Planet on Fire

This afternoon, as I was on my way back home from UP, with the overactive sun's rays beating on my skin, a torrent of sweat streamed down all over my forehead and chest. I felt the dryness of my mouth, my tongue parched as a prune.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale--the great effort that I exerted just to grasp for air. But the more I respired, the more pain pounded on my chest. Chagrined by the merciless heat of the weather, I fanned myself up as if there's no more tomorrow.

My mind at that time just yearned for a brief wisp of air, but unfortunately, the only thing I got back was a wallop of metro Manila's thick, black, filthy air. On the brink of cardiac arrest, my heart was clouded by an amalgam of poisonous smokes coming from the monstrosity of bus drivers, taxi motorists, and private-car owners.

I couldn't even move an inch inside the jeepney, for doing so would only exacerbate my state. Surrounded by smelly feet and odorous armpits, I almost fainted inside the jeep, if only not for preserving my dignity.

Since we were caught up in the middle of an inevitable traffic jam, I chose not to fret about what's happening and, for me to become more productive, opted to read a book instead. If my estimation is accurate, we have been stuck up for almost thirty minutes.

And now, like a dirty pair of shoes, I feel like needing for a cold and cleansing bath.

Leaving the Province

Tonight I'll once again be boarding the bus, clad in my favorite black-and-green-striped sweater, snugly embracing my travel pillow, and be zooming my way back to the busy Metro.

Time indeed fleets so fast, that I haven't even fully savoured the feeling of staying in the province.

Aside from the unplanned meet-up with friends, the books that I have finished reading, and the sumptuous meals that have tickled my palate, there's still be bevy of things that could be done here in Santiago. I haven't visited the market place yet, or gone to my former school. I haven't still met up with all of my old friends, who are scheduling for a gathering or two here and there. I even haven't tried to stay up late at night, and have my nocturnal and long phonecalls with pals, or even with my ex, Katrina. At any rate, I should have been to our farm, but even this I haven't succeeded on doing.

If only not for the organizational matters that I should attend to, in preparation for the organization's block handling come first semester, I would rather opt to stay here and continually enjoy what I call my provincial pleasures and privileges: long, unhindered sleep, free meriendas and other tripping, and cable TV, among others. But since I would like to think that I surely am a conscientious, newly-elected officer (Membership Committee Head) of my organization--UP Ugnayan ng Manunulat--I need to comply--despite some objections, at some time-- with all the schedules that the majority of the group has set beforehand.

So I'll be leaving the province tonight, with a welter of emotions rambling in my mind. At this point, thinking that the best and most possible time to be back home is after the first semester (This, of course, is subjected to change, since I am not in control of the forces of Nature) gives me, once again, that chill along my spine, the same feeling that I felt when I boarded off the bus as I arrived here last week. I am unsure of what to feel, really; if whether I should be happy to go back to my contradicting life (humdrum but complicated, elated but bored) in Manila, or if I should be melancholic of leaving--albeit temporarily--the province, along with my closest relatives.

As I was engaged in a conversation a while ago with Ate Angie, our trustworthy secretary for around eight years, I couldn't help but be wax nostalgic about my childhood. While wolfing down a bag of pan de sal, the image of a boy who already weighed 85 kilos in the age of 15 struck me. Looming in front of my imagination was an overblown, sweaty, and grouchy lad whose only enjoyments in life were to eat, watch TV, and read. As this image thundered in my mind, I run fast up the staircases, headed towards my room, opened my old cabinet--which then was reeking of a yeasty odor--and fumbled through my high school pantaloons, only to remember that in my soft and tender years as a boy, my waistline was as big--yes, 36 inches!--as my father's.

To my horror, I immediately turned to the nearest mirror and examined my recent self. And I was relived. There were no threats of going back to my corpulent shape, as far as my honest observation was concerned. Silently, as sweat started to drip along my back, I mumbled to myself, I'll never ever return to being obese.

While this stream of memories was flowing in me, I remember how this city and its people stood witness to my transformation. And every time I go back to this place and have the chance to get together with all the familiar people who have seen the changes in my life again, I become ecstatic, to some degree. I remember the struggles that I needed to grapple with--sacrificing many kinds of delicious foods; exiting from class early just to exercise at home; stay at home on weekends, to voluntarily do the cleaning, as an additional exercise, rather than to hang-out with friends, etc.--just to be in my tiptop shape.

Certainly, these happenings are now part of my memory of the province. It was hard in the beginning, but now as I look back as the man who has gained some experiences from the intricacies of the bigger city, it dawns on me that everything was a satisfactory achievement for my part; something unforgettable, indeed.

Tomorrow morning I'll once again be facing the pandemonium of Metropolitan streets. I'll once again be stalked by the leering eyes of MMDA Chairman Bayani Fernando and his ubiquitous promise of Metro Gwapo. I'll once again be haggling with life just to be on the nick of time for every meeting with members of the organization. I'll once again be hanging by a thread, whenever a forthcoming financial drought is crawling its way on the horizon. I'll once again be subjected to sleepless nights because of the proverbial burning of the midnight oil.

In the meantime, I'll be leaving the laxness of the province, to be back to the hassles of the city.

I will return, nonetheless. Promise, I will.

A Fragment of Friendship

The other day I met up with high school friends, to play ultimate--the one that requires a disk and two competing teams--and to catch up with the changes in our lives as well. Under the beastly heat of the sun, we were tossing out the frisbee disk, while laughing at and reminiscing our memories as best buddies for years. It's been a long time since we've been together; the last time, as far as I remember, was last December, when we had our annual gathering as a batch, in a friend's family-owned resto-bar here in the province.

Despite the threat of sunburn and skin cancer, nothing hindered us to transport ourselves to what the province folks call the Oval, an unused, huge plot of land which has been a play area for children who live nearby, or a temporary parking lot for cars, buses, or tricycles. So, we were there, I and eight of my friends, trying to convince ourselves that we were still the young and rural denizens that we are, albeit the years that we spent studying in Manila.

