

A combination of global warming and other factors will push many ecosystems to the limit, forcing them to exceed their natural ability to adapt to climate change. (IPCC)
Atmospheric carbon dioxide levels will be much higher than anytime during the past 650,000 years. (IPCC)
Ocean pH levels will very likely decrease by as much as 0.5 pH units, the lowest it’s been in the last 20 million years. The ability of marine organisms such as corals, crabs and oysters to form shells or exoskeletons could be impaired. (IPCC)
Thawing permafrost and other factors will make Earth’s land a net source of carbon emissions, meaning it will emit more carbon dioxide into the atmosphere than it absorbs. (IPCC)
Roughly 20 to 30 percent of species assessed as of 2007 could be extinct by 2100 if global mean temperatures exceed 2 to 3 degrees of pre-industrial levels. (IPCC)
New climate zones appear on up to 39 percent of the world’s land surface, radically transforming the planet. (Jack Williams, University of Wisconsin-Madison, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences)
A quarter of all species of plants and land animals—more than a million total—could be driven to extinction. The IPCC reports warn that current “conservation practices are generally ill-prepared for climate change and effective adaptation responses are likely to be costly to implement.” (IPCC)
Increased droughts could significantly reduce moisture levels in the American Southwest, northern Mexico and possibly parts of Europe, Africa and the Middle East, effectively recreating the “Dust Bowl” environments of the 1930s in the United States. (Richard Seager, Lamont Doherty Earth Observatory, Science)

2200

An Earth day will be 0.12 milliseconds shorter, as rising temperatures cause oceans to expand away from the equator and toward the poles, one model predicts. One reason water will be shifted toward the poles is most of the expansion will take place in the North Atlantic Ocean, near the North Pole. The poles are closer to the Earth’s axis of rotation, so having more mass there should speed up the planet’s rotation. (Felix Landerer, Max Planck Institute for Meteorology, Geophysical Research Letters)

* * *
There’s this witty answer from the winner of the Miss Universe Pageant I will never forget. When asked with the final question: “What will you do when you’re the only living person left in this world?” Miss America answered, to the awe of the audience: “I’ll probably eat. . .eat and sleep.”

I want to help mitigate the effects of global warming most especially that my country located in the tropic region will probably bear the grunts of nature. I’m biting off more than I can chew. As my Communications teacher once said: “Mr. Onia, how would your premise be different and your discussion be distinct enough to invite others to read into you? This is the same argument thousands of people have used before you!” (Short of saying this doesn’t pass my standard) Through this blog entry. . .nah!!! At least I tried in my own little way.

But, Miss America might be correct. Life goes on and on and on and on and on. . . . .

Men of Depression

2007-04-18T05:47:00.000-07:00

In our small community, men who knot around their necks stiff blankets, flat iron wires or even straw tethers and hitch themselves like a jockey do to his horse on wooden beams high upon the ceiling or even steel clutches which support light bulbs to hang themselves, is relatively typical. Just last year, I remember at least two men in their mid-40s who took their lives the Judas’ way. The man who took his life at the backdrop of the rainy months of June was rumored to have an unscrewed up mind. Tell-tale gossipers moniker the man to be the cat-talker. Of course, you don’t find this to be a symptom of abnormality for humans because we all have this tendency to talk to our pets but of fledgling subjects and topics. What separates this man according to rumors is that he talks with them in the meow-purr dictum. Oh well, we could easily conclude that he really lost his mind. But previous to his having lost his mind is the sad story of man who have long died because of depression. They said his wife has a paramour. He couldn’t stand to see his wife being murdered by him so he probably took the pain and suffering by himself and internalized the vacuum that is with a passionate lover. The too-much-love-will-kill-you anthem by Queen to be precise.

The other man didn’t actually die because he hanged himself. This was the proximate cause but the immediate cause was that he actually drowned in the abyss of an infinite well somewhere in the middle of a rice field in the amianan. Because no one could really link his death to suicide (there was no autopsy-it was not a fad in the countryside much less a hype as in the CSI-type world) most people resigned into believing that the man accidentally tripped into the well while fetching water. I’m the last to believe when I heard the story. He hanged himself. How and why?

