Hanging on a Hyphen

Between the Night and the Silence

2012-01-07T10:47:00.008+08:00

He pulled hard on the wrench to turn the screw but the grip slipped and his hand crashed violently against the sprocket, opening a deep wound that started spewing blood immediately.

John bit his lips and continued what he was doing, unmindful of the pain. There was far greater pain pounding at his chest, eating him up, the sort of angry pain that could explode at any given time.

His mind wondered back to the scenes that transpired shortly beforehand, which lingered vividly. They were driving home, he and his wife, and there was no word, no sound, a small talk much less, but only the air conditioner and the hum of the engine that showed pulses of life, otherwise an absolute dead silence owned the night, the kind that he dreaded the most.

He would step on the gas with mean intentions and the car would fly, eager to get home past the roadside trees, the structures, and the signages and against the headlights of the opposite lane traffic, chasing shadows and becoming the ghostly imagery of his desperation, that kind of aching deep down inside hoping to see the moment ended at last so that they, who both were erstwhile trapped into this cramped piece of hell between the night and the silence could step out to freedom, walk their separate ways perhaps to find peace and the right path back to serenity and reason. In the meantime, the wife’s sideway glances were a rain of daggers.

The boy ran to him as soon as he pulled over into the garage, she on the other hand quickly disappeared. Little Joey was sweetly excited, remembering his father’s promise to fix the bike as soon as he comes home tonight which John realized he had totally forgotten. His trouble had doubled. And it was just too much for the fortysomething dad to handle. First, his wife’s silent rage and now the boy’s irrepressible badgering. He was barely able to contain himself from cussing out loud but John couldn’t help banging the car door with such brutal force in his exasperation, terrifying the child and even himself. John instinctively wanted to kill himself as soon as he realized what he had done. After that, another long inexplicable silence appears to merge with the cold spell.

He recalled how he wondered into the garage, finding the bicycle in one corner under the fluorescent lamp and right next to the tool box, the muted testimony of his promise. John pulled up his sleeves and began to work, beginning with unscrewing the rear wheel and again his mind drifted back to the past. He was reminded of the ineptitude of his physical abilities, a fact he had accepted eversince he was himself a child. His father would constantly show him the calloused hands of the construction worker, and their conversation would almost always end up with the surreal vision of a distant future, created through his father’s riveting words, that John someday when he grows up would not be wearing the blue collar, no, never shall he sweat under the sun the way that his father did because this boy would become the man who would use his brain instead more than his hands. That admonition would thankfully become a self-fulfilling prophecy. And yet on occasions like this, when it became his turn to play his fatherly role, he hated being so inept and ill-equipped, and John was anything but thankful and in fact, he felt bitter to not have inherited even a little of his old man’s skills with manual work.

Blood continued to drip from the cut in his hand. He was down on his knees on the dirty pavement trying to figure out what to do next when John was astonished to feel the child suddenly embraced him from behind. Joey had sneaked up to him to watch his father at work, doing the most important job in the whole world, the one thing that really mattered at this moment. The thing about fixing what was broken.

John carried Joey in his arms and rushed back to the house. She hugged his wife and whispered something in her ears.

The boy, the wife and the bike. Nothing else mattered.

The Rain Before Christmas

2010-09-25T05:57:00.009+08:00

It takes just one moment under the rain to merge the past with the present

Claire was caught in the downpour, an aberration of weather that seemed to suspiciously time its arrival to bring her the most inconvenience. She was dressed in her white nursing uniform and had left the dorm without an umbrella. The hours before saw a frantic search for relief from the scorching heat. She remembered running for cover into this waiting shed to escape the noontime heat just hours ago on her way to school. Now, she is trapped in the same corner where she stood earlier at the Espana and Morayta intersection only this time the place is cold and damp as the weather has taken a full shift to the extreme opposite.

All things considered, she figured she would rather be running from the sun. But the rain is a more complicated, a more formidable adversary to deal with, and to her personally, it held the deepest darkest secrets which the rain uses to its advantage unlike the sunny days that conjure predictable images of sunset in the beach, those nonsense juvenile movies, and the summer break that meant plenty of time to frolic and to simply relish being young. Rainy day on the other hand agitates and almost disdainfully replenishes the old grudges, and it can be downright ruthless in reminding us of where we sinned, the pains that we have inflicted, the pleasures we crave along with our indiscretions and the manner that we justified and almost celebrated while doing them. It can be the most cruel of judges of human actions, in that it is as instantaneous in denying any form of deliverance from misfortune, as it is unfailing in amplifying the enormity of our guilt.

Michael Jackson belted a familiar Christmas carol from a passing jeepney which seemed to animate the impatient throng, including Claire herself, who suddenly realized space is quickly running out as more people came rushing in moments into the rain to find temporary shelter here.

It’s already the 25th of September and the countdown to Christmas had started for a gullible nation, a nation that refused to get real and grow up, as her father used to say, teasingly to her mother, whenever the conversation strays into the topic mostly during the cold night as they waited for dinner when Claire is at home in the province to spend Christmas with the family, and which opinion she now understands and accepts to a certain degree. Indeed, Christmas is a universal incurable obsession to many of us, borne from years of deprivation, and a constant craving for the fulfillment of our aching needs. They don’t necessarily go away at Christmas time but at least we find reason to forget them, her mother would argue vehemently.

She finds irony in the knowledge that the king of pop is dead yet people continue to find solace and comfort and hope from the song that he sings, songs that preach about hope as a wonderful healer and love being the ultimate gift despite the fact that the life that he lived was a miserable narrative of big and small disasters from being burned at the scalp to domestic abuse, to the horrific results of cosmetic surgery gone haywire, to the persistent rumors about his sexuality which may have all conspired to bring the ultimate tragedy of dying young. She wondered if in Michael’s death bed, when flashbacks of unforgettable memories of your life were supposed to reel off like highlight films in reverse mode in the minds of the dying… she wondered if during the last glimmer of life images of gifts and Christmas trees emerged in passing somewhere deep in the subconscious of the late great singer just in time before the dimming of the light.

She wondered if Charice Pempengco would be just as famous.