At first, there was a certain kind of apprehension that separated us for a minute or two. Then, after some icebreakers, an explosion of personal narratives--ranging from the convoluted city that we have tentatively left up to our own bucolic selves--came up, like babel of sounds reverberating on air. And there was instant joy among us, as if the months of being away were dispelled that fast, as if 'metropolitan transformations' went back to their own default settings--back to the old 'probinsyano people' that, in nature, we truly are.

In a tick of a second, a sea of gossips flooded us. Like traditional rumor-mongers, we shared our own discoveries and details about some latest things, about several people, about the recent events that have transpired in our lives. As expected, everyone delighted themselves with each bit of scuttlebutt. For every rumor, each one was given the privilege to rejoin, to add up new details (yes, we've gone this crazy--and bad?), and to disprove and prove every single point. And we zeroed in everything on just two emotions: laughter for the gross, shocking, and stupefying, while sympathy for those that weighed down our spirits.

It is these kinds of meet-ups that I treasure most, really. These spur of the moment gatherings, I just recently realize, are the ones that really make a mark on me. Maybe it's the instantaneous emotion, that rush, that gives me the pleasure. Or perhaps, it's the casualness of it: that no one requires me to be dressed up in my most formal attire just to look good in the eyes of people, or to bring a fancy amount of money just to make the event successful and grand. If there's anything that I miss the most in the province, apart from my family and friends, it is the simplicity of everything, the looseness of life. And I guess, everyone deserves such kind of life, even just for once, even just during the summer break.

My friends and I ended up at one of our favorite places to hang-out--McDonalds! Over cups of caramel and chocolate sundaes, heaps of fries, and buns of burgers, we continued our crisp and biting laughs and jeers, as heavier gossips were revealed, new romances--either inside or outside our batch--were supported and mocked, fresh lessons in life were shared, and some expectations for the future were delivered (a friend even expressed his excitement for his sex education class this coming semester. Yay!).

While there were still a lot of matters that could be discussed (Sayang! If only we could be naughtier and heartless against people, and if only the bearers of tsismis would just spill the beans Tsk. Tsk.), we decided to call a day a day. Outside McDo, the wetness of the street and smell of damp earth welcomed us. It just rained, and we even haven't noticed that it did. Finally, we gave our final kisses and embraces, and exchanged promises for another meet-up, either here in Santiago or in Manila.

A friend was good enough to give me and several friends a lift. Inside the car, everyone was silent; maybe overwhelmed. Within me was an unexplainable happiness, an indescribable nostalgia. The feeling that something in the circle has been nurtured throughout the years of friendship, that even time and space weren't able to change whatever we have. And for me, as I stepped out the car, as I have given my sweetest goodbyes and thank yous, I have realized that what happened was an extremely special fragment of our friendship. In that day, in that hour, in those fleeting seconds, yes, something special was shared.

Reading List

During the course of my summer classes, I saw to it that my own self won't feel deprived of the luxuries of rest and play that my friends were enthusiastically enjoying in the province, or elsewhere in the country, or abroad. Though having summer classes was a personal choice, I still found myself yearning for a much deserved break from schooling, or from academic work, for that matter.

In order to stop the act of self-pitying, I tried to devise my own version of vacation. Being the loser-loner that I truly am, there were times when I would haul myself to the mall, with a modicum amount of money in hand, searching for a good--but cheap--food chain to dine at, or even--this I really enjoyed much--questing for every stall of booksales, to my delight. Despite the beastly heat that could sear one's skin, I still continued with my game plan of scouting for bargained bestsellers, only to find myself drooling at uncountable--and precious--books at very, very low prices.

So: here are the books that I have painstakingly purchased throughout the summer.

1. Cannery Row by Nobel Prize for Literature winner John Steinbeck for P145
2. The Namesake by Pulitzer Prize winner Jhumpa Lahiri for P110
3. We Were the Mulvaneys by PEN/Malamud awardee Joyce Carol Oates for P195
4. Blonde by Joyce Carol Oates for P145
5. The Grandmothers by Nobel Prize for Literature winner Doris Lessing for P140
6. The Inner Circle by PEN/Malamud awardee T.C. Boyle for P89
7. Tooth and Claw by T.C. Boyle for P345
8. Women in their Bed by PEN/Faulkner awardee Gina Berriault for P180
9. Black Dogs by Booker Prize winner Ian McEwan for 150
10. The Magellan House: Stories by John Rolfe Gardiner for P80
11. Skyscrapers, Celadon, and Kimchi: A Korean Notebook by Palanca winner Jing Hidalgo

But given the time that I have before classes resume in June, it seems that a book or two will still remain in the bookshelf, gathering dust, left unread.

Hay. As the saying goes: So many books, so little time.

Province

It's now time for me to have my vacation, finally. Now that everything's done and over with, I can now have my well-deserved rest, my decadent time to read, my smooth conversations with friends, and my self-indulgent romances with the province.

I just arrived at Isabela today. After almost nine hours of bus ride, I am now again basking in provincial sunlight. Stepping down from the bus and having those familiar sights once again gave me that unexplainable chill along my spine, though. Inside me, a mix of emotions started to churn, like warm and cold wind starting to collide with each other.

Maybe it's the span of time of being away from the province, from my hometown. Or perhaps, it's the fear of change--that people and the goings-on in the province have changed, leaving me unacquianted, unfamiliar with everything. Or probably, it's just me, and my unfair thinking about Isabela and its people, about the slow developments in the province, about the leaders who govern, about the sadness tagging along with my memory of this province.

But still, I am here, back to where I truly come from, where life is simpler, more peaceful and more leveled out with reality. Where plates are filled with more delectable servings, where mama's and papa's hugs and kisses are warmer, where connection with friends are instant, and where consciousness is refreshed.

Indeed, despite the apprehensions of going back, Isabela has been, and still is, home to my lost, unguided self.

Albeit the tinge of sentimentality, home is still truly where the heart is.

City Inferno

It has dawned on me: I am a certified city-dweller, a Manileño whose respiratory system is suffocated by lethal chemicals that would soon lead me to death. My nostrils are filled with sticky and gooey material. My skin is now a habitat of grimy libag and the home of sour-smelling, salty-tasting sweat.

