I just wanted to say...

... that this has been a meaningful year for me.  Harsh, yes, but profoundly beautiful all the same.

I want to thank all the people who have touched me this year.  If you happen to be one of them and you are reading this blog post, then I thank you.  I am humbled and honored and yes, lucky to have people like you touch my life (very Hallmark but fuck I don't care because I mean it). I wish you all a great and more profound life this coming year.  Be well and safe winds.

XMAS.09

I've always maintained that I don't celebrate Christmas... Not that I don't believe in it; it's just that I don't have enough affinity to celebrate the spirit of the Holiday cheer or whatever you call it these days.  I love the free food and free gifts though, so you can call me a hypocrite. Like I said before, I used to love Christmas when I was a kid.  I used to look forward to everything that was Christmas - the decors, the Christmas tree, the fake snow {I live in the tropics}, the loud disco Christmas songs that my mother used to play in full volume the whole of December, the Christmas table with all the Filipino trimmings {by that I mean shitloads of Filipino food that mostly consists of noodles, rice, cake, fruits, and assorted Filipino dishes of pork, chicken, some beef, more pork and moooore pork}, the nine morning masses, the carols,  the Christmas lantern that my father prepares in late November and hangs on the first day of December... then there's the new clothes and gifts and money. 

As a kid growing up in the ghetto parts of Manila, Christmas for me was the time to be in another place, albeit make believe, it was valid enough for me to be real.  I'd pretend I'd be having a white Christmas wearing my new sweater and drinking hot chocolate and watching Superman (I don't know why, but they always show Superman on TV during the Holiday season {probably because of the Messianic overtones}.   I loved Christmas. When your  a kid, you see the world through different eyes, especially during the Holiday Season.  You believe what the TV tells you.  You believe in cigarette commercials bringing joy to the Season of Giving.  You believe in the Santa Claus that comes through those American chimneys bearing gifts of Coca Cola and more Coca Cola.  You believe that everything outside the Philippines is America and that every god damn place in America is laden with snow, fluffy white and clean like they are made from the same machine that makes ice cones and shit and you just want to lick it off of the television screen. You wonder how snow might taste like... Is it sweet? Does it taste like Tang or ice cream? Does it taste like America?  That was me, a kid who jizzes over the Holidays like some nymphomaniac on uppers.

Then you're 31 all of a sudden.  You realize that snow doesn't make your Christmas white or perfect or cheery, it makes it muddy and cold and you could get frostbites and gangrene and probably end up in a hospital somewhere, high on morphine as the doctors try to amputate you right leg.  You realize that not everybody celebrates Christmas or your version of Christmas.  People also celebrate Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, sometimes the Hajj, the Winter Solstice and whathaveyou.  You also realize that not everyplace is America and not all people are Americans.

What happened? Pubic hair happened.  Sex happened. Growing up happened.  Bills  and taxes happened.  Knowledge happened. Politics happened.  Death happened.  Diseases happened. Wars happened.  Everything. just. happened. I became an adult. Adulthood became me. And when you're a grown up, you suddenly dwell on other things aside from snow and Christmas trees, and gifts and new clothes. They fade in the background.  You want to go back to the time when they were the most important things but you realize that you can't.  So the only way to relive a semblance of your youth is to just commit it to your memory, and hope in all hopes that you won't forget it as you advance in your years.

I probably sound jaded to you.  Maybe I am. I don't hate the Holiday Season.  In fact, I still think that in some fucked up way, it's good for kids and for most people.  It doesn't work for me though.  Free food works, but the whole silver bells jing-a-ling ruh-puh-pum-pum snowman glistening yadi yadi doesn't do it for me.  Scrooge much?  Naaaah, me and the Ghost of Christmas Past are tight.  Dude, if it works for you, by all means celebrate it.  Revel in it.  You are one lucky bastard, I tell ya.  Hold on to it.  But don't feed it in my throat, except the food on your table.