(To be continued. . .)

Nostalgia

2007-04-16T17:57:00.000-07:00

The date of the completion of its construction is inscribed on the elevated pavement leading to the front door-September 2, 1979. The deep inscription is nearly invisible during long days without rain as it was totally covered with dust. More than two decades passed, and one can only be mystified at how it stood annual spates and turbulent storms which could have wrest havoc to its existence. Its walls are made with neatly weaved sawali that were replaced once since its construction and which are starting to loosen up again. At the bottom of the walls, almost all the sides are dotted with big holes that have been patched with anything my grandmother would pick up and fit on them in order to preserve some dignity.

Ever since my mother abandoned the house, no one has been able to assume the responsibility of maintaining it. Except, of course, of the octogenarian and crippled old woman who always whispers in my ears that she would be leaving us soon because she foresees her death in just a few months. My grandmother has been living with us since my mother boldly liberated herself from the ghosts that hounded her life during her sojourn in the house. She left the house when I was twelve. On the day she was leaving, I remember myself climbing the guava tree with my childhood friend who asked me if my mother would go to another country because she had a big suitcase with her; the big and bulky maroon travel case my father forgot to carry with him in his last trip abroad to work as an OCW. I climbed the highest branch I could reach and looked over the roof of the house where I saw her on the other side of the road waiting for a bus. I answered my friend halfheartedly, “Maybe”.

My mother never spoke of her destination. Hope slipped from her grasp and even at the early age of twelve, I understood that.

The roof of our house is made of nipa that was annually replaced with new ones ready for the rainy season. My father resisted galvanized irons because these, he said, will cause too much heat inside during summer. He wanted ventilation by salvaging the cool air in the province during afternoons no matter how costly the maintenance required which only explains why our roof never improved. Cobwebs are strewn underneath it as flickers of light pass through numerous holes created by typhoons. When I was a child, the light coming from them appeared to me as a certain kind of divination because it looked as if it descended from heaven. I remember me and my sister Lia, spreading our bodies on our bed and letting the beams of light hit our nose, palms, legs and forehead. Lia would sit with her legs crossed and would position herself on the spot of the largest hole. The ray of light gave her a phosphorescent look and would pretend that she is an angel as I laugh at her.

Termites are everywhere! They creep from the foundations up to the roof. They leave cavities on the wooden framework of the house. They have eaten up the windowsills and the six posts that make up the framework. They could really be said as the inhabitants of the house. They occupy the empty space of our rooms, which have long been vacated by its true inhabitants.

All my siblings have their own lives now except for the youngest who still live with my grandmother but who is always out for school and frequents himself in somebody else’s house. The “diaspora” started with my mother that brought a certain kind of epidemic in our minds. The eldest was the first victim. She escaped wittingly by getting herself pregnant. The rest rebelled and God only knows where they are now. The house is always empty except for the hanging laminated picture on the wall at the sala that shows the four of us- Lia, Mike, Manang Mel, and me- posing in front of the church in the nearby town where we, together with our mother, religiously go every Sunday to hear mass. Just lately, I saw my face blotted and blurred as moisture penetrates into the last souvenir that time has salvaged from the past.

When I went back for the holidays, after a year of not visiting it, the house did not look livid like others which are adorned with lights and all that breathed excitement and comfort. It stands amidst unkempt weeds and fruit trees whose leaves covered most parts of the house except the western side that, ironically, looked almost barren like a desert.