Now, tell me--would anyone still dare to come close to my senses?

To those who cannot stomach all of these disgusting things, I am giving you the chance to stop reading this article and run for your life. But for those who are really masochistic in nature and can’t do anything of the boredom that slaughters them by now, I am allowing you to bear with my gross thinking.

Readers, forgive me for destroying your day. I’m sorry. But still, I need to write this down. I can’t prolong the yucky and slimy feeling.

I think the pollution of Metro Manila penetrates deeply to a person's body. Could anyone stop my agony? Could anyone volunteer to suck up all the smoke, the skull-cracking smell of canals, the stinky feces scattered everywhere, and the stench of garbage before my existence explodes and scatters into smithereens?

I know you also have the same problem as mine, and I know, like me, you wouldn't want to lengthen the suffering.

Oh, please?

Emotional Report

I feel the need to write down a lot of things that happened to me the past several weeks. To me, things are getting more complicated. I myself am shocked with the fleeting pace of events, as if I am no longer in control of myself anymore, as if decisions are not done based on reason but by impulse. And I don't know if this will do me any good, since I avoid questioning meanings. I hate profundities; they make me feel dumb and useless and slow. I want the tangible stuff, the things that don't dupe the senses. I abhor deception and false hopes. My emotions are too weak for those, my mind too fragile to commit itself to something elusive and probable. What I want are moments of truth, of instant reactions, of express feelings. As if life is all about categories, about either-ors, yes or nos. Sometimes I ask if I am just being too selfish to myself, but asking such makes me more confuse in the end. It's like committing a grave disservice to my own welfare. Sometimes I question my actions, and how they are often misunderstood by people, how they are often taken negatively. But then, it dawns on me that it will feel more painful if I fail to express what's in me, what's drifting in my mind. The more I keep the emotions, the more I hurt, the more I fall and break down. It seems for me that keeping secrets are for cowards. Why can't we just toss it out and see how things will go, how people will react, how time itself will deal with it? I've done a number of mistakes in the past, mistakes that could have been avoided if only I became a little careful of my words and actions. However, mistakes are mistakes, and who am I to doubt the power of sin to renew, to recharge, to rediscover myself? Sin is something that we need to do, to experience, if only to learn the real-time lessons that we need to imbibe. Now, I am committing another mistake. Expected, another wound is about to open inside me. But I don't mind; I'll still push things to the limit, to where all of these should be. Sheer luck, sheer luck. If it works, it works, but if it doesn't, then forget it. And if I once again fall down, and fail miserably on my way to real love, I will again stop and listen to myself, like what the little boy in me use to do in times of rejection. And I will digress. The art of losing is not hard to master, says Elizabeth Bishop, herself a poet filled with refute from the people she loved. Pain passes easy to those who easily forget. And memory, my one and only friend at this point, serves me right. In time's own approval, I will go on, sailing back to my own goodness, flushing all the things and memories that hurt, as my own self heals its own deepest wounds. Surely, hopefully, I will...

Extended Family

Inquirer
First Posted 07/14/2007

MANILA, Philippines -- Ever since I can remember, ours has always been an extended family. It’s the kind of family structure many Filipinos have, where the grandparents, cousins, “titos” [uncles] and “titas” [aunts] and one’s own immediate family live under one roof.

I don’t know how we got into this kind of family structure. What’s clear to me is that my grandparents don’t want to let my Tito Carlos and my father go their separate ways. Thus, every time the siblings brought up the idea of building their own homes, their parents would say, “There’s just the two of you, and you would still like to leave us?”

In 19 years of my life, I have seen every change, every advantage and disadvantage of sharing a home with many others, all of whom were relatives, of course. There have been problems, but in the end, it is always kinship, the “kapamilya kasi” [because we’re family] attitude that would save the situation and underlie the making of important decisions.

My childhood years were both colorful, if restricted, on account of this kind of family structure. My siblings and I, together with our cousins, were always provided with everything we needed or wanted. We were confined to the comfort of our home, with our personal “yayas” [nannies] giving us the care and protection while our parents took care the family’s businesses. Our parents and especially our grandparents made sure we lacked nothing, and that covered new and expensive toys, good and sumptuous foods, and nice clothes. Our grandparents, who were most keen about keeping our extended family together, saw to it that their grandchildren would have a great time.

To this day I can still remember that once every two weeks, Lola would gather all of us children and bring us to the grocery store. With our own yayas pushing our individual grocery carts, my two siblings, three cousins and I were only too happy to pick our favorite chocolates, potato chips, gums and candies, among others. On certain occasions, Mama and Tita Loren would tell us what to get for them and, of course, we obeyed and brought home several packs of dried mangoes from Cebu.

But in spite of the material comforts and luxuries, there was among us children a yearning for more freedom and independence and a desire to break free from the kind of lifestyle which, while we enjoyed, also seemed to be suffocating.

One time our school rented a bus to take the class my cousin Arwin and I belonged to on a field trip to Banaue. Since the family driver took us to school and fetched us at the end of our classes, the idea of riding a bus with our classmates for the first time was really exciting to us. But to our dismay, our parents ordered that we go on the field trip in our car. Thus, Arwin and I, together with my mother and our yayas, were in our car enviously listening to the gay laughter and jeers of our classmates who were in the bus.

Living with our extended family made me reluctant to invite classmates to our house. It was not that I was ashamed of my family, but I was embarrassed by the thought that I would not be able to show them a room I could call my own. I shared the same room with my parents and then later with my brother. But while most of my friends had their own private space since childhood, I had to bear the snoring of my father and the crying of my little sister.

Of course, growing up with the same faces and having the same upbringing inside the same house is not all fun. Arguments, misunderstandings and conflicts among the older members of the family couldn’t be avoided. There were also rifts and jealousies among the cousins.

When my grandparents decided to retire, they passed on to my father and my Tito Carlos the management of the businesses they had established. My father ran the rice mill, while my tito managed the auto supply business. At first, everything and everyone was doing great. My father and my tito quickly built a reputation for being smart businessmen. But the fact remained that we all lived in the same house, and every success was shared by every member of family.

