January 9, 2010 - some thoughts

The POTUS, Edward and Bella

Many people think that Obama is the next best thing ever since sliced bread. Perhaps he is.  I mean, if I get to hear my mother say "African-American" instead of saying negro when pertaining to people of color who happened to have African origins or basically to anybody who had dark skin, then Obama must be the next best thing since sliced bread. This happened when I came back to the Philippines January of last year. I arrived in Manila the day Obama got sworn in as the 44^th POTUS and the first ever person of color to be elected to the highest seat of office in any Western nation. The whole nation was tuned in to their television sets and their radios. I wasn't expecting this kind of reception towards Obama's victory. When I arrived home, my whole family was watching TV. Scratch that, the whole neighborhood was watching TV, switching between two channels to see which one had the better view. This was big, I surmised. It was like another man walked on the surface of the moon or something. Then I realized that this was definitely big when I heard my mother use the word “African-American” in a sentence. When I asked her about the sudden paradigm shift on vocabulary, she said:

"Anak hindi politically correct ang magsabi ng negro patungkol sa mga Amerikanong itim." (Son, it's not PC to say negro when pertaining to African Americans).

I almost keeled over when my mother answered that with a straight face, sash and crown and all. All she needed was to walk on stage and wave to her adoring fans.  You see, Filipinos, like any other race in this world are naturally racist. A sad fact about Filipino society is that we tend to lean more on the fairer and whiter side of the color spectrum.  As much as I hate to admit this, we have a color preference. Put it simply it all boils down to this - If your skin is white, you're beautiful, you're hot.  If your skin is dark, you're not. If you are kayumanggi (the natural color of many Filipinos), then you are common and your skin tone has to at least border on the fairer side.  If you're sorta dark or just dark but used to be white (that's the operative word there) then you have an amazing tan.  Filipinos take skin tone very seriously. So seriously that it has spawned a multi-million dollar enterprise  here in the Philippines that's being pushed aggressively by the cosmetic, pharmaceutical and advertising industries. Turn on the TV and you can't even see a naturally colored Filipino model in most of the ads.  The majority of the actors working in the film industry have fair to white to really really freaky white skin.  TV ads, movies, billboards along major roads, you name it - they are all fair, white or sorta tanned. It's like the Filipino has a big sign on his/her forehead that says, I AM WHITE. Or I need to be white.

It would be really easy to blame all of this to four hundred years of brainwashing from our foreign colonizers. The fucking Western Imperialists.  It may well be true that most of our color insecurities stem from the fact that we were colonized by two Western powers and one Asian power in our history; but it would also be way too easy if we put everything into that categorization. I think it is an important factor but its not the only one.  I don't know all the answers and I don't know all the reasons but what I do know is this - our nation is obsessed with achieving that "perfect, white glow," like that vampire guy Edward Cullen and his chick Bella. Almost everybody wants to be Edward and Bella these days. I'd prefer Jacob but he's way too young and bulky for my taste. The truth is that no matter how many soaps or creams we use, we can never be white. We can never be that vampire guy who doesn't seem to need a shower or that stalker girl perving over that unwashed vampire guy. Yet we still search for that coveted whiteness like an El Dorado.

At the risk of sounding too preachy, I would like to believe that I am writing this piece with an inspired tone of voice. Perhaps there is some sort of force out there that is telling me to be a better man and go help change the fucking world with my words and shit. Perhaps I am just intellectually masturbating. I don't know, but I think I need to write this out.

My Quiapo 

 

