"I need to be heard.
I need to be heard because I have something to say."
Don't we all have something to say?
Some of us, though, feel that what we're saying is worth more. Worth being heard, or read, or seen.
We want to fight, to save people, to do what's "right".
We want to do that one great thing, make that brilliant contribution to humanity, feed others, feed ourselves.
We want to live forever.
And if we don't (because we can't), we want to leave something behind, for others to see, hear, read.
And the people of tomorrow will say, he did good. He did some good in this world.
We want to be heroes.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Thursday, March 17, 2005
KULE
Yahoo! I finally have the computer all to myself, for at least an hour while my brother's gone.
Had coffee with LJ and Tincup yesterday. As always when I'm with Kule people, it was a blast. I'm so looking forward to this weekend when we get together in Bulacan. All hell will break loose, and I'm sure people will be laughing/arguing/crying/puking by the next morning.
Speaking of Kule, I just got a call from Bullet about P Kule, the new term, new EIC, etc. This is the third time someone has brought the topic up, the second that an invitation has been extended. I didn't know what to say to him. I really don't know what to do.
My time in Kule--any Kule--is over, I believe. Or is it?
Question: Do I want to help them? Yes I do. Is this the right way? I'm not sure.
LJ told me, "okay na yung legacy na iniwan mo...o gusto mo ba gumawa pa ulit?" He's right. So why am I even contemplating the idea?
Magulo sa Kule. Magulo ang Kule. Nakakapagod. Nakaka-drain. Given that, the iota of thought I'm putting into this can only be borne of one of two reasons: a) my undying Messiah complex or b) my ego. Two very wrong reasons to do a very right thing.
True, the prospect does give me a tiny fluttering feeling in the tummy. But I know more now. I'm wiser. I know that the incoming term is probably a fluke (but one that is very much welcome in my book). It is a crease in a long, straight line of Kule terms, much like Che's and LJ's, only that neither of them was a member of a frat or soro (we had the time of our lives being just Kule and nothing more, or less).
I know more than to immediately jump at the idea of trying to "bring about change". It is a difficult, uphill climb, one that I have already made during my time and am a bit reluctant to do again, no matter how enticing the challenge may seem.
I also know that fraternities are fraternities and brothers are brothers.
At any rate, I wish P Kule the very best of luck. As I've told Bullet, it's been needing a shake-up. I still believe that activism should not be exclusive. As Joy so succintly and aptly said one staff meet many years ago, hindi kinakahon ang aktibismo.
I remember the filename I used for those long, impassioned letters that I wrote during that turbulent time in Manila Kule: Redemption. For P Kule, it's a new term, a new chance, a new time, a new stab at redemption. I guess it's true, what the song said. Pana-panahon.
Had coffee with LJ and Tincup yesterday. As always when I'm with Kule people, it was a blast. I'm so looking forward to this weekend when we get together in Bulacan. All hell will break loose, and I'm sure people will be laughing/arguing/crying/puking by the next morning.
Speaking of Kule, I just got a call from Bullet about P Kule, the new term, new EIC, etc. This is the third time someone has brought the topic up, the second that an invitation has been extended. I didn't know what to say to him. I really don't know what to do.
My time in Kule--any Kule--is over, I believe. Or is it?
Question: Do I want to help them? Yes I do. Is this the right way? I'm not sure.
LJ told me, "okay na yung legacy na iniwan mo...o gusto mo ba gumawa pa ulit?" He's right. So why am I even contemplating the idea?
Magulo sa Kule. Magulo ang Kule. Nakakapagod. Nakaka-drain. Given that, the iota of thought I'm putting into this can only be borne of one of two reasons: a) my undying Messiah complex or b) my ego. Two very wrong reasons to do a very right thing.
True, the prospect does give me a tiny fluttering feeling in the tummy. But I know more now. I'm wiser. I know that the incoming term is probably a fluke (but one that is very much welcome in my book). It is a crease in a long, straight line of Kule terms, much like Che's and LJ's, only that neither of them was a member of a frat or soro (we had the time of our lives being just Kule and nothing more, or less).
I know more than to immediately jump at the idea of trying to "bring about change". It is a difficult, uphill climb, one that I have already made during my time and am a bit reluctant to do again, no matter how enticing the challenge may seem.
I also know that fraternities are fraternities and brothers are brothers.
At any rate, I wish P Kule the very best of luck. As I've told Bullet, it's been needing a shake-up. I still believe that activism should not be exclusive. As Joy so succintly and aptly said one staff meet many years ago, hindi kinakahon ang aktibismo.
I remember the filename I used for those long, impassioned letters that I wrote during that turbulent time in Manila Kule: Redemption. For P Kule, it's a new term, a new chance, a new time, a new stab at redemption. I guess it's true, what the song said. Pana-panahon.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
SEARCHING
Shine
Collective Soul
Give me a word
Give me a sign
Show me where to look
Tell what will I find?
Lay me on the ground
Fly me in the sky
Show me where to look
Tell me what will I find?
Oh, heaven let your light shine down
Love is in the water
Love is in the air
Show me where to go
Tell me will love be there?
Teach me how to speak
Teach me how to share
Teach me where to go
Tell me will love be there?
Oh, heaven let your light shine down
I’m going to let it shine
Heaven's little light gonna shine on me
Yea yea heavens little light gonna shine on me
It's gonna shine, shine on me
It's gonna shine, come on in shine
Collective Soul
Give me a word
Give me a sign
Show me where to look
Tell what will I find?
Lay me on the ground
Fly me in the sky
Show me where to look
Tell me what will I find?
Oh, heaven let your light shine down
Love is in the water
Love is in the air
Show me where to go
Tell me will love be there?
Teach me how to speak
Teach me how to share
Teach me where to go
Tell me will love be there?
Oh, heaven let your light shine down
I’m going to let it shine
Heaven's little light gonna shine on me
Yea yea heavens little light gonna shine on me
It's gonna shine, shine on me
It's gonna shine, come on in shine
AAAARRRRGGGHHH
Len's right; feeling ko nabobobo na ako. I don't get regression analysis, okay? I never have. But I have to do it for this friggin project development class. If only I were friends with my ex, I'd make him do it for me, nyahaha. Auuggghhh.
At this point, I am a mish-mash of wrought nerves and burnt brain cells (do they burn? Don't think so. Ah, to hell.). And I'm supposed to be doing a million things this very second but what am I doing? Blogging. This is rebellion.
The sem is about to end and I can't even muster the strength to say "whew!" (hey, I just did). I am exhausted, doubly, because of my nature as a worrier. I know, I know, everything shall come to pass. But they haven't, you see, they're still here, waiting for me to let them pass.
What to do, what to do? I'm excited about next sem, freaking out about this sem, sad that I won't see him after this week (now that is a failure in planning, and Shiva will laugh and kill me at the same time for being such a wimp), happy knowing I'll get to see my friends this Saturday, frustrated that I slaved over my acads much more than I would have wanted and am supposed to, and yet fulfilled knowing I have learned a lot from slaving over my acads. Arrrgggh.
I just want to flop down and not move. Yes, flop down, if there is a term. I'm sure I'd make a flopping type of sound. Or a splat or splunk or something. I'm going crazy.
At this point, I am a mish-mash of wrought nerves and burnt brain cells (do they burn? Don't think so. Ah, to hell.). And I'm supposed to be doing a million things this very second but what am I doing? Blogging. This is rebellion.
The sem is about to end and I can't even muster the strength to say "whew!" (hey, I just did). I am exhausted, doubly, because of my nature as a worrier. I know, I know, everything shall come to pass. But they haven't, you see, they're still here, waiting for me to let them pass.
What to do, what to do? I'm excited about next sem, freaking out about this sem, sad that I won't see him after this week (now that is a failure in planning, and Shiva will laugh and kill me at the same time for being such a wimp), happy knowing I'll get to see my friends this Saturday, frustrated that I slaved over my acads much more than I would have wanted and am supposed to, and yet fulfilled knowing I have learned a lot from slaving over my acads. Arrrgggh.
I just want to flop down and not move. Yes, flop down, if there is a term. I'm sure I'd make a flopping type of sound. Or a splat or splunk or something. I'm going crazy.
Friday, March 04, 2005
I KNEW IT
Forever confused talaga utak ko.
You Are 45% Left Brained, 55% Right Brained |
The left side of your brain controls verbal ability, attention to detail, and reasoning. Left brained people are good at communication and persuading others. If you're left brained, you are likely good at math and logic. Your left brain prefers dogs, reading, and quiet. The right side of your brain is all about creativity and flexibility. Daring and intuitive, right brained people see the world in their unique way. If you're right brained, you likely have a talent for creative writing and art. Your right brain prefers day dreaming, philosophy, and sports. |
Sunday, February 27, 2005
PISS AROUND YOUR CAVE, WOULD YA?
What does it take to follow a simple rule?
This evening, my mother's brother and uncle were on their way to our house for a visit. They were stopped at the gate of the subdivision. This was only natural, since the association has a rule that non-residents, who have to car stickers, would not be allowed entry into the village without surrendering their ID, and the guard would have to know where they are going. In some cases, the guard calls the resident's house for confirmation.
Some (okay, most) of my relatives have huge egos, which get even more inflated with alcohol. Unfortunately, they had just come from a party. So in less then a minute my uncle--and his uncle--were making a scene at the village gate, cursing the hapless guard, causing traffic and compelling the president of the homeowners' association to step out of his house.