I must confess that  I like the idea.  The Christmas narrative revolves on the theme of god made man, born in a manger from supposedly poor biological parents.  The cosmos, fate, destiny, the stars and the eternal weave of the universe or whatever you may call it conspired for the baby's birth.  Once born, the child is visited and honored by learned men and rural folk from all corners and proclaimed and sung by angelic beings, which ensued a king's wrath and sparked the hope of a struggling nation.   The story is epic, yet the message is profoundly simple.  A god that authored all of creation willingly becomes the created because of love.  The idea of a supreme artisan humbling himself/herself/itself in front of the beloved opus, by becoming insignificant and unimportant is noble. It is pure and innocent love. It is good.  I think that's the whole gamut of this Christmas hoopla once you remove all the commercial trimmings and the Hallmark  greetings.   You don't have to be a believer of a religion to understand and appreciate the message.  It's what lies within the message that counts. And it's a good message.

I like the idea of that "innocence" in the Holiday Season. I have to admit though, that I can never again fully experience that innocence, that purity.  It is a challenge to reconcile even that 'idea' of innocence with the human condition.   I can't sure as fuck be seven again; and to be honest I don't think being a kid all over again appeals to me.  In spite of it all, I like my adulthood; and for all it's worth, I am at peace with what I have become.  Do I believe in Christmas still? Perhaps. I really don't know.  To be honest, I really don't care.  But I think what's important is holding on to those memories of past Christmases.  That I was once a kid that loved the Holidays.  I remember one Christmas Eve,  I think I was 7 or 8. My mother had outdone herself - she cooked for an army and our house exploded of the holiday cheer.  The decorations were tacky but we didn't give a fuck.  We were able to coax my father to go to the Christmas vigil.  All of us had gifts, even I had gifts for my parents.  My brother wasn't high on something for a change.  My father was trying to be low key. He wasn't preaching or anything. In fact he didn't drink one bit that night. My sister called us from the States because she couldn't come homre.  I'd stare at the Christmas table and I'd keep asking my mother what time it was and if it was ok to eat already.  She said it wasn't time yet so I'd stare at the Christmas lights for hours and hours listening to Christmas songs and while thinking of snow and wondering if it tasted like Tang or ice cream.   That was a perfect Christmas. And for once, the whole family actually ate together.  I remember my father pulling me to his lap after dinner to tell me the Christmas story.  He didn't use big words,  in fact they were very simple and dry, yet I was hooked with every word.  I believed every word.  I loved every word.  And at that moment I thought, in all my innocence, that I had everything I could have ever asked for.  Even though at 31, a part of me still holds on to that memory dearly.

back now...

and i think i'm going to be ok. 

Today

I just finished writing what is probably the longest letter that I have ever written in my life. It took weeks to finish, and yet I still think the words were still not enough.  I may never reveal myself in such a way that I have revealed myself in that letter.  Naked, the words left me.    To the reader of the letter, please, I implore you to read it.  I know it is not enough to let you know how I really feel about you, of how much I love you.   But we have a lifetime to discover each other's mysteries.  My heart quivers for you still. It always will.  

Rupert Murdoch - On the Internet, Newspapers, Google, BBC, Barrack Obama and the whole shebang

Shall we say Scrooge? I could actually see the Ghost of Christmas Past over his left shoulder taking notes. Meh.

Happy Birthday Firefox

After five years, Firefox - the open source browser that didn't ship with your computer - has redefined the experience of the Internet for people; Firefox made the whole experience of Internet more personal and more human.  It has set such high standards which succeeding browsers try to emulate and surpass, from Opera, Safari and Google Chrome . Happy birthday Firefox.  And yeah, us Scorpios rock. 

31.

That would be my age come Sunday.  It's official - I am part of the thirty something crowd. Yawn.  Do I feel old? You bet I do.  I don't even know half of the people I see on television these days {maybe because I don't have a tv in my box apartment and I really do not plan on having one}; and I could not even relate to the songs I hear on the radio.  It's not because I have been here for over three months, no.  It's just I can't relate.  I am perpetually stuck in the 90's and backwards.  One time my friend Betty was asking me if I liked the Jonas Brothers and I was like "What Jones who?".  I had to Google the bastards only to find out that they're a boyband who does a lame impersonation of Beyonce's Single Ladies.  Enough said.  I am old, period.  Do I feel wiser? Not really.  Probably a wiseass, but not wise. 

