Love in Chains

Earlier I checked the writer's almanac - Jean Jacques Rousseau was born yesterday 3 centuries ago. Rousseau ushered in the Age of Romanticism and the irony was not lost on me - my friend L whom I could not prod to take the leap of faith for one reason or another, crushing her romantic efferverscence and R's Social Contract declaration of "man being born free but everywhere, is in chains" and realizing in this situation, I was part of the chain-gang. Touche.

No chants of Liberte for a friend but over in Iran, some liberties are being compromised, some chants muted. Four national football players wearing green badges during an international match were allegedly booted out, the fate of 2 others, undetermined.

One cannot take a pulse of Iran's political climate without a full grasp of its history and culture so I will not sink my crooked teeth into it. It just occured to me that the first foreigner I met was Nabee, an Iranian student who temporarily lived obliquely across our residencia in Santan St. My father was chummy with him but I never understood their conversations.

An early riser as a kid, I would go to Mano Titing's as a pre-breakfast ritual. Mano Titing, bless him, stood as a surrogate grandfather as my biological ones were in Bohol, was convincing me forever to study archery with him as a teacher but his household stock of Tagalog comics kept me glued to the sofa.

Once I was done with the morning's chitchat, I would go next door to watch Nabee perform his routine in a pole vault he installed in his backyard, back on those pre-gated days when it was easy to trespass on other people's property. A silent spectator, my presence didn't make him self-conscious at all. We would exchange pleasantries after he's through with his regimen as I struggled with my English.

I wonder where he is now or if he is still alive. Could he be joining the demos? In honor of this childhood memory, I am posting some favorite verses of "The Sound of Water's Footsteps," one of the longest poems I ever encountered by Sohrab Sepehri, whose birthday falls a day after mine, as if the connection matters. He is a notable Persian painter and poet whose work is considered 'New Poetry.'

I joined the party of the World:
I visited the field of grief,
The garden of mysticism,
The lighted veranda of knowledge.
I climbed up the stairs of religion.
To the end of the alleyway of doubt,
To the cool air of independence,
To the wet night of compassion.
I went to meet someone on the other end of love.
I walked, I walked toward a woman,
Toward the light of pleasure,
Toward the silence of desire,
Toward the sound of the wing of loneliness.

I saw people. I saw cities.
I saw fields, mountains.
I saw water, I saw earth.
I saw Light and Darkness.
And I saw the foliage in Light,
and I saw the foliage in Darkness.
And I saw humanity in Light,
and I saw humanity in Darkness.

No matter where I am,
Sky is mine.
The window, thought, air, love, earth is mine.

Let us go to the seashore,
Spread the net on the water,
Catch freshness out of the water.
Pick up a pebble from the ground
And feel the weight of being.

(doodles from www.xkcd.com)

A Whale of Love

L is in a gunk of a conundrum. An old flame is reigniting the embers of a love frowned upon by the old folks. "A date is under wraps," her text read. "What shall I do?" Certainly, I cannot unwrap it, can I?

"Keep your nose on the grindstone," I advised. "Focus on your studies, get enough rest," I added, sounding granny as usual.

Can love be put in deferment for other priorities? The rational self shouts yes! But what could be a bigger priority than love? What's eating my bravado, my bold pronunciamento that there are degrees for burn but not for gugma? The phoniness reeks but sometimes, phoniness is the best policy, that much I can convey.

Haay, "how long, how must I sing this song?" - don't come to me for love advice, not until whales start swinging from tree to tree and chimpanzees frolic in the ocean. Have this scientific fact tattooed: Dyndyn, a denizen of Santan Street, is a love-idiot.

Speaking of whales, let me post this poem, my Sunday prayer which I find uplifting, a vessel of hope, transcending all the indignities this world sometimes brings forth.

Things to do in the Belly of a Whale

Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days. Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals. Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices. Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review each of your life's ten million choices. Endure moments of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you. Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart. Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope, where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all the things you did and could have done. Remember treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.

("Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale" by Dan Albergotti from The Boatloads.© BOA Editions, Ltd., 2008).

Files for the Next Life

After journeying from one reader to another, this Sting autobio I could not afford to buy when it came out is finally in my bookshelf, thanks to Regiedor's charity. RP who has read it swears it's a superbly written book - not a phrase wasted, not a word carelessly placed. If Sting were a tailor, RP analogizes, his work wouldn't show a thread hanging loose. But Sting is no tailor, he's ex-husband #1.

An old interview flashed back with his sardonic humor in total display, poking fun at people undergoing hypnosis. After snapping out of neverland, he noted that everybody usually claims to be part of the Russian tsar family or some noble lineage in their past lives. How come, he dared, nobody confesses to be a louse in Rasputin's beard or a door knob in some Victorian castle. I am not sure if this anecdote is in this book, I am just in Chapter 2.

Past life. A topic of a recent conversation is the exact opposite: reincarnation. How shall you design the next life?

(1) Since I am a fetishist in this current life, I want to be a physicist in the next. I've said this a thousand and one times - gifted with ample intelligence, I would have majored in Physics, not PolSci.

(2) To be a monogamist polygot and be able to freely converse with cabdrivers in their native tongue and read T. Mann and other non-English writers in their original texts. For the monogamist part, to be able to clasp hands and stare intently at a Beloved in whatever terrain, frontier, hill we are perched on.

This is where my imagination falters - the crucial meeting of paths, the conjucture by which one comprehends that kismet is neither an hour early or an hour delayed. Wong Kar-Wai's "In the Mood for Love," is one of the most sensuous, languorous movies that compounded my inarticulateness on the where-and-when conjectures of love in full bloom.

There's a paragraph, however, in Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby" that I jotted down in an old journal that describes this spellbinding moment of recognition which shall be sharply instructive I suppose, in the next life: "It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of reassurance that you may come across 4 or 5 times in life. It concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you, that at your best, you hoped to convey."

If that human being is already in your life, give thanks for this precious gift. The rest of us are enticed to look towards the horizon of an afterlife.

(3) Be a great ballerina or just to be able to dance, period.

Is this too much to hope for?

Doggie Love (1)

Got this email from Doc Retchi and no matter how trite and inelegant the prose, dogs make me kinda sappy. Here it goes:

If a dog was a teacher, you would learn things like: When you're happy, dance around and wag your tail. Delight in the simple joy of a long walk. Be loyal. Never pretend to be something you are not. When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by, and nuzzle them gently.

Salamuch, Dukie! Arf to your Rambo.

Of Animal Farms & Fake names & Namesakes

Today, somebody pointed out, is G. Orwell's birthday whose "Animal Farm" was a must-read within the activist circle way back because of its anti-Stalinist tone. I later found out the CIA bought the rights to this book and produced a movie it gave for free to stir up anti-communist sentiments. Hell, even communists were critical of Stalin, not only the CIA. And that George Orwell is actually a pseudonym, hmm. Should we give credence to writers doing 'critical' treatises and not signing their real names?

In "Veronica Mars," my favorite character Logan (trembles!!) made a reference to Orwell's 1984 as the only book he ever read. Big brother, I miss Logan's wits. I ripped his "how many vowels?" to a Grade IV boy I met a week ago in a law office.

Friendly with young boys, I initiated, "let me guess your name." The boy stared at me suspiciously. "How many vowels,?" I asked. The boy made an elaborate gesture of counting with his fingers. "What's the first letter?" He warmed up a little and says "S". "The last letter?" pressing for more clue. "N," the boy exclaimed excitedly.

Aha! "Satan!" And the boy pulled his hair, jerking his head with tremendous vigor and grated his teeth and screamed "My name is not Satan. I am Sir Albert Einstein!" It was my turn to pull the little hair atop my stubborn head.

Sir Albert Einstein, what a name to live up to. I think I would be kinder to my own child and name him/her Pokwang and risk eternal damnation. But the boy I made friends with was a genius like his namesake, the mere fact that he was only 7 years old yet already in Grade IV.

Making conversation, I asked "who's your favorite teacher?" Without as much as a wink, he tells me it's Ma'am Cortez "from the rootword courtesy". I had to put my funky-smelling socks on my gaping mouth.

Sensing a friend in me, he offered to let me hear his version of a French song by Celine Dion. WTF! Just what I deserved. And a few other Celine Dion's, God have mercy. To stop his impromtu performance, after about 4 songs I have only heard for the first time that day, I told him as a way of discouragement that not one of the songs was familiar to me and wasn't I in for another treat? Getting friendlier each second, he prodded me to listen to a very popular Celine Dion song which he was so damn sure I must know or at least have heard of. And so the boy belted "I am your lady and you are my man." Goodness, gracious! And did I say he sang it with much gusto?

Abadaw, another fairy in my life. A fairy-magnet, I am. Bless this fairy of an Einstein or an Einstein of a fairy, this boy warmed my heart so.

The Man in the Mirror is Dead

"When someone in the dark reaches out to you,
And touches off the spark that comes shining through
It tells you never be afraid" Michael Jackson, "Someone in the Dark"

Grade VI pupils have not heard of bulimia or anorexia but self-imposed starvation and sheer madness bought me my first 2 cassete tapes: Michael Jackson's "Thriller" and Gary V's first album, the latter once touted by showbiz kibitzers as the "Michael Jackson of the Philippines."