To top it off, my mom's uncle told the guard in a threatening manner, "Waray-waray ako. 'Pag gumalaw ka, gagalaw din ako." Had this been a line a satirical film, it would have been tongue-in-cheek funny, but alas, this was real life.
Huffing and puffing my semi-drunk relatives arrived at the house. What makes it all worse is that my mom is actually an officer of the homeowners' association, and was active in the implementation of the no-sticker, no-entry policy.
Why can't people just follow rules? Why can't they just let the guard do his fucking inane job, and get on with life? Do they need to get their egos stroked every now and then by guards whose main job is to just look at windshields for the goddam stickers?? What do the guards care if one is the wife of the brother of the resident? For chrissakes, it was the right thing to do. Why are we still living in the dark ages?!
Aaah, men are still animals, after all. Animals with territories to define, defend and protect. Their caves and forest clearings and little holes in the tree trunk.
Animal psychologists have found that animals have what they call a critical distance. It's that area where animal has suddenly crossed the boundary over to an another animal's territory or "personal space". At that point neither is sure whether to stay still, attack or leave.
Same goes for humans. Not just egos, but everything, including love. You know what we usually say in critical moments when we don't know what to do? Fight or flight. They got that from studying birds, which take immediate flight upon sensing an attack. Flight is what most members of the animal kingdom do (except maybe my tito).
Flight. To quote an anthropologist, "it's the basic mechanism for survival." Hmm. Makes sense.
Hay. Millennia after our departure from monkeyland, and we're still like the rest of 'em.
This evening, my mother's brother and uncle were on their way to our house for a visit. They were stopped at the gate of the subdivision. This was only natural, since the association has a rule that non-residents, who have to car stickers, would not be allowed entry into the village without surrendering their ID, and the guard would have to know where they are going. In some cases, the guard calls the resident's house for confirmation.
Some (okay, most) of my relatives have huge egos, which get even more inflated with alcohol. Unfortunately, they had just come from a party. So in less then a minute my uncle--and his uncle--were making a scene at the village gate, cursing the hapless guard, causing traffic and compelling the president of the homeowners' association to step out of his house.
To top it off, my mom's uncle told the guard in a threatening manner, "Waray-waray ako. 'Pag gumalaw ka, gagalaw din ako." Had this been a line a satirical film, it would have been tongue-in-cheek funny, but alas, this was real life.
Huffing and puffing my semi-drunk relatives arrived at the house. What makes it all worse is that my mom is actually an officer of the homeowners' association, and was active in the implementation of the no-sticker, no-entry policy.
Why can't people just follow rules? Why can't they just let the guard do his fucking inane job, and get on with life? Do they need to get their egos stroked every now and then by guards whose main job is to just look at windshields for the goddam stickers?? What do the guards care if one is the wife of the brother of the resident? For chrissakes, it was the right thing to do. Why are we still living in the dark ages?!
Aaah, men are still animals, after all. Animals with territories to define, defend and protect. Their caves and forest clearings and little holes in the tree trunk.
Animal psychologists have found that animals have what they call a critical distance. It's that area where animal has suddenly crossed the boundary over to an another animal's territory or "personal space". At that point neither is sure whether to stay still, attack or leave.
Same goes for humans. Not just egos, but everything, including love. You know what we usually say in critical moments when we don't know what to do? Fight or flight. They got that from studying birds, which take immediate flight upon sensing an attack. Flight is what most members of the animal kingdom do (except maybe my tito).
Flight. To quote an anthropologist, "it's the basic mechanism for survival." Hmm. Makes sense.
Hay. Millennia after our departure from monkeyland, and we're still like the rest of 'em.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
ABC 123
It's a pity Filipinos are not a thinking people. I hope nobody gets mad at me for saying so. I don't mean to malign my fellowmen. But I've noticed it, especially when I read, hear, watch about other peoples. We're not like the Germans who constantly,incessantly think and build, or the French who constantly create, or Japanese who constantly question.
It's not entirely economic. No, because the workers in Britain and the poorest of the poor in Prague are able to create masterpieces and generate works of genius.
It's language. Filipinos are linguistically unsophisticated.
Language is a very powerful tool. It is essential not only in the expression of thought, but in the very formation of thought. We fail terribly in this department.
I was in the MRT early this morning, and all around me were Pinoys - office workers, businesspeople, students. I wondered, what are they thinking? Are they processing anything at all? Can they? Can we? Can they ascribe proper words to the sensations that make up their experiences? Are they able to translate the jumble of brain activity into something "concrete", like words? Are they able to string these words into something comprehensible and cohesive? Or do these words just swirl like soup in their heads? Are they thinking as they sit there, or do they just...sit there?
Maybe my undergrad professor was right, that we live in--that we are--a somnambulistic society. Zombies. No, not really numb because we don't understand numbness; we have never been the opposite of numb. We're sleepwalkers, trudging aimlessly like sheep.
For a people with "high literacy rates", I think we're pretty stupid. Again, I hope no one gets mad. The problem is that we cannot seem to grasp language, English OR Filipino, much less use use it to our advantage or realize its role in our personal, cognitive development. We are unable to develop our use of both languages. One (English) is hopelessly corrupted, the other (Filipino) has been shelved in the past and ignored. What remains is dull residue, floating somewhere in between, neither here nor there. It has been excruciating listening to some of my classmates (most of them professionals) as they struggle to find the right words just to answer a really simple question. Sorry if I sound elitist, I don't mean to be. But language is very basic, and the fact people in their 30s and 40s with stable jobs and important positions cannot crystallize their thoughts is hard to fathom. Hey. I'm not perfect, either. I'm just as guilty. I've been realizing that I, too, have a considerable degree of inadequacy, language-wise. The same goes for math, which is also a language, as well as its applications in logic, physics and other sciences.
Could my former boss be right, too? That we are churning out a generation of mediocre citizens? People who no longer question, who have no ability to define and describe themselves and their environment, people who are stuck inside their own daily cycles with nary a thought as to why they are where they are.
We whine that we are poor and lacking in opportunities. Maybe so. But getting a job is not the answer. It is not even the beginning.
For how can we begin to move towards development whenmost of us cannot even begin to define development? How can anyone assess and plan for the future of cities when he cannot even describe his city?
There has to be a way out of this. There is an urgent need for some form of intellectual ferment in this country. Otherwise, there is no other way for us but to spiral down to decay and self-destruction.
It's not entirely economic. No, because the workers in Britain and the poorest of the poor in Prague are able to create masterpieces and generate works of genius.
It's language. Filipinos are linguistically unsophisticated.
Language is a very powerful tool. It is essential not only in the expression of thought, but in the very formation of thought. We fail terribly in this department.
I was in the MRT early this morning, and all around me were Pinoys - office workers, businesspeople, students. I wondered, what are they thinking? Are they processing anything at all? Can they? Can we? Can they ascribe proper words to the sensations that make up their experiences? Are they able to translate the jumble of brain activity into something "concrete", like words? Are they able to string these words into something comprehensible and cohesive? Or do these words just swirl like soup in their heads? Are they thinking as they sit there, or do they just...sit there?
Maybe my undergrad professor was right, that we live in--that we are--a somnambulistic society. Zombies. No, not really numb because we don't understand numbness; we have never been the opposite of numb. We're sleepwalkers, trudging aimlessly like sheep.
For a people with "high literacy rates", I think we're pretty stupid. Again, I hope no one gets mad. The problem is that we cannot seem to grasp language, English OR Filipino, much less use use it to our advantage or realize its role in our personal, cognitive development. We are unable to develop our use of both languages. One (English) is hopelessly corrupted, the other (Filipino) has been shelved in the past and ignored. What remains is dull residue, floating somewhere in between, neither here nor there. It has been excruciating listening to some of my classmates (most of them professionals) as they struggle to find the right words just to answer a really simple question. Sorry if I sound elitist, I don't mean to be. But language is very basic, and the fact people in their 30s and 40s with stable jobs and important positions cannot crystallize their thoughts is hard to fathom. Hey. I'm not perfect, either. I'm just as guilty. I've been realizing that I, too, have a considerable degree of inadequacy, language-wise. The same goes for math, which is also a language, as well as its applications in logic, physics and other sciences.
Could my former boss be right, too? That we are churning out a generation of mediocre citizens? People who no longer question, who have no ability to define and describe themselves and their environment, people who are stuck inside their own daily cycles with nary a thought as to why they are where they are.
We whine that we are poor and lacking in opportunities. Maybe so. But getting a job is not the answer. It is not even the beginning.
For how can we begin to move towards development whenmost of us cannot even begin to define development? How can anyone assess and plan for the future of cities when he cannot even describe his city?
There has to be a way out of this. There is an urgent need for some form of intellectual ferment in this country. Otherwise, there is no other way for us but to spiral down to decay and self-destruction.
Friday, February 11, 2005
When I still had my p800 I used to jot down stuff, most of them pointless, hehe. I managed to retrieve some when I changed phones, but now I have nowhere else to put them. This is their orphanage for now, I guess.
***
come on, coax me.
attract me, entice me, convince me that it's going to be alright. tell me that the sun will shine, for both of us.fool me.
l will laugh at your bravery. i will be amused by your noble attempt.
go on. i will believe.