A lotta people have been asking me what I will be doing on my birthday.  My parents, my siblings, my nieces and nephews and my friends, they're all asking me if I would be throwing a party or going out clubbing or whatnot. I ended up telling them that I don't really celebrate my birthday.  I mean how do I tell them that I don't eat anything solid on my birthday?  They'd prolly find it weird or summat.  No, scratch that.  It is weird.  I told this to my sister, my not eating anything for 24 hours on my birthday, and she just told me I was crazy.  I just told her that it was a matter of perspective.  

So 31. God, I only have 9 more years till I hit the bucket. It's not that I am planning to off myself, no. It's just that I have a distinct feeling that I would be gone by the time I hit 40.  I am not planning on dying on 40.  If I live beyond 40 then it's alright, so be it.  Somehow, I've always known that the Universe would be pulling my existential plug when I hit the big 4.   When I tell this to my friends they get all creeped out and shit.  They say life begins at 40.  Says who?  If a man or a woman's life begins at 40, what about the years the preceded that?  I mean, Jesus died when he was 33.  I'm just curious.  If a person's life begins at 40, how about a dog's life? Or a cat's? Or a rat's?  I could go on with the whole phylum chordata but I won't. 

I've been thinking about a lotta things lately.  When yer unemployed you tend to think a lot, so yeah. I've been thinking about my life.  I guess part of being a thirty something is that you tend to think about a lotta aspects of your life - things you have done and you haven't done yet; your accomplishments {if there are any} and your failures; the books you've read and the books you want to read; your body fat and your muscle mass; your hairline and the white hair that grows in your right nostril, stuff like that.

I have been going through a lotta things lately. I might even say that I am going through a rough patch {I could never get that expression}. Do I find it difficult? Hell yeah.  Do I wish it to go away?  You could say that. Am I regretting any of this?  .......  That, my friend is the 7 peso question.  I have been quiet lately.  I've been introspecting for three months now. That's a lot for some, even for me.  I would have wished to avoid it but the circumstances did not permit me.  I think it's my karma.  {Oh, Paul if you could read this right now.  You would prolly be laughing that sinister laugh of yours.}   In some ways,  I did ask for this.  I asked the Universe to bring it on.  So she did.  It's all but fair.  {ég sakna þín}  One thing for sure, I am not giving up easily.  I need quiet time.  I almost gave up on writing, to be honest. I wanted to write so bad that it hurt so much {jinsi gani angeweza mimi kuandika wakati mimi nipo kufikiri ya wewe?}.  I almost deleted this blog.  But I didn't.  I am glad I didn't.  There are only two things that keep me afloat right now - running and writing.  {Oh yeah, cigarettes and music too.} {geef me een teken, een reden om te hopen}.

About two weeks ago I slept in the streets. I was walking for more than 3 hours and I just realized I was tired and sleepy.  I was about to get into a jeepney to go back to my apartment when I saw this shed beside a bank with an ATM machine and four homeless people {or maybe five} were sleeping there.  I went towards the shed and saw that one of the "occupants" was awake. He gave me a look that kinda told me to piss off, but I didn't.  I politely asked him if I could borrow one of his carton boxes which he used for sleeping.  He said he didn't have any spare but he could share his carton box.  I was happy to oblige.  So I slept for 4 hours.  When I woke up, some of the homeless people were already gone. My bed partner was still there, sleeping soundly.  I felt grimy and hungry all of a sudden.  I wanted to eat or drink something but I didn't. Somehow, I felt guilty for sleeping in that shed and invading their space.  I could have easily gotten into a cab or a jeepney and went back to my apartment to shower, eat and then sleep, but I didn't. I felt that I made this whole experience trivial. I asked myself if I got a kick out of this. The Tyler Durden in me answered, "Not really, you were just tired but it would be overstretching it if you wanted to get something metaphysical out of this experience, so go home to your box apartment buddy boy."   I carefully stood up, afraid to wake my 'bed partner' and gathered myself and walked home.  Why did I write this?  I honestly don't know.  A filler anecdote, perhaps.  But I do know this {et vull encara}, that man was kind enough to share his "bed" with me. 