Then Prince came a-strutting - dirtier, much more flamboyant, and did I already say dirtier? This artist who sang that the color of rain was purple and opened my eyes that doves, like humans, also cried relegated "Thriller" into the dustbin. Then those boys from Birmingham, DuranDuran gripped my uterus (labia, behave) and I took a peek of The Dawn's JB Leonor's drumming stool (again, labia, behave) and discovered ideas could be enveloped, so bye-bye Michael.

What totally ruined what could have been an MJ fandom was mixed tape, the rage during my days of quiet content. A classmate named Edgar Ben was wooing a girl named Michelle so he briefed me about his genius of a plan. Side A was a repetition of the Beatles' "Michelle" and Side B was, you guess it right, "Ben" of MJ. And as the song went, "You've got a friend in me," MJ lost a fan but the trick worked wonders - B earned a wife in M many years later. Whew! Mixed tapes, Rob Gordon, you rock!

Anyhow, celebrity deaths, why do they affect us? I was probably one of the last to know about this recent cause of grief among music fans because I went downtown so early in the day without checking the news. A text from Mamon-bebe whom I didn't consider an MJ fan before or is he? kept me abreast, outscooping BBC where I normally get my first hand. Kudos!

Teacher-Stalker

Still on the subject of students becoming teachers, my cousin Carlyl’s favorite teacher is RV, incidentally a student in a History or introductory PolSci class, I can’t be certain anymore.

C started freshman last year and one time he visited me at RTR Hospital. Too weak to even speak, I managed to wrangle this tidbit. Almost leaping from the hospital bed in mild excitement, “I know that guy – dusky, knowing smile, a carpet of chest hair?” Poor cousin with his perplexed expression, “ambot lang, Te.”

RV, a self-confessed stalker, bwahaha, is an excellent writer. More than the chest hair, I remember the writing (don’t worry, I’m not set out to commodify you). Here’s proof:

“I am saddled with sadness at your state but at the same time am glad to have known a great mentor like you. Yours is a life well-lived for you have embellished the lives of so many hungry minds.”

Pastilan, this fellow wants me dead. Or just too efficient perhaps? He has written an eulogy for me in advance. Wow!

Another shot: “Relishing my college years isn’t complete without remembering how good you taught us. That only inspires me to craft the same level of standard in my students.”

Salamuch R for this thoughtful note. This made me smile. I am happy and proud that my cousin appreciates your passion and integrity. Good taste runs in the family, doesn’t it?

I don’t have a penny so let me loan from Douglas Coupland, once It-boy/author of “Generation X”: “There are 3 things you can’t fake: erections, competence, and creativity.”

Be guided accordingly, as your favorite ROTC instructor might express it.

The Itch to Teach

“Titser, genius ka kaya?
Bukod sa lesson plan, may thesis pang ginagawa?” Inang Laya, “Titser”

In her youth, my mother slugged it out teaching abakada to 7-year old kids at a public school in Tamboan, a barrio in Carmen, Bohol. Some of her students remember me as the fat brat who tagged along garbed in outfuckingrageous outfits. Argh! My kid-photos are a constant butt of fashion-catastrophe jokes in the family. Picture this: Fatso in a skimpy dress displaying those boxer arms and a worm-plagued belly. Completing the fashion disaster was a pair of white boots adorned with red feathers. Where’s the marching band, get the drift?

That’s my beef with grunge, it came 2 decades too late. Anyway, up to this day, I am referred to as “anak ni Ma’am” even if my mother abandoned teaching for a government hacking job.

When an opportunity to teach formally presented itself, I initially nixed the idea – I didn’t have the personality, my lifestyle was far from scholarly, and a thousand and one legit reasons. As they say, the rest is history. A more powerful philosophy outweighed the thousand reasons. What philosophy, bitch? “Obey first before you complain.” Of coursefuckingnot. Me, a fascist?

Emerson, the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson, raised the cup of consolation, dispelling the bowl of reservation (oi, na-rhyme): “Let us bravely breast the winds; ‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.”

Formal teaching was indeed, a new world. Teaching human rights modules to peasants was not exactly the same as standing in a classroom of young people who were made to believe they were crème of the crop, pastilan. All this elitist indoctrination of being the so-called “chosen few,” correct or otherwise, steered a motivation to animate what was otherwise dull, flat, torpid subjects.

Years later when I was back to my NGO roots, a dear mentor Sir D in one of his epic-letters, offered a fount of wisdom in dealing with students that was very reaffirming.

I quote: “Must exude a cultivated air but no pedantry, humor but no flatulence. Most of all, integrity and passion. Both must be present; lacking these two, all the erudition and the elegant diction in the world avail us nothing.”

Then paraphrasing the Psalmist, the letter continued, “a clean heart and a renewed spirit, this is what we must try to have.”

Bereft of such elegance, let this letter stand as guidepost to former students who have become teachers themselves. Been needling RP who’s teaching Philosophy these days to let me sit in but he adamantly refuses.

Hey, I can take no for an answer but I am not resting my case yet. Maybe, I should camp outside RP’s classroom with my old handy thermos filled with kape and home-made egg sandwiches. Fun, fun, fun.

One More Burger Spoiled

Emotionally exhausted from the 2 OTs of Game 4 between SMB and the Burger Kings earlier. By the skin of my crooked teeth, SMB grabbed a commanding 3-1 lead. This is moot and academic but I feel a bit crushed for Game 2, it was winnable but in the end....I mean, this series could have been over already tonight, a sweet sweep.

But you cannot take an excellent tactician out of Yeng Guaio, incidentally the current coach of the national team. He's an opponent who warrants respect and his boys are playing damn well. SMB is just getting the breaks, the gods are just smiling on us.

Was I being prophetic or what? That whiner Pennisi was ejected in the 2nd quarter, for second motion (according to the refs) and for yakking most wives would lose gas on (according to moi). It was bound to happen, the writings on the wall were GradeI-readable. Pennisi ended up sweating it out in the dugout, impotent to help his team (which happens to be my team, grrr!!) or was it a blessing in disguise? You can't be a frigging drama queen on court and gain respect as a player. Another career is waiting on the wings for DQs and whiners. Not on my team, please.

I should have castrated this Pennisi when SMB came to town last month, hmp.

Rain and BahRANi

"Why does it always rain on me?
Is it because I lied when I was 17?" Travis, "Why does it Always Rain on Me?"

A big fan of rain as long as my rain-boots are on. The sprinklers up there in the azure skies have been turned off. Looking out from the bedroom window, no trace of dampness is evident, as if the torrential downpour was nothing but a teaser of a B-movie. Why do dramatic movies resort to rain effects on the 98th minute?

Speaking of movies, not watched one in a great while. Gae reminded me J. Taylor's "Across the Universe" is playing on HBO this month, one of the last movies I saw before getting sick last year. A DVD courtesy of the friendly pirates of Carriedo is tucked somewhere but the soundtrack more than satisfies.

There's a bunch of new cinema-houses in TC courtesy of a new mall. It's pandemonium I heard - people whom you've inferred have gone fugitive or underwent sex-change surgeries or have been abducted by UFOs or have simply bumped you off their orbits, make mysterious appearances for unplanned reunions. A mall, for crying out loud. This commercial bait can truly startle the dead from their grave.

Except for those European film festivals sponsored by various embassies that I hardly missed when I was still in das kapital (read: in the Manila), I have expunged moviehouses from the itinerary. Ultimately, film-watching is a solitary experience regardless of the throng shrieking or hollering or whatever it finds fit as reactions inside the theater.

Yet even as it is a solitary, private ritual, I believe films have to be celebrated and digested in multiple ways, giving birth to manifold interpretations. It is the conversation or should I risk using the term deconstruction, that ensues, which lends films their enduring power.

Maybe this is the reason I'm not too keen on movies lately. There's no one to pull the curtains off with. Joms, the person constituting 95% of my film appreciation isn't around to squeeze those juices. Hope he's got Bahrani's "Goodbye, Solo" by now. If there's one film that will easily drag my lazy carcass from the menagerie of Santan Street to the bigger menagerie of say, Robinson's Mall, it's Bahrani's 3rd outing. Old folks say 3's a charm. I am excited to what he's got on his sleeves this time, this fellow Kiarostami-worshipper.

While I was Sleeping.....

The Ayatollah Khamenei addressed the multitude in Iran. Did anyone miss Cardinal Sin? Images of Bishop Tutu flashed. In the 21st century, there is no indication that the fusion of religion and politics is suffering recession, its collapse not forthcoming, I'm afraid.

In sports, Shahid Afridi’s Pakistan wrestled the ICC World20 trophy from Sri Lanka.

A separatist mutiny over at Formula One against perceived inconsistencies of FIA rulings, the last straw being the 60M expense cap set, seen by many to lead to further deterioration on the quality of the races. I once asked a priest-friend whose driving speed matches a Grand prix winner, if it’s the man or the machine that spells the difference in racing. He said it’s both the skill of the racer and the superiority of the machine. Whatever it is, it is better - cars than horses.

Now for the heartbreaking – Italy bowed out of the Confederations Cup, courtesy of the 3-nil massacre of Kaka’s Brazil. This stings. It was Cannavaro’s 126th cap and he got trashed for not being mentally adroit. When one allows an opponent to score 3 goals – not just one, not just two, but “tigol,” you gotta make your main defender culpable somehow. Even with Brazil’s arsenal, sure, the team’s barrage of talent is a cause of envy but 3 goals is too much of a poor defense from Team Italia.