Claire actually dreads the coming of Christmas, and it will come soon, sooner than soon enough which meant as soon as classes pause for the three-week holiday break. And it meant returning to her innocent life, to her hometown, to the ancestral house and its old familiar haunts, the places that carry an awful lot of memories, places where she would always return to reclaim her innocence and purity, the places that await her in Pinili up north, the tiny sleepy town where she grew up chasing butterflies mornings in the meadows, and putting out tobacco leaves to dry under the sun during the summer, the textures and colors and unforgettable scent of the plant becoming ingrained to the core of her consciousness, and those of the other countless dreamy youths the plant and their parents’ sweat have sent to the big city to chase their education to fulfill a promise they never really made but rather their progenitors actually left for them.

Yes, she will return to listen to lectures on frugality from her father, a trait deeply rooted in the people up north. And she expects to be lavished with praise for every peso she had managed to keep longer in her pocket by remembering the northern way of living within your means, a trait that she would take to heart by choosing to walk the half-kilometer stretch from the dorm to school and vice versa even when it rains instead of taking public transport, which incidentally is an excellent form of exercise, her father would approvingly say. And that is also the reason her father speaks grudgingly about Christmas especially the tradition of living the one day millionaire’s dream which he cannot, or he would rather not, comprehend.

Today, exactly three months to go before Christmas, things will never be the same again and the rain made sure that Claire would remember that. It was actually on another rainy day like this about a year ago that she met Rey when they were caught in the middle of a heavy downpour and he asked to share her umbrella. She still remembers the sound of his voice, the perfume he wears, the way that his black hair glimmered at the touch of the raindrops, and how it felt when their arms would rub gently accidentally. She remembered the many succeeding walks under the rain after that, and especially the long walk one stormy night that led to a dirty rented bedroom where she lost her innocence while the tempest sweetly dies to a drizzle outside.

The forbidden fruit of that tryst she now carries, and soon enough her parents will find out.

The Voices in the Bus

2010-08-22T00:24:00.014+08:00

The next passenger to sit by her side was an old man with rags for clothes and dead mice for breath and Lydia swore to herself to ignore the stranger.

“So where are you going now?” he asked. I guess you finally took my advice to bring that child to your parents in the province. It’s about time…”

He was referring to Becky, 4 years old, the little girl sleeping in Lydia’s lap. She had expended all her energy crying the whole day. She asked for food, begged for water. Pulled Lydia’s hair and even peed on her lap but her mother wouldn’t say a thing. Even now, while already reeking of urine, her eyes were transfixed into the distance and while occasionally she would smile, Lydia’s eyes wouldn’t stray from whatever it is she was looking at, which seemed far and away and unreachable.

But the old man was persistent. “That child has not seen her grandparents, in fact, not a single one of your relatives. You wouldn’t like her to grow up a stranger to her own family don’t you? Lovely child. I bet she tastes good.”

He licked his chops at the mention of the last words and Lydia fought the terror creeping into her with pretended outrage. “Back off, you ugly beast!” she screamed, startling the other passengers as well as the driver himself who accidentally sent the bus into a throttle. But immediately they pretended not to hear a thing. They all knew the woman sitting at the farthest seat in the back had a serious problem. It's just that there's nothing they can do about it.

Lydia on the other hand, knew the people in that bus are aware of her condition, but they just pretend not to care. She had actually seen the old man before. In the bedroom at the stroke of midnight while she slept with Medel. At the hospital while she was giving birth to Becky and the whole time during her confinement at the ward. Lydia struggled to get hold of herself screaming anew. “You are not real. You are just a figment of the imagination. Stay away from me”. She was shocked at the suddenness of her recollection of the entry in the doctors’ notes, which she only read once and in great hurry one time while she was lucid during the time the doctor inadvertently left his papers at Lydia’s bedside at the ward in Mandaluyong. She regretted why she escaped. Medel would be mad at this that’s for sure.

A headless woman walked through the aisle, her bloody skirt brushing Lydia lightly in the knees jolting her and the old man let out an eerie laugh, forked tongue wagging in the air. He was drooling. Craving for the sleeping child. The passengers looked and seemed normal except for the horns that suddenly appeared on their heads. As soon as they reached the next bus stop, Lydia jumped out and scampered into the night.

It was not until ten months later that Medel finally found his wife wandering aimlessly along the highway in Lucena. A walking naked skeleton of a human being covered with filth and grease. She was totally incoherent and violent and in permanent conversation with her ghosts about how the devil ate her child.

Toy Soldiers

2010-02-14T03:08:00.012+08:00

(Thanks to James, who shared me this story and inspired me to write... albeit with a heavy heart...)

Some things take us back to the past. Others make the past a constant companion in the present, never to leave.

Sometimes, my kids would catch me going surreptitiously to the toy room, which I had personally requested to be built near the family library, when my wife and I having just settled down were putting this up, the house of our dreams, that was long before the kids came into our lives.

My wife on the other hand has long ceased to be amazed by my habit, and though she was shocked that a toy room would be on top of my plans when the thought of building the house was conceived now she perfectly understands what it meant for me and I love her all the more for it. In this room the treasures of my boyhood dreams are neatly kept, and a special place is reserved for the 24-piece toy soldier collection which I bought from e-bay. Unlike the others which are remnants of the past, they are a recent acquisition, the product of a long search in the internet and although I am not exactly eager to discuss with anyone how much it cost me to have them, to me they are well worth every cent.

It was summer time during the tumultuous 80's. My father was sent back home without finishing the two year tour of duty to war-torn Mindanao in the south following a close brush with death. He came home with his back pack on a Wednesday night, without any word before hand that he was coming, and unlike in previous times, he came home without the customary gifts, only the joyous confirmation that he is alive, and it was all that mattered to me, in fact, that day was the happiest day of my boyhood, my dad coming home with a dirty back pack and a hole in his stomach where the bullet had passed which means, he is staying with us at least for the year- long recuperation period. If you ever knew how it feels to see your father just once or twice every three years, his bullet wound was indeed a blessing, a morbid thing to say but I was a kid and I have the right to say it and under the circumstances, it was indeed, it really was a great big blessing.

He would take me for long walks... in the afternoons during a clear day, just when dusk was setting in, that by the time the sun was slowly disappearing in the horizon, we would be on top of the hill watching the world down below us change colors under the cascading hues and slowly and slowly the crimson light gradually fades into blue and then black. We watched in silence, my father has never been a man indulgent with words, which I guess is the way they all are in the marines. The war and its unspeakable horrors would leave a man to suffer in silence for life. He never shared his stories with me, perhaps thinking I was too young for them, too pure and innocent then, and in hindsight, I somewhat feel grateful that he didn't.