***
i knew what i had to do, since the very beginning. my heart has spoken to me.
but it has spoken many things, just as i know and feel many things. my heart is divided, its oneness challenged by a myriad desires--all true, all noble in honesty, all needing to be fulfilled for the sake of the lone self.
why must the road to peace be so troubled?
ah, but life is perfect. this i know, and all my hearts agree.
and so i dance merrily and sadly to the songs of joy and pain and confusion, knowing well that my spirit will transcend.
***
Movie night
my mind drifts
to you again
and again
within these hours of forgetting
in the dark you persist
in despair i take blame
angered by your trespass
silenced by my shame.
over now
the end begins
all is lostbut chaos
clandestine freedom
and you
only you
in the light i return
outside i breathe you in
and let you fill my head
no use pretendingfrom one dreamworld
to the next
i go
and everywhere
you are there
no happy endings
just you
only you
***
come on, coax me.
attract me, entice me, convince me that it's going to be alright. tell me that the sun will shine, for both of us.fool me.
l will laugh at your bravery. i will be amused by your noble attempt.
go on. i will believe.
***
i knew what i had to do, since the very beginning. my heart has spoken to me.
but it has spoken many things, just as i know and feel many things. my heart is divided, its oneness challenged by a myriad desires--all true, all noble in honesty, all needing to be fulfilled for the sake of the lone self.
why must the road to peace be so troubled?
ah, but life is perfect. this i know, and all my hearts agree.
and so i dance merrily and sadly to the songs of joy and pain and confusion, knowing well that my spirit will transcend.
***
Movie night
my mind drifts
to you again
and again
within these hours of forgetting
in the dark you persist
in despair i take blame
angered by your trespass
silenced by my shame.
over now
the end begins
all is lostbut chaos
clandestine freedom
and you
only you
in the light i return
outside i breathe you in
and let you fill my head
no use pretendingfrom one dreamworld
to the next
i go
and everywhere
you are there
no happy endings
just you
only you
Friday, February 04, 2005
LILIES
Been traipsing around cyberspace for the past two hours, visiting blogs of people I know and people I don't know and don't care about. Lazy day.
***
Sometimes I think I'm a fraud. I have this nagging feeling that I am not the person that everyone makes me out to be. And I mean EVERYONE, including my parents. I'm afraid they give me too much credit (but then again sometimes I think they give me too little. Labo mehn.)
I am an image. A vision of something, someone. A picture that floats out of the canvas, and you think, hey that's a waterlily, but when you look closer it's just thousands of little, individual strokes, and there's really no waterlily. Kind of like an impressionist painting. Funny, because I love Monet (especially his waterlily series).
People see me as this strong, positive character, and I don't blame them. Maybe I do come out that way, for one reason or another.
But they don't know the storms raging inside me. They don't know the battles I constantly wage with myself. Yes, they know my fears, because they are a reflection of their own, but no one knows where my fears are coming from.
And I am very afraid. And very weak. And no amount of reassurance or kindness or even tough love can change that at this point.
***
Sometimes I think I'm a fraud. I have this nagging feeling that I am not the person that everyone makes me out to be. And I mean EVERYONE, including my parents. I'm afraid they give me too much credit (but then again sometimes I think they give me too little. Labo mehn.)
I am an image. A vision of something, someone. A picture that floats out of the canvas, and you think, hey that's a waterlily, but when you look closer it's just thousands of little, individual strokes, and there's really no waterlily. Kind of like an impressionist painting. Funny, because I love Monet (especially his waterlily series).
People see me as this strong, positive character, and I don't blame them. Maybe I do come out that way, for one reason or another.
But they don't know the storms raging inside me. They don't know the battles I constantly wage with myself. Yes, they know my fears, because they are a reflection of their own, but no one knows where my fears are coming from.
And I am very afraid. And very weak. And no amount of reassurance or kindness or even tough love can change that at this point.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
LITTLE THINGS
I was riding the jeepney early yesterday morning, on my way to the MRT station. I was battling with my wet hair flying all over my face and, as always, worrying about another zit on my forehead. I turned my head and beside me was a man and his daughter of about five or six years old, sitting on his lap. And to their left, near the driver, was an old lady. Grayish hair, calloused hands, wrinkled face. She had a basket on her lap and a large plastic bag at her feet. They were all full of native delicacies. Tindera, I thought. She was most probably on her way to her usual spot in the palengke or on the sidewalk somewhere in Evangelista.
The old woman was looking out in front of her, her gaze locked in on an imaginary dot in space. She was too old to be carrying that big basket, but there was something about her, some strength, some determination. Or perhaps it was resignation. Whatever it was, it surely made her get up that morning--just like every morning--and take a jeepney to where she would ply her trade, which was basically just a bunch of puto seco and macaroons. I looked at her, and she was a superwoman.
I resolved to buy something from her that morning. Anything at all. I don't particularly like puto seco, but I figured I'd give it to one of those children I always see sleeping by the steps of the MRT station.
The jeep took a left turn to EDSA and I was still thinking of a good way to approach her. Dyahe e. The jeepney was full. How would I speak to her inconspicuously? I was still there, racking my brain and scolding myself for being so self-conscious, when the little child beside me tugged her father gently, and pointed to the basket.
His father looked. "Gusto mo?" he asked his daughter.
The little girl nodded and smiled.
"Alin diyan?" She pointed at something inside the basket. The old lady smiled at her and pulled a package out.
"Magkano ho?" asked the dad.
"Sampu lang," said the lola, and the man took out his wallet and paid.
"Salamat," The lady said. Turning to the child, she smiled again. "Buena mano ka," she said, her eyes crinkling. The child grinned even though I'm pretty sure she didn't know what that meant. Shortly after, the old lady alighted from the jeepney.
I wanted to cry. The child saved me. Stupid me and all of my 22 years; a five-year-old still had something to teach me. More than the shame I felt for not acting on what I had planned, I felt grateful to her for being the little child that she was. I swear she must have been the happiest kid that morning, getting goodies so early in the day. And yet, without her knowing it, she was also the bringer of joy. No one knows for sure how many more smiles she inadvertently caused that day, for the wheels are always turning and joy begets joy.
Little things.
***
I went to Quezon City Hall to meet with an architect for a class project. I was more than slightly irritated because my groupmates bailed on me, and I had to do the interview on my own. I was hurrying to the elevator when an old lady (I am a lola magnet) tapped me and said, "pahingi po ng tulong."
"Ano ho?"
"Help..."
I stood there, staring at her for about three seconds, all the lectures I had given about (not) giving alms swirling in my head.
"Help," she repeated quietly, "I am poor, I am hungry..." In English 'to ha, mind you.
I made my decision. I took out my wallet and gave her 20 pesos. "Kain po kayo ha," I told her. We smiled furtively, and I went on my way.
First flashback while I was dealing with the lady by the elevator: freshman year in college. My new college buddies and I were eating at Wendy's in Taft. Suddenly this old, ragged woman comes in, goes to our table on the second floor and asks for money. Wala raw siyang pamasahe pauwi sa probinsya, etcetera. We really didn't know how to react. I wanted to give her something but my classmate told me not to because the lady was most likely part of a syndicate. So we just sat there, eating fries and BMM, as she continued to speak. Minutes later the Wendy's guard went up and drove the lady away. When she was gone, I broke down. I just cried and cried--at the hopelessness, the injustice, the fact that was put in a compromising position where I wanted to care but I knew it was wrong, the fact that I managed to put my emotions on the line for five stupid minutes.
Second flashback (sort of): A story in Archie comics. Betty was giving coins to a beggar, and Reggie reprimanded her, saying she'd been duped because the poor man would just waste it on beer anyway. Betty told Reggie that she'd rather be duped than go on thinking she had passed on a chance to help a man in real need. Later that day Reggie got himself in some real tight spots and ended up on the streets in the rain, with no money and no car. He was asking passersby to lend him a penny or nickel, so he can call his butler or someone. But no one would spare him a single cent, because he'd "just spend it on useless cigarettes or beer."
Those cents do matter, don't they, Reggie? Just like kindness. Little things.
***
I was on my way home one time. It had been a grueling morning, and I was sweating because the escalator at the MRT station was broken. I hurriedly wiped my face of un-ladylike sweat and jumped in the train, hoping to catch some artificial cool air. Two stations had gone by and I was happily daydreaming, and suddenly I realized that this woman in front of me was trying to catch my attention. I looked at her, she was pointing to parts of her face while looking intensely at mine. A wave of horror passed through me and I realized I had bits of tissue stuck to my face! I took out my mirror, plucked the bits away and thanked her. Damn 7-11 for selling such cheap tissue. But more than my embarrassment I was, again, filled with gratitude. Little things, indeed.
***
Later, on the bus (I take a lot of rides, don't I?), I was paying the kunduktor. I gave him my 20-peso bill and started rummaging inside my bag for my cellphone.
"ID." Huh? I looked up. The kunduktor was waiting expectantly.
"ID ko ho?" (Duh.)
"Oo." So I took out my wallet again and showed him, and for the first time in my 22-year-old life, I got a discount on my bus ride for being a student.
***
My brother has a running question. What makes us human? What separates us from other animals and, more significantly (as the future slowly becomes the present), artificial intelligence? It's not as easy to answer as most would think. There's a lot of philosophical analysis involved in it. Most people don't even know what artificial intelligence really is. They think Honda's mechanical pet dog is a form of AI.
But I digress. Dear brother, I have an answer, or part of it anyway. It's the little things. The tiny, seemingly insignificant things. It's buying puto seco, helping a stranger get rid of tissue on her face, checking for a student's ID, giving money away to a stranger even if you know it could be a total sham.