When I opened the front door which I haven’t used for a long time, it shuddered as if in trepidation of my arrival. The thought of the dilapidated door falling over and hitting me was shocking as it intuitively spoke of the decrepitude suffered by our house and the confirmation of a long-standing question. After all these years, I feel the same longing I feel every afternoon when I was in primary school. Back then, every time the teacher dismisses the class at the moment the bell rings at 4 o’clock in the afternoon, happiness grows out of my heart as I get up from my seat with the feeling that I will finally take refuge from long months of battle in our humble house. There’s tranquility as I look at the window of our classroom and marvel at the beauty of the sunset glowing behind the enormous acacia tree whose leaves sparkled brightly flattering the glow of the fireflies in the evening, as I eagerly imagine my mother preparing my favorite merienda, washing our clothes, sweeping the accumulated dust in the sala and uprooting the unwanted weeds in front of the house carefully watching if a boy just alighted from the jeep that parked at the side of the road.

Ad Astra Per Aspera: The Lonely March

2007-04-13T05:12:00.000-07:00

Four years ago, when I was doing my undergrad thesis, I floated a number of requests among researchers who specialize on the subject loneliness through email. Only one responded and he was Prof. Dan Russell the main author and developer of the UCLA Loneliness Scale. His first response was based on a general inquiry of mine, which is to know the fundamentals on the subject. He gave me copies of his two researches (1) on the validity and reliability of the UCLA Loneliness Scale as a measure of loneliness across cultures; and (2) a classic research on the history of loneliness studies in the US. I was overwhelmed by his response. This gave me the cue to pursue my desired area of study. Such acquaintance further led to his approval to my unassuming request of using the UCLA Loneliness Scale in my research. In his letter dated July 31^st 2003, he prompted the utilization of the scale in its entirety.

I was deeply indebted to him. After four years, I accidentally stumbled upon the green-bounded output dusting underneath stacks of papers in a forlorn brown box that smells very timeworn. My name was etched in gold. I opened it and read the acknowledgment. I suddenly felt melancholic. . .It read:

“Be able to be alone. Lose not the advantage of solitude.”

I have endured the four years in college always sitting at the back seat or at every corner at the pleasure of the birds perched on the pine trees or the blank wall. I have endured this almost unbearable part of life talking mostly to myself about how a grueling day tired my being; about how stupid I’ve become; my inadequacies as a person. I have endured living this life alone. It is a hard decision o choose this life and it is equally difficult to always turn things to my advantage.

Being solitary is good. In my case, it let me learn how to battle my own self. It carried me to a journey of self-discovery. For who knows more than your inner self knows. One just needs to find that inner self in many cases, through the wisdom provided by others or just by the beauty of ugliness;: the beauty of failing an exam; of embarrassment; of disordered thinking; of endless misfortunes. But it is an utter hypocrisy to say that there is no loneliness in being alone.

Mine has been painful.

But I have already learned to accept this condition for “life” only begins when you are able to find yourself in others.

* * *

I would like to thank a number of persons who helped me along the way:

To Prof. Russell for trusting the motives of a complete stranger.

To Evelyn for lending me money when I am in dire need of it.

To Karryl, Heather, Lovely & Tiff. How I cherished your company.

To Dhina for the friendship.

To Romar & Jeff for the unforgettable adventures in that poverty-stricken flat.

To Prof. Hamada for my free handouts on child development.

To Prof. Liezl for letting me feel that I can go as high as average if I want to. Thank you for being a teacher to a troubled student.

To Ms. Rozel for her patience and trust. I regret not being able to sit in one of your classes.

To Ma’am Anavic for giving me an ultimatum to graduate and use her gift; for being proud of me during that speech.

To Manag Pen, my mentor; For helping me land a job and her endless advices. Thank you for nurturing me.

To Badz for saving my life thrice.

To Manang Le, my comrade in battle, my hero.

To Nanay Ket, Manang Mel Lyn, Mike and Mark who patiently waited for this final moment.

And to Our Lord for responding to a letter I sent Him on a stormy night.

What About the Death of Thirty Thousand Fishes?

2007-04-11T03:16:00.000-07:00

What about the death of thirty thousand fishes?

It marked the end of a smooth sailing passage into life’s tumultuous moments.