But those good old days seem to be fading away. Because of some bad investments and mismanagement of funds, the family’s collective wealth seems to be slipping away. And where our family’s fortune goes my tito’s family’s fortune also goes, and vice versa.

The events happening in our family affect me greatly -- and I know that also goes for every member of the family. We share almost everything and that includes burdens.

I don’t know if the kind of family structure we have has more drawbacks than advantages. What I am sure of is that the problems we now face cannot erase the joyful memories we have of the years of living together and sharing with one another as one extended family.

Remembering Her

The computer plays For All of My Life, MYMP's version, and emotional as it is, it reminds me of something--oh yes, someone--that brings me back to memory lane, to my own points of sentimentality and wax nostalgia. Though there are times when I think that I've been able to move on throughout the years of separation, of forgetting that person who has been a huge part of my maturity, sensibility, and life in general, this is still not enough to wash off from memory the fact that I am connected with that person forever, whether I like it or not.

I remember her today. Or maybe the feeling of loving someone, of being with someone---someone who, at the end of a grueling day, I can look forward to with a pleasant conversation, a warm hug, a passionate kiss, or even a simple yet snug smile. I have been separated with her for years, but truth to tell, I am still grounded on the fact that I have been too comfortable with her, that I have been too familiar with her, that finding someone, or being in a relationship with some other person, would just rekindle whatever relationship I have had with her in the past.

And how songs remind me of her too. Her pleasant voice, her ability to captivate love in her own version of piano music, her sweet and thoughtful acts, her gentle and sometimes coy manners, her casual hugs, her messages that either strike that perfect chord in my heart or fire up my chagrin, her cheap thrills like fishball and kwek-kwek--I miss all of these.

I would want to think that I have moved on, that I have set aside my emotions for her; that after those endless kiss-and-make-ups, those letups and letdowns, those emotionally draining personal melodramas, I am now ready to face my own track and go about my own way. But admittedly, I am still stuck with her, mainly because of the years and experiences that we have shared, that have connected us, painstakingly or not.

Perhaps all of these musings are one-sided; this, after all, is just my side. Probably, she doesn't feel the same way, as she uses to claim. But I do want to contradict her, no matter how assuming I may sound. I know that deep inside, it is still there, drifting by the shores of her heart, as it does in mine.

I am just sad that everything won't be the same again. No one wants to initiate. No one wants to express. No one wants to admit whatever is deep inside him/her. And possibly, this ends everything.

The only painful thing about it is that after three years of parting ways, I am still hurting, that I am still affected by whatever things happened to our lives, to our personal selves. It pains me whenever I hear negative things about her, about how she has become after our separation. It still strikes me, up to this day, whenever I think of the unresolved issues between the two us.

These things make me sad, because my emotions about love and views about life are greatly affected and moved by whatever we have had in the past. Though I won't deny that the pleasant memories with and of her are still one of the things that make me shed a smile, a twinge of bitterness still enters me from time to time, piercing my heart and breaking it into smithereens.

Maybe I am the one who's not able to move on, and she perfectly did! Perhaps between the two of us, I am, ironically, the one who is truly and madly and deeply engrossed with the situation. And the thing is, I can't do anything about it, because I know for myself that she won't believe and listen to my words, my actions. I can't blame her, of course. Undeniably, I have hurt her in the past, both physically and emotionally, and have taken a lot from her, of her. And definitely, likewise, she has also gotten a lot from me, emotionally speaking.

Why am I thinking about her, about these matters, about our past? Why is she still able to crash my heart, my mind? How come she still passes by my thoughts, my own personal moments? Personally, I really do not know. To this date, it's a question that has an improbable answer. Or maybe, there is, or will be, no answer at all.

All I just wish is that I could still patch things up with her. It has been three years, and yet, we are still not in good terms. And it's hard, as if nothing good has come our way before.

Maybe in the right time, we'll be able to mend our hearts in our own perpetual sunshine. Maybe with the right reason, we'll be able to understand our own points, in our own shot of platonic love. I think we could still be together, as friends. This I think will happen in what other people claim as "God's perfect time!"

Days of the Living Dead

You wake up in the morning with great pain in your head, as if something heavy has plummeted from heaven and pounded on your brain. You hardly open your bulgy, soaring eyes; suddenly you regret reading too much till two in the morning. Your muscles hurt, and your joints are jolting. You simply cannot make it. You just want to stay in bed the whole day and skip classes.

Minutes after finalizing your decision, you remember that you have a report for your English class. You cannot be absent, for you are the leader of the group. The report is twenty percent of your total grade, meaning it is part and parcel of your ultimate goal to get a flat one after the semester.

Slowly you stretch your arms, raise and extend your legs, twist your spine, and then once again, try to open your hurting eyes.

As you rise up from bed, you see varied views inside your room: Paris Hilton's sexy poster posted on your cabinet, shoes and slippers scattered on the floor, clothes dispersed on your bed, piles of paper and books piled up on the study table. Then you realize how much time you’ve wasted partying with friends.

Your body is totally tired, that is why you cannot afford to leave your stomach empty. You rush down the kitchen and heat up water for your favorite coffee drink. While waiting for the water to boil, the memory of being home with your family flashes in your mind. You remember mom saying not to leave the house because you still can't handle yourself; your father sermoning about living independently; your lola reminding you of not sleeping with any other woman; and of course, your yaya lecturing you with the benefits of proper hygiene. You miss home, but this is your choice, a choice that you have prepared for and yearned for.

You pour down your 3-in-1 coffee into your favorite white mug and watch the hot water turn brown. You gulp down your first fix for the day, despite the doctor's warning of the bad effects of caffeine. You don't care since you still believe in the benefits of coffee. Early in the morning, a cup of hot coffee energizes it all.

You run to the CR and splurge into a deep, cold bath. Then you start brushing your teeth in a careful, up-and-down manner (the way your teacher in Kindergarten taught you). And then you smile in front of the mirror, and, albeit the enervating lethargy, blurt out those self-aggrandizing lines about yourself.