It is recognizing one's own existence, and thereby being aware also of the existence of others. It's stringing these realizations together in one entire experience, and attaching to them all that you know and all that you have known, for all of your life.
It is the sensation of everything around you--tasting its history, feeling its present and excitedly touching its future. It's reaching out, even if apprehensively.
Franz Kafka wrote a book called The Metamorphosis. It's about a man, Gregor, who was turned into a bug overnight (okay, be patient now). Don't ask why or how, no one needs to know. Point is, he wasn't "human" anymore. He had tiny insect legs, a hard shell, brown fluid oozing out his mouth. He was a detestable creature, the embodiment of all that I, for one, find repulsive. Kadiri to the max. His family tried to--but couldn't--understand him. They were repulsed by him. He started acting more and more like an insect, at least to their eyes. They perceived him to be non-human, period. Towards the end of the book, Gregor, frustrated by his predicament and resenting everything and everyone, heard his sister playing the violin. He was deeply touched. He felt the intense power of the music, and wove into that his entire life experience--as a brother, a son, a member of a family that he loved.
Inside that insect shell, through simple violin music and that little act of listening, he became more human than any other person in that room could possibly be. Gregor died the following morning, having grasped fully his own humanity.
***
Last week, I was in the car with a friend, on the way to Makati. We were somewhere on C5. Suddenly, he pointed to the window on my side. "Tingnan mo yung langit," he said. Rays of the afternoon sun were softly peeking through the clouds. "Parang sumisilip ang Diyos."
Little things.
The old woman was looking out in front of her, her gaze locked in on an imaginary dot in space. She was too old to be carrying that big basket, but there was something about her, some strength, some determination. Or perhaps it was resignation. Whatever it was, it surely made her get up that morning--just like every morning--and take a jeepney to where she would ply her trade, which was basically just a bunch of puto seco and macaroons. I looked at her, and she was a superwoman.
I resolved to buy something from her that morning. Anything at all. I don't particularly like puto seco, but I figured I'd give it to one of those children I always see sleeping by the steps of the MRT station.
The jeep took a left turn to EDSA and I was still thinking of a good way to approach her. Dyahe e. The jeepney was full. How would I speak to her inconspicuously? I was still there, racking my brain and scolding myself for being so self-conscious, when the little child beside me tugged her father gently, and pointed to the basket.
His father looked. "Gusto mo?" he asked his daughter.
The little girl nodded and smiled.
"Alin diyan?" She pointed at something inside the basket. The old lady smiled at her and pulled a package out.
"Magkano ho?" asked the dad.
"Sampu lang," said the lola, and the man took out his wallet and paid.
"Salamat," The lady said. Turning to the child, she smiled again. "Buena mano ka," she said, her eyes crinkling. The child grinned even though I'm pretty sure she didn't know what that meant. Shortly after, the old lady alighted from the jeepney.
I wanted to cry. The child saved me. Stupid me and all of my 22 years; a five-year-old still had something to teach me. More than the shame I felt for not acting on what I had planned, I felt grateful to her for being the little child that she was. I swear she must have been the happiest kid that morning, getting goodies so early in the day. And yet, without her knowing it, she was also the bringer of joy. No one knows for sure how many more smiles she inadvertently caused that day, for the wheels are always turning and joy begets joy.
Little things.
***
I went to Quezon City Hall to meet with an architect for a class project. I was more than slightly irritated because my groupmates bailed on me, and I had to do the interview on my own. I was hurrying to the elevator when an old lady (I am a lola magnet) tapped me and said, "pahingi po ng tulong."
"Ano ho?"
"Help..."
I stood there, staring at her for about three seconds, all the lectures I had given about (not) giving alms swirling in my head.
"Help," she repeated quietly, "I am poor, I am hungry..." In English 'to ha, mind you.
I made my decision. I took out my wallet and gave her 20 pesos. "Kain po kayo ha," I told her. We smiled furtively, and I went on my way.
First flashback while I was dealing with the lady by the elevator: freshman year in college. My new college buddies and I were eating at Wendy's in Taft. Suddenly this old, ragged woman comes in, goes to our table on the second floor and asks for money. Wala raw siyang pamasahe pauwi sa probinsya, etcetera. We really didn't know how to react. I wanted to give her something but my classmate told me not to because the lady was most likely part of a syndicate. So we just sat there, eating fries and BMM, as she continued to speak. Minutes later the Wendy's guard went up and drove the lady away. When she was gone, I broke down. I just cried and cried--at the hopelessness, the injustice, the fact that was put in a compromising position where I wanted to care but I knew it was wrong, the fact that I managed to put my emotions on the line for five stupid minutes.
Second flashback (sort of): A story in Archie comics. Betty was giving coins to a beggar, and Reggie reprimanded her, saying she'd been duped because the poor man would just waste it on beer anyway. Betty told Reggie that she'd rather be duped than go on thinking she had passed on a chance to help a man in real need. Later that day Reggie got himself in some real tight spots and ended up on the streets in the rain, with no money and no car. He was asking passersby to lend him a penny or nickel, so he can call his butler or someone. But no one would spare him a single cent, because he'd "just spend it on useless cigarettes or beer."
Those cents do matter, don't they, Reggie? Just like kindness. Little things.
***
I was on my way home one time. It had been a grueling morning, and I was sweating because the escalator at the MRT station was broken. I hurriedly wiped my face of un-ladylike sweat and jumped in the train, hoping to catch some artificial cool air. Two stations had gone by and I was happily daydreaming, and suddenly I realized that this woman in front of me was trying to catch my attention. I looked at her, she was pointing to parts of her face while looking intensely at mine. A wave of horror passed through me and I realized I had bits of tissue stuck to my face! I took out my mirror, plucked the bits away and thanked her. Damn 7-11 for selling such cheap tissue. But more than my embarrassment I was, again, filled with gratitude. Little things, indeed.
***
Later, on the bus (I take a lot of rides, don't I?), I was paying the kunduktor. I gave him my 20-peso bill and started rummaging inside my bag for my cellphone.
"ID." Huh? I looked up. The kunduktor was waiting expectantly.
"ID ko ho?" (Duh.)
"Oo." So I took out my wallet again and showed him, and for the first time in my 22-year-old life, I got a discount on my bus ride for being a student.
***
My brother has a running question. What makes us human? What separates us from other animals and, more significantly (as the future slowly becomes the present), artificial intelligence? It's not as easy to answer as most would think. There's a lot of philosophical analysis involved in it. Most people don't even know what artificial intelligence really is. They think Honda's mechanical pet dog is a form of AI.
But I digress. Dear brother, I have an answer, or part of it anyway. It's the little things. The tiny, seemingly insignificant things. It's buying puto seco, helping a stranger get rid of tissue on her face, checking for a student's ID, giving money away to a stranger even if you know it could be a total sham.
It is recognizing one's own existence, and thereby being aware also of the existence of others. It's stringing these realizations together in one entire experience, and attaching to them all that you know and all that you have known, for all of your life.
It is the sensation of everything around you--tasting its history, feeling its present and excitedly touching its future. It's reaching out, even if apprehensively.
Franz Kafka wrote a book called The Metamorphosis. It's about a man, Gregor, who was turned into a bug overnight (okay, be patient now). Don't ask why or how, no one needs to know. Point is, he wasn't "human" anymore. He had tiny insect legs, a hard shell, brown fluid oozing out his mouth. He was a detestable creature, the embodiment of all that I, for one, find repulsive. Kadiri to the max. His family tried to--but couldn't--understand him. They were repulsed by him. He started acting more and more like an insect, at least to their eyes. They perceived him to be non-human, period. Towards the end of the book, Gregor, frustrated by his predicament and resenting everything and everyone, heard his sister playing the violin. He was deeply touched. He felt the intense power of the music, and wove into that his entire life experience--as a brother, a son, a member of a family that he loved.
Inside that insect shell, through simple violin music and that little act of listening, he became more human than any other person in that room could possibly be. Gregor died the following morning, having grasped fully his own humanity.
***
Last week, I was in the car with a friend, on the way to Makati. We were somewhere on C5. Suddenly, he pointed to the window on my side. "Tingnan mo yung langit," he said. Rays of the afternoon sun were softly peeking through the clouds. "Parang sumisilip ang Diyos."
Little things.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
MIDNIGHT SNACK
You know when you're walking down the hall from your room to the kitchen in the middle of the night when you want to secretly snack, and you bump into that bookcase or hall altar or some other hard furniture on the way? Ouch 'di 'ba? Kinda wakes you up. And you feel a bit stupid because the blasted thing has been there forever, but you always forget (coz you're so hungry!).
Well, this is one of those midnight waker-uppers. Just re-posting. Thanks rhea. :p
Do's and Don'ts
1. If a man wants you, nothing can keep him away. If he doesn't want you, nothing can make him stay.
2. Stop making excuses for a man and his behavior.
3. Allow your intuition (or spirit) to save you from heartache.
4. Stop trying to change yourselves for a relationship that's not meant to be.
5 . Slower is better.
6. Never live your life for a man before you find what makes you truly happy.
7. If a relationship ends because the man was not treating you as you deserve then heck no you can't "be friends." A friend wouldn't mistreat a friend.
8. Don't settle.
9. If you feel like he is stringing you along, then he probably is.
10. Don't stay because you think "it will get better." You'll be mad at yourself a year later for staying when things are not better.