On the first month of his vacation, he asked me to go with him to the barracks to claim his paycheck. My father was exuberant on that day, the vacation has done wonders to lift his spirit and hasten his recuperation. He was glowing and beginning to regain his health, unlike when he came home one day wounded and starving.

They actually waited for payday to come; he had told my mother he would get his disability pay, in addition to the regular salary, and maybe a special commendation from the headquarters in Manila. On the way to the barracks, we passed by a flea market and as my steps slowed at the sight of the toy soldiers being peddled at a makeshift stall on the sidewalk, my father could almost read my mind. "We will get back here and I shall buy you those toys son, right after we get the money". I pressed his hand and his words put a spring in my steps and he knew what it meant.

Thirty years later, I would be scouring the internet looking for the same toy soldiers that my father had promised to give me the last time we were together. We never made it to the barracks. I have no recollection of what exactly happened then except for the few things I hear growing up during the hushed conversations every time that my mother and relatives would speak about the ambush.

I just knew it was the last day that I saw my father alive...

The Witch

2010-01-11T01:34:00.004+08:00

The ancestral clock strikes 12, and in the pitch darkness Joey tries to adjust his eyes, it was difficult to see anything.

He turned to the other side of the bed, away from his mother and faced the window where the full moon illuminates behind the capiz shell window panels, creating odd shapes, black random shapes cast against the window by the intricately penetrating light of the full August moon. The boy was desperate to go back to sleep except that he couldn’t force himself to do so. The striking of the midnight bell from the humongous clock reverberated into his sleep awakening the child.

“Think happy thoughts Joey and cuddle up close to your mother”.

“I will have that tree cut down, son, if that’s what causing you all this trouble.”

He remembered his conversations with his father about the sleep disorder and how he can manage it. For months now, Joey has been deluged with nightmares, odd terrifying dreams and his parents are worried. With his father away on a provincial assignment, the boy's paranoia is even more chillingly felt on this particular night.

“That one looks like a dove:… the boy whispered to himself as he singled out a particularly odd shadow on the extreme left side of the window. A bundle of leaves hanging from the branch of the tree extending up to their bedroom window blocking the moonlight created the bird-shaped figure along with the strange mosaic of shadows cast against the window’s entire length

“There’s a plane… a dog?” Joey decided to pass the time and amuse his imagination with the shapes he can make out of the shadows. Until something caught his eyes.

It was difficult at first to make sense out of that single image but as he soon as became fixated and adjusted to the dark, slowly it unraveled… the huge crooked beak-like nose, big bulging eyes, the long flowing hair, and finally the unmistakable profile of the old woman seemed to gradually configure into a familiar unmistakable vision.

He felt the blood rush to his head, his hair rising instantly as he watched the profile move. Looking into his direction, as if she knew he was there. And then the bony claw-like hands reached into the window panel, trying to open it. At last, Joey let out a huge scream and Linda nearly jumped out of bed.

“Oh God Joey, my poor son, you’re feverish again, hush up now… I’m here… calm down, and stop crying son, don’t be afraid.”

She massaged his head and sang her gently back to sleep.
Then Linda walked up to the window wondering how she could have left it partly open. She looked outside and under the moonlit night, she saw what remains of the stump of the tree that Ronald felled on the Sunday before he left.

And how they thought the nightmare’s over.

Old Dry Dock Lane

2009-04-08T20:23:00.032+08:00

I knew the place very well but I don't recall if there ever was a street called Anchovy Road anywhere in it.

And so, as the cab pulled over near the iron gate, which loomed larger under the colorful blinking lights that were clearly intended to be there to announce a huge occasion, I was tempted to pull out of my pocket the invitation again and try to check, perhaps for the hundredth time, if somehow I must have been mistaken. But a uniformed guard walked up to me as soon as I stepped out of the cab.

"You must be Mr. Rey Enriquez. Well, Good evening Sir. Mr. Colmenares and his family had been waiting for you at the dock". Then he led me inside while I walked spellbound by the totally unexpected, almost mind-boggling realization. Now I'm sure this is the same old Dockyard Lane, only they changed the name to Anchovy Road.

He stood at the edge of the dock, a man almost my age and very neatly dressed, flanked by an equally impressive woman and two little boys. Now I remember. How could I forget the sparkle in those eyes, the sunburnt face from many summers in the riverside and while his lips may have changed from the operation (there was no more trace of the boy hounded by a misfortune he was born with) he will always remain to be the troubled kid who became such an important person in my life once upon a time.

The lady of the house took my hand and offered her cheek while the boys chorused to a shy almost inaudible greeting before pulling their mother away, leaving the two of us - me and him - alone.

"I thought it was supposed to be a reunion of old friends?, I asked, struggling to keep my voice from cracking up.

"Well, it really is, Rey. Two old friends. Just you and me. That's all it meant. That's all there is to it. You're the only friend I had, in fact, the only one true friend I will ever have. I never got to thank you for what you did for me, my friend. I own this place now, you can say that I had been a very lucky man, and that's all because of you."

He speaks clearly now, it shocked me a little bit to hear him speak this way.

"How's the operation, did it hurt? Now I can speak about his great affliction without fear of hurting his feelings, the way it was before. But that was already in the past. It's a different story now. My friend Enrico Colmenares is now a new and different man. Hugely different indeed, and a very rich man.

"Remember that ship, Rey?", he chuckled, ignoring the question while pointing at the humongous but familiar figure looming in the distance. "I had preserved it especially for this day, especially for you. Come, my friend, let's go to the ship. Our ship."

We ran to the ship like we were kids again.

I was a child of the river. Just like Rico and all the others. It was the provider of nourishment and livelihood for the people of my town. We owned it and it owned us in small ways and in life and death proportions, to the extent of the air that we breathe becoming the product of communion, a partaking of textures and flavors of salt, freshwater, of vegetation and of all the elements, and of all the energies that we obtain from the river one moment and which we give back the next, through our labors or by means of plain biological exertion in consonance with the expediency of life's endless unbreakable cycle. It can be a source of healing and at the same time the progenitor of a million afflictions.

It is here that we discovered the profound joys of friendship. Walking on the riverbanks to catch crustaceans and dragon flies while avoiding the mud holes provided the endless thrills of our boyhood during the long hot summers that were also filled with kite-flying adventures, spider-fights, and unforgettable hunting expeditions with slingshots for guns, and quails, shrikes rock doves and some occasional wild duck for game.