This news bleeds. I am upset for the Azzurris. Playing for the Confederations Cup is a good tune-up as any for the World Cup. Maybe, it’s the huge philosophical shift to play more fluid, progressive football in Serie A, crushing the impression that Italian football is snore-inducing. Cantennacio is forsaken for a high-octane, high-scoring brand of football associated with South America, particularly Brazil. Even Canna relinquishes the dominance of defense but is hopeful that “in 5-6 years, defense will make a comeback”. By that time, he will not be part of Forza Italia. Sad.

Still with football, the Philippine national football team (yes, we have one) is currently quarantined in Singapore due to this swine flu hullabaloo. I texted Yaye he should feel relieved his son Kewell is still too young to be part of the team. Otherwise, he would have gone berserk with worry by now.

Hmm…if I were quarantined (God forbid), I wish it would be with Real Madrid, er, make it Juventus. Canna is returning to his former team, Ole!

Queen of Pain

“Antonio knows that pleasure
Is a child of pain” - Michael Franks, “Antonio’s Song”

Over the stern disapproval of my oncologist, I’ve been booking sessions with a chiropractor since April. It’s an astral experience, perhaps nearly similar to childbirth.

The chiropractor explains that my lymphatic channel is obstructed resulting to 2 major drawbacks. First, toxins are not flashed out, forcing them to linger in my frail body. Second, which is more glaring, the brain’s signals to the body are garbled or not picked up in their proper context. This is the reason why my body, before this chiropractor’s hands were allowed to press nerve-endings here and there, could not recognize pain.

Gee, eureka moment for me, lending clarity to constant ribbings of being “manhid.” That's why I am not ticklish at all. My body just blocked any form of sensation, mostly pain. Amazingly, the body unilaterally decided it’s pain that it shouldn’t recognize, not any other emotion. What if it were joy or love or fear and loathing in Vegas? And Sarah is wailing “And I fear, I have nothing to give. I have so much to lose here in this lonely place..”

Yes, my eyes on the ball here, I was rambling about the body unable to comprehend pain.

While fellow cancer patients exhausted their S2 prescription, that’s the yellow prescription regulating hard drugs such as painkillers, here I was strutting like a favored child of heaven, devoid of discomfort, not needing the aid of a druggist.

Now that my central nervous system is being repaired by the chiropractor and physical pain has made a resurgence in my material world, every philosophical canon, every Zen incantation, lose their insight. It’s unproductive to wax philosophy when pain marches centerstage.

My sister, in a magnanimous gesture of sympathy, asked “want something for the pain?” “Weed, just weed,” I implored. “Get it yourself,” she retorted.

What option did I have but to settle with something that rhymes with weed – read!!! But pain bars you from digesting new information so I ended up re-reading Zadie Smith’s “White Teeth” over my 'painful' weekend in honor of my yellowish, crooked ones. Seriously.

But mostly, sleep. Sleep, the sleep of the innocent, is the best antidote to pain. The pain can go a-throbbing but you’re in wonderland, thank heavens, where it is not welcome.

******************************************************************************

On another note, the discovery of anaesthesia is considered not just a eureka moment, but a social revolution of sorts. It revealed cracks in the institutional church’s position that pain came with being Christians; that as Christians, there was no option but to endure it.

This mea culpa attitude was overthrown in this crucial shift in the mindset regarding pain. It was only in 1957 thru Pope Pious XII that the Church relaxed its anti-anaesthesia stance, thank you very much. Yes, pain is essential to our existence but if we can avoid it, why not?

Weed, give me my weed. Ai, mistake. Erase, erase.

Wage, decent wage for the working class!!

Let's Wine, not Whine

Haven’t watched NBA games since Rodman retired his 91 (if there’s an emergency, who do you call?) jersey. Wait, Garnett when he was with the Timberwolves, was in my radar for a split-second but nah, Rodman is irreplaceable. I have just started watching PBA games again this year, off and on. This I have to say, nothing beats the fun and chaos of “kanto” basketball, the basketball I grew up watching as a kid through this “liga-liga.”

Some of my fondest memories with Dantoy is getting fried in open air in our sleeping clothes, munching on icedrop or icecandy, doing what I enjoy: heckling at basketball players who didn’t know us from Adam.

Game 3 between my favorite SMB and the Burger Kings earlier was quite brusque and physical, Game 4 makes me a bit nervous. That Pennisi is a whiner, my pet peeve. I can take a selfish, uncerebral player any day, but a whiner? On my team, at that? With his heft and attitude, Pennisi is hardly a finesse player. He should learn playing rough but tough. Engage in all the trash-talking you want but never lose composure. I would not recommend trashtalking as a weapon but if you have to engage in it, do it to gain advantage, not to lose your form. Whiners, they have no room in professional sports.

I miss Rodman on such moments, his calculated antics, all the reverse psychology in his bag of tricks people found infuriating like openly applauding a good play by an opponent, reaching out to an opponent kissing the floor after being defeated in jockeying, taunting Alonzo Mourning to get dirtier, tapping Malone or Kemp on the shoulder every time they missed their free throws, chuckling everytime he was being elbowed and the referees wouldn’t blow their whistle. The man loved playing basketball, he took everything in good stride and a truck of humor.

I miss those unknown players from the barrios who played with their hearts and unwittingly provided us clean entertainment and valuable lessons in life, those players whose poverty cannot be concealed with their lanky bodies and their badly beaten footwear. We often witnessed how one pair of sneakers was passed from one player to another, one time a left pair just bursting out of exhaustion in the court and the crowd roared in laughter and awe. Magical moments in amateur basketball that fill your heart with I don’t know, what’s the word besides joy?

Game 4 is on Wednesday. It should be physical, let the referees reign supreme. The players should just focus on their gameplan. Enough of the whining. It's not attractive.

Pop Goes the World

“May the light of this flickering candle
Illuminate the night the way your spirit
Illuminates my soul” - Barbara Streisand, “Papa, Can you hear Me?”

To E, first-time father of Elijah and Ezekiel, this day exalts you. Stop fretting about being tentative, fatherhood is an instinctive, reflexive vocation. Those self-help books with their hard-and-fast rules can go rot, every child is unique and an individual.

It's natural you intend to illuminate your children's trail, be the beacon of light ala-Reagan. This early, you’re already thinking what books and movies they should be exposed to, don't you want them to be babies forever, freeze them in their innocent stage?

I may not be a great help in this department but let me toss a suggestion or two. For movies, "The Royal Tenenbaums," those twins in their ubiquitous Adidas tracksuit were simply adorable. "Simon Birch" for the universal message of love, "Little Rascals" for Alfa-alfa's romanticism, "Goodbye, Lenin," a showcase of the great lengths a child is willing to go for a parent. Once they are old enough, they should be schooled in Iranian cinema, there's nothing like it. Kiarostami is a great teacher, I have written odes about him in the past so I won't start now. Of course, you would argue for Italian neo-realism or the French new wave or the glorious era of Pinoy cinema, fine with me.

We didn't have any of these while growing up and we didn't turn out that bad, did we? I had Charlie Chaplin, the 3 Stooges, those old LVN and Sampaguita-produced movies, Jackie Chan and Nino Muhlach starrers, and a little of Sesame Street with Big Bird and company.

For books, how about Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness"? All those survivor-tales of Auschwitz for a balance of good and evil and Hemingway. Definitely, Hemingway. Your children are boys, they should read macho stuff before they are introduced to the Arundhati Roys of this world. I do remember your beautifully-crafted review of "The God of Small Things."

Surprised? That's me, I don't remember major headlines but I remember the coldness of the beer in a particular pub, a shirt one wore to a gig, a dinner you prepared when you were still staying in Ocampo, near Singalong, all these small things.

It is in this spirit that I salute you, so enamored of fatherhood. It's gorgeous.

Love will tear us apart

Been going out for coffee lately, feeling like a mermaid stepping on land for the first time.

When I opened the novel I have not touched for 2 days, the pages stared back with hostility.

The exciting stories of T from her Uganda exploits, of icky sensations on the brink of, shall I pronounce it - love, more than compensate.

Yes, Lester Burnham (played by the Kevin Spacey in Sam Mendes' "American Beauty"), you are never more correct in exhorting that we can't be mad because there's too much beauty in the world.

Maybe, I'm just sleepy from all the coffee but yeah, there is no guarantee that by staying furious, the problem takes flight on its own. "Development work" disenchants as it inspires but if you abandon it, what's the tradeoff? In the midst of it, love stumbles, comes knocking.

There are times when we are half-convinced we don't belong. Our choices may not be commonplace but let us not allow ourselves to be exiled. Those who could not live with our choices, they should be the ones to take a hike.

Baudelaire in "The Painter of Modern Life" sheds light:"to see the world, to be at the center of the world yet to remain hidden from the world - such are a few of the slightest pleasures of those independent, passionate, impartial natures which the tongue can but clumsily define."

T, just follow the dictates of your heart. Fuck Batailee, love is not the most distant possibility. It's within your reach, just an inch away. Move closer. Jump and hold still.