11. The only person you can control in a relationship is you.
12 . Avoid men who've got a bunch of children by a bunch of different women. He didn't marry them when he got them pregnant, why would he treat you any differently?
13. Always have your own set of friends separate from his.
14 . Maintain boundaries in how a guy treats you. If something bothers you, speak up.
15. Never let a man know everything. He will use it against you later.
16. You cannot change a man's behavior. Change comes from within.
17. Don't EVER make him feel he is more important than you are... even if he has more education or has a better job.
18. Do not make him into a quasi-god. He is a man, nothing more and nothing less.
19. Never let a man define who you are.
20. Never borrow someone else's man.
21. If he cheated with you, he'll cheat on you.
22. A man will only treat you the way you ALLOW him to treat you.
23. All men are NOT dogs.
24. You should not be the one doing all the bending... compromise is a two way street.
25. You need time to heal between relationships.. there is nothing cute about baggage... deal with your issues before pursuing a new relationship.
26. You should never look for someone to COMPLETE you... a relationship consists of two WHOLE individuals... look for someone complimentary...not supplementary.
27. Dating is fun...even if he doesn't turn out to be Mr. Right.
28. Make him miss you sometimes...when a man always know where you are, and your always readily available to him - he takes it for granted.
29. Never move into his mother's house.
30. Never co-sign for a man. (Hallelujah, thank you Jesus!)
31. Don't fully commit to a man who doesn't give you everything that you need. Keep him in your radar but get to know others.
Well, this is one of those midnight waker-uppers. Just re-posting. Thanks rhea. :p
Do's and Don'ts
1. If a man wants you, nothing can keep him away. If he doesn't want you, nothing can make him stay.
2. Stop making excuses for a man and his behavior.
3. Allow your intuition (or spirit) to save you from heartache.
4. Stop trying to change yourselves for a relationship that's not meant to be.
5 . Slower is better.
6. Never live your life for a man before you find what makes you truly happy.
7. If a relationship ends because the man was not treating you as you deserve then heck no you can't "be friends." A friend wouldn't mistreat a friend.
8. Don't settle.
9. If you feel like he is stringing you along, then he probably is.
10. Don't stay because you think "it will get better." You'll be mad at yourself a year later for staying when things are not better.
11. The only person you can control in a relationship is you.
12 . Avoid men who've got a bunch of children by a bunch of different women. He didn't marry them when he got them pregnant, why would he treat you any differently?
13. Always have your own set of friends separate from his.
14 . Maintain boundaries in how a guy treats you. If something bothers you, speak up.
15. Never let a man know everything. He will use it against you later.
16. You cannot change a man's behavior. Change comes from within.
17. Don't EVER make him feel he is more important than you are... even if he has more education or has a better job.
18. Do not make him into a quasi-god. He is a man, nothing more and nothing less.
19. Never let a man define who you are.
20. Never borrow someone else's man.
21. If he cheated with you, he'll cheat on you.
22. A man will only treat you the way you ALLOW him to treat you.
23. All men are NOT dogs.
24. You should not be the one doing all the bending... compromise is a two way street.
25. You need time to heal between relationships.. there is nothing cute about baggage... deal with your issues before pursuing a new relationship.
26. You should never look for someone to COMPLETE you... a relationship consists of two WHOLE individuals... look for someone complimentary...not supplementary.
27. Dating is fun...even if he doesn't turn out to be Mr. Right.
28. Make him miss you sometimes...when a man always know where you are, and your always readily available to him - he takes it for granted.
29. Never move into his mother's house.
30. Never co-sign for a man. (Hallelujah, thank you Jesus!)
31. Don't fully commit to a man who doesn't give you everything that you need. Keep him in your radar but get to know others.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
VIOLENT
I am. I am. I am. What more can I say?
The inevitable has happened. The horrifying truth I had long been avoiding. My nightmare is coming true. The thing that wakes me up slightly shivering and very scared. That thing that keeps me up at night with crazy, violent thoughts in my head. What they said I am but have denied time and again.
Well, this is me, lost and found, and lost again. This is what I am. And I am terrified.
The inevitable has happened. The horrifying truth I had long been avoiding. My nightmare is coming true. The thing that wakes me up slightly shivering and very scared. That thing that keeps me up at night with crazy, violent thoughts in my head. What they said I am but have denied time and again.
Well, this is me, lost and found, and lost again. This is what I am. And I am terrified.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
I LOVE MY ASIAN
Lovers in Paris will never be what Meteor Garden was. Or was to me. It doesn't have Lei, or those extremely heart-wrenching moments when your heart just wants to collapse and die.
But I liked Lovers in Paris, anyway. I like Ki-Joo's (Carlo) humor. There are less tears. And my heart actually goes out to Carlo. It even did a bit of that collapsing-dying bit during the ice cream scene by the fountain (not yet shown on local tv, watched it on vcd). I cried more than twice (nothing compared to the buckets I shed for Dao, Lei and Shancai, but still...).
It's a Cinderella story, that's for sure. Aren't they all? And I like it that way. Asian telenovelas are always like that. Maybe they should do a study on this phenomenon.
Now I can't say for certain if these shows are representative of the prevailing behavior in a particular society or they seek to dictate or influence future human behavior. It's a chicken-and-egg thing. But they do portray certain realities and truths, and however you look at it, it will always be a caricature of a people, a place and a general philosophy.
Given that, there are some differences between Western and Asian drama. Asian soaps have so much more pathos. Maybe that comes from our being "repressed" or whatever Americans like to call it, vis-a-vis their own "liberal" behavior. Asian soaps have a certain character, or at the very least, an ideal character. I watch Asian dramas, and then I watched two minutes of The Bold and the Beautiful, and all I can say is, eh? To me, what it all boils down to is that American soaps are just vicious and mean and full of mindless sex. It's amazing how Americans profess their love for one another after a couple of shags, and Asians can know in absolute certainty that they love a person by simply looking in his or her eyes or even being within an arm's length of the person. Carlo and Vivian kissed, what, twice during the entire series? And yet you can feel, yes, you feel the depth of their love. Dao was harsh and rough and there seemed to be no sexual chemistry between him and Shancai, but you know that Dao will kill and die for her. Meanwhile, Americans supposedly ooze with sexuality and sensuality, but they never seem to know the meaning of love. No, not in the way we know it, not in the way we dream of it.
I wonder how Westerners would react if Asian dramas are suddenly shown in their countries. I imagine they would be amazed. Curious? Revolted? Would they think we live in the stone ages? I think that's why they are attracted to Asian films like Crouching Tiger and others. There's a charm and a reality that is so distant from theirs. I bet they can't believe that it's grounded on reality.
I think a tiny part of them actually envies us (or other Asian countries at least, because everyone knows the Philippines is a wannabe Westerner). Either way I would love to hear what they think. And if they actually, truly like it? Well, that'll be the day.
In the meantime, I'd rather dance with Carlo to the tune of Moon River, or sit silently beside Hua Ze Lei the whole night, than get into bed with one of those silly schmucks from Days of Our Lives.
But I liked Lovers in Paris, anyway. I like Ki-Joo's (Carlo) humor. There are less tears. And my heart actually goes out to Carlo. It even did a bit of that collapsing-dying bit during the ice cream scene by the fountain (not yet shown on local tv, watched it on vcd). I cried more than twice (nothing compared to the buckets I shed for Dao, Lei and Shancai, but still...).
It's a Cinderella story, that's for sure. Aren't they all? And I like it that way. Asian telenovelas are always like that. Maybe they should do a study on this phenomenon.
Now I can't say for certain if these shows are representative of the prevailing behavior in a particular society or they seek to dictate or influence future human behavior. It's a chicken-and-egg thing. But they do portray certain realities and truths, and however you look at it, it will always be a caricature of a people, a place and a general philosophy.
Given that, there are some differences between Western and Asian drama. Asian soaps have so much more pathos. Maybe that comes from our being "repressed" or whatever Americans like to call it, vis-a-vis their own "liberal" behavior. Asian soaps have a certain character, or at the very least, an ideal character. I watch Asian dramas, and then I watched two minutes of The Bold and the Beautiful, and all I can say is, eh? To me, what it all boils down to is that American soaps are just vicious and mean and full of mindless sex. It's amazing how Americans profess their love for one another after a couple of shags, and Asians can know in absolute certainty that they love a person by simply looking in his or her eyes or even being within an arm's length of the person. Carlo and Vivian kissed, what, twice during the entire series? And yet you can feel, yes, you feel the depth of their love. Dao was harsh and rough and there seemed to be no sexual chemistry between him and Shancai, but you know that Dao will kill and die for her. Meanwhile, Americans supposedly ooze with sexuality and sensuality, but they never seem to know the meaning of love. No, not in the way we know it, not in the way we dream of it.
I wonder how Westerners would react if Asian dramas are suddenly shown in their countries. I imagine they would be amazed. Curious? Revolted? Would they think we live in the stone ages? I think that's why they are attracted to Asian films like Crouching Tiger and others. There's a charm and a reality that is so distant from theirs. I bet they can't believe that it's grounded on reality.
I think a tiny part of them actually envies us (or other Asian countries at least, because everyone knows the Philippines is a wannabe Westerner). Either way I would love to hear what they think. And if they actually, truly like it? Well, that'll be the day.