Those were the days indeed. And the high point I must say was our discovery of a hole in the ground that serves as an underground tunnel leading up to the ship yard at old dry dock lane. We found it underneath the thick cogon grass not far from the riverbank one summer afternoon while looking for spiders. Rico crawled on all fours while I fearfully followed and after a few breathtaking moments, we found ourselves in the belly of an old abandoned ship, or what looked more like the wreckage of an old abandoned ship.

From that day on, it was my source of entertainment, and for Rico a means of escape. He was a lonely and fatherless child who had no other friends except me and for the same reason, treated me with unconditional kindness, perhaps grateful for my companionship. He had the kindest soul yet the outcast among the townfolks, largely by his own choice because of a cleft-palate problem that impared his speech and completely distorted what could have been an angelic innocent face.

We would climb up the rooms on the upper decks, where some of the cabins are still in fairly good condition, providing a place to hide, and beds for quick cat naps during lazy afternoons. The view from the hull alone could take your breath away. During the summer under cloudless skies we could spend entire days sight-seeing.

The arrival of new ships for drydocking and repair is always an event to watch. Dozens of men stripped to the waist tug at the thick long ropes with all the strength they could muster and painstakingly try to pull the ship out of the water over a layer of turning logs for what seemed like an inch an hour until it is finally set in place. We've seen men get crushed when ships tilt on the side in a mishap yet always they would bravely soldier on. I wouldn't be a dry dock worker, I used to swear to my soul. I also did swear, like Rico did, to never ever tell anyone about this secret place.

We will stay there for long hours immediately after class and almost the entire day during weekends and summer breaks. In time, we've grown bold enough to explore outside the safety of the shipwreck. We would sneak into newly-docked vessels when no one is looking and search for food among the cabins - meatloaf, pastries, candies and the tastiest biscuits. Once we gatecrashed a fishing boat and discovered in its bottom deck, the huge fishnet bundled to the size of a small hill. We learned that it makes you bounce when you jump on it, and it also cushions your fall. We had a great time performing crazy stunts. outdoing each other.

Every ship that arrives is a mystery. One ship had an artillery of guns and explosives. Another had literally, a skeleton in the closet. The windfall was when we found a ship loaded with all kinds of toys. But we never dared to take anything away from it. We swear to only steal food, and only when we're hungry.

But all good things, just like the bad ones come to an end. Ironically that dreaded moment came with the docking of yet another ship at the port on the other side of town not far from drydock lane. It was a ship that needed no repair, as it was impeccably built, the product of the more advanced ship-building technology of the country where it came from which I suspected was America. It was a ship like no other.

The most enduring memory of that ship was a crimson cross on a white background painted on its hull and a flagmast bearing the same image. It was the first time I saw white people, the passengers of the ship who introduced themselves to the town folks as soon as they arrived, as medical volunteers on a humanitarian mission to perform medical surgery on poor people of the countries they visit who can't afford the treatment.

Since that day, Rico had refused to return home, let alone to come in contact with anyone but me, determined to live it out in the shipwreck at dry dock lane. for as long as the white men are in town There were days I would steal food from home and bring it there, a sense of pride and surprise was my own reward for going great lengths for a friend, which I never thought my whole life, I am capable of doing.

On some nights, when my parents and siblings are asleep I would escape to drydock lane and spend the night on the ship with my friend, waking up very early the next morning for the folks at home to find me in bed, and avoid suspicions over my night time prowling, which surely would infuriate my father, which is the last thing on earth I would like to happen.

On the eve of the departure of the white men and their ship, Rico's mother came to our house begging for me to help her find her missing son. I would not have relented in spite of her tears if not for the intervention of my father, the one person in the world who can easily squeeze the truth out of me. Town officials accompanied the white men to the shipwreck at dry dock lane, an event I would compare in later years to a white man's safari in an African jungle to hunt down a wild animal.

The boy put up a fight before they got him, a violence you wouldn't believe a ten-year old boy is capable of doing. They had to tie him up but in the fleeting moments that our eyes met as he was being whisked away, I knew the bond between us had been irretrievably lost as a consequence of my betrayal. I never heard of him again after that, except for rumors that the white men took him away.

They closed the tunnel to old dry dock lane and since then I never set foot on the ship again except in my dreams which seem to happen all the time. Some dreams I guess, wherein Rico and I were still friends again and having the time of our lives at the shipwreck.

But now at least, as we stood on the hull of the ship in a moment of reminiscences I realized that more than thirty years filled with guilt had joyously ended with the completely unexpected invitation from a long lost friend.

History and Rey

2009-03-28T22:21:00.014+08:00

We came back seven decades into the past and retraced the steps of hundreds of thousands of unknown soldiers to find the boy named Rey. How we found him was a major story in itself. We needed a face for the documentary we were filming and the first choice was a veteran stage actor whose credits as a thespian included a pioneering role in the defunct children's show Batibot. Bur for reasons not entirely unexpected, Kuya Bodjie Pascua turned us down.

The text message in which he relayed to us his decision was a splash of cold water into our already sagging spirits midway into the project. But I respected the decision. As one of the outspoken critics of the present administration, Kuya Bodjie was just being true to himself and for me to begrudge him would be pointless since I knew the risk beforehand, and decided to take chances. If anything, I only felt bad for the time and effort that were wasted when he had instructed us to deliver the draft of the documentary to the coastal town of Isabel, more than 180 kilometers from downtown Tacloban, which took practically one full day off from our itinerary, only to be told at the end of the day, that, for all the troubles we had, the answer is a definitive no. He never texted back after that, and neither did he answer calls from me again.

But since the very definition of this job that we are doing is perseverence, which is what you learn from the plight of the filipino veterans, the incident is just one of many humps on the road that at worst could delay but could never spell doom to a desperate cause and mission. We did not hie-off up north to Bataan for a week of filming elusive subjects and continued the odyssey all the way to the province of Leyte here in the South just to lose heart at the slightest suggestion of failure. Like the old soldiers who persevered and marched forward through firestorm and cannon balls, all three of us, Fred, Nono and myself have answered the call to walk the gauntlet, emboldened by the sheer faith that hell, yes, we can do it.

With our first choice gone, we never stopped believing that the face that will breathe life to the documentary was just out there, waiting to be found. And so we searched for him, or for her, whoever he is or she is for that matter, since we haven't decided yet which gender or age or social class to consider, only we knew the mystery will unravel once we find what we were looking for. We searched long and hard, a search taking us deep into the arts and academe of Tacloban, particularly the theatre guilds of its old famous universities, where who knows, we might just bump into a future celebrity, and be first to enjoy the privilege to work with talent that is one of a kind.