Heart over Mind

“Someday, when someone else’s arms are around us
When time has put some distance between us
The years will kindly show
How mem’ries come and go
They ebb and flow, like the tides” - Barbara Streisand, “Places That belong to You”

Neuroscientists at the University of Sheffield posit that “the part of the brain practicing empathy is not the same part that assesses forgivability of an offense.” What does this imply?

All our ethical values shaped by philosophy and religion might be less influential as we have previously assumed. With this finding, it appears that the brain decodes by itself and makes its own neurological distinctions. Interesting.

Does this in any way explain why we can eventually forgive people who schooled us in betrayal, infidelity, and fraud yet we can’t go past the persons who didn’t reciprocate our affections, those who played dead to our overtures?

A classmate F is friends with all his now-Insignificant Others but is scornful of any mention of J, the girl who didn’t give him the time of day, fancying somebody else. What’s one honest snub to a string of insincere compliments and exhausting placations of a jealous heart he was subjected to by his numerous girlfriends? Isn’t forgiveness proportional to the severity of an offense? I can’t understand why it’s easier to deal with an ex playing footsie with another guy than extending a handshake to someone who doesn’t fit in the category of either past or future whatever.

Are some people easier to forgive than others? Is it because of who and what they represented at one point in our lives? Me thinks people we genuinely like can do nothing wrong – their abrasiveness, I call candor; their atrocity, I call mischief.

Take the case of Joey de Leon, my favorite rascal, whose Barbie and Starzan series are considered by my HS male classmates the pinnacle of Pinoy movie craftsmanship. Long before that, the Escalera brothers’ musical antics were my nursery tunes, courtesy of our neighbor’s extensive vinyl collection. So when JDL takes potshots at “Wowowee,” for example, there’s nothing to forgive because golly-goo, he’s the man.

We are tolerant and forgiving of people we don’t dislike. El Duque once berated me for carrying a Vaclav Havel book around, his contempt palpable, “You’re reading him? He’s anti-communist.” Another friend reproaches my Coetzee-fascination, “I don’t believe you admire someone who never spoke out against apartheid.”

In a different circumstance, these unsavory remarks might have been met with a combative repartee but since they’re not mouthed by people you dislike, everything is placed under the rug, Matutina-style.

Maximum or minimum tolerance is a capricious practice, depending on the like-dislike factor, I guess. In Philippine showbiz, I can exercise maximum tolerance to Lolit Solis but zero-nil-zilch for Annabelle Rama. What’s the equalizer?

Neuroscientists might be wrong, after all. It’s not the brain that decodes and rules, it’s the heart. More likely, you can bet my pwet.

Gabriel's Choice

I’m certain, 80%, that I would make an awful TV/radio host - questions smacked in gross blunder. Either they would be overwrought in their zeal or torturous in their inanity.

Raising questions are tougher than answering them, I surmise. Now that I’m just home trying to be healthy again, I have the opportunity to watch talk shows and this I realized, good interviews are largely handiworks of good interviewers more than interviewees.

Robert Smith of The Cure once grouched over tiresome questions “What’s your favorite drink?” and the likes, constantly tossed at him. A music journalist seeking reprieve asked him what question did he want to address. The Cure frontman, with no trace of irony, recommended, “Why are you so scarily good?” Nice one.

Creative artists, I suspect, bemoan to describe their creative process, not only because it spoils the magic or disrupts the intimacy but I bet, even they themselves, cannot fully articulate how a spur of an idea grows arms and legs and wings.

Who’s that director who said that once he knows how his film is going to end before he even begins shooting, he sees no point doing it or words to that effect? Haay! The name is just in my mindyard, buried in oblivion. I hate it when I forget tidbits, just frigging hate it, argh!

Anyway, journalists and talk show hosts are fond of cornering artists to disclose their favorite song or album or novel or film among the artists’ body of work. That’s pretty toxic.

It came as a mild shock that in the latest biography, Gabriel Garcia Marquez: A Life, a product of 17 years of research by one Gerald Martin, the Colombian author of stupefying, spectacular sentences confessed that his best novel is “The Autumn of the Patriarch” released in 1975.

I don’t know which surprised me – that he was actually able to pick a favorite because I sort of expected him to demur like most artists or that of all clever things to tell, he had to select a novel which this non-fan hasn’t read. That’s not hip, Gabriel.

Somewhere in our small house, two novels are buried in a cobweb of dust. Sure, safe choices for a non-fan: “100 Years of Solitude” and “Love in The Time of Cholera”. I read “Memories of My Melancholy Whores” at Powerbooks (yippee!) without paying a single cent.

Memo to self: scour friends’ libraries because you can’t afford to buy books.

Martin, the author of the latest biography, suggests that “The Autumn….” is loosely based on Fidel Castro with whom Marquez shares in his own words, an “intellectual friendship” with, something Marquez is heavily criticized for by fellow writers. Without reading the book yet, I risk disagreeing. Marquez is such a passionate, partisan individual, the fact that he can actually pick a favorite among his novels needs no greater testament. He is super-loyal to Fidel and I fairly remember an article of his spirited defense of Pres. Clinton at the time of the Lewinsky brouhaha, fanning the hypocrisy of the conservative right. I think, more than any other written work, that write-up is my most admired. I don’t think he is capable of painting a caricature of a friend with whom he shares a tight connection with.

Mario Vargas Llosa with whom Marquez had a quibble with and a public fistfight in 1975(something to do with a lover, so goes the speculation) which led to that black-eyed photo of Marquez circulated about 2 years ago branded the latter as “Castro’s lackey.”

Novelists, we gasp at their lack of inventiveness in name-calling.

Thank You for the Music

“Thank you providence, thank you frailty
Thank you clarity, thank you consequence,
Thank you silence” - Alanis Morisette, “Thank You”

A gig was cooked up by college friends Jigolo and Gae, along with their friends from the Taclo-BAND scene to help me transition to the wellness track.

Over at FB, this plan stewed. Since I don’t have an FB account, I was clueless until the last minute. I admit to having reservations at first – people might think I was making a business of my illness although I squashed the thought at once. Just because I can be malicious at times (ehem!) doesn’t mean everyone is. I apologize, gracious Lord, for thinking badly of my fellow.

Over that, it’s the squeaky feeling of being fussed at, that nagging thought that I don’t deserve this attention. I am immensely grateful and humbled by this unexpectedly pleasant effort. I feel the love, my heart flies.

The generosity, thoughfulness, and kindness of friends and relatives since I got sick are just in full tank. Just thinking about it leaks some liquid round my eyes. Tissue, please.

Guilt sometimes creeps at being a bum on the road to health but a religious friend enlightens that crises are vehicles for people to demonstrate their goodness. By helping someone in need, people are actually reaffirmed. That thought makes me feel a bit lighter.

It’s reaffirming too that music is the vehicle by which all this display of generosity and talent gestated. If I had a say, I would have suggested macho dancers gyrating in libidinal abandon (are you reading this, Jigolo?), elephant and hurricane wouldn’t prevent me from attending the gig.

I heard that Morrissey and Duran tunes were played, a fitting tribute to the days of our innocence. When Jigs dropped by our place on the day of the gig, he caught me playing songs from “Hatful of Hollow” rather loudly – The Smiths-mode, so time-warped. Spank me.

Again, a whale of thanks. Me and my family confer all the sacred blessings in this universe to all of you. Salamuch from the bottom, top, lateral of my promiscuous heart.

Advice to the Young at Heart

“Batang-bata ka pa at marami ka pang kailangang intindihin sa mundo” - Apo Hiking Society, “Batang-Bata"

Some of my batchmates are already parents to college freshmen, wow. Where did I waste my time, hmm? To my unborn children, these tips whose usefulness you reserve judgment on for later:

01. Never fear ideas. Suspect people who do but always be respectful of contrary ideas.

02. Walk unafraid. Do not strive for balance, welcome tensions and doubts.

03. Always be on the side of justice. Be uncompromising in your principles but never be dogmatic.

04. Don’t belabor too much on getting answers instantly. There is more beauty in the question.

05. Share what you have without expecting something in return.

06. Show courtesy especially to those who don’t deserve it.

07. Read, read till you go blind. No minute is ever wasted with a book as a companion. Reading is the cheapest way to travel – it’s like going to another country or learning a new language.

08. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” says Dylan Thomas. U2 seconds the motion, “Kick the darkness till it bleeds daylight.” Be warned however, that those who strive to see the light must endure the pain of burning.

09. Celebrate life. Don’t devalue life with your indifference and lack of concern.

10. Love, love without quarters; love with no ifs and buts. Waray karag-sukli, waray karag-bawi, waray karag-basul.

Ring-a-ring, A-roses

With this ring
I frolic with the harlot
Trapped in this self-righteous fortress

With this ring
I can ignore the pregnant stare
Directed at my growing belly

With this ring
I come home empty

With this ring
I don’t feel a thing

60 Poems

“It was easier to meet a genuine Communist than someone who read poetry” (Charles Simic in a 1998 Cortland Review interview)

Stored in my phone inbox is DD’s New Year message: May you be “delighted by the size of the unimaginable/the great nowhere, the everlasting nothing/pure and serene doggedness/for the hell of it….and love” – words of Poet Laureate, Charles Simic.