You feel clean and refreshed. Now you are in front of the cabinet, trying to figure out what ensemble to wear. You keep uttering uncouth words because your favorite green shirt is still staling in the hamper, unwashed by the outdoor laundress. You choose a pink polo shirt instead.

Now you are finally ready for the day ahead of you.

Inside the jeep, you again feel heavy. The headache and muscle pains are again starting to get the good of you. Going back home is on the tip of your mind, but unfortunately, you cannot back-out. (Or maybe you're just ashamed of saying, "Manong, bababa na po ako. Akin na lang ulit ung 8 pesos ko.")

Once you reach school, you smell totally different. It seems that you've been turned into a human-filter of Metro Manila smoke. You survey your surroundings: everyone and everything seems moving in a fast-paced motion. You look lost in a world of strangers, as if you were a fumbling android from another universe.

Classes are fast adjourned, and you are excitedly ready to call a day a day. Afternoons bring great exasperation and fulfillment to you. You can now feel that you are being called by home. You then choose to hail a jeepney, go home, and call for your day's expiration.

Despite the hectic schedule, you have still successfully gotten through the day. If you only have the choice, you won’t start and end this day the way it went. It then occurs to you that there are situations that you really cannot handle, but there are still many in your control. For you, this is just life---nothing more, nothing less. This is what you live for, for this is what you choose.

Welcome to the Days of the Living Dead!

Something Between Me and Myself

When everyone in your peripheral world seems to be happy and satisfied with the way their lives go, there comes several instances where you try to ponder about life in general and assess your own being in specific. When almost all the people that surround you are having a great time of their life, you can't help but mull over some aspects of your self that need some growth, security, and contentment. When everything turns out normal and organized, even though you feel that it shouldn't be the way how it's going, you tend to be cynical about it, extending matters with doubtful rejoinders.

Call it a shot of insecurity, but for the past months, I have been pessimistic about my self, about how my views in life have changed drastically over time. Usually I am a people's person: the one who represents the group, the one who stands for the crowd, the one who questions and answers issues, either political or personal. But lately, with the way things are going, it looks like I am feeling tired of myself.

I know that it sounds awkward hearing these statements from me, since I am still young and should be reveling at the exuberance of my youth. However, there are really times when I fumble upon myself, asking whether I am on my right track, positively accomplishing the expectations that are being placed on my shoulders. At my age, the pressure is greatly highlighted, especially when you've exerted much effort in the past few years to be the person that you are today. Being in a situation where people know the breadth of your capacity, breaking-free from the preconceived notions and the expectations is tough.

There are times when I just want to be alone and reaffirm myself, my beliefs and perceptions in life. I try to communicate with myself and ask whether I am really enjoying and understanding life in either its starkest or most sugarcoated form. And I admit that it is a miss-or-hit thing: sometimes I get the answer that I want, oftentimes I don't---or I can't. Maybe that's why people use to misinterpret my actions and way of thinking, branding them as garish, harsh, and often uncalled for.

A lot of friends and family members label me as stubborn and esoteric. They find me weird and unpredictable; and maybe they are right: because I myself cannot understand myself most of the time. There are times when I enjoy doing something with a specific person; later on, I will see something negative about him or her, which will turn or piss me off and--poof!--that will be the end of our partnership. Patience and compromise, I suspect, are two words that always slip off from my consciousness, and this, definitely, always brings me into trouble and consternation.

Friends also find me agitating at times, even dominant and overbearing, aberrant and rude. And I agree. These characteristics are me: I am even selfish, egocentric, judgemental, proud, hard-headed. Perhaps this is why people usually distance themselves from me. Admittedly, I often fall short in so many things: as a son, as a brother, as a friend, as a lover.

I often say that I do not need to please everybody, or anybody, for that matter. However, this of course is easier said than done. After all, I still don't want to be distinguished as irresponsible, naughty, and self-centered. But, really, I try my best to do things that would make others at ease when I am around.

Honestly, I try my best to listen rather than to talk, to discern rather than to object. I admit that it's hard to keep my mouth shut. It seems that I just always have this urge to speak my mind, even though what I'm going to say is purely nonsensical or offensive. It's something--keeping quiet--that I really need to practice more, until it turns out innate.

In time, perhaps I could also have that stabler mindset and character. I guess it's just a matter of discovering yourself and learning about your real personality. At this rate, I have seen a lot of things in my life, but surely, there are still a plethora of events waiting to unfold right in front of my barest eyes. In time, I am sure, I could also find my own grounded self, whatever that means, which would make me the guarded and pacified person that I need and want to be. The road is still long, even endless, and I ought not to be impatient. Like what the parents always promise, there is still a huge number of memories stored in my own unpredictable future.

Lust in Space

I am human. I am susceptible to my inner desires. And that I am no sacred cow.

Like any other grown-up male around who cannot avoid himself to succumb to the unquenchable thirst of the "Big L" (which, of course, doesn't stand for LOVE!), I am also guilty of committing one of the manly activities that is mostly kept private...Ah, you get the drift, right? No need for graphic descriptions here, right?

I can say that my brother Osbert is the culprit of this defiled physical exercise that I've been practicing for, uhm, uhm, uhm, (Insert your desired number of days, or years, or decades here). Ever since he placed those tempting FHM magazines, which he borrowed from a friend, inside our bathroom, my morals have been greatly demoralized, and my formerly behaved gonad has been actively acting strange, and naughty!

Every time I start doing my daily excretory act, I can't avoid myself to ferret around for those mags, which feature a motley group of women in their tight-fitted bikinis, with their mad mammary glands about to explode in front of me. If that still fails my desire, a wide range of articles on how to make a night with a partner sizzling hot, or how to position one's self in a hundred ways and one when doing the great copulation, tempt me to do the dirty work.

The topics are really sweeping, as far as sexually related issues and suggestions are concerned. And honestly, I can't help myself but read every page of each enticing sexual story, and be in locked-jaw as I browse on the alluring photos of women in their sensual poses. I am easily captivated and enchanted by the girls on the magazines. In every position they do, as if they're calling me to join their intensely wet and wild fray.