That faith was affirmed when we met Rey.

He has the most soulfoul eyes and talent that, the moment he shows it to you, would let you know right away how it feels to be in the presence of something special. Rey plays the piano like he was born to play it. His English is impeccable, and reading from a makeshift idiot board, you would never know his words are taken off a script but words that spontaneously flow out of a brilliant mind and a heart overflowing with kindness. He was most humble and appreciative of the hard work we put into the four hours of shoot, not once complaining or letting his discomfort show despite the fact that the summer heat was methodically draining our energy, and the repetitious filming of spiels could be painfully boring.

No he was never one to come up short in energy level, even when most of us were already feeling exhausted and edgy, for in between spiels Rey on the other hand would find time to run on the grass, hum a tune, or crack a joke at his parents, who have diligently stayed along at the entire filming in McArthur's famous shrine in Palo. I even felt at some stage, that they were actually the ones who had supplanted the energy and creativity for the filming session, during the brief spells that we were losing strength, physically and in a figurative sense. It's refreshing to find people who could still exuberantly enjoy what for us had become routine work from the sheer length of time that we've been doing it, and I must say that just to be around such people brings in me personally, the creative energy I could only wish I always have at my disposal everytime I need it. I realized that we feed on the energy of those who are seeing the world from our vantage point for the very first time, because their curiosity will always let us know that there is beauty and purpose in the work that we do, except that we seem to take it for granted.

And oh yes, Rey is only 8 years old.

He breezed through the shoot like a pro. And in those few hours of our spontaneous interaction I had unwittingly intruded into their lives, Rey's and his family's, and it was truly a privilege to know them - his doting mom, his father, an engineer at Coke Tacloban, and Rey's aunt, a Physics professor and Fulbright scholar. In short, they are ironically the kind of folks I sometimes dread to meet because of the sense of sadness that inevitably goes creeping in when the time comes to walk away. The moments that I hate.

So by the time we were packing up, Rey had completely won our hearts. And for me, how I wished he was my child, especially after the boy gave me a hug, a parting gesture that summed up the emotional highpoint of the moment, when now we knew, no matter what happens after this, that at some point in our lives, we have shared something truly special, a bond that would last long after this day is through.

I told him he is destined for greater things because that was exactly how I felt deep in my heart. But I couldn't tell exactly what he was meant to be, because that's not for me to say but for him to find out. I knew Rey will find out in time, and he will be up to the task, and I am sure he will prove worthy of the fate he was given.

Rey will never fail me, I am sure of that, when the time comes.

You know what I'd do this weekend...

2009-02-20T19:54:00.012+08:00

At the tail end of yet another gruelling week of working to death, I was just glad to have been hit by a rude awakening.

Sitting through four hours of traffic-marred journey from Tagaytay back to Manila, I realized I had practically gone mad over the pursuit of money. The past few weeks I would have been lucky to sleep four hours at any given night. I would leave home at 5:00 in the morning, start chasing buses like a mad man in EDSA soon after, that is, if I'm not already engaged in some shoving matches inside the MRT, skipping meals like the monks in Tibet during hunger strike, and going to ridiculously distant places to meet clients. At day's end the earliest I get home would be around 10 at night, where I still do some additional take-home work and squeeze in some extra time surfing the net in search of part-time job-opportunity before finally dropping from sheer exhaustion by close to midnight - only to wake up at 4 am to repeat the same killer routine the next day.

I guess my frustration at having been twice fired from the same company in a span of three months had driven me into some ritual of self-punishment trying to keep working to the point of exhaustion, it was almost a death wish. I was going through a difficult search for personal redemption to atone for the guilt of successive failures and killing myself in the process. Okay being fired is perhaps way too strong a description because it wasn't really the case. The fact is, I was actually told in the most diplomatic language and in the least painful way possible that I simply couldn't fit into the transcription job that I was desperate to get so perhaps I should look for a more appropriate opportunity down the road.

But what the heck no matter how politely you say it, the result was still the same - it hurt like hell. How my new-found friends who welcomed me with such wide-eyed smile and heartfelt kindness during my application could later muster the cold ruthless courage to tell me to tender my resignation a month later because I simply suck at this job was almost incomprehensible now. After that, my life went into overdrive, fueled by a desperate need to succeed, or to put it bluntly, to make bundles of money, which is just about the only way I know how to radically change the course of my life to the direction I please, take my revenge at society and have the last laugh.

Anyway, as traffic came to a crawl approaching the coastal road bottleneck exiting into the Alabang area at high noon, with the bus interior assumng the ambiance of a cheap sleazy sauna due to the defective airconditioner that had me and the rest of the passengers, sweating like crazy, I just thought that if indeed I was trying to punish myself, I wasn't even doing a good job at it Why because it is the people who meant the most to me who were taking the emotional beating. I realized that the last time I had a cheerful talk with my closest friends had been ages ago, with work, work and nothing but work dominating the conversations. I had become a stranger in my own home, leaving when practically everyone is still asleep and coming back when no one is awake and I remember the last time I was addressing the kids, I was shouting through the roofs to shut them up and give me peace.

I was committing social suicide and unwittingly taking innocent victims along with me in my death plunge.

The hopelessness of my quest dawned on me while I sit there at high noon trying to endure the ridiculous heat and the constant badgering of an aching empty stomach. I watched from behind the windshield bare-footed street kids at play against the backdrop of the coastal road shanties and wandered if anyone among the grownups have similar things going on in their minds, and if they may have accidentally found the answers, and what difference it would make just in case they did.

I remembered my father. For all his faults and flawed humanity, he was a better man at dealing with adversity. I remember when the chips are down, he would come home with gifts to us, small tokens of appreciation, and I cannot forget the day he came home with a roll of sewing thread in his pocket which that night in bed, I overheard him tell my mother that he bought it with the last money that was supposed to pay his fare, choosing to walk ten kilometers on the way home instead. In the morning, he built a kite and gave me the time of my life. I remember the look in his face, the silence that spoke volumes while he sat there watching me tug at the string and I wondered if he knew all along that I was making a great show out of it, I was so desperate to enjoy the moment and for God's sake, to let it show, which is just about the only way I can cheer him up and perhaps obliterate the loneliness in his heart even for a moment. That story was actually the subject of another blog: http://hangingonahyphen.blogspot.com/2008/09/kite.html

So tomorrow, Saturday, I will take the cue from that memory and do the right thing. When the chips are down, fly a kite... (If still it fails, then, it should amount to something more than any of the useless rants like this. I'm sorry, I can't think of a decent enough story to tell tonight)

Friday the 13th (And Valentine's Day thereafter)

2009-02-14T04:03:00.008+08:00

It's the eve of Valentine's Day and yet it's also a Friday, the 13th of February.