In the meantime, I'd rather dance with Carlo to the tune of Moon River, or sit silently beside Hua Ze Lei the whole night, than get into bed with one of those silly schmucks from Days of Our Lives.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
KING
In less than two hours FPJ's remains will be taken out of Sto. Domingo Church, and the march of millions to North Cemetery will begin. I ache to be there, in that church, with the rest of my campaign colleagues. I'm home because silly me, I wasn't wearing sneakers when i went out earlier, and I certainly cannot go there in stilettos, so I had to go home. And now it's too late to go out, all the roads congested with people waiting for tomorrow to begin.
It hurts to not be there, that I have to be honest about. FPJ is not just a movie actor. Not to me, not anymore. He's not just one of those famous people whose funeral I watch because it's something everyone talks about the next day. I haven't even watched any of his movies, never cared to.
This is personal.
People often ask me if I voted for FPJ in the last elections. And even if they don't, I know they are dying to ask. Even my close friends find it incredulous that I campaigned for the man, much less put him in my precious ballot.
Well I did. I voted for him. Actually, I did more than that.
I loved FPJ. I still do.
Not the weird, infatuated, romantic love. Of course not, hello. It is one of deepest respect--perhaps even reverence, admiration and affection. We cared for him, took care of him, followed him, guided him. We loved him. And he loved us back, more love than we thought would be possible between a boss and his staff, between people who had never even met until the first official day of the campaign (and that was already more than two months after the actual work had begun. I was already going into his head way before i actually saw his face).
It's one thing to look at FPJ, to see him on tv, to hear stories about him. But it's another to actually be with him, work with him, talk to him, and fight his fight.
I almost didn't want to do it. When I first learned who we were campaigning for, I wanted to resign from my job. I got home and wailed to my mom about the future of the country and how I didn't want to be a part of it. It was easy to scoff at him, knowing him only as an actor and Erap's friend (oh dear God not one of Erap's friends).
But then something told me to wait, and to give this person a chance.
I have no regrets. True, it was difficult at first. We were treading in unknown waters. No one knew what kind of man FPJ was (in the headquarters we called him RAP--Ronald Allan Poe--or Principal or, jokingly, Bitoy). I went to meetings half-amused, half-bewildered. I had to give credit to Sir Vince, who convinced us that everything was going to be okay.
Sir Vince was right. What I got from those months with FPJ, no one can ever take away from me. The frustrations, the pains, the hope and, most of all, the faith. The knowledge, in our heart of hearts, that we were fighting the good fight. It was the worst and the best of times, truly.
Through it all one man shone through. RAP was a simple man, a quiet man with essential values that fueled us all. Never had we encountered a man who was so compassionate and yet so firm about what he believed in. He knew right from wrong, and chose what was right--over and over and over again. Even when seasoned politicians said he was committing political suicide, even when he was being ridiculed and discriminated against, he stood by what he believed in, and preserved the person that he was and the cause that he was fighting for. He served as a beacon to all of us, giving strength to the weak and shaming the mighty.
RAP was an honorable man, a respectable man that I am privileged to have known. It's sad that very few people had the chance to get to know him. I only got a glimpse; how lucky his family and close friends must be. Trite as it may be, we are better people for having met him.
Even now, I don't think many people would understand why I voted for him, or why I fought vigorously for him. I don't expect them to. They used to ask, anong gagawin niya pag presidente na siya? May magagawa ba siya? That question never scared me. I answered with this: Merong magagawa, dahil nandun ako. Nandun kami. We will be there, and we will all help. The collective future begins with individual responsibility. Accountability. Pananagutan. As RAP used to say, with one finger pointed up, "pananagutan sa taas, and pananagutan sa inyo."
Simple. Honest. Genuine. And now gone.
I remember, during sorties, we used to stand up on the flatbed of the media truck directly in front of RAP's van. Amid the unending sea of people we danced to the jingles that played during the motorcade, trying to keep the energy up because we knew we all needed it. Once in a while we would glance behind us, and we could see that RAP was smiling, pointing to us, evidently amused by our antics. It was good to see that unguarded smile, knowing how tired he was from standing and shaking people's hands all day long (which left scars on his arms because people were literally clawing at each other--and at him--in the fight to get near). I wish I could do that little dance now and see RAP smile again.
He will be missed.
It hurts to not be there, that I have to be honest about. FPJ is not just a movie actor. Not to me, not anymore. He's not just one of those famous people whose funeral I watch because it's something everyone talks about the next day. I haven't even watched any of his movies, never cared to.
This is personal.
People often ask me if I voted for FPJ in the last elections. And even if they don't, I know they are dying to ask. Even my close friends find it incredulous that I campaigned for the man, much less put him in my precious ballot.
Well I did. I voted for him. Actually, I did more than that.
I loved FPJ. I still do.
Not the weird, infatuated, romantic love. Of course not, hello. It is one of deepest respect--perhaps even reverence, admiration and affection. We cared for him, took care of him, followed him, guided him. We loved him. And he loved us back, more love than we thought would be possible between a boss and his staff, between people who had never even met until the first official day of the campaign (and that was already more than two months after the actual work had begun. I was already going into his head way before i actually saw his face).
It's one thing to look at FPJ, to see him on tv, to hear stories about him. But it's another to actually be with him, work with him, talk to him, and fight his fight.
I almost didn't want to do it. When I first learned who we were campaigning for, I wanted to resign from my job. I got home and wailed to my mom about the future of the country and how I didn't want to be a part of it. It was easy to scoff at him, knowing him only as an actor and Erap's friend (oh dear God not one of Erap's friends).
But then something told me to wait, and to give this person a chance.
I have no regrets. True, it was difficult at first. We were treading in unknown waters. No one knew what kind of man FPJ was (in the headquarters we called him RAP--Ronald Allan Poe--or Principal or, jokingly, Bitoy). I went to meetings half-amused, half-bewildered. I had to give credit to Sir Vince, who convinced us that everything was going to be okay.
Sir Vince was right. What I got from those months with FPJ, no one can ever take away from me. The frustrations, the pains, the hope and, most of all, the faith. The knowledge, in our heart of hearts, that we were fighting the good fight. It was the worst and the best of times, truly.
Through it all one man shone through. RAP was a simple man, a quiet man with essential values that fueled us all. Never had we encountered a man who was so compassionate and yet so firm about what he believed in. He knew right from wrong, and chose what was right--over and over and over again. Even when seasoned politicians said he was committing political suicide, even when he was being ridiculed and discriminated against, he stood by what he believed in, and preserved the person that he was and the cause that he was fighting for. He served as a beacon to all of us, giving strength to the weak and shaming the mighty.
RAP was an honorable man, a respectable man that I am privileged to have known. It's sad that very few people had the chance to get to know him. I only got a glimpse; how lucky his family and close friends must be. Trite as it may be, we are better people for having met him.
Even now, I don't think many people would understand why I voted for him, or why I fought vigorously for him. I don't expect them to. They used to ask, anong gagawin niya pag presidente na siya? May magagawa ba siya? That question never scared me. I answered with this: Merong magagawa, dahil nandun ako. Nandun kami. We will be there, and we will all help. The collective future begins with individual responsibility. Accountability. Pananagutan. As RAP used to say, with one finger pointed up, "pananagutan sa taas, and pananagutan sa inyo."
Simple. Honest. Genuine. And now gone.
I remember, during sorties, we used to stand up on the flatbed of the media truck directly in front of RAP's van. Amid the unending sea of people we danced to the jingles that played during the motorcade, trying to keep the energy up because we knew we all needed it. Once in a while we would glance behind us, and we could see that RAP was smiling, pointing to us, evidently amused by our antics. It was good to see that unguarded smile, knowing how tired he was from standing and shaking people's hands all day long (which left scars on his arms because people were literally clawing at each other--and at him--in the fight to get near). I wish I could do that little dance now and see RAP smile again.
He will be missed.
Monday, November 15, 2004
TATAY
I remember that day. I was on my way home from school. Tatay, my lolo on my mother's side, was very sick, he'd been so for some time. He had kidney problems and his condition had somehow worsened because of complications. At this point he could barely get out of his room. We visited him at our grandparents' house, which wasn't very far from ours.
Anyway, that afternoon while I was in the tricycle my mom texted and said maybe this was a good time to go there again. They were preparing to bring him to the hospital and it was best to have more people around to help. I was thinking the exact same thing. I was on my way already and I think I even texted my aunts about it.
The tricycle was about to turn the corner towards my grandparents' house. Suddenly something told me it shouldn't. The feeling was so strong I just couldn't ignore it. So I told the driver to go straight ahead instead and take the route towards our house.
But I wasn't really going home. After getting off I walked further, just three blocks from our house. I went to church.
It was a weekday, no one was there. This was the first time I went to church alone; I don't know why, but it felt so comforting. I went inside and knelt. I prayed for Tatay. I asked God to please take away his pain. He was in so much pain. I asked for forgiveness for being such a bad granddaughter.
Tatay and I were never really close. He was the patriarch of the family. He was everything the Garcia name stood for: pride, intelligence, control, reason, honor, dignity, family. He was a rock. A proud man, he always stood stood firm. His reasoning was beyond question. Everyone followed what he said. Not because they were scared--and they were--but beyond that, because he had their ultimate respect.
People turned to Tatay, and he never turned his back. He was the embodiment of strict compassion, if ever there is such (this was eventually softened by the next generation of Garcias). He was the one NPAs went to for help whenever they came down from the mountains. And he would help them, but it was clear that they would never touch his family or the people in their barrio. The buck stopped with him.