Lately, my brother got his own FHM collection, which he piled up on our bathroom. This doesn't only mean more semi-pornographic materials to read, but it has also given me more reasons to stay longer inside the washroom. Funny as it may sound, but I find these kinds of mags entertaining and somewhat riveting. Yes, they are no-brainers; yes, they are sex-driven; yes, they are all about kinky human anatomy--but even trivial stuff like these have their own incoherent purpose: to spice up a man's personal bathroom moments.

Men's magazines are like hot coffee in the morning: they warm up the male body. These kinds of mags may cost a large fraction of every boy's--or man's, if you may--allowance; but surely, in a man's libidinous view, they are worthy of a penny or two, if only to tickle his own fancy. To be sure, every male can't resist that feeling that eats up like acid. And it's by these magazines that one can find refuge, connection, a temporary satisfaction.

So, guys--spank your faces, shake your heads, and shout your hearts out, for you to be back in the reality that these mags have taken you away from. And without batting an eyelash, admit to yourself that, gosh, there's lust lingering in space!

Entertainment and Other Litanies of a Jologs

Just when everything--from myself, to my family, to my friends, to school, to the complicated themes of the books that I am reading--goes awry and too perplexed, there's this one cheap and indeed crappy door that I would always turn to, not just because of its capacity to divert my attention to people and things that are unrelated to my own dose of problems, but also because of its ability to strangely lighten up my emotional baggage. Indeed, it's in the dazzling world of show biz where I feel alienated from, or in touch with, my personal life.

In a world festooned with colorful attires and creative costumes and bejeweled tiaras, and crowded with a plethora of people with different personalities--from the cognitively motivated to the horizontally challenged to the verbally infected to the sexually activated, show biz is indeed a very interesting microcosm where the beautiful and the beastly mesh up and, in some aspects, clash over with one another.

As viewers we can't help ourselves but be involved with the lives of these personalities and be scintillated with their own self-proclaimed charisma. Weird as it may sound, but they have their own tried-and-tested ways to make us sympathetic with their own personal, and often intimate, matters.

However, we also cannot neglect the fact that they--the celebrities and their sets of issues--are also infuriating most of the time, especially when they bombard us with concerns that shouldn't be delivered in public. Squalid issues---Who has impregnated whom? Who spank whom? Who's lately in a relationship with whom? Who's with whom in the most recent orgiastic scandal in town?--should supposedly be out of the viewers' frame. We hate these things. After all, we watch TV to feel catharsis--that purgation of emotions, according to Aristotle--and not to be aggravated by their own filthy and unremarkable problems.

Sadly, despite these unbecoming controversies which our sensibilities clearly don't deserve, many are still riveted in these brawls and issues, as if they are there--a part of their brouhahas, revolving around these dudes' and dudettes' own stellar circus. I wonder that this may be the reason why a lot of people in this country are still stuck on being "bakya," whatever that means to popular culture.

I daresay that the history of the Filipino viewing public has undergone minimal evolution; but the members itself, nonetheless, have still remained the way they were before. We as the viewing public are still much engrossed with garish soap operas on TV, with sensationalized news about our idols, who nevertheless are just merely eye-candies that are doomed, sooner or later, to taste their own lackluster careers. We still buy the plots that focus on physical drama, shows that still use bombs and spanking and hair-pulling just to drive a point. We are still enticed by love-teams, which pretend to be lovers whenever a movie or two of theirs will soon hit the movie houses; by bold-stars that label themselves as actresses but in truth, have still not even reached celebrity status; and by young starlets that thrive to stardom though, in their heart of hearts, they know that they don't have the talent and appeal to survive mainstream entertainment.

Indeed several Filipino viewers--consciously or unconsciously--still remain at and belong to the gutters of Philippine entertainment, and are still credulously convinced that the kind of entertainment they are seeing is television at its finest.

There is a reverberating call for us to raise the bar, to uplift the status of Philippine television, to challenge the taste and predilections of the viewers--especially the less-educated, the masses, the hoi polloi. We have had enough of those mawkish plots, those phlegmatic comedy shows, those invented and manipulated issues about the stars, and those unpolished dance and song numbers (please don't let the actors sing; don't push them to do something that will speed up the painful fall of their nascent careers). Make us more intelligent, more mentally provoked. We have been left behind by our neighboring countries, not just in terms of bureaucracy and economic gains, but also in terms of our taste in entertainment.

I know, I know--these are the things that the masses want; and what they want, our TV stations obediently serve. But that's exactly my point: cook up more innovative and informative shows, and let the viewers taste, digest and savor them. Before long, they'll also learn the art of appreciating what good and quality shows mean.

These people, due to lack of choice (majority of the population doesn't have cable connection), are just accepting what TV stations give them. As soon as they get used to the shows that are being proffered right in front of their TV screens, their nature to yearn for more complex stuff will be put into a halt and, therefore, be stuck with what you poorly present.

The viewing public is far more intelligent now more than ever. Considering and treating them lowly is an insult to our collective consciousness. In 2008 Philippines, they now know when to tap out and say, in a cynical tone: "Gah, that's entertainment!"

(Not) Falling in Love

At no time in my life have I been this pestered and incensed by questions about love. Why does it seem that my friends' next logical question after "How are you?" is "How's your love life?" I've given my answer before--in 1,001 ways of saying "none" and in uncountable versions of my statement, "no time and no money for that." But as if these people aren't friends; they rage me with questions that in one way or another piss me off to heavens.

A friend just texted this afternoon, asking me the usual question that a typical, nosy peer asks: "Do you have a girlfriend there in UP?" Instead of answering her question, I opted to digress: "Oh, how's life?" She indignantly answered, and threw back her old question once again. Just to finish the conversation that was starting to heat up my chagrin, I said: "Wala, eh. Wala pa sa plano." Then she replied, "Nyek. Bakit naman?"

She has no idea of how her questions irked me so much, as if I wanted to get a cow and let the it swallow her wholly. That wasn't my first time to be asked with such violating and grueling questions, however. I think it's human nature to pry upon other people's lives (I also do it at times--well, always!), especially when the topic is about love or romance or both.