Chito chuckled at the irony and wandered what disaster could possibly unfold to spoil the lovely day of love that's coming tomorrow. As far as he's concerned, he assured himself, nothing of that sort could ever happen. He carefully searched for the bracelet he would give to Lily from among the items on display at the jeweller's counter in Trinoma. The saleslady was doing the hard sell but the 30 year old accountant was totally oblivious to that. "That's high-grade silver sir, the current rage, and it had in fact replaced gold as the favorite gift, well not really, but with gas prices and galloping inflation, the price of gold has... well turned gold, hahaha..." The poor girl realized she was laughing at her own joke and looking absolutely silly she finally shut up.

Finally, he broke his silence. "I want that one, the third item on the second row, yes that one with a mermaid pendant. yes. He pulled out his credit card and patiently went through the swipe, and watched intently as the saleslady wrapped the item with such pomp you almost sense any moment she might break into a song or offer free massage service to lend new meaning to customer satisfaction. Well she almost did, announcing to his surprise that they actually have a pre-valentine's promo, giving customers a 20-percent discount on every item. Not bad for a Friday the 13th...

"Hi, Lily how's your day? And what's for dinner?" Chito tried to look normal as soon as he arrived home. Well, normal after ten years together is being predictable and saying the things that he had been saying over and over from day one of their marriage, which also means being insensitive of anniversaries, births, deaths, valentine's, the unpaid bills, the fighting children, the visiting in-laws and if the days are that bad, forget asking 'Hi, how's your day and what's for dinner?' In fact, the more normal you act the better it is sometimes. Chito wandered if this is the day to break from the norm and to not be normal for a change. He reached for his chest pocket where he placed the box containing the gift and it took a mighty effort to not succumb to the temptation of giving it to Lily and watch the unfolding miracle. He longed to see her smile the smile of absolute joy, like she did the first time she laid her eyes on the wedding ring, with Chito on his knees and begging to marry her. It's been quite a while since he witnessed that smile and he realized just how much he wanted it badly now but amazingly, Chito was able to get hold of himself. There'll be plenty of time for that tomorrow, he promised. Today would be anti-climactic.

Meantime, it was amazing how Lily herself had totally forgotten what day it is today and the significance that it holds among the couples, or is she just trying to act normal the way he does? He wondered.

That night, lying in bed together, husband and wife were an absolute contrradiction. She had fallen asleep like a baby the moment her head touched the pillow while he tossed and turned. He was still brooding over the gift. At close to midnight, finally, sleep mercifully came to his rescue.

He jumped out of bed the next morning and ran towards the kitchen where she found Lily preparing breakfast. The sunny side up simmered on the frying pan and he smelled bacon. "I knew it". He blurted outlound. "You're just pretending you don't care but you actually prepared something for Valentine's, hahaha... Well guess what, I got a surprise for you too".

No reaction from Lily. "Happy Valentines Day, Honey". He went straight to the point. Still no response. He gave him a peck on the cheek. Nothing. He felt cold. He felt strange.

Chito remembered the bracelet and realized it may have still been in his shirt pocket. He rushed downstairs and searched for it among the heap of a full week's laundry. Then the shocking discovery. He couldn't even move the pile of clothes. He realized his hands pass through anything, his touch a gust of wind, an apparition in the tangible world. The next moment, he was inside their bedroom looking at himself. The froth from his mouth had spilled into the pillow, the ashen face and the fact that his eyes were wide open suggested a horrible death. He let out a soundless scream.

Lily was shaking him and pinching hard at his arm. "Wake up Honey, you're having a nightmare again. You're scaring me, honey, wake up, wake up". She was on the verge of tears when finally he opened his eyes. Chito held her tight and gave his wife a gentle kiss.

He realized he had just came back from the dead to greet his wife a happy Valentine's...

That Thing We Do

2009-01-24T04:51:00.007+08:00

Today, I break my own rules.

When I started this blog, my intention is to put nothing but short stories to it. But on this particular occasion there will be none of those things that terrify or make me depressed and insecure or make me question my purpose for being, in short the very thoughts that had lead others to say I had been all along afflicted with a kind of chronic negativity, whatever that means. Part of the reason for the change of heart, to tell you the truth is I am running out of stories to tell, and the other part is the audacity of that one great belief that after only a few months of blogging, I have already earned the right to do my own rants, which I used to abhor when people do it unabashedly, especially for purposes of self-promotion. Well, I am doing the same thing now and I would be willing to earn the devil's wrath because well maybe I deserve to.

I was glossing over the discussion forum the other day and a question struck a chord. It wasn't a particularly intelligent or emotional or controversial topic but on the contrary, the question was rather commonplace and I am sure the asker was nowhere near the first to think of the question, which in fact may have already been asked a million times at various interactions happening in every corner of the worldwide web. What makes you think this life is still worth living? In most cynicial times, I would have cringed. Just another subtle shot at pontification. So I must admit I answered it by a spur of the moment's thought, the idea merely to get some attention from those browsing on the same page. I don't even remember now what my answer was and I doubt if I can still find the said thread in the discussion forum, until it appears again in some other form or permutation but for now I only wish I had been more incisive and level-headed in my answer or if not, to at least make sense and deliver a valid point.

As an afterthought, and to perhaps undo what had already been done, I would say that for as long as people do the things that they do out of love, then life would be worth it. Sometimes, I would surprise myself for the great lengths that I would be willing to go, and for the sheer energy of my resolve to do the things that would actually contribute absolutely nothing to my personal happiness but would bring fulfillment to someone else even to a complete stranger. And those are the moments when I feel most proud just to be me. I am sure a lot of folks also know the feeling. Because when you become the recipient of an act of kindness, that means you must have done something truly special in your past that makes you deserving of a return favor. The law of karma had simply rewarded you the opportunity to reap what you planted, in a way you didn't imagine and because of that you will become more inspired to plant the seed of kindness all over again keeping the cycle of sharing perpetually in motion, touching more people's lives.