Two days ago, I was in Quiapo, Manila for the feast of the Black Nazarene. It was my first time to attend the yearly festivities that gathers a crowd of millions to revere and celebrate a life-sized statue of a dark skinned Jesus Christ, carrying a cross in a semi-kneeling position and clad in crimson robes. It is one of the most celebrated Catholic feasts in Manila and perhaps in the whole Philippines. The story behind the Black Nazarene, its beginnings and the miracles associated with it, is quite mythic. The statue was made by an unknown Mexican artist using a dark brown colored wood and it was brought to Manila in 1606 from Mexico on board a Spanish galleon. The ship caught fire during the voyage, which damaged the image and caused its dark color to turn black. Because of this, the image came to be known as the Black Nazarene. Through the centuries, the image of the Black Jesus Christ of Manila has become embedded in hearts of the Filipino people, perhaps partly due to its color, but moreso on the stories of miracles and of conversions and of lost men and women returning to the Catholic faith.  A little over 400 years old, the Black Nazarene has been an iconic symbol of Quiapo, it's third home. “It was initially enshrined in the first Recollect church in Bagumbayan (now part of Rizal Park). On September 10, 1606, the church was inaugurated and placed under the patronage of St. John the Baptist. In 1608, the Nazarene image was transferred to the second bigger Recollect church of San Nicolas de Tolentino built inside the fortress of Intramuros, the part of old Manila where the Spanish colonizers used to live and govern the whole country. But Fate would have it that the Black Nazarene would be moved to it's third and final home, Quiapo, a district outside Intramuros where most of the non-Spanish – the Indios, the Chinese, the Muslim, gather and exist together in not so perfect but somewhat pristine ecology of race, belief, color, economy, status and condition. If you think about it, not much has changed really. I think in some ways it has something to do with the Quiapo Church (which is less popularly called as the Basilica of St. John the Baptist, it's patron saint). More importantly, it has something to do with the Black Nazarene which has managed to survive countless troublesome times in Quiapo's and the nation's history.

I have to confess that I love Quiapo and it's surrounding districts – Sta. Cruz, Escolta, Chinatown, Divisoria, Avenida and Recto. There is something about the place that has me connected to it. It used to be the Manhattan of Manila, where all the glamorous and the famous gather and congregate. I knew the stories from my mother but I never came to know about Quiapo and her sisters in their glory days. What I know about Quiapo is that it is the working class and the mercantile section of old Manila, where all people gather to trade – legally or otherwise. Quiapo is a jungle and it's a beautiful jungle abundant with its own flora and fauna. She is vibrant with all her colors and sounds. She is magical with all her places of worship, her shamans and fortune tellers. She is a cornucopia of sights, sounds, smells, old buildings and faces. One is mesmerized by Quiapo, by it's uniqueness and by it's rough, rugged and unrefined urban landscape.

I fall in love with Quiapo every time I encounter her in my journeys. I once brought a Serbian friend to buy souvenirs in Quiapo and she fell in love with the place.  She could not compare it with the urban landscape of Makati with her majestic towers and sculpted lawns and carefully planned roads.  I tell her that Makati is another country, another realm of thought and dimension.  Makati is the dream, and Quiapo and is part of the bigger reality that is the Philippines. The Filipino dreams in the Technicolor and the Surround Sound of the sculpted modernity of Makati but wakes up in the Urbania of Quiapo's arms. Love it or hate it, it is what it is and I choose the former. Among many other things, she is about self preservation and survival. To many, Quiapo is known for its prostitutes, beggars, criminals, smugglers, quack doctors and drug dealers. To me, she is poetry. Quiapo alone celebrates the human condition. She is my Urbania, my Quiapo.

Following the Dark Skinned Jesus of Manila

Perhaps its because of these stark realities why the Black Nazarene has ended up choosing Quiapo as his permanent home. Quiapo is one suffering lady as the Black Nazarene is one suffering deity. The men and women of Quiapo, and to an extent, most Filipino Catholics, were able to see themselves in the image of the Black Nazarene. They were able to relate to a Jesus that was non-Caucasian and was working class, not to some white deity that was unfamiliar to their sense of reality and contingency. God may have created humanity in his own image, but the Filipinos have fashioned the Jesus of Quiapo Church in theirs. The Black Nazarene is their very own Son of Man of the working class – the Jesus of Manila. This was my realization as I joined the city's celebration of this Jesus of Manila last January 9 as he was paraded throughout old Manila for 2 million people to see up close.

I was never fond of religious images, especially statues. I was brought up Catholic, but I never liked the idea of kissing statues or touching them or even venerating them. Its not really because of the interpretation of the Bible or anything (I really wouldn't care); its just a personal thing. Perhaps its because of their faces; the look on their faces that exhibit so much angst, pain and suffering. I mean, why would you look at what already is obvious?