What I remember most about Tatay was when I was very small and had a very hard time finishing my meals. For me, it was a task that I found too taxing (I still think that way sometimes). So what he did was sit down beside me, for as long as it took me to finish eating my food. Sometimes it took me an hour, maybe more. He sat there patiently, just waiting for me.
Growing up, though, I never really appreciated him. He was too straight and narrow for me. He always said things that were meant to teach me how to be good and honorable, things that seemed too theoretical for me. I was just a kid after all and I was deeply irritated (which was a coverup for being overwhelmed) by his looming, overbearing presence. And I didn't like it that he had no tolerance for mediocrity. To him that was unacceptable. When you do less than what you are capable of, you would know his disappointment. It was as if you were marked for life. I felt it was so difficult to get redemption. So I did all that I can to stay away from him.
These things and more were racing through my mind as I knelt in church. I let all the memories of him and my family wash over me until I almost felt a ringing in my ears from all the activity in my head. My chest was about to burst. Before I got dizzy I opened my eyes and sat up.
I went out and walked all the way to my grandparents' house, which was also just a few blocks away on the other side of the church.
As I opened the gate I knew something was terribly wrong. Tatay was no longer there; he had been rushed--not brought, rushed--by my tita to the hospital just a minute or two before I got to the house. Nanay and a couple of other relatives were still there, and we all went to the hospital together.
In the emergency room I found my tita massaging Tatay's legs, mumbling something incomprehensible, asking Tatay if he wanted to drink his Ensure--knowing full well that Tatay could no longer respond. He was in a coma.
Mama...Mama wasn't there yet. She was with a client that afternoon, and she was one of the last to arrive because she was one of the farthest from the hospital. Mama is a control freak and she was closest to Tatay. Because of this, I don't think she has fully forgiven or will ever fully forgive herself for not having gotten there earlier. A few days after the incident she suffered a stroke.
It's easy to figure out what happened next. Tatay's systems started to collapse, and after he was wheeled into a private room, the doctor advised us to call a priest. No one wanted to. But there was no beating around the bush, and we finally called the head of our parish. My Tatay deserved no less.
Before the night ended, the line went straight. Tatay had left. I guess God answered my prayers after all. He took away Tatay's pain.
My younger cousins were most affected. Camille cried and said she didn't even have the chance to talk to him and say thank you and sorry for all the wrong she had done him. I could've said the exact same thing, only I didn't because I was either too ashamed or too proud.
It was the darkest, most conflicted night for everyone. We were still in control, yes, as only Garcias could be. There was the funeral parlor to contact, burial rites to arrange, people to call. But there was something we couldn't get hold of. We couldn't stop him from dying. And we couldn't stop the tears.
---
It has been more than three years. Tatay's death changed us all. It threatened to shake the stability of the Garcias. Looking back, I realize that wasn't such a bad thing. It revealed something in each of us, a vulnerability, some rawness and truthfulness beneath our shells. Leave it to Tatay to destroy what he himself created. He was still in control after all.
We are all better off today, I think. The family he left behind is still a proud family, still compassionate, still ruled by reason. But his children make more mistakes now, old and wise though they are. They are less rigid, less controlled, more willing to get out of the box. And that's okay. In losing him, we are starting to find ourselves.
A pheonix can only rise from the ashes.
Happy birthday Tatay.
Anyway, that afternoon while I was in the tricycle my mom texted and said maybe this was a good time to go there again. They were preparing to bring him to the hospital and it was best to have more people around to help. I was thinking the exact same thing. I was on my way already and I think I even texted my aunts about it.
The tricycle was about to turn the corner towards my grandparents' house. Suddenly something told me it shouldn't. The feeling was so strong I just couldn't ignore it. So I told the driver to go straight ahead instead and take the route towards our house.
But I wasn't really going home. After getting off I walked further, just three blocks from our house. I went to church.
It was a weekday, no one was there. This was the first time I went to church alone; I don't know why, but it felt so comforting. I went inside and knelt. I prayed for Tatay. I asked God to please take away his pain. He was in so much pain. I asked for forgiveness for being such a bad granddaughter.
Tatay and I were never really close. He was the patriarch of the family. He was everything the Garcia name stood for: pride, intelligence, control, reason, honor, dignity, family. He was a rock. A proud man, he always stood stood firm. His reasoning was beyond question. Everyone followed what he said. Not because they were scared--and they were--but beyond that, because he had their ultimate respect.
People turned to Tatay, and he never turned his back. He was the embodiment of strict compassion, if ever there is such (this was eventually softened by the next generation of Garcias). He was the one NPAs went to for help whenever they came down from the mountains. And he would help them, but it was clear that they would never touch his family or the people in their barrio. The buck stopped with him.
What I remember most about Tatay was when I was very small and had a very hard time finishing my meals. For me, it was a task that I found too taxing (I still think that way sometimes). So what he did was sit down beside me, for as long as it took me to finish eating my food. Sometimes it took me an hour, maybe more. He sat there patiently, just waiting for me.
Growing up, though, I never really appreciated him. He was too straight and narrow for me. He always said things that were meant to teach me how to be good and honorable, things that seemed too theoretical for me. I was just a kid after all and I was deeply irritated (which was a coverup for being overwhelmed) by his looming, overbearing presence. And I didn't like it that he had no tolerance for mediocrity. To him that was unacceptable. When you do less than what you are capable of, you would know his disappointment. It was as if you were marked for life. I felt it was so difficult to get redemption. So I did all that I can to stay away from him.
These things and more were racing through my mind as I knelt in church. I let all the memories of him and my family wash over me until I almost felt a ringing in my ears from all the activity in my head. My chest was about to burst. Before I got dizzy I opened my eyes and sat up.
I went out and walked all the way to my grandparents' house, which was also just a few blocks away on the other side of the church.
As I opened the gate I knew something was terribly wrong. Tatay was no longer there; he had been rushed--not brought, rushed--by my tita to the hospital just a minute or two before I got to the house. Nanay and a couple of other relatives were still there, and we all went to the hospital together.
In the emergency room I found my tita massaging Tatay's legs, mumbling something incomprehensible, asking Tatay if he wanted to drink his Ensure--knowing full well that Tatay could no longer respond. He was in a coma.
Mama...Mama wasn't there yet. She was with a client that afternoon, and she was one of the last to arrive because she was one of the farthest from the hospital. Mama is a control freak and she was closest to Tatay. Because of this, I don't think she has fully forgiven or will ever fully forgive herself for not having gotten there earlier. A few days after the incident she suffered a stroke.
It's easy to figure out what happened next. Tatay's systems started to collapse, and after he was wheeled into a private room, the doctor advised us to call a priest. No one wanted to. But there was no beating around the bush, and we finally called the head of our parish. My Tatay deserved no less.
Before the night ended, the line went straight. Tatay had left. I guess God answered my prayers after all. He took away Tatay's pain.
My younger cousins were most affected. Camille cried and said she didn't even have the chance to talk to him and say thank you and sorry for all the wrong she had done him. I could've said the exact same thing, only I didn't because I was either too ashamed or too proud.
It was the darkest, most conflicted night for everyone. We were still in control, yes, as only Garcias could be. There was the funeral parlor to contact, burial rites to arrange, people to call. But there was something we couldn't get hold of. We couldn't stop him from dying. And we couldn't stop the tears.
---
It has been more than three years. Tatay's death changed us all. It threatened to shake the stability of the Garcias. Looking back, I realize that wasn't such a bad thing. It revealed something in each of us, a vulnerability, some rawness and truthfulness beneath our shells. Leave it to Tatay to destroy what he himself created. He was still in control after all.
We are all better off today, I think. The family he left behind is still a proud family, still compassionate, still ruled by reason. But his children make more mistakes now, old and wise though they are. They are less rigid, less controlled, more willing to get out of the box. And that's okay. In losing him, we are starting to find ourselves.
A pheonix can only rise from the ashes.
Happy birthday Tatay.
THERE IS LIGHT AFTER ALL
Gods do not do for men what men can do for themselves. --Athena, The Odyssey
When we want something, all the universe conspires in helping us to achieve it. -- The Alchemist
You just have to want it. --my ex
How much do you want it? -- me
And God said, "let there be light!" And there was light. -- Holy Bible
Just do it. -- Nike
Tama na yan, inuman na! --Parokya ni Edgar
When we want something, all the universe conspires in helping us to achieve it. -- The Alchemist
You just have to want it. --my ex
How much do you want it? -- me
And God said, "let there be light!" And there was light. -- Holy Bible
Just do it. -- Nike
Tama na yan, inuman na! --Parokya ni Edgar
Sunday, November 14, 2004
IN A FUNK
How shitty is it when you want something and yet you know that you deserve something else? Worse, that what you deserve is far more or better than what you want? But you still want what you want.
Wanting less does not make you less. It just makes you a bit more honest. A bit sadder as well.
I am sad.
At the end of the day I chose to do the right thing. I know it was right. I did it to preserve myself, and to protect others. Maybe that was a bit too Messianic for me because no one asked for protection. But I am not blind or stupid, and I cannot bear to think that I may cause pain in others even in the most minute possible way.
So here I am, still good, still faithful to the promise of great and greater things. But a part of me aches to answer the what ifs. On the other hand, I know that life is what it is, no ifs or buts.
Life on the whole is fair, I still believe that. But sometimes the little situations that make up that whole are not. Like the one I am in.
It sucks.
I need tequila.
Wanting less does not make you less. It just makes you a bit more honest. A bit sadder as well.
I am sad.