That we are somehow equipped with a consciousness of the other person's needs and more importantly, the initiative to try to fill that need is such a wonderful thing. It should rank among the greatest miracles on earth. For so long we have hailed the greatest inventions, the most profound achievements, the extraordinary feats yet the small acts of kindness that happen on a daily basis practically go unnoticed precisely because you see them everywhere anytime. But imagine what kind of a world we will all have if people would stop caring?

Maybe we should all remember that we are as much a product of what good deeds people do and have done for us out of responsibility, as those small favors that they did out of love. I would even dare say that the latter kind of favor has far greater and more lasting effect on the life that we choose to live. There is more to parents giving up so much of their own happiness and enduring unbelievable pains than simply because they are parents. There is more to the lowly-paid worker taking the extra mile, and staying at it beyond his watch than simply because it is the work he does and he just had to do it. There is more to the friends, and even the strangers who care to listen to you and willingly give you sympathy in moments when you needed it, than for sheer reason that it is just the kind of gesture expected of every man.

What does it make of you when you succeed in performing all your responsibility to the letter? Well, you just prove to be a truly responsible person and a credit to humanity. But everytime you perform a service that were never meant to be your responsibility to render and in doing so you do it with a sense of joy and purpose, then be proud that you have just set the highest example about love and caring and compassion, and because of that and because of people like you, it is indeed a much better world.

Thank you Ma'am Ria, if you happen to read this...

Back to School

2009-01-17T03:13:00.006+08:00

Today, by force of circumstances I was compelled to do what I have always dreaded doing - going back to my old school. But it was an inevitable task. Desperately needing that second job, I would have to obtain an original copy of my school records, one of the requirements of my future employer. The school per se is nothing to sneer at. After all, it has a long and colorful past, one that continues to give justice and purpose to the present. Some of the men and women who walked its corridors at different times in history have gone on to leave a mark in the country's rich heritage by doing great deeds that defined their generation.

The school has produced presidents, millionaires and I would imagine, on the other side of the fence, a couple of delinquents who are either dead or in jail. And of course, the great majority and that includes me, would lead uneventful and anonymous lives, but lives worth-living nonetheless. Coming back was never an enjoyable occasion for me because of the sheer impact of unwanted memories that would be triggered by the experience. Again, it was more of myself, not the place being the reason why.

I had always been told that my views are too cynical and how they wish, my friends would insist, that I lighten up a little. Honestly, I had been trying but with so little success. Events will conspire one way or the other to put gloom into my day and I would be willingly trapped into that mode, like what I feel now, as I write.

It was approaching 5, the hour of calling it a day for the many workers, students, and nearly every busy soul among the multitudes who congregate in the city. The afternoon mass at Quiapo church had began, and just outside along the whole stretch of Quezon Boulevard, traffic came to a crawl from the obstruction of people, vendors, and homebound commuters impatient for a ride. I had to bear with the same familiar sights and sounds, the sheer stench of urban decay that had become a hallmark of the place, and which I couldn't seem to get used to no matter how many times I had experienced them. It was one of those things I hoped I had, the ability to shut off all perceptions of the unpleasant, which one of my friends had mastered and had so adeptly been using to his advantage, as he goes through his business with the complete numbness and insensitivity of one who absolutely refused to be involved, while I on the other hand would be inclined to absorb and imbibe the malady of it all. Today is no exception.

At the foot of the bridge along Echague sat a woman, slumped on the bare pavement and emanating stink and I knew right away something was terribly wrong. She was talking out loud in foul incoherent language, and having an imaginary discourse with perhaps someone she hated, except that that person wasn't there. It would drive her to tears at some point, then suddenly, into a raging screaming verbal assault, before falling into a deep silent spell, staring at the distance, and then afterwards repeating the same cycle of tears and rage and silence. People would walk past, looking the other way and pretending nothing was happening, and it felt awful that I was the only one who seemed to be paying attention, although I was looking from a distance, afraid she would see me and vent her ire at my meddling with her crazed condition. But it wasn't only the woman that bothered me then.

Two kids, about three and two years old were slumped beside her, and you can tell with one look that both were starving. I knew right away they were her children, but the kids are both too young to comprehend the tragic fate that came upon their mother. Yet they refuse dto leave her side, at times clinging to her, and at times touching her hair, perhaps hoping to coax her, make her come out of that horrific condition and give them affection like she always did, I am quite sure she did, before things had miserably changed.

I wish I could just take the kids away from this place, run off with the two of them in my arms and worry about the consequences later. But I wasn't brave enough. I wonder why people could just walk away pretending they have more important things to do than worry about two toddlers left to practically fend for themselves in a cruel and heartless city and how I secretly wished I have the same ability to simply walk away. But I have none of that and much as I tried not to, I ended up hating myself for having nothing more to give to them than pity.

The Revelation

2009-01-03T20:49:00.008+08:00

The days after Christmas and New Year celebrations are often loaded with anxiety, as we try to recover from what could be termed the 'post-holiday-fatigue syndrome' and move into the brand new year to face the new tasks waiting to be accomplished. At home, it was almost an annual ritual for my mother to divest the house of all the clutter, removing the things she would consider unnecessary. It was almost a symbolic act, and I have learned to understand that maybe, the deeper implication of this behavior is to prepare for the transition to a new stage in her life, at least that was what I thought it meant for my mother.

So the first few days into the new year saw my mother engaging in the same pattern, and I am amazed by the volume of personal effects, old photographs, paperwork, letters, clothes, and all sorts of paraphernalia, that found their way out of the house and into the garage, with some ultimately bound for the trash bin. As I curiously sifted through the piles of discarded pictures, I was surprised to find a decades-old family portrait, with myself on it as a seven year-old boy. And just like that, a crawling chill suddenly dawned upon me as I recognized the woman in the picture who was coddling me in her arms for that photo shoot. That woman is a deep dark chapter in my life, and though I was barely seven years old then, something about the past would stay with me for life. She would forever remain a mystery, a ghost of the past perhaps, and I hated the memory of her because of the power it seems to possess over me, the power to keep coming back, no matter how desperately I would try to shut off all reminders of that part of my past.

