Quarter of a Century

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!