Whenever I need a fix, this Simic gem makes the grade in restoring the lordship of congruity amidst the discomfiture and commotion of life. Poetry is endowed with that talisman, but not all poets wave the wand of a sorcerer.

Simic’s poems have been described by reverent critics as “incandescent, incantory, and otherwordly.” I made acquaintance with just a few of his wordcraft, I’m not sure what period these critics are describing, a younger Simic, perhaps? Because the poems I developed affinity with are downright simple and mundane, resonant of W. Auden although the comparison warrants some judiciousness, apologies to a few friends who worship Auden like no other. Here’s a sample:

“You give the appearance of listening
To my thoughts, o trees” (Evening Walk)

“Old men have bad dreams
So they sleep little” (Graveyard Schoolchildren)

And this brave poem that I cannot, regretfully, use as a prayer-poem:

“Boss of all bosses of the universe
Mr. know-it-all, wheeler-dealer, wire-puller….
Doesn’t it give you the creeps
To hear them begging you on their knees” (To the One Upstairs)

Paging anyone who has a relative, a friend, a lover, an ex-lover, a neighbor who has Simic’s book of poetry, may I borrow even for just a day or two?

Yes, he’s a google away but I’m old school. I do not go for reading poetry or any novel, for that matter, in a computer screen. It takes away the intimacy. If there’s a word or phrase leaping with ebullience, I have this uncured habit of rubbing my fingers on it as if to sooth and absorb something in a trance. Or placing a book on my chest, hugging it for a while when the emotion is too much to bear.

E-books, they’re downloadable and free but they don’t give me the fix. It’s too, what’s the word – impersonal.

Nukes in the News

Media is drudging up apprehensions of a nuclear arms race in Asia as an outcome of N. Korea’s nuclear drills. Are we back to 1982 once more?

Since the dissolution of the USSR, spin doctors have had a real challenge on their hands – how to maintain a propaganda war of polarization to justify US aggression-mode. For years, its propaganda machine deceived us into believing the USSR was a superpower posing danger to the world. When the Iron Curtain was unveiled, we discovered the magnitude of its poverty and the daunting task of reconstruction and rehabilitation those countries needed.

For the US as a lone superpower there ever was/is, it’s an imperative to manufacture enemies like playthings. It has to invent an adversary equally fearful and strong. Otherwise, it shall be completely exposed as a bully.

It’s peanuts to demonize NK. There’s no love lost here. NK is a police-state with a deplorable human rights record. Images of soldiers marching crisply reminiscent of Stalin’s Russia magnify the country’s diabolical representation to the world at large.

NK is at the cusp of economic death, very similar to Japan’s situation before it went to war in the 1940s. Japan was choked off from its access to oil, among other things, pushing it to a “tipping point,” to borrow the buzzword of Philippine civil society denizens.

The economic blockade and international isolation imposed on NK has reached a “tipping point” – it is in dire straits and only its fascistic practices are able to contain a civil unrest. Its nuclear drills are acts of desperation to seize the world’s attention. It’s not a display of might for what real might does it have?

In analogy, NK is a madman taking his own son hostage because he lost his job and could no longer feed his children. Will the SWAT shoot him or work for an amicable negotiation?

Insanity, It Seemed

“Do you have the time
To listen to me whine?” - Green Day, “Basketcase”

2008 was rather a bastard of a year – cancer made a splashing comeback to my otherwise sprightly existence and more likely, this dabbed napalm on my mother’s heart that pronounced her dead one regular day in October.

For a while, the world screeched to a halt – there’s a panic of the senses, terror at a dreary future, paranoia about being the crux to the dimming of spark of everyone in your magic circle. The mountain of guilt perched on my shoulder is what Ben Okri calls “unfinished weeping,” my own Calvary of sadness that seeks but never finds settlement, a home to rest - forces me to be tough beyond my wildest imagination.

I kicked my mother to her grave, depriving my siblings the comfort of her presence. It’s a bitter pill and no matter how I rebuff myself that I am not God, that I am just a slave to this Supreme Being, this guilt-trip won’t reach its shore for a while.

No one needs to understand my point, I just had to let it out. Finally, I had the guts to revisit what I call my “insanity journal,” recorded at a time my morale needed babysitting. Being sick and physically weak alters one’s sense of self and my scribbling a good part of last year was astonishingly dark and lonely, gibberish at most times. I could hardly decipher my handwriting as I was too weak to even write.

I leafed through my older journals. The writing was gibberish still as if feverishly drunk but those notebooks were adorned with comic strips, lyrics, poems, cut-outs of horoscope and war pictures, cards, snapshots of my favorite musicians and players, drawings done by cousins and friends, concert tickets, what-have-you. Colors screamed from the pages.

The “insanity journal” however is a sad documentation. I cringed just reading the entries on the anniversary of my long confinement. Here’s what I am talking about:

Entry 1: Sleep is a commodity I cannot buy. How could it be elusive?

Entry 2: A symphony of dog barks from several blocks away provides me company.

Entry 3: I am staring at nothing in particular. I just want to close my eyes. My thoughts stray but not too far.

Entry 4: Plan for the day: fold dried clothes.

Entry 5: It’s about to rain. I hear the roaring thunder. I love the sound of raindrops.

Entry 6: A week without mishap, just the general feeling of harmony, of being in harmony with the world. I wish for a kinder world – less cruel and brutal for our chidren. It’s still raining.

Entry 7: Georgelablab is terrified of thunder, hides under the sofa and only comes out when it’s all quite.

Entry 8: I feel weak today, not been eating very well. Terrible taste buds.

Entry 9: Two days wedded to the bed – nagging cough. Just spend the hours coughing, terrible.

Entry 10: Today’s a Friday. It means we’ll be complete for lunch tomorrow.

Reading these entries again tempts me to pick a match and set the “insanity journal” on fire. If only I could disavow ever writing this crap and drink some liquid-poison.

Bastard of a writing, sonofabitch.

Wood Hath Hope

Stooping down as if to say everything amounts to nothing – my towering height, my dependable force, wisdom brought by years of interacting with the elements: earth, water, wind, and fire.

Arms reaching to the heavens as if to say “we are nothing” amidst the barbarism of humans who do not respect the fact that we were here first.

Lovers carve their names on our bodies - they desecrate us with the emptiness of their promises. Capitalists break our arms for profit.

Protect us, God of Creation, whose wisdom for giving us life cannot be questioned. Bless us, God of History who always sides with the oppressed and exploited.

Honesty is Such a Lonely Word

“Denial, but hey, who’s on trial?” - Interpol, “Evil”

A blizzard of denials: The Palace has nothing to do with the frenzied move for Con-Ass. The Palace has nothing to do with questionable mining activities and the recent abduction of Bayan Muna activists. The Palace had nothing to do with the stealthy whisking away of Daniel Smith, smashing protocols and making the DOJ look stupid.

If the GMA administration distances itself from all of these, washing its hands off these, having nothing to do with any of these, then what the frigging hell can this administration admit to doing? As it claims, nothing.

In recent history, 6 buses are razed to the ground, a Globe cellsite is bombed, a cop is taken as POW (prisoner of war), an oppressive landlord is slain, and just several days ago, a certain Evelyn Pitao, sister of an NPA commander in Southern Mindanao was sentenced by the Merardo Arce Command for her “blood debts,” selling information to the military being one of the major crimes.

The New People’s Army (NPA), in principle and practice, issues an official statement owning these acts, risking alienation and censure from the public. That’s a lot of balls.

What a difference in posturing. Sure, this sounds biased coming from me but whether or not you have an iota of sympathy to the revolutionary cause is out of the question. The naked truth screams: denial is not their thing. My respect soars.

Up until college, summers were spent in Carmen, Bohol. My grandparents could not afford books but they made up for it by regaling us with their recollection of the Japanese occupation, several variations of “The Lion and the Monkey,” fables of the spirit-world, and modern tales of “Tawo nga walay mga Tsinelas” (folks without slippers), referring to the NPAs.

Oh, the tales about rebels were more ludicrous than the ghost-stories – that they had supernatural power, that their bodies were bullet-proof protected by amulets, that they could be at 3 places at the same time, that they were shape-shifters and could transform on caprice, to a dog or a pig. Intriguingly fascinating.

The old folks repeatedly assured that these rebels only hurt bad people. Hence, there was nothing to fear.

When I was 11-12, a politician in my mother’s home-barrio was gunned down in broad daylight and the locals were not outraged as I expected. Instead, they blamed the politician for not heeding to the 3 warnings issued by the rebels.

Strange but when someone was killed, even the local police anticipated for the NPA’s official statement before they launched into an investigation of their own. If the NPA owned up to a killing, the case was closed. That’s how its honesty and credibility were appreciated on the ground, even by the cops.

Now, can we dare GMA to show some tinge of honesty? Show some balls, nga di-puga.

The Coconut Nut

Rocking with the pulse of the wind because everthing belongs to the wind, after all. Leaves bend not of their own whim. The roots detach from the earth to another world. The fruit leaves its nest because it is TIME.

What remains is a fog of a memory but even that cannot be trusted because like corks of wine bottles, the fit loosens with TIME.

Mad World

"This earth belongs to the mad" (Dr. Fischelson, a character in Isaac Bashevis Singer's "The Spinoza of Market St.")