Out of curiosity, I decided to join some of my closest friends for the annual procession of the Black Nazarene through out the Quiapo district on January 9. And like with religious images, I was also never fond of joining religious processions. One of my friends has been going to the annual procession for 4 straight years. My nephew, whom I was also meeting that day, has been doing this since he was 9 years old. Compared to them, I was basically a tourist. I told myself that if I was going to be a voyeur about the whole thing, I wanted to have an open mind about it. So I did. There were times when I just took snapshots of people and observing their faces. There were even times when I went along with the flow, going where the procession is going or shouting “Viva!” and singing the first few lines of the Black Nazarene's anthem: “Nuestro Padre de Nazareno...” I even attended mass in Quiapo Church. I probably heard mass four or five times. The last one, we were fortunate enough to be inside Quiapo Church. It was around lunch time, and we were able to find an opening and were able to squeeze ourselves inside the Minor Basilica. I was being a voyeur to the truest sense of the word. I was observing every movement, every song they were singing and every prayer they were chanting. I was trying to capture every face that was within my range of vision. I was even surprised to see that my companions were praying fervently. Looking around, I felt out of place when I realized that I was the only one not praying. Trying not to let it bother me, I listened instead to the bishop's homily. He was talking about the Nazarene, of course, how this Jesus was a suffering king. Indeed he was. Suffering was operative word. Throughout the day, I've seen so many grotesque images of Jesus, crucified, carrying a cross, beaten and the like. You have got to hand it to the Catholic Church for successfully utilizing these images as forms and means of social control. For hundreds of years, Catholics saw and understood these images as a clear message that their God was to be feared because he was an angry and punishing God. And for Filipinos, he wasn't just angry and punishing, he was also foreign – a destroyer of other beliefs and practices. The Black Nazarene is perhaps the only exception as the Filipinos were able to form a special bond with the dark-skinned Jesus.

I saw that bond in Quiapo that Saturday of January 9^th. People, men, women, young and old came to the minor Basilica with the hope of touching his hands or his face or a tassel from his vestments or even the rope that pushes his carriage forward. I keep wondering why would people, as many as 2 million, would eagerly wait for hours and even the whole day even just to get a glimpse of their Nuestro Padre de Nazareno. It was for this reason why I came to Quiapo in the first place. I wanted to know why. The only way I could get an answer to this question was for me to follow the Black Nazarene's procession throughout the forgotten streets of Quiapo, Manila.

So follow I did. I went with my friends and followed that elusive Black Nazarene throughout the Quiapo district of Manila. The 5 kilometer procession from Luneta Park to Quiapo Church would have only taken a couple of hours or even less instead of a whole day if not for the millions that gathered for the festivities. This long, arduous and oftentimes dangerous procession is what makes the January 9 a special day to millions of Manileños and Filipino Catholics who gather in Manila's Quiapo district.

I have to admit that I was excited. It was my first time to participate in such an event. Although popular religiosity (or any forms of religiosity for that matter) had long since stopped having an appeal on me, I was still looking forward to everything that was going to happen. It was probably the tourist in me (I did see a lot of tourists that day). I shouted “Viva! Viva!” when the crowd was shouting “Viva! Viva!”. I walked forward when the crowd walked forward. I allowed my body to let go itself and just go with the flow of the crowd. It was one humongous moshpit. I've never experienced Mardi Gras, and I kept wondering that this what must Mardi Gras feels like – being engulfed by the crowd and getting lost in a sea of faces. It was a natural high, like drug of some sort. I didn't care that I was walking the dirty streets barefooted with a bleeding toe. I didn't give a rat's ass if I was coughing like a dying Bohemian with TB. And I sure didn't give a fuck that I smelled like a rat and needed one serious shower. All I cared about was being there. I was there and I was in some sort of trance. We were all in some sort of trance. It's no wonder why people come here every year – not just to get their prayers and petitions answered but to experience this, this joyful feeling of being gone from the world.

Back in the church I saw their faces – they were all clearly looking for answers. Answers for their prayers, as to why they were suffering and as to why they had to endure their own sufferings. If I had superpowers and I could access every person's mind in that church, I was sure as fuck that I would be hearing the same things. Help me. Save me. Cure me. Take this away from me. Don't take her away from me. Let him live. Let me live. Give me another chance. Help me get this job. Why him and not me? Why me? A part of me has always believed that selfishness is a virtue. We pray to higher power for our selfish reasons – some good, some not so good. I did pray in the church. I prayed for my own selfish reasons. I prayed like any person would pray. I prayed for all the people I loved. I prayed for my non-existent career. I prayed for peace (yes I did). I prayed for AIDS, for cancer, for hunger and death. I prayed because I was selfish. And that humbling act of selfishness through prayer made me feel proud of myself.