At the end of the day I chose to do the right thing. I know it was right. I did it to preserve myself, and to protect others. Maybe that was a bit too Messianic for me because no one asked for protection. But I am not blind or stupid, and I cannot bear to think that I may cause pain in others even in the most minute possible way.
So here I am, still good, still faithful to the promise of great and greater things. But a part of me aches to answer the what ifs. On the other hand, I know that life is what it is, no ifs or buts.
Life on the whole is fair, I still believe that. But sometimes the little situations that make up that whole are not. Like the one I am in.
It sucks.
I need tequila.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
KAINIS
Something is strangely fucked up in this house today. It's like every particle that makes up this living space is filled with...irritants. I am annoyed at everything and everyone! I am deeply, inexplicably irritated, even as I sit here all by myself. Meanwhile, in the kitchen Ivan and Mama had just had an argument, and now they've both locked themselves up in their rooms. Lisa, the maid, is crying because my titas who are watching tv didn't turn the volume down and she couldn't hear the person she was talking to on the phone. And now it seems she has sworn not to call that person (ever) again. Turns out that person was the water delivery guy. Does that mean no showers tomorrow?
And freakin' Freaky Friday is playing on vcd/dvd again (Lindsay Lohan is Ivan's newest chick).
I hate this day. It's as if yesterday has carried over. Yesterday I went to school for my first day of the second semester. I arrived there an hour early because, well, when you live at the other end of the metropolis it's better to be early than late. So I got there, walked around a bit. I checked out the bulletin board. Once in a while they post job offers and schedules of seminars and workshops that I always take a note of but never attend. Before I turned the corner on the way to the tambayan I caught an announcement about classes that had been postponed. With a sinking feeling I scanned the poster, and sure enough, my class for that day was listed. I'm sorry, pero tangina. I came all the way from fucking Paranaque, and you tell me that the class is cancelled? You tell me NOW? When I'm already here?!?!
To make things worse, I was the only one there. Meaning it was I who called up my friends--who happen to be living in the same micro-climate as UP for chrissake--to tell them not to bother taking that, oh, five-minute jeep ride to school. And then I had to trudge off and go back to the mountains where I live.
Sure, the mountain part is an exaggeration, but isn't it very irritating all the same? The secretary could've picked up the phone and called us (they did it last sem). Or texted us. There had to be a reson they recorded our numbers. And hello. This is grad school. It's one class a day. Students usually have work before they go to school. They deserve to know these things at the proper time. I am not being a brat. I wasted money, wasted one day's worth of clothes, wasted one day's worth of exfoliation (okay, that's bratty). Point is, we deserved better than an announcement posted one hour before the class.
Aauugh!!! I couldn't contain myself and I just had to whine to Eug when he called (of course I was already in the jeepney on a noisy highway, so I couldn't hear half of what he was saying, which added to my annoyance), and to Tita Reg who really couldn't do anything but offer to watch a movie with me, which I couldn't do because I'm friggin broke.
And now, this. I am sometimes perplexed by the capacity of the mind to store negative energy.
Hay, kainis!
And freakin' Freaky Friday is playing on vcd/dvd again (Lindsay Lohan is Ivan's newest chick).
I hate this day. It's as if yesterday has carried over. Yesterday I went to school for my first day of the second semester. I arrived there an hour early because, well, when you live at the other end of the metropolis it's better to be early than late. So I got there, walked around a bit. I checked out the bulletin board. Once in a while they post job offers and schedules of seminars and workshops that I always take a note of but never attend. Before I turned the corner on the way to the tambayan I caught an announcement about classes that had been postponed. With a sinking feeling I scanned the poster, and sure enough, my class for that day was listed. I'm sorry, pero tangina. I came all the way from fucking Paranaque, and you tell me that the class is cancelled? You tell me NOW? When I'm already here?!?!
To make things worse, I was the only one there. Meaning it was I who called up my friends--who happen to be living in the same micro-climate as UP for chrissake--to tell them not to bother taking that, oh, five-minute jeep ride to school. And then I had to trudge off and go back to the mountains where I live.
Sure, the mountain part is an exaggeration, but isn't it very irritating all the same? The secretary could've picked up the phone and called us (they did it last sem). Or texted us. There had to be a reson they recorded our numbers. And hello. This is grad school. It's one class a day. Students usually have work before they go to school. They deserve to know these things at the proper time. I am not being a brat. I wasted money, wasted one day's worth of clothes, wasted one day's worth of exfoliation (okay, that's bratty). Point is, we deserved better than an announcement posted one hour before the class.
Aauugh!!! I couldn't contain myself and I just had to whine to Eug when he called (of course I was already in the jeepney on a noisy highway, so I couldn't hear half of what he was saying, which added to my annoyance), and to Tita Reg who really couldn't do anything but offer to watch a movie with me, which I couldn't do because I'm friggin broke.
And now, this. I am sometimes perplexed by the capacity of the mind to store negative energy.
Hay, kainis!
Sunday, November 07, 2004
SEMI-CHARMED KIND OF DAY
Blew off my remaining money--not actually my money, but kickback from my tuition hahaha--yesterday on a couple of overpriced sandwiches, pizza, pasta and salad that I had been craving for at the Peninsula Manila. But it was well worth it because I was with two of my oldest and dearest friends, and the food was divine.
They arrived late, naturally, so breakfast turned out to be lunch. Shiva, who was wearing not black but black with yellow stars and star-shaped earrings (KL: you're starstudded!), was determined to finish off her penne. KL, fresh from work and armed with a swanky new phone (welcome to the Ericsson club!), downed her Club Pen sandwich and complained about her not-so-chilled juice. They both finished off my friench fries, which I learned were not made of potatoes (what a bummer). The very fattening salad dressing was very good on the leafy greens and the pizza was obviously good because Shiva took them all home.
Ah, I love them both. We truly deserve getting stuffed while listening to beautiful piano music. We are fabulous, yes we are.
Afterwards, Shiva and I watched a movie (KL had to go), whined about life over Bizu milkshake and carrot cake, and tried on ridiculously-priced shoes worth two years of UP education. At that point we resolved to be rich--without having to marry an old Chinese guy. Then we can Pen and Bizu and Jimmy Choo all we want, baby.
It was a weird realization, and probably coming from a skewed perspective. Funny how a certain environment modifies one's attitude. For one, I never wanted to be rich. It just isn't my thing. On the other hand, staring at a P24k price tag in a store accessible to a lot of people, I can now see that each person does indeed have the capacity to reach higher levels of financial freedom. And it doesn't necessarily mean we have to spend our riches on outrageous purchases. We can save the world, too. Okay, that's a stretch, but the point is, money isn't evil if you don't want it to be. If having money means making your grandmother or street children happy, how bad can it be, right?
I went home completely, utterly broke, but nevertheless satisfied. And perhaps a bit more motivated to become a millionaire before I turn 25.
They arrived late, naturally, so breakfast turned out to be lunch. Shiva, who was wearing not black but black with yellow stars and star-shaped earrings (KL: you're starstudded!), was determined to finish off her penne. KL, fresh from work and armed with a swanky new phone (welcome to the Ericsson club!), downed her Club Pen sandwich and complained about her not-so-chilled juice. They both finished off my friench fries, which I learned were not made of potatoes (what a bummer). The very fattening salad dressing was very good on the leafy greens and the pizza was obviously good because Shiva took them all home.
Ah, I love them both. We truly deserve getting stuffed while listening to beautiful piano music. We are fabulous, yes we are.
Afterwards, Shiva and I watched a movie (KL had to go), whined about life over Bizu milkshake and carrot cake, and tried on ridiculously-priced shoes worth two years of UP education. At that point we resolved to be rich--without having to marry an old Chinese guy. Then we can Pen and Bizu and Jimmy Choo all we want, baby.
It was a weird realization, and probably coming from a skewed perspective. Funny how a certain environment modifies one's attitude. For one, I never wanted to be rich. It just isn't my thing. On the other hand, staring at a P24k price tag in a store accessible to a lot of people, I can now see that each person does indeed have the capacity to reach higher levels of financial freedom. And it doesn't necessarily mean we have to spend our riches on outrageous purchases. We can save the world, too. Okay, that's a stretch, but the point is, money isn't evil if you don't want it to be. If having money means making your grandmother or street children happy, how bad can it be, right?
I went home completely, utterly broke, but nevertheless satisfied. And perhaps a bit more motivated to become a millionaire before I turn 25.
CARPE DIEM
"I'll tell you a secret: the gods envy us. Because we're mortal. We're doomed. You are never more beautiful than you are today." -- Achilles, Troy
And that is why life is so utterly, frighteningly beautiful. Problem is, very few embrace their mortality. Most of us are helplessly confident about living forever, and forever scared of truly, truly living.
But those who seize the day, who make mistakes that bring about great triumphs, who do foolish things and get their hearts broken and live each emotion...those who know that each day may be their last day on earth, they are not afraid. They know the secret.
And the rest, gods of their own worlds, oh how they envy the descendants of Achilles.
And that is why life is so utterly, frighteningly beautiful. Problem is, very few embrace their mortality. Most of us are helplessly confident about living forever, and forever scared of truly, truly living.
But those who seize the day, who make mistakes that bring about great triumphs, who do foolish things and get their hearts broken and live each emotion...those who know that each day may be their last day on earth, they are not afraid. They know the secret.
And the rest, gods of their own worlds, oh how they envy the descendants of Achilles.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)