There’s a disturbing article at www.anti-war.com quoting Israel’s Minister Yossi Peled vowing to take a more aggressive role to undermine the Democratic Party and force Pres. Obama to take a more pro-Israel stance. This came in the wake of Jon Voight’s, better-known as Angelina Jolie’s dad, public attack on Pres. Obama being a “false prophet.” This was followed by TV guestings at Murdoch’s loony lair assailing the US president’s “inexperience and naivety” and branding him a “weakling.”

What leaves me cold about these attacks is that they are personal, image-driven, race-toned jabs, departing from substantive issues. Of late, there’s a spate of wacko white supremacist adventures, you gotta seriously fear for Obama’s life.

A roll-call of usual suspects: First, the military-industrial complex – as long as Obama doesn’t pull out in any of the wars the US is engaged in, this sector is generally happy. Obama scored 2 major plus-points by not making public those controversial torture photos and just today, showing some fangs and claws on North Korea.

Second, the bureaucratic capitalists, the draconian money-politics clique – with the bailouts and the stimulus package, their butts are saved. They have every reason to be grateful.

This leaves us to the extreme right-wingers and their propensity for “isolated acts of violence.”

“Isolated acts of violence,” my sorry ass. Media language is biased. If it were suicide-bombers, it would be reported as “orchestrated, deliberate, acts of violence.” If the perpetrator is a pro-gun, anti-abortion WASP, it’s an “isolated act of violence.”

Two can play this bias-game. Sus, Ginoo.

The Sky is a Landfill

A Jeff Buckley bio-pic in the offing, I just read in an entertainment website. Two names are being tossed: James Franco and "Twilight" star Robert Pattinson to play him. Even if I find James Franco beautiful, I will have no moral baggage ripping his throat out if he screws up. Oopps, this is not an open endorsement for him to ink the deal or am I that easy.... to read?

As an adorer, shall I compose chants of resistance with my naked voice? Shall I organize the army to storm the gates of Hollywood, pointedly criticizing the thematic conceit of these producers that they can serve justice to the memory of a gifted artist in full benediction?

There is nothing that would enthrall me than for people to create sequels after sequels of Buckley, stubbornly refusing to let his legacy die but a bio-pic? I have to lend some misgivings. Isn't "Amazing Grace" enough? Must some people continue to make money out of his short and brutish life?

"Opened Once," is ringing in my head: "I am a railroad track abandoned, with the sunset forgetting that I ever happened, that I ever happened." It's my "Hello, Pain hymn" as I am fond of setting a musical score to my personal mythologies. I have a soundtrack for almost anything - a soundtrack for doing laundry, a soundtrack for scrubbing floors, a sountrack to get a spiritual lift, and so on. Anything to get me going.

I cannot imagine anyone singing with so much consecration the haunting lines "Just like the ocean, always in love with the moon...We fly right over the minds of so many in pain. We are the smile of the light that brings them rain. In the half-light where we both stand, in the half-light, you saw me as I am." (Opened Once)

Frak! These rebellious tears so early in the day.

The Boy with a Thorn on his Side

"I am human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does" The Smiths, "How Soon is Now?"

In college, straight from the boisterous loose-ends of a PolSci class, Literature hour beckoned. Two buzzwords I learned: “stream of consciousness” and “tragic flaw.”

Traipsing between the two fields enabled me to experience a slight paradigm shift in character-treatment. In PolSci, no political actor is sui generis. There is a remarkable absence of personal autonomy and the focal point is how events and outcomes are swayed by a much-looming political synergy. In other words, the individual is rendered insignificant.

In fact, in the big picture, there is no individual as a unit, as an entity, as a reality. Super-villains are not persons but institutions, a prevailing belief and value system, a powerful economic minority. The theoretical language of the Left harps on collective action and class struggle – always persons in the plural.

In Lit, the individual is an imposing figure, not a product of myth. The individual is so much alive, charting his own path, building his own legend, conquering history. It was such a breath of fresh air.

Peeking into “stream of consciousness,” my limited grasp of dialectics proved to be a reliable guidepost. KM provides one of the plausible explanations of consciousness-formation: “It’s not the consciousness of men that determines their existence, rather, it’s their social existence that determines their consciousness.” It was quite a smooth ride.

However, when the professor started discussing “tragic flaw,” I plummeted into the pits of ignorance. Before that, I considered flaws endearing, even cute, but never tragic. The people I think the world of are highly flawed human beings and without anyone sermoning me on this valuable point, I have always embraced flaws more than semblances of perfection.

I go to a house with no clutter, nothing is out of place, not a speck of dust is evident, so Lysol-clean and I get dizzy. I enter a house stinking of cat-shit and dog-urine and I find it cozy and welcoming. (It’s our house I’m describing, actually).

So upon encountering the concept of “tragic flaw” for the first time, I was dumbfounded. For one, my familiarization with Greek tragedy was/is limited, my knowledge of Shakespeare was/is anemic. You hazard a guess – too much greed? Loving too much? Loving too little? Being born poor? Being impotent? The prof would vigorously nod his head in feigned annoyance. Who was exasperating who?

The elusive answers? The prof volunteered that the tragic flaw of Oedipus Rex was his obsession of the truth, his wanting to know everything. Hamlet’s was his failure to forget, his belief that everything fits and means something.

Ho-hum. What about falling in love with their mothers? I just don’t get the whole concept. What was Samson’s tragic flaw if not Delilah? What was John the Baptist if not Salome? What was Judas’? Christ’s?

At 17, “tragic flaw” was a canonical idea I wished to repudiate because my answers would always fall short and the mighty prof always had the last word. Why were we not simply told that “tragic flaw” is attendant to our mortality, our powerlessness, that it’s because we are not God?

Obviously, “tragic flaw” is a normative, not a descriptive concept. Wanting to know everything is a tragic flaw? Unable to forget is a tragic flaw? Sounds like a recipe concocted by the Washington consensus.

Normative rules are determined by power relations, here we go again (ho-hum) but convince me otherwise. Those with power dictate what is right and legal, are you blind? Those with power besiege the weak with fanciful ideas that “knowing and not forgetting” is a tragic flaw, God forbid. That’s exactly the fear of oppressive and evil imperialists – the political awakening of the powerless.

Ignorance and amnesia, that’s what exploiters and oppressors would want to inflict on the oppressed using all legal means, the educational system, in this instance. Make no mistake about this: education is empowering and subversive in itself, for as long as it encourages critical thinking and dialogue.

Going back to “tragic flaw,” I reflect on my own. Wishing happiness on everyone, that’s one among a thousand. First, it’s just not possible. Second, it’s just not fair. People who cause so much distress and misery shouldn’t have any right to be happy for a duration, if I were to decree.

No, we’re not talking about imperialists this time. I mean, the adorable boy who promised you the moon, the lovable boy who promised to buy the stars for you, Petra.

Cuba Goodwill

"The flames you stirred...

Raise a glass, make a toast

A toast in your honor" Tori Amos, "Toast"

Despite US’ desperate efforts to block the move and some compromises surrendered to placate Pentagon, the Organization of American States (OAS) finally lifted the 4-decade isolation imposed on Cuba by the Washington consensus, consequently isolating the US as the only country left on earth belligerently refusing diplomatic ties with Havana. About time, I say with vehemence. Cuba has been penalized so much and for what?

The failed campaign of the US against Latin America opening its arms to a long-lost brother is not lost on Fidel Castro. The OAS resolution is not something Cubans were begging and fighting for. In fact, Fidel lambasted OAS time and again for being a puppet to American interests and downplayed this historical vindication of sorts, poetic justice, if I may say.

It’s fait accompli, a mere formality. Several years before, Cuba’s steadfast “medical diplomacy” caused wreckage to its grotesque image deliberately conjured by the US and steadily converted prejudice and suspicion to respect and admiration of its spirit-cousins in Latin America and elsewhere.

Through Operacion Milagro, around 1.6 million people have restored their vision. At present, 24,000 foreigners are studying medicine in Cuba for free and Cuba sends thousands of medical practitioners to respond to disasters and help in capability-building efforts in the sphere of healthcare.

Maybe my soul is Black and Cuban because in my previous incarnation, yo era un Cubano. This is what I shall scribble on my notebooks, this is the story I shall share to my phantom grandchildren: This is not about the US thawing its animosity towards Cuba. This is not about US getting soft on Cuba.

Let’s give credit where it’s due. This is a result of Cuba’s confidence-building measures finally bearing fruit. This is Cuba’s much-deserved reward for its magnanimity towards the world that slammed its doors because Big Brother threatened not to give lollipops to anyone making friends with Fidel. This is Fidel’s fulfilled prophecy of “history will absolve me” echoed by Honduras President Zelaya.

No lie will remain unexposed forever or as music’s legitimate 3rd World superstar Bob Marley reggaed, “you can’t fool all the people all the time.” The incurably romantic in me clings to the idea that it’s the US slipping down, decreasing its clout, losing face in Latin America.

Realpolitik however, stares me in the eye: this is still a victory of capital. Of course, everybody is set to rake in huge profits if they establish economic relations with Cuba. Capital has more to lose if Cuba continues to be frozen in isolation. This is not lost on the US as its economic nemesis China and Brazil have the upperhand at the moment, reaping benefits from their Cuban tryst.