I lost my cellphone in the process, and so did one of my companions. Somewhere in the middle of crowd in Plaza Lacson while we were in that trance shouting “Viva! Viva!”, some unsuspecting guy in the crowd in Plaza Lacson needed more money and took our cellphones (inexpensive ones, just barely a hundred dollars' worth). This took me and my friend back to reality. We were no longer shouting “Viva! Viva!”. We were thinking about the names and the number in our cellphones. It was a good thing that I filed most of mine in some file online. In the end, in all my reflection and pseudo-intellectual ramblings, I was still a voyeur, just passing through. Fucking tourist. In a way, I was glad that I was one.

In search of a Jesus Figure 

 

Interpreters in all spectrum of the Judaeo-Christian Tradition, in one way or another speaks of a personal Jesus that lives and breathes and becomes significant in a person's own history once that person accepts Jesus as his/her personal Lord and Savior. Interpretations vary, but the message of having that personal relationship with God is the common underlying thread.

I think this is what drives people to go to Quiapo every Friday and every January 9 to encounter the dark skinned Jesus of Nazarene. The Black Nazarene is personal to many Filipinos. It may be a 400 year old piece of burnt dark wood but it is personally significant to many Filipino Catholics. Aside from the personal prayers of each person (including mine) who came to Quiapo, Filipinos are asking for something else, or rather someone else. I think there hasn't been any demigod figure in my nation's history after 1892; and the people are hungry for some sort of messiah or savior. The Black Nazarene is not an Obama who speaks of an audacious way of hoping for a better future. Nor is he a Gandhi who helped a nation realize that freedom is possible without carrying arms. He symbolizes an idea of suffering, of being contingent and limited through one's personal cross and trying to rise above and celebrate the humanity and irony of these contingencies. The image of the Black Nazarene isn't an image of a Jesus fallen, it is an image of a Jesus with his head up trying to rise with his cross. He still suffers painfully mind you, but he is focused, he is not without hope, he is resilient and strong. In my opinion, this is the something or that someone that Filipinos are looking for – some sort of demigod figure or Jesus figure that doesn't have to be like him, but needs to have the basic qualities of a Jesus figure – he suffers, he saves and he suffers more.

One obvious reason why Filipinos have this fervent devotion to the Black Nazarene is because by far, he is the only one who has been consistent from the very beginning. He suffers like his people suffers. He may be clad in royal crimson robes, but he always carries his cross like his people always carry their sufferings. Unlike the nation's past leaders (no exception), he doesn't change policies out of whim. He's not a landlord. He's poor. He is not comfortable. He doesn't complain. He is, like his people, suffering from a daily basis. Albeit wood, but he is consistent. The Filipino people look for consistency in their leaders – their word becomes their bond and if they break their word, they break the bond that ties them to their people. For non-Filipinos and for many non-Catholics, the Black Nazarene may be just a piece of 400-year old wood, but the 2 million people who went to Quiapo last Saturday, he is much, much more. He is the suffering working class. He is the disenfranchised farmer and worker. He is the single mother. He is the industrious father. He is the OFW. He is the jeepney driver. He is the gay beautician. He is the AIDS patient and the cancer patient. He is the unemployed graduate. He is the cigarette lady across the street. He is the young boy or girl in the streets of Manila who dreams of becoming important one day and changing the world. He is an idea. He is a good idea.

My Jesus of Urbania

It may sound that I do not believe in Jesus Christ. In fact I do. As fucked up as I am, I believe that Jesus moves in my own personal history. Apart from MacGyver, he was my first crush. It's ironic to think that he also used to scare the shit out of me when I was a kid (that's another story). He was my debate partner when I was in college. He was my teacher. He taught me important lessons in life, lessons that I hold dear to this day. He taught me compassion. He taught me love. He taught me hope. He taught me poetry. He taught me about my body. He taught me how my actions ripple in the pond of my own microcosm. He taught me that I was a priest, a prophet and a king. He taught me not to give a fuck to what other people would say. He taught me the benefits of consistency. He taught me that I am his reflection, a flawed reflection not striving for perfection but striving to be better, to rise with my contingencies and celebrate them and perhaps one day share them. And most importantly, he taught me that I alone could save myself and no one else. 