Life is a tricky thing to ponder.  I wish {oh how I wish} I don't have to ponder it so much. It would be easier if I just went along with the fucking flow, I mean it's not bad too.  I tried.  I guess I'm not built that way.

I am afraid to write

Because I know that each word I fashion with my hands takes on a life of its own. 
And once made flesh, they shall surpass me, outlive me, outshine me and outdo me.
I am afraid to write because I know that the words that I have created in my own image and in the image of the world I perceive has the possibility to destroy the very fiber of what I am and what I have become.  
I am afraid to write because the message becomes more meaningful when they are perceived by others which makes my original message become meaningless.  
I am afraid to write because the perception of the written word is not mine to control and shall never be mine because I know I own these ideas in my head but once I have commited them to words they are no longer mine to possess. 
I am afraid to write because I know that these words liberated from my head, from my mouth, from my hands, from the pores of my skin are the same words that become a Judas to their Jesus.  
Yet I write. Still.
It is my birthright and I need to claim it.  
If writing is my salvation, it is also my damnation. 
Inevitability is such a beautiful word. 

Yet another one...

It seems that I have been writing a lot of obituaries lately.  for reasons I do not know, I am writing another one tonight.  


A former colleague of mine from China died two days ago.  She took her life.  Her name was Bernadette. She once told me that she would never resort to ending her life because it was the easy way out of an existential bind. She told me that suffering has a purpose in the vicissitudes of living.  Two days ago, she took her own life.   


I never liked Bernadette.  I got along with her at best.  But after working for six years with her, I have learned to respect the woman. She had a rough life and I could actually see it in the lines of her face.  I guess that's the reason why I learned to respect her.  A person having been through a lot deserves respect.  She was a lonely and bitter person and she always made it manifest.  She wore them like a summer hat and a summer dress. 


There were two things that Bernadette and I agreed on - books and jazz. Her books were her constant companion. I would sometimes pass by her flat after my evening runs and I would see her window with her lamp dimly lit and she would be there either shuffling about or most likely reading yet another book.   On good days (there weren't that many), we would swap books and then we would either laud the author or trash him.  We both agreed that Dan Brown was a good bathroom read.  She encouraged me to read Chomsky and I ended up liking it. Jazz was the only music for her.  She was even surprised to learn that I knew Monk and Coltrane (being from the Philippines and all). She loved jazz as much as she loved her books.  The chaos of the music somehow appealed to her as it did to me.  


She took her life two days ago. How broken she was, nobody will ever know; but somehow, a part of me understands why she did it. Life may bring out the best in us but sometimes it can also leave us bereft of anything to be happy or hopeful for.  


I will try to remember her in her best moments.  The nights when I would pass by her flat coming back from my evening runs, I would see a silhouette of her by her window, curled up in her sofa, engrossed in the universe of the page she is reading.  

It would be nice if all weddings were like this one...

Thanks to Oskie for recommending this vid.
To know more about the crazy couple and their entourage click this LINK

Music Playing in My Head - YES SIR, I CAN BOOGIE (BACCARA)

I don't know why but this song has been playing in my head ever since I woke up this morning.   It's prolly their sexy accent.  I guess I needed something to keep my mind off of some things.


The first lines are to die for...


UHHHHH.
UHHHHHH HUUUUUUHHHH HUUUUHHH
UHHHHHHUHHHUHHHHH....
MHISTERR.
YHOUR EYES ARRE FULL OF HEYSITAYSHONE
SHURE MAKES ME VONDER...

Muelmar, a hero

I  did not know Muelmar Magallanes until today when I read the countless news about his heroism online.  What this 18 year old construction worker from Bagong Silang did yesterday was to save more than 30 souls which included his family and his neighbors from Bagong Silang, a place that is considered as one of the depressed areas in Quezon City.  Two of the people that Mulemar saved was Menchie Penalosa and her six-month old baby daughter. The two were the last to be saved by Muelmar Magallanes as he got carried away by the flood currents. His body was found the next day, miles away from Bagong Silang.  Eighteen is a very young age to die.  Muelmar Magallaness may have died poor and young but what he had accomplished has been far greater than any person could have accomplished at that age or at any age.   More than thirty people can attest to that.  