Let’s not get shocked if the US, in the next months, wrestles that economic advantage. Been there, done that.

Round and Round It Goes

“We’re captive on the carousel of time
We can’t return, we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round” Joni Mitchell, “Circle Game”

Blogging encourages lazy writing which suits me fine. My writing could not be anything but sloppy-lazy.

There was a time when circumstances forced the writing to be rather serious and purposive. Being part of a political organization in college provided discipline and impetus to write manifestos and burador under time-pressure. For the uninitiated, a burador is a working draft on specific topics calendared for discussions. There was colossal pressure to craft substantive, coherent, and comprehensible arguments because as a leftist organization, attacks came from all quarters. At the very least, we had to be sensible.

First, there was a perception that we were trouble-rousers. Teachers warned their students not to join. A fraternity which shall be unnamed dissuaded its recruits to even go near our “tambayan.” Students whom we wished to recruit were either apathetic or wary, can’t blame them. We were not exactly exemplars for academic excellence, a big deal for most students, but we strived to be riveting in our discourse. Most students didn’t want to cavort with us but at least, we pushed them away from their safe zones.

When I became a teacher myself, I could tell them apart – the activist and the regular student. Exercising prudent objectivity, let me just say that students who were politically involved may not have been the most academically-gifted but their sublime intelligence radiated and was more pronounced inside the classroom – they were surer of themselves, selfless and engaging in discourse, less morally enthusiastic, unafraid of discordant voices. They enlivened the class and kept me on my toes and to a certain extent, vivified their classmates.

I don’t know, maybe those students mirrored a younger, cockier version of myself. Maybe you have to be a college instructor to appreciate the value of such minds. There is nothing more that could drive instructors to contemplate suicide than to be confined in a quasi-deaf-and-mute class because the students are too timid or docile or indifferent.

In college, fresh from the boondocks of HIC and dogged by naivety, fascinating people were a throng in the activist circle – females who blew smoke heavier than a chimney who I might have described when I was still sugar-and-shit as “girls with unbridled passion who threw away their chastity belts in bold defiance” but now that I’m all-shit (minus the sugar), let me reconstruct it this way: women whose spirit was not of this world. Yet I never felt alien in their company.

The guys, some of them, have to be constantly reminded of hygiene but their journals had heartfelt scrawling of bittersweet poetry. Their articulations of an alternate universe could make a giddy girl’s panty wet, ooppps! How come I never got fatally attracted to any of them? Tsk….

It was a great time to get your bearings. I mean, the general idea of college is to enter adulthood and whether you are involved in any form of activism or not is not for me to pass judgment. The savagely romantic idea of being persecuted, pigeonholed, and misunderstood made the whole college experience enriching for me, I guess.

Those were starving days, oh boy. But no one can accuse us of being malnourished in philosophy. We mentored one another – a lot of book-swapping, exchange of musical heroes, sharing of writing concepts, criticizing one another’s works-in-progress, endorsements of Buddhism and existentialism.

The friendship I cultivated from that wellspring is quite special. Time and space set us apart. Some pursued their revolutionary calling. Some became boringly conservative like myself. Some joined the Establishment and defend the status quo.

At the end of the day, the cause never leaves you, truth be told. You may turn your back from it but like some ensnaring pain or stubborn virus, it never goes away.

You can call me Betty

“Mr. Beerbelly, Beerbelly…
With some roly-poly bat-faced girl” Paul Simon, “You Can Call me Al”

If my brother eggs me again about talent, I now come prepared: Name-calling, isn’t that daft?

This “talent” comes in 2 forms, the literal and the literary. For the literal, terms of endearment are coined. For example, with PolSci students, Dexter is Yummy, self-explanatory; Fernando is Tatang for being earnest, grim, and determined; Edson is Supsup or being the 1st Supremo of the revitalized Politikons, a title I subtly pushed to be adopted. Me and subtlety, a perfect match.

Then an Accounting student was re-baptized “X” for his disdain of x-rated movies and when asked how many x-rated movies he has viewed – none! Assailed him for disliking something he hasn’t tasted. A fine boy, X.

Among the Management majors, Miguel became SS, for sex symbol, again, self-explanatory. Ryan Bel was BF for “big fella”. For days, nobody called him BF except moi and then I noticed everyone was calling him BF and I felt quite smug that the name stuck only to find out BF now stood for “big fig.” My bad, my bad. Didn’t consider that students are much more inventive than their teachers.

Years later, bumped into BF in the vicinity of Pasong Tamo. He didn’t seem to mind still being called BF despite his major downsizing. Now I wonder what my students called me behind my back – the Ugly One?

Now the more important aspect of name-calling is something PolSci grooms you for. Prof ES, for instance, would say “that pineapple-faced, what’s-his-name,” referring to Noriega, Panama’s former (p)resident-tyrant. “Those Bible-hating Commies” or “that sour-faced founder of the CCP” and the list goes on and when cornered, Prof ES would douse off with her much-cherished mantra “Everything is a state of mind just like a doughnut. If there’s no hole in the middle, it’s no longer a doughnut.” Huh?!

PolSci opens you to a lot of frustrations or as A. Camus in “The Stranger” perfectly captures, “I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe.” The malevolence of humans, the powerlessness of politics, the futility of action – all these provoked a violence in our language, I guess. I have yet to meet a PolSci major who isn’t a good cusser.

You cannot run amuck with a bayonet, you’re forced to express your violence in cussing and name-calling. In tacit agreement, the classroom climate did not discourage. We were not gagged or reprimanded for irresponsibly saying “our baog nga congressman” or “our adik nga senador” or “that premature ejaculator councilor”. Slanderous, slanderous! The anarchy in language was healthy, I think, because now that I’m much older, I take conscious pain curbing my language.

In the activist circle, not a day passed without a difference of viewpoints. Looking back, it wasn’t really imagination that won arguments or debate points but boldness in name-calling.

If I wanted to wrap and nail a touchy discussion to my favor, I would begin attacking, “Waso ka man” or “Padla man it nga ideya, maski lurong mariwa” or any line of this tone.

If they don’t work, I use my last card – “Piyos ka man.” For whatever reason, it’s an effective shut-up line, I don’t know. Maybe, because men feel emasculated by such remark or they simply don’t have a rebuttal for that. What in God’s country is a female counterpart of “piyos”?

“Piyos,” the most effective name-calling there is.

Bye, Bye, Love! Hello, loneliness!

“Hold on, hold on to yourself,
This is gonna hurt like hell….
Oh God, the man I love is leaving” - Sarah Mclachlan, “Hold On”

“He’s not our kind,” my curt statement regarding a prospective get-to-know ritual a friend was about to stage with somebody I knew peripherally from college. Nipped in the bud, don’t lay the blame on me.

Let me get this straight: it’s not in condescension, more of a class identity. As a lowlife, when I say “he’s not one of us,” I mean the fellow is filthy rich, leads a life of leisure, unfamiliar with public transport, draped in designer wear and narcotized in designer drugs, eats take-outs or in fine restos, besotted with expensive gadgets, what-have-you.

Never do I get in the way of my friends’ objects of desire. Just peering from the wings, I blow a bagful of optimistic thoughts to the friendly wind. When things don’t jive, I partake in the mourning.

Break-ups are usually messy but I have learned a hard lesson not to be drawn in any tug-of-war. A cardinal rule among friends: Never ever say a truthful criticism regarding their exes, not even for the sake of loyalty. Never state the obvious that leaving their Significant Others is a good decision than any. Never participate in any bashing, it will surely haunt you round the bend.

Oh, I’ve made costly mistakes in this regard because of my propensity to be insensitively trivial than be analytically serious. In the roundtable, other friends would soberly talk about divergence in aspirations, conflict of passion, intellectual divide, artistic differences, being the nails to the coffin, so to speak, or a 3rd party which they would glamorize as “cessation of attraction,” my sagging butt, as the cause of relationship meltdowns.

Then here I go butting in about the uncomfortable hissing sound a certain Beloved makes while sipping soup; the way he picks his nose in public; having small ears or a narrow forehead indicating something fundamental, I keep them guessing what; the lengthy pause before he says something he thinks is pseudo-profound; his fervent defense of the Establishment; his preference of jazz over rock music and when asked how he likes Thelonious Monk, his greatest jazz artist we find out is Kenny G; his dislike of pop music and his love, take note, love not like, of classical music and his favorite is the prolific pianist Richard Clayderman.

And bummer, there’s a reconciliation because love sucks. I mean, because love is lovelier the second fucking time around and all your common friends remember are the trivial points you pointed out, not their in-depth analysis. And you’re screwed, big time! What ugly face shall I wear to extend a handshake to a friend’s ex who has been re-categorized as a current squeeze?Frak!

Why can’t people cut clean? Why can’t they stand their ground and break up and mean it?

As for post-amorous love friendships, it’s half-foot out of the door as I see it, specially if it’s forged almost immediately. You kinda suspect that these people are still carrying torches, nurturing illusions of reconciliation, refusing to move on.

I’m not saying you can’t be friends with your exes, I don’t believe in burning bridges, just effigies. But you gotta allow little fits of rage before coming to terms. Get real angry, murder your Beloved in your head, get past it, and forgive.