The bulwark of water coming from the water pump reflects the silver moon that hanged in the night. It was way past midnight and my father and I were busy salvaging the repugnant breathing of every fish that’s populating the pond. The froth created by the endless panting by the little fishes was creating an enormous white island in the middle of the pond. My father was standing still at the bank which made me chill more with the damp and cold wind passing from the north. He was a resolute man; resolute and firm. This was summer and he knew very well the danger that is brought by the season.

The Mythical Finance Cave

2007-04-11T03:12:00.000-07:00

Sweet Victories

2007-04-11T03:11:00.000-07:00

“If you want something, go get it. Period!” – The Pursuit of Happyness

The frailties of human living is deterministic on one’s ideals and the road in their endless quests. As a matter of fact, many of us couldn’t get by most of our wants lest are needs are met first. But, why? Someone’s always taking advantage of our weaknesses and limitations always whispering in our consciousness that we can’t get by-“Wake up, you’re dreaming!”

Last Saturday, I had the chance to talk to a friend after how many months of estrangement, and revelations just confirmed what I thought are only mine to keep. She’s tired of her work and hopes to be in school again after a hiatus. She’s pretty tired of her work which enslaved her to routinely activities which probably diminished most of her faculties by now. But her option seems to be roughly between maintaining such “wonderful” job or to be jobless. We joked among ourselves. Said she: In this part of the world chances of employment are very high. However, there only exist two lucrative jobs. Your musings will let you pick between being a call-center agent or an English teacher. I said: In most cases, you’re doomed to not having any choice at all, and forcibly what else. She said: The pay is only a little above the minimum rate and this can afford her at most two tosses of blue margarita every week to satisfy her chills of the long-run process of desensitization to life’s cruelties and inequities. “Why can’t I have what I want.”- a question of the low-spirited voice that behooves all notions of hope.

But, really, it’s easy for one to say that you can enjoy both worlds. How true, how true? The proof of the pudding is in the eating. You can call it a struggle bordering on the most wicked form of tolerance or rather persistence. My friend resigned into saying that we must do what ever we want as long as we’re living forget when it never rained but the pour is so great and overwhelming. We can! The sweetest of victories is when you achieved things in the most painful and hardest way.

Summer's Ending

2007-04-11T03:09:00.000-07:00

The smell of rain constantly effuses a feeling that resembles those days in June. This is not the rainy season maybe but the drizzle for three consecutive days make us feel that we’re up to days of tripping down damp passages and eternal longing for lukewarm baths. The teacher said it was too early for summer’s ending and that if there are really sunny days to speak of for the past months this should not be the time to end it. He has a scheduled vacation in

Palawan

after the Holy Week he boasts. And everybody was envious of course.

Back at home, the memory of summer’s ending is quite downbeat. It was like a mourning of the complete departure of solitary walks to feel the coarseness of the warm sand during afternoons and the endless dipping in the brackish waters of the nearby river during high tide. It was also because of the grown fear of tempests that brought long days of heavy rains and the necessary in-door predilections that breathe a momentary discreet attitude among souls. Continuous outpouring would make dams overflowing with rain water and because we’re near the outlet rivers our lives became prone to soak-yourself-in-floodwaters-in-eternity life. Part-smile and part-frown for the devastation and it makes us love the place more. I don’t know why.

Once in days of childhood, an enormous water spout that visited the community ravaged some houses and uprooted some of late Tinio’s bananas at the back of his house. I saw him came close to the water spout with his bolo swinging in the air like a desperate man trying to outdo the troop of hundreds with his lone bolo in a heroic stance: fighting to death. I confessed such incident to my mother hoping that she would do something to cure Tinio’s psychosis. She only responded with cracks of laugh. I came to know that such is not a sign of madness it was an attempt to shatter the swirling water spout.

There is more to the memories of the start of the rainy days.

But, could the premature downpour be brought by global warming? Oh, and there’s the little child surmising the indelible fact of divinity in the offing. Oh I see, yours is a life of dreams and comic interpretation of phenomena that beat old wisdom and false truths in this world.

