Redemption

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

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)

“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!!!!

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

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

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

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.