So when somebody tells me they’ve just broken up expecting some sympathy, my curt statement “that’s life” is as trivial as I could get.

Gimme. Gimme some Lovin"

“That until that day, the dream of lasting peace, world citizenship, rule of international morality, will remain but a fleeting vision to be pursued but never attained. Now everywhere is war. …War in the east, war in the west, war up north, war down south. War, war, rumors of war” (Bob Marley, “War”)

It was not great-balls-of-fire, the Cairo speech of Pres. Obama but as I was reading the transcript, he gained a dash of sympathy for his desire to “remake this world” but at what expense, whose expense, it’s a gray area to me.

He had the audacity to warn Iran of its nuclear mischief and Palestine for its violent adventures but stood firm on “US unbreakable bond with Israel, bound by historical and cultural ties.” He identified anti-Semitism as the root of the Jews’ tragic history and appealed to both camps, Israel and Palestine, to respect each other’s aspiration of establishing a nation.

At this point, allow me to quote the Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano who wrote “Operation Unpunished Lead” as a tribute to his Jewish friends killed by Latin American dictatorship-regimes and who himself is in the deathlist because of his political activism:

“Hunting the Jews was always a European custom but since half a century, that historical debt is being paid for by the Palestinians who are also Semites but who never were, nor are, anti-Semites. They are paying, in blood money, the price of others.

In Gaza, 3 of every 10 collateral damages are children. Dangerous people in charge of enormous manipulative media invite us to think that each Israeli life is worth as much as a hundred Palestinian lives.

And as always, always the same: in Gaza, a hundred for one. For each hundred Palestinians killed, one Israeli.”

Hubris, this talk of “remaking the world,” after all, it’s US foreign policies that fucked this world, by and large. It’s tragic that the Arab quagmire cannot be solved by the Arabs but needs the meddling hands of the US. Oh, how disdainful are we of meddlesome old folks putting a wedge on star-crossed lovers whom we are heavily cheering for, not that Israel and Palestine are star-crossed lovers but a more concrete analogy eludes me at this point. Just a bit there, with a little deviation in visualization.

There is a strong belief that an Israel-Palestine settlement is a function of American political will. In realpolitik, that means an overhaul of US foreign policy. A halt to US acquiescence to Israel’s expansionist activities and its general bullishness is a big step. But Israel has expressed that it won’t yield to US demands, there goes your favorite brat.

Fiction has overtaken us on this. Fiction introduced us to Faust who sold his soul to the Devil, of Midas and his obsession with gold, of Dr. Frankenstein creating a vicious monster. Let’s go back to our libraries and revisit how these stories ended.

Spit it out

Americans who are not fond of Pres. Obama dubbed his Mideast visit as an “apology tour,” principally aimed at taking potshots at the Bush regime and putting the Republicans in a very unflattering light. Speculations are rife as to how the leader of the most powerful nation in the planet will articulate America’s commitment to repair its blemished reputation in the non-Western community.

I don’t want to jump the gun here but as far as speeches go, the Notre Dame speech which was far from gallant, for instance, Pres. Obama’s conceptual language is teeming with moral ambiguities or as we say in PolSci, it’s the malady of the legalese and the legal juggernaut – the employment of theory and play obfuscation. It’s a whimsical style of saying nothing by saying a lot, to the point of emptiness, mastered by high-calibre lawyers, the US president being one of them.

For example, in that Notre Dame speech, Pres. Obama opined: “The soldier and the lawyer may both love this country with equal passion, and yet reach very different conclusions on the specific steps needed to protect us from harm.” On surface, we may find this agreeable but it’s a dangerous statement after deep reflection.

A soldier will rambunctiously push for martial rule to supposedly protect national security while a lawyer will defend the Bill of Rights and rule out martial rule as unconstitutional or without raison d’ etre. In Obama’s unsolomonic wisdom, both are right.

At the height of the oust-Erap campaign, I was invited to a forum and one of the resource persons used the biblical ploy “no one can cast the first stone” because we are all sinners. On the surface, there’s nothing disagreeable to the statement but it’s very dangerous to subscribe to this trap.

At the end of the day, since no one is blameless, we all forfeit the right to blame. No one is guiltless, therefore no one can point a finger at the guilty party. That’s dangerous when your statements blanket and exonerate everyone.

It’s not even for the sake of journalistic objectivity, as if it exists, but as someone dealing and processing facts, it has to be clear to you – who is the victim? Who is the perpetrator? It’s not that simple, I must concede, but we can’t all be victims, for Christ’s sake. People must have the moral courage to evaluate that a particular deed is wrong and someone has to pay the price. How can you make things right if you don’t acknowledge that a wrong was committed? You cannot push for peace unless justice is served and you start the process by assessing without opaqueness and ambivalence what injustice was committed and who made it possible.

My expectations of the much-anticipated Egypt speech are realistic. Judging from Pres. Obama’s previous rhetoric, it will be lacking in backbone. It will be wordy and verbose but will keep us pondering if the White House employs the same speechwriters, regardless of regime-changes.

Will Pres. Obama crack a whip on Israel, its most favored nation? Let’s listen for some surprises. Otherwise, we shall continue congratulating the man for being great at language games.

Lola Dading and Bin Laden

In a twist of genius, Bin Laden released an audio PA addressed to the Arab world on the eve of Pres. Obama’s much-hyped speech in Egypt. He’s basically cautioning his flock, okey, you can have your boy-crush on Obama but let’s not be naïve here, he’s wearing the same suit as his predecessor. The man, he’s pretty old school - an audio message in this day and age? This is one for the books.

In the early 80s, at the peak of the petro-dollar boom, OFWs in the Middleast would send dozens of taped messages to their loved ones back home. That was all the rage.

Fast track to the early 90s - this became a private joke between me and an HS classmate who migrated to Canada. For a while, we exchanged correspondence with intense frequency and one time, he asked if his letters bored me to tears so he would just send cassette tapes of his message instead. “Just imagine I am in Saudi instead of Ontario,” he advised.

Then nasty, we would poke lame fun at Black hip-hop stalwarts with their blinding bling-bling, just copying Pinoy Saudi-fashion. Back then, understatement was a foreign idea. I remember a neighbor who had huge, and I mean huge, gold rings in practically all his fingers, so huge, it could choke you to death. And an attention-grabbing necklace that could whip the life out of the wearer by its sheer weight.

And the raging street humor at that time was “Lupig ka han ak Lolo” where the famous Johnny Pusong and his friends would play an uproarious game of upraise as to whose Lolo was more smartass.

And in a slight variation, I say “lupig ka han ak Lola.” Lola Dading, my paternal grandmother, was a woman who embodied her own sovereignty. She smoked and revved up with the boys. One summer when I was in Grade 2 or 3, she pulled me to her side, “there’s something I want to show you” as if it was King Arthur’s Holy Grail or some mystical power she was about to bequeath.

To her glee and my disappointment, she made me listen to her own recordings of my baby-talk when I was barely 2 years old. She purportedly preserved that for her son, who was away in India to study so he won’t feel so alienated not witnessing some firsts of his first-born. I wonder where those tapes are. Maybe me and Bin Laden could swap.

The latest Bin Laden tape may be a stroke of genius but the man has nothing on my Lola.

Hey Mickey!

Who would (dis)grace my spirited morning as I checked my mail? The picture of presidential son Mikey Arroyo and Speaker Nograles during the Con-Ass deliberations last night at the Lower House splattered all over. I can take obscenity, I am no prude, but at 9 goddamn morning? What a jumpstart!

I remember an interview of Fatima Bhutto, writer-poet in http://www.guardian.co.uk/ 2-3 years ago about birthright politics, the core of dynasty-politics plaguing most “new nations.” No matter how tarnished, family names still pack a lot of weight in this country.

It must be agonizingly cumbersome to carry an illustrious lineage and poke out like a sore thumb – to be a Math-moron in a family of number-wizards; to be lowbrow in a clan of culturati; to be an honest wage-earner in a tribe of crooks. To go against the grain because destiny awaits. Can you hear this, Mikey?

Incidentally, FB (not fuck buddy, how many times shall I be repeating myself?) also sheds light on Pakistan, a war I hardly understand as so with other wars because Boy George keeps ringing in my ears “war, war is stupid and people are stupid and love means nothing…” Oh, that word again, love. It keeps hounding me.

Bhutto essays: Since 2001, Pakistan has been a country in decline. We suffer a suicide-bombing rate that surpasses Iraq's. The billions of dollars we have received have not made Pakistan safer, they haven't made our neighbors safer, and they've done nothing in the way of eradicating terror. The Taliban and their ilk, on the other hand, are able to seat themselves in towns and villages across Pakistan without much difficulty largely because they do not come empty-handed. In a country that has a literacy rate of around 30 percent, the Islamists set up madrassas and educate local children for free. In districts where government hospitals are not fit for animals, they set up medical camps—in fact, they’ve been doing medical relief work since the 2005 earthquake hit Northern Pakistan. Where there is no electricity, because the local government officials have placed their friends and relatives in charge of local electrical plants, the Islamists bring generators. In short, they fill a vacuum that the state, through political negligence and gross graft, has created.

Do you hear this, Mikey, if a government ignores the needs of its people, what happens?

Nothing happens, sad to say. This is the Philippines, dearie. Another groundhog day.