Aristotle's Resignation on Filipino Democracy

2007-03-14T19:48:00.000-07:00

Previous to the Fair Elections Act, TV ads as a medium for campaign were limited by the Omnibus Election Code. After its institution, we see among ourselves campaign cum commercial ads spawning in our TV screens and few days later a list of the top spenders who shelled out millions to avail of their right under the said Act. I just want to bring to the public’s attention the guiding principle behind the passing of RA 9006 which is “to ensure equal opportunity for public service xxx among candidates”. The present trend does not, in my opinion, lead to this end for it only renders those who are financially capable to avail of TV ads. As a result, it makes the playing field more uneven among candidates considering that the general Filipino electorate relies on “name recall.” I can’t but ask myself if my country, a land of heroes, has deteriorated in the most deplorable State that maybe even Aristotle can’t imagine to exist in democracy. I will not probably cast my vote again in view of the fact that my vote will never work for the betterment of the country.

On how the raven fell for the cat: An anecdote on felicide

2007-03-07T19:33:00.000-08:00

On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
"Raven's very tasty," thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor,
"There is nothing I like more."
Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and weird decor -
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.
Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents worth -
"Nevermore."
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly leapt up, pouncing on the feather bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore -
Only this and not much more.
Then my pickled poet cried out, "Pussycat, it's time I dried out!"
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I've wallowed in self-pity, while my gallant, valiant kitty.
Put an end to that damned ditty - then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped - and smashed it on the floor. (from End of the Raven by Edgar Allan Poe's Cat which, in the chain of events-foodweb-, died later at the hands of the Labrador) . . .I wonder, could the cat likewise said Nevermore.) haha

Time Flies

2007-03-04T19:15:00.001-08:00

In the bosom of your mother, a lugubrious thought expanded another night, another century. Nascent like a tiny sprout vulnerable in a desert of privation, you crawled a journey, of faith and deliverance. To pontificate the darkest hours. . . you stood by the chair. Slowly in a libertine manner, myth be told, you sat and conquered spaces in the phlegmatic ardour of flies. . .of tiny beings who must remember the peripatetic slump to no where.

The rest is history. They say.

To presage the quake of your existence thereafter is forbidden, just to understate the whole lie of it. The vacuum in the story is the senescence.

Then blank spaces to mark the pulchritude, the height of the matter.

C'est la vie. For, another day in your life, your ephemeral life.

Chasing Cars - The postscript

2007-03-04T19:14:00.001-08:00

Music can make the world a much more bearable place, definitely. We couldn’t live without other people's music and making our own.- Gary Lightbody

A fishbone had been stuck somewhere in between my pharynx and epiglottis, so I guess. it has been there for two days now and it’s so awful to imagine swallowing eternally rice balls for a cure. (At least you’ll gain a few pounds for that-Mr. Standard). I couldn’t bear so much of the chewing but for the pain of gulping down because of that little fishbone which surreptitiously entered my system.

A few days more of this experience will grow me into a petulant being for sure. The drowning sound of Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars was a quick sedate. I remember a doctor telling me to bite my tongue hard to ease the pain of injecting the syringe. According to him, this will retract my attention to the squalid pain of the syringe into the pain of biting my tongue, my own tongue. (And that’s more dignified?) The song did just that. It took my attention relentlessly away from the pain and the throbbing.

I first heard Chasing Cars from Marian, my guru of alternative music. It is from her that I came to know what passion in music is. Passion in music is Keane’s Walnut Tree, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah’s Maps (with the drooling and the melting mascara), Urbandub’s Quiet Poetic and Cynthia Alexander’s Comfort in your Strangeness. As Marian always quipped, these songs forebear the wisdom and non-chalance to the nth degree: emong emo!!!