In a society where people and events can be easily forgotten by media hype and the government spins, it is my hope that people would not forget those like Muelmar Magallanes.  This young man has done more for the country than any politician or famous personality can do for us.  I would like the people who have read this blog entry to please remember this young man who had saved thirty lives and offered his own in the process.  He was not rich nor was he famous. But he had one thing that many people today seem to be lacking of - a good heart.  Muelmar Magallanes had a good heart.  Remember his name.  


Hero teenager saves more than 30 lives before he is swept away by Philippine floods
Daily Mail

After the Flood (Updated)

www.goes.noaa.gov

Rain and floods are not an uncommon phenomena in the Philippines. Just today it rained and God how it poured for six hours. The weather bureau said it was the longest ever recorded surpassing the one in 1967. 

Today's flood was my first in a very long time. The last flood experience that I had was back in 2002. I was just days away from leaving the country for China and I was also sick with pneumonia at that time. Our house in Caloocan was flooded waist deep and I couldn't do anything but watch my brother and my father rummage through the water trying to salvage everything they could from our house. The flood waters receded later that day and I was rushed by a friend to the hospital. That was seven years ago.

With an average of six to seven typhoons hitting the Philippines each year, floods have become an anticipated yet an unwanted guest in Filipino households all over the country come the wet seasons. Blame it on climate change, poor urban planning and sanitation or just plain bad management from the people in power, the floods grow worse each year. It amazes me how the Filipino survives these catastrophes even if the floodwaters seem to rise higher every time a typhoon comes visiting. As a Filipino, I can find fault on a lot of things about my people but never on their tenacity for self preservation. The flood, along with a multitude of problems that this nation faces, has become part of the Filipino human condition. The task that ordinary people face is definitely gargantuan yet the people face it squarely. The tragedies that they undergo are epic yet the people survive it. I've noticed this as I was wading through the floodwaters in Tandang Sora. My friend and neighbor, Oscar, invited me out for a walk and see what was happening outside. Our apartment was not flooded but the streets was already overflowing with rain mixed with river and sewage water. Part of me was excited because I haven't walked in the the rain in the Philippines for a very long time. Yet another part of me was worried about my family in Caloocan which was just a 45 minute jeepney ride away from my apartment in Quezon City. I knew that rains like these would bring floodwaters in our part of the neighborhood as we were near a polluted creek. They told me not to worry and they would keep me updated on the situation.  I try to block the thought out because there was no use for me to worry about my family. I called them and they said they were already bringing the household things to the second floor of our house. They have survived far worse floods before, they can survive this one, I keep telling myself.

I walked along the streets of Tandang Sora with my friend and what we saw was quite unfamiliar yet familiar at the same time. The street was already flooded, some even knee-deep, vehicles were trying to find their way out of the traffic and the floodwaters yet in vain, people were walking outside – people coming from schools and universities, from their work places and probably even from their very homes. Just looking at the rising water I picture submerged houses and shanties in the low lying places in Metro Manila. Homes submerged in a soup of rain, sewage and garbage. Quite a fitting poster for my country. My cynicism tells me that this could have been avoided. That if people, me included, would have had the discipline to manage what they consume and had the local and the national government possessed the right amount of management wisdom instead of traditional politicking and lip service campaigning, laid out a concrete plan of action on disaster control combined with a realistic urban planning, then this could have been a different picture altogether.

There is one good thing about the flood. It never discriminates. Outside the streets I saw jeepneys and buses alongside with fancy cars submerged in floodwater. I saw people in plain clothes walking alongside people with fancy clothes looking for a dry place to tide them through the heavy rain. Young, old, rich, poor, straight or otherwise were all walking in knee (some even chest) deep pool of watery shit.