On my part, honestly, I have no time with such things. I find it stressful and too taxing, both for the heart and the brain, not only because of the demands that loving a person requires and asks you to do--directly or indirectly--but also of the responsibility (which oftentimes turns into a burden) that you are expected to focus on and fulfill.

I am not new with this kind of talk--on love matter, that is. As they say, been there, done that. It's not easy, it will never be easy. Though starting a relationship is just like a walk in the park, maintaining a relationship, on the other hand, is like haggling for life.

Adjustments and compromises are greatly needed, if not required, and without them, nothing will work out fine. I don't like compromising for nothing though. I am annoyed whenever I adjust for a person who I know won't adjust for me in return. Call me selfish and proud--but that's how my system goes.

They say that it's difficult to grow old with no one constantly beside your bed, without seeing "your own grains" running around the green gardens of your home. This may be true for others, but for me, in the meantime, it may not.

I marvel at people who have still kept their cool and energy and exuberance in life despite--and maybe because of--being alone. Most of them say that it's happy to grow with a lot of stability in life, particularly stability with yourself; stability of going on with life without feeding someone; stability of having the things that you want to buy without adjusting to the needs of the people "who still need to enroll first this semester"; stability of happiness and laughter amidst your friends; stability of waking up in the morning as the sun breaks through your window pane; stability of smelling freshly brewed coffee without someone hurrying you to dress up, or to fix your bed. Single-blessedness is filled with stability indeed.

Having the chance to chat with a friend some few days ago shocked me. She was telling me that her goal's to be a housewife. Whatever happened to this friend of mine, who was really active and career-oriented when we were in high school, I do not know. And when she asked what my opinion about her goal was, I abruptly answered: That's not good for an ambition. Which I believe is filled with candor, but nonetheless true. For an 18-year old lady to have a goal like that in this time and age where people almost dream of having a good career and a competent and comfortable life, it must be extremely horrible!

However, I also admit that there are times when I do admire people--mostly those who I find "prospective" because of their intelligence, their finesse, their auburn skin and their soulful eyes, their affectionate, but not sentimental, attitude, and of their undoubtedly moving character. But for some strange reason, admiration easily fleets out of my desires. Realizations about life always come first, rather than the dictates of the heart. Maybe because I am an over-achiever, that's why.

Wherever and whatever these notions about love and life bring me, I won't shatter and ask much about myself. It's hard when things get too much calculated; too much by the book. It feels good and nice to see the transition within yourself, so that when you look back, you can see the ultimate transformation of your own maturity as well as your perspectives and goals in life.

They say that people should not fall for love; people should be building love. As Jessica Zafra once wrote, "Sometimes I wonder if, instead of falling madly in love, we should aspire to fall sanely in love."

I think, above all, we should be aware of the repercussions of love. We must be sentient that love is sweet and contaminating, but it also hurts.

As for me, I choose not to be sweet, not to be contaminated by romantic love. Because I am pretty sure that whenever I love, whenever I give in to circumstances, it must be truthful, it must be prepared, never stark and never rickety. And that I won't be hurt by anyone...and I won't ever hurt someone.

Musings

Though life, admittedly, is still ambivalent for me at this point, there are thoughts and what-ifs that have been playing in my mind for the past few months, giving me the zest to mull over things related to what I want to be in the not-so-distant future*.

These musings, however, are also erratic at times, and vary depending on the circumstances that I am in. But perhaps, what is more important here is that I somehow try to trace the present dots of my life and connect them to my future, making it easier for me to chart whatever plans I want to take.

Definitely, being a writer is in the frontline of my list. However, I am aware that I still need to learn a dearth of things in literature as well as the techniques in writing.

Being a writer in the future also brings me to my second goal, which is to be a teacher or a professor or an instructor--whatever you call it! This, nevertheless, sounds a bit off to my father's ears, since he's aware of how teachers are being paid and treated in the Philippines. And he almost raged in anger when he learned that I want to teach in the UP---as if teaching won't do me any good, for Christ's sake! The prestige of the University didn't help me at all in making him realize that being an instructor in UP means a lot.

You know how fathers act: they think of all the possible kinds of careers for their children, and try to give them all the pieces of advice that they think are beneficial for you. Perhaps, on my father's part, he acts this way because he has always dreamed of having a child who'll end up as a lawyer or a doctor or a corporate leader, who's earning hundreds of thousands monthly (which is difficult nowadays, by the way). This I understand fully, and that his intentions of thinking such are great. But sorry, his son dreams of another dream, far different from what his ego tells him.

My father and my grandfather even talked to me once, both asking me to enter Law School after finishing my undergraduate degree. They broached the idea of me being the lawyer so that there "will be a lawyer in the family" who "will defend the clan in court whenever the need arises." Not only they put the pressure on my shoulders, but they also try to shun my goal of having a Master's Degree after my four-year course in college.

Yes, I want to have an MA degree--in Speech Communication or in Media Ethics or in Creative Writing or in Comparative Literature--and eventually teach in college, particularly in UP. Having an MA degree, I am aware, does not only elevate you to a higher status in the academe, but it also augments whatever amount of salary you'd be able to receive. A Doctorate degree is also in line, but since it will first take much time, effort and knowledge on the craft that you are working on before having the opportunity of getting one, I opt not to delve on this goal yet.

The list goes on and on. I think it's just natural to yearn for more achievements in life, not to mention more money in your own (and several) bank account(s). And while I dwell with a myriad of thoughts and interests as of the moment, the game plan for having a family in the future is still far-fetched. Besides, I believe that people of my generation nowadays are more interested, first and foremost, of shaping their personal careers as members of the work force, rather than, say, settling down and having a family of their own.

During my personal talks with myself at night--or whenever I find time to converse with the 'self'--I realize that life has a lot of things to offer, and that it has a number of goodness in store for me (and for you as well). That every moment in our life is significant, and that our present sacrifices can either be our future's gain or loss. Life is harsh--I agree; but life, on the other hand, is pleasant in its full essence.