Chasing Cars has been played for the 91^st time according to the stats in my Winamp player and it never loses the thrill and interest I felt the first time I played and heard it. Gary Lightbody said that this was “the most pure and open love song he has written.” Pure and open it is, the swooning of the chords and the natural croon combine perfectly to bring mirages of fast-moving scenes in the window of the car and the profile of different emotions appearing on the background. Chasing Cars ' lyrical archetype depicts a solitary refusal: I-refuse-to-be-alone-but-I-most-enjoy-the-feeling-caused-by-it thing.

Lightbody’s attempt in the asymmetry of a dog chasing a car and infatuation is a real flabbergast. Still, to me it is in the nature of a comic and goes beyond the stationary picture. The postscript of the moment is that the dog continued to chase after the car in vain and barked its way to frustration and destiny.

This Silence

2007-03-04T19:13:00.000-08:00

When all is but a Utopia

2007-03-04T19:12:00.000-08:00

Once in a history class in the university, we had this nun-teacher-activist who posed this question to us: “Is there still hope for the

Philippines

?” (hope as in what hope?). All was turbid except for one who had the guts to stand up and give what is the what. She stood up and surprisingly answered that there’s none and mentioned about the culture inherent in Filipinos-of our tendency to forget things, to forget our history. The nun-teacher-activist necessarily flared up-as to what degree? I can only retrieve the 100 decibel-high-pitched-tone-which-vibrated-and-echoed-round-the-halls-of-the-building memory of that history teacher. We’re all shocked but Aveline who managed to stay put with all the composure of a courtroom lawyer who had just been reprimanded by a judge. As for the teacher, she never regained her consciousness, I mean her cool, and made a pulsating sermon up in her imagined pulpit for the rest of the period. The gist of it all, is that she was so frustrated and disappointed to hear such answer from young people like us. She told us that it was so unnerving to see such gloomy and negativist thinking in this era where all that we have to do is to sit beside our tables and eat the fruits of democracy. She is so disappointed because it’s as if all the efforts of our heroes who endured and battled wars to defend our sovereignty were just put into waste.

This horrifying incident came to mind after reading the column of Pat Evangelista: Rebel without a clue in the Inquirer just this morning. It became a habit for me to read into the thoughts of Ms. Evangelista because she speaks the truth eloquently in her words to the embarrassment of national leaders. (If they still don’t get embarrassed by it I just don’t know what monster is living in their spirits.) Her column today staged, what I believe, is the current reflection of the Filipino mind: disillusionment.

One who, all his life, has been hopeful that change will reign in due time can never coexist in the vacuum of falsity. However, in these times where even the pettiest of hopes is all but Utopia, you will be forced to become tolerant to the point of letting your ideals be fooled and taunted. In Pat Evangelista’s words: “Once upon a time, there was a country:

Pearl of the orient, cradle of the brave, whose islands are caught between sea and sky and bright blazing sun. In this country, they tell a story. . . We know that, we just don’t know what to do. And without a narrative, without an end to aspire for, even Bamboo’s “Noypi” and Rivermaya’s “Liwanag sa Dilim” may not be enough to keep us fighting. We’re not on the streets, because we’ve been there before, and look what that got us.” Idealism is within us, Pat, it’s just that that idealism seems to be defenseless for the moment. Time will come. A hungry man who’s offered with a spoonful of worms has three options: to eat it, to refuse to eat it and die, or to refuse to eat it and find strength to kill the person who’s offering it.

Of Kill Bill and the Aviatrix (Points of Departure & Arrival)

2007-03-04T19:11:00.000-08:00

If I start to hear rhythmic whistling in my ears as if in a hiatus of moment in Kill Bill where in a split of second the tendering slices of the samurai upon unnamed and unheard antagonists spurts out splashes of the red ink on cam in an endless bloodbath, I also try to find ways to live out an addiction of inexplicable wandering. I try to burden my back with my bulky mailbag and sore the toes of my feet with this striding-along-addiction with a matter of miles in mind to and from points of departure and arrival. (Weird for you, normal for a natural weirdo.)