He is my Jesus. And he is real. 

 

On eating my neighbor's food, being a masseur and being almost employed... among other things

I am employed.

Yay.  Well, almost.  I still need to pass that medical exam where they check for drugs and stuff. I can't tell you everything because i wouldn't wanta jinx it and telling you guys everything about my life would be creepyesque. I haveta be honest with you, I really need a job and there's no fakin it.  I've been wearin the same clothes the whole time.  By that, I mean, wifebeaters, boardshorts and flipflops. See, I don't have to dress up and stuff so I just wear the same clothes. At first, it was like  'maaaaaaaaaan isn't this kewl? I'm wearing the same clothes day in day out." Come to think of it, it's pretty kewl that I don't have to dress up and shit.  I just slip in to those wifebeaters and then them boardshorts and them flip flops and I'm good to go.  It's not bad and it's not that I only have ONE  wifebeater!? {I have 4 wifebeaters so I  interchange them} I do change underwear from time to time  and of course take showers and brush my teeth everyday.  So I'm still clean {just so you know, hygiene isn't the issue here}.  It's just wifebeaters and boardshorts and flipflops are my comfy clothes and I really really reaaaaaaally love wearing them.

There is a danger though.  I've noticed that people "know" me already.  Not like I'm famous no.  It's just the cigarette lady already recognizes me and nods at my direction every time I pass by and even when I am not buying cigarettes.  It's the same case with the lugaw/congee dude and fat barbecue dude and the vegetable lady  and the donut girl and the coconut man plus the bread girl.  I don't even greet them and somehow they seem to know me all of a sudden.  I mean I don't go out of my way to greet them or anything so I guess they just recognize me because I am familiar to them.  Or is it that my day to day outfit became familiar to them?

It's a sign... I need a job.  A job that would enable me to actually have a change of clothes everyday.  As much as I like wearing wifebeaters and boardshorts and flipflops, I still need to wear other clothes.  I HAVE other clothes.  I think I need to them (starting with the cigarette lady), that I do have other clothes. 

So yeah, i need a job.   It's not just the clothes man.  It's also other things.  Like I've been living off of my upstairs neighbor's kitchen supplies.  She likes cooking and I like eating.  Well, me and Oscar {my other neighbor} like free food.  She likes to share, we like to eat.   I know, I know its like sponging off of her resources and shit, but I am the indigent here.  Well, it's not like I'm the only one benefiting from this.  She gets something outta this because I give her a body massage from time to time in exchange for an occasional lunch and dinner. 

Erm yeah. I have a confession to make. See here, I'm real good with my hands.  Like my hands have the magic touch yo.  Men, women, boys and girls, fathers and mothers {ohh the mothers} have been pleasured and relaxed by the magic of my touch.   Mind outta the gutter please.  I'm good at giving back rubs and a mean massage.  I even think that this is my inner calling.  It started out as a simple backrub lesson by my former housemate {who's a real masseuse}, then I got really interested when I gave her one.  She liked it.  It was draining but it was very fulfilling because I actually felt that she enjoyed it.  That's how I started giving massages to my friends, my friends' parents, my friends' parents' friends, well you get the picture. 

It would be good if I could make a career out of this, but I can't.  It's wishful thinking but I don't think I can make good money out of this unless I go 5-dollah-suckey-suckey-long-time-me-best-mouth-in-five-villages...  And besides, my other half wouldn't agree.  

I really need a job.  And as much as I love wearing worn out wifebeaters, camouflage board shorts and flip flops all day, I can't exactly go on existing wearing the same thing over and over and over again.  It would be too weird for me, like I came out of an X Files episode where there is this time loop that subsists all through eternity and I am forever destined to wear them wifebeaters and boardshorts and flipflops and I am the only dude who knows that I exist in a universe where  I need to at least have an excuse to wear something else.   Papa God please, let me get this job.  It doesn't pay much but it's a day job and I honestly and truthfully want a day job, Papa God.  Pleaaaaase, lemme get this job {*makes the sign of the cross backwards, then spits over left shoulder, then spits over right shoulder, then looks up the ceiling then says YER THE MAN!}

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...