In a way, it is very biblical. This is probably our punishment for being too human. I don't think it's nature that is our nemesis but ourselves for we have been way too proud of our humanity that we forget that even the minutest of our actions reverberates through the cosmos. Drenched with rain and floodwater in the middle of Tandang Sora, I asked myself if we deserved this – this punishment. Perhaps, but my humanity got the best of me. I knew at the back of my mind that it's not man against nature but man against himself yet I am comforted at the former and I pretend not to know the latter. Part of being human (which means it's not just a Filipino trait) means that we have the capacity to disguise thoughts that do not appeal to our emotions – we put layers upon layers of thoughts until they are covered and hopefully never to be recovered. But once the rains come pouring and the water rises, truth reveals itself plain as day. The plastic bags, the soda bottles, the shit, the vermin come all gushing out the streets like it was being played by the Pied Piper in our heads. We are too human sometimes, I reckon. Perhaps an ark is sufficient with us not in it. I imagine the world would be a far better place without humanity in the picture. Call me an anarchist but it's probably true. But then again, my spirit of self-preservation kicks in. And like the rest of the humanity that is drenched in this rain, I battle the flood and walk against the rising tides trying to find something, someplace warm and dry.

Hours passed and the waters receded all over Metro Manila. Tandang Sora's electricity was restored just a few hours ago, the reason I am writing this in Consuelo (my laptop). Our house in Caloocan was obviously flooded almost reaching the second floor. I was rather disappointed that they failed to bring my grandmother's antique narra table upstairs because it was one of the only heirlooms she bequeathed to my mother before she died. It was heavy after all and I couldn't expect them to bring it up. Somehow I know that the narra table will survive this flood like it has survived the previous ones. And like our narra table, the Filipinos will survive this flood. I watched and listened intently to the news on television for a few minutes, a first ever since I arrived here two months ago. Even Cory Aquino's death and funeral didn't make me watch the news as intently as I was watching the news for a few, brief minutes. Perhaps it's because this flood was personal and it hit closer to home. The networks didn't have to hype the news today. Drama was everywhere. A lot of homes were havocked by the typhoon and the flood - from shanties made of a mosaic of plywood and carton boxes to houses built of stone and expensive wood.  Many families were even stuck in the rooftops waiting for rescue. I am thankful for two things – one was that my family didn't have to go to the rooftops and the other was that there were a few casualties, 46 in the last count. Still, the look on the face of woman going home from work and realizing that the home that she help build with her family is now submerged in floodwater with her mother carrying her two-year old son and holding her five year old daughter waiting to be rescued is still not a cause for relief. The sad fact is that my country has been experiencing Katrina for decades and people both in the government and the private sector are not doing enough to prevent a solvable problem.

The Filipino rises from the tides. We are no stranger to typhoons and earthquakes and landslides. The country has survived centuries of colonization and has survived wars and countless of political upheavals. We have survived far worse and we can survive this one. After all, it's just but another flood... another Katrina and Milenyo among countless others. The question is, until when can we keep rebuilding our homes and our lives after every natural disaster or political upheaval comes in our midsts? Can our spirit of self-preservation still keep us afloat if the next flood comes? I do not know the answer but one thing is for sure, after the floodwaters recede, that mother of two who just got back from work along with the thousands of mothers affected by this flood, will collect the remains of what was once her home and she will put dinner on the table and her children will eat. My mother along with my nieces are probably doing the same thing right now – rebuilding a home trying to collect the things that held memories left by this flood. Hopefully, they will eat dinner at my lola's narra table.

This flood was my baptism. When I left the country seven years ago I realize that I have shed a lot of skin that was Filipino and that was of my former self. I have decided to come back for many reasons – some I know and many that I do not have any knowledge of. This was probably one of those mysteries. I do not know if I came back to shed the skin that was China or to reinvent myself yet again for the n^th time. I do know this – that I am here, experiencing this flood and what came after it and I am taking it all in. I came back two months ago and felt very alien to what I once called my home. But now after the flood, somehow, I feel quite familiar.

*************
for those who are interested in helping the victims of typhoon 'Ondoy', please follow tthe links provided below.  

Filipino Bloggers Vigilant with Typhoon Ondoy Floods

Where to send donations for victims of Typhoon Ondoy

or you can donate directly through the following


TXTpower.org (via PayPal)
Philippine National Red Cross