And so I kept on looking and digging (perpetually) hoping that I could spot a worthy book. Luckily I found one, few minutes before the shop closed, by Beryl Markham. Found it interesting when I read a good comment from Ernest Hemingway at the back cover. Hemingway lauded her style of writing as: “marvelous. . .suddenly I am ashamed of myself as a writer”. What of me to reject West with the Night as his/her previous owner did for 77 pesos? I paid and left the bookshop.

Atlantic

and maybe among the firsts (women) in her continent. Her writing immersed me into the aero-experiential world of the pilot and the romantic intertwining of mobility with the points of departure and arrival. I suddenly felt one with her:

Non omnia possumus omnes (We can’t all do everything) - Virgil

2007-03-04T19:10:00.000-08:00

Non omnia possumus omnes (We can’t all do everything) - Virgil

The holiday fever lasted just as when the rambling and rat-tat-tat of fireworks faded out at dawn-break, January 1^st. A year that almost broke my nerves and patience fizzled out into the dying chambers of forgotten days and memories. A calendar year that was once again thrown into the trash bin or to shoulda-woulda-coulda’s emblem and shroud of frustration.

And when everybody’s in the process of looking back and forward in endless gatherings, small talks and soliloquies, post-new year, I will always rest my case in the loser’s embodiment of Virgil’s credo: We can’t all do everything. (period!!!)

Venal Institutions

2007-03-04T19:09:00.000-08:00

People in the

Philippines

are all the more stupefied by the rise and fall of fundamental institutions. Just lately the definitive factory of these emerging and venal institutions is no less than the political-turned-boxing arena (a clear affirmation of their true being and purpose). These institutions are so outlandish in their form and the dynamism they reveal before Juan dela Cruz is staggering . . . Really, they may be called the “sign of the times.”

Worth mentioning are the following:

1. According to Sen. Santiago: the High Court is but a “Company of Idiots.” Although, one can never tell, if this high-toned language was made in her lucid interval. This may be another chimera, a hallucination brought out by the fact that she’s nominated to be a part of the “company” she’s referring to; she’s nominated to be the head of the idiot cluster. However, we can’t discount the fact that she may disguise herself as the foreteller this time as the High Court’s independence is constantly befuddled with the lingering interests of politicians.

2. The die-hard parliamentarians. These guys more or less don’t differ from preachers in that they both have messianic complex. But if I have to choose who’s more honest, I’ll go on the side of preachers because they’re more likely to mouth words from the heart. Members of the House of Congress are necessarily pretentious. They are brazenly corrupt and inept and this was reaffirmed just last night by foolishly passing the rules that will create a constituent assembly without the participation and concurrence of the Senate as provided in the Constitution.

3. The shattered people. Should I say more? The venerable sovereign has lost its might against the government whose flock is infested with abominable and greedy beings.

Once in a gathering, I was asked with this profound question: “What’s the solution to the problems that are plaguing the country?” Only the omnipotent deserves such question but since I found it profound, I nevertheless answered in the same manner. “The answer lies in the Japanese tradition. . .harakiri being a clear option to all who’s in position. We need to cleanse the government from the culture of greed.” The audience took it in jest. I never joined them because I mean it, really. . .

An Apostasy to Mr. Gump’s Creed

2007-03-04T19:05:00.000-08:00

I rubbed my eyes in clear disgust over my clock’s hostility. It’s November 27^th and I never had an all-night’s sleep but it’s time to get up again and prepare my body for another ordinary day. An enormous cat bristles over the the rooftop of our neighbor’s house signaling that everybody’s up except for indolent beings who remain undaunted by the day’s requirements. I shouted at the cat aghast over his overbearingness of the laid-back life of the animalia kingdom. “You may never know Mr. Cat but destiny may betray you. There’s this news last night that there’s a shortage of meat in the city!” . . .(only to be embarrassed) The cat shouted back in shrill voice: “How are you today? You look grumpy and pale!”

Mr. Cat clearly scored against me. I may never know he is rejoicing at the back of his head. A fact is never understated by those who never had insecurities like Mr. Cat.