A motley of great possibilities in life is stored for us. Just don't let your dreams die; make them realized! The process of dreaming is an easy, uncomplicated one. What's difficult to do is the act of making those dreams into reality. And that's one thing that we should really, really be prepared for, and something that we have to take seriously. Just always bear in mind that the will to dream big is important, but the will to make it real is vital.

It may sound trite, but it's true: Nobody can, or has the right to, take our bag of dreams away from us. Surely it is only in our hearts and minds where our dreams are formed, and it is only when we stop thinking of them where they can be destroyed.

On Books and Reading

As a struggling writer I am aware of the benefits of reading. Without learning the habit of reading, I am going nowhere: I am bound to stagnate, as far as vocabulary and style are concerned. Sure, you can be a writer without reading, but definitely, you cannot be a good and competitive one if you fail to do so.

I consider myself as a late-bloomer when it comes to reading literary books. Living in the province where local television and outdoor games are the "it" stuff for children, I was somewhat uninterested in reading, not to mention indignant and apathetic. I remember though that, when I was young, my mother used to read me the eternal fables of Aesop and the child-friendly but often crazy stories by Dr. Seuss. There were also children encyclopedias and almanacs given by my Lola Linda, who resided here in Manila. Given these sets of books available on the shelves, I cannot say that we, as kids, were deprived of the luxury of reading. However, with a family who's not inclined too much in discovering the wonders of the literary world, it was quite hard for me as a child to be attached with serial books like The Hardy Boys, Goosebumps, etc., which several children of my age truly delight themselves with.

Aside from the academic textbooks which contained some children stories and major literary texts (which were oftentimes abridged), I had no other exposure to pieces of literature. Probably I could have chosen to read if only there were bookstores in our province during those times and if only there would be no other "more interesting" stuff to do instead of burying your nose in a book. But hey--my books were coming from Manila, and once they reached our province, my friends and I had discovered another street game to play or another TV show to religiously watch.

So there: No read and all play makes OJ a dumb boy!

It was not until I reached first year high school that I partially opened myself to the euphoria of reading. I remember that my first free-willed peek at a non-academic book was during one of my classes in Creative Writing (reading sessions with the mother were all forced; it's a way to lull me to sleep). We were required to do a book review. As lazy freshmen students, you imagine how almost all of us cried out No! No! No! But then again, as freshmen students who were still acquiescent to our beloved teachers, we abode by the requirement--with a heavy-heart, of course! Thus invading our nearly decrepit library, or budging the class' bookworm for a book to borrow.

Since the class' bookworm is my friend, she was the one who I fawningly clung to. A fan of Sidney Sheldon, Danielle Steel, and John Grisham, she let me choose among the three mainstream writers. Sheldon is more of the dark stuff, while Steel, with all her cheesy lines and commonplace plotting, is more of the syrupy, run-of-the-mill type of love stories. So I chose Grisham, which usually centers his writings on legal matters, courtrooms, and social and political issues.

After reading the Street Lawyer, I became an instant fan, asking my mother, who was frequently in Manila that time, to buy me more of his books. And she did! From A Time to Kill to A Painted House, I successfully completed Grisham's books. A friend even gave me a fresh-from-the-States hardbound copy of Grisham's latest book back then, The King of Torts. After reading that book, I severed my ties with Mr. Grisham. And the rest, as they say, is history!

Now, years after my first serious encounter with literary books, and being more engrossed and passionate with reading, I see to it that I read a bevy amount of materials whenever I have time to do so. Having my own savings greatly helps in purchasing the books that I want and need. Though limited by my own personal budget, which admittedly depends on the money that my mother sends me weekly, I still see to it that I can grab a piece of reading material--from poetry to fiction to non-fiction to news--from time to time.

Certifiably reading has been a part and parcel of me, that I prefer buying books rather than purchasing a new set of clothes. It's more of the writer in me that craves for books, that yearns for new ideas, concepts, and style from different writers of different nationalities. Once you get the chance to see the differences in manner and style of writing by various writers and juxtapose them with one another, you'll get this unexplainable awe on the vast and encompassing range of literature.

I know, however, that there's still this great need for me to be more multifarious in my selection of writers and reading materials; but surely, I will get to that sooner or later!

Last December, when everyone's generous enough to shell off some money for their love ones, I received a number of books, mostly by Filipino writers, from several friends and relatives. I find it exciting that the gifted books are all written by Filipinos, since Philippine literature--either in English or Filipino--has a large spot in my heart as a writer and reader. Whenever reading some material written by a Filipino, there's this certain connectedness that emerges from me, a comfortable grasp of what is happening and who are involved. It's as if I easily picture cinematic events moving from one scene to another, with the smell of the Philippine wind wafting about my imagination and the sight of either the squalid or bucolic setting of urban or rural Philippines unfolding right in front of my senses.

The short stories by Butch Dalisay, the scenic and at times funny essays by Jing Hidalgo, Kerima Polotan and Jessica Zafra, the poems by young poets Angelo Suarez, Conchitina Cruz and Allan Popa, among others---these I all enjoy, savor and digest in my mind, giving me a relief from the stressful and taxing concepts that required academic reading materials tend to give me.

Filipiniana books give me this sense of belonging, the feeling of relatedness, that whoever and whatever is/are depicted on the stories, essays, or poems might be partially or wholly me as a person and more of as a Filipino. These literary texts ground me on the truth that my own story is not just the interesting story out there; certainly, with the ever-changing life and status of the Filipinos, either here in our dear native land or abroad, there are more than a thousand ways to narrate, romantically or exasperatingly, the Filipino life.

Reading brings me back to my senses; it keeps my sanity intact, so to speak. It gives me these leveled stages of thinking, of understanding the world that I am in and the people that surround me. It breaks the borders of my once limited mind-setting. It proffers an unexplainable wisdom and control of my being. It purges my emotions, especially the ones filled with misery and pain. It delivers me into a whole contrasting world, usually filled with more complex twist and turns. It introduces me to a bunch of people who are driven by different struggles or successes. It elevates my view of who I am, of what I have been throughout the years. In many ways than one, it makes me feel much secure and connected with myself. And these are the reasons why I always resort to the habit of reading whenever my own world seems to break down into pieces.