Today, the schizophrenic who always passes by our office was in a tight-fit denim shorts. As usual, he does his routine relentlessly: walking to and from his area; the corners of the veranda. He’s thinking deep and prostrate. I could only wish for his sanity this Christmas. But his tics confronted me intuitively. “The world’s getting bigger and better,” he jostled.

“Tell me, is happiness pervasive there?”

On Atty. T’s Pedantry, the social web and cannibalism

2006-12-04T19:32:00.001-08:00

I just don’t know what happened today. It’s just queer finding myself infront of many people looking very stupid, very, very stupid; as if I’m the only one who doesn’t know what’s happening. As if I’m in front of learned people-inquiring about what happened, which I totally forgot in broad daylight.

The moment I stood up my body is in terminal trepidation. As if I am very much frozen in the arctic chill of Agnus. I don’t know if someone or something poked me insisting that I will never answer the question correctly. I grabbed my book leafed through the pages quickly, looking to the provisions in wanderlust. I wandered in wonder. The teacher recited all that happened: “blah, blah, blah. . ..” She was there ignoring all portents that foretell of a sudden mishap. She was there sitting on the royal chair assuming power or kingdomship in an ephemeral space. She gazed imposingly at me to kneel down before her majesty. She gloated at every yes, at every no. She sounded blabber in my thought. Does this pedantic woman remember anything about the social web? That strictness would result to perversion?

She kept me standing there for the whole period; taking charge of the flip-flop drama flick of the night. She manipulated all of the consequences and the laughs and the curses. “Disorientation prevents me from your arrogant assertion.” That it is easy to know if Art. 1357 and Art. 1358 will apply when you already mastered what is a valid contract and what is an unenforceable contract. She always mutters that with a devilish grin intruding up to the recesses of your soul and the privacy of your consciousness. “Here, all is prone to being eaten alive. We are all cannibals in our own simple way.”

Trail-walking Sagada

2006-12-04T19:29:00.000-08:00

It took us six hours and a half of convoluting trails to reach a dreamy and solitary place. In between miles, a constant yearning arouses in my mind a distant and moribund thought. The unending visions of a sad and gloomy memory take me back to a commune which had complicitly made this return trip part of a piece in a resultant and conspiring circle.

My travel companion woke up to ask in curiosity if the trip would be for eternity as the bus slowed down to submit and traverse a sharp curve. The whispering wind would tell us later on that this trip was indeed for eternity.

The bus parked beside a lonesome inn devoid of any soul and spirit. I knew that beneath those yearning souls lie buried in the earth forgotten memories of tranquility and comfort. A friend once told that the feeling could never be explained because it will always be forbidden. And indeed as we walked, passed tombs and epitaphs that remind corporeal beings how life recedes into whitewashed graves, a tender feeling gently harps into the unaffecting heart which would inevitably allow a person to ask to himself if the moment would endure.

Yes, the moment would endure. . . forever. It clings steadfastly among barren worlds like mine reverberating the height of the experience into one soulful and nostalgic dance.

In Etretat

2006-12-04T19:26:00.001-08:00

Days are old like a withering tree whose leaves are gradually blown by the wind into the barren earth.

I tried to hold on for the past few days in search for a better resolution to the predicaments that seem to last forever. I stride along the road looking at every footstep I take and at the dust thrown by the soles of my black rugged shoes.

I went by as far as I could, not minding where would my sanity want me to take. I came across an old man carrying a can of white paint. He drooped as if his backbone would break; as if he was carrying tons of load on his shoulders.

The old man was not conscious that the paint was being emptied by the hole under the can. I overtook the man and signaled to him the long white line he has created along the road. He looked back and scratched his head. “That doesn’t matter anymore. I am nearing my destination.”

I didn’t understand what the old man said. I stopped and stood for a while to think as the man walked away leaving white marks along the road that would surely remain for a while unless rain would pour down continuously for the next few days. . .