My father had an accident and he needed to be brought to a hospital in Manila to undergo surgery, as no hospital in our province could provide the facilities and specialists that are up to the task. My mother and two older sisters went with my father, leaving me at home under the care of Manang Choleng, a spinster who was my father's provincemate, and who came knocking on our door one stormy night to beg for my father to let her work for us as maid and nanny, a proposition my father took a long time to consider not because he completely opposed the idea, but for a fact that the thought of us having a household help at that time seemed preposterous or you could even say ridiculous. I would say so because we were poor by those days' standards and in all honesty, I knew that with my father's meager earnings as a carpenter, we could barely afford the three square meals. Yet, she never asked for anything, poor old Manang Choleng, who had practically begged to work for us for free without once complaining or tiring from the everyday chores in the old cramped house where life is difficult and almost always uncomfortable. My mother would proclaim that Manang Choleng was heaven-sent the day after my father's accident when she had to leave home to be on his side during the operation, and Manang Choleng was the only one she had to take good care of me. Heaven-sent?

She would eat voraciously, like she had been starved for days, and it felt funny that, sitting across this woman at the dining table, I had wished the food will not run out or she might proceed to devour me. I was so scared, Scared of the way she would look at me while she licked her lips, I was so scared that my entire family was away and here I am with this strange woman, I was scared of the way she could lift objects, the table for instance, and the couch, without an effort, when I had known all along she was very old, and it showed in her graying hair and varicose veins in her legs, and in the perpetual redness in her eyes. That woman in the photograph couldn't be younger than sixty. And I was scared the most that I would sleep with her each night on the same bed, with all the lights out, and only the moonlight from the bedroom window providing the slightest illumination. But nothing came close to the kind of scare that crept into my very soul during the last night we were together.

I was awakened to her panting and moaning in the middle of the night. She seemed to be in pain, her breathing difficult, and she was on fire, with a burning fever. When Manang Choleng noticed I was awake, she hoisted me to the top of the large dresser as if she was holding a feather, warning that never ever under any circumstances should I even think of stepping down.

I haven't told a single soul what I witnessed afterwards that night and how I wish there is something I can do to completely erase the memory for my own sake, because what I came to witness was something I would do anything to totally obliterate from the mind. She fell on the floor vomiting, doubling up in pain, gasping from breath. Then she crawled under the bed. A strange creature would emerge seconds later, a creature I couldn't even bring myself to describe, I guess it's because that sort of thing only exists in the imagination, I really hope it does, if only to convince myself that it was all a terrible dream that I had experienced on that night when I was seven. It looked up to me and began to lick its mouth, then, unable to reach up to the top of the dresser, it leaped out of the window and disappeared into the night.

We never saw or even heard of Manang Choleng ever since.

Heroes and Saints

2008-12-27T05:30:00.012+08:00

Father Andres Soler regarded the crowd with a firm but fatherly gaze, the cold dawn breeze blew and stirred the parishioners, those deeply in prayer and the ones already deep in sleep on their seats like Tomas, gray-haired and chubby now, but whom the priest can still clearly recognize from a fair distance in the middle of the throng. (At least his wife and kids are wide awake). He spoke to the people about the journey of three gift-bearing magi's, and how that journey ended in a shack under the starlight. He spoke of heroes and saints, which according to the advisory from the diocese must be the theme of today's homily.

These are difficult times, he admonished the flock, but the heroes and saints among us make it all worthwhile just to be alive. Afterall, this is not the first time it happened in the history of mankind, but an episode that keeps repeating itself like a bright light in a vicious cycle, heroes and saints providing the saving grace from the time of Christ to the rise and redemption of the everyday man right here, right now while we all live.

Again, he assured them it's going to be alright. Gas prices are starting to mellow after going on a crazed vicious romp. At the Vatican, the Pope had shown once again his very human side by making yet another controversial almost ridiculous quip against the gays, the pan de sal had grown a little bigger because of dropping flour prices, and Manny Pacquiao had beaten Oscar de la Hoya in what could be the greatest triumph of the filipino people to date so what more can we ask for? He chided himself for the near-blasphemy, mentioning the Lord Jesus, the papal paus fax, and Many Pacquiao all in the same message of holiness, but he looked at the faces of Tom and Lyn and their three kids, and with that the priest himself believed what he just said that yes indeed everything will be alright. Then he delivered the punchline.

"We are all heroes and saints at some point in our lives but those of you who are already asleep on their seats right now... I hope that at least in your dreams you will find yourselves as heroes and saints... Let us pray..."

It was the 70s once again and the bell tolled for the Christian faithful on that very cold dawn, while Andy Soler sat on the courtyard's wooden fence, his best friend Tom by his side. They were both fidgeting and perspiring heavily, inspite the biting cold. The previous dawns, the two teenage classmates, both 15, would gorge on bibingka, cochinta and puto bumbong, gulp down huge servings of salabat (ginger juice) from a hot tin mug, and practically feast to death, which is the real purpose of their giving up hours of pleasant sleep for nine straight days just to be at the traditional misa de gallo as an after-thought. But that is not the case today.

"Are you sure she's coming?" Andy inquired nervously.

"Jesus Christ, Andy, you've been asking that question a million times, besides, we're more than an hour ahead, so we just wait now. Stop biting your finger nails, chrissake".

"I can't help it man, remember, you said you'll be sending me part of your allowance each week, don't ever forget that Tomas..."

"I knew it, the allowance again, damn it Andy, how many times do I have to swear?"

"Just so you don't forget, Tom, we're running away with nothing, and if Lyn's parents should catch me, I'll be skinned alive and burned at the stakes, so do as you say you will, Tom. Don't you ever forget that, or I'm dead."

"I will steal from my parents for you Andy, if that will make you feel fine but please, let's have a bite, I'm starving".

"Damn it, Tomas, I told you I need every cent I have, how did I ever come to believe you, my goodness, I knew you're hopeless, so that's it, damn you Tomas, I'm dead meat."

And so he was, or indeed Andy came close to dead meat. A resounding slap on the cheek nearly decapitated the boy, as he toppled from the fence, a ringing in his ears obliterated the choir's chorus of Silent Night emanating from the church, and he saw stars, not the colorful lanterns hanging everywhere or those up in the heavens but stars that deliver a shocking pain. When finally he regained his senses, Andy found himself being dragged by his father to the bus station, to catch the first flight to Manila where an uncle, a new school and a new life came to abruptly accept him, tolerating, and finally repairing his damaged life during the next five years after which, as a gesture of defiance and contrition, he entered priesthood.

But on that very cold lonely dawn, at the churchyard within minutes after Andy and his father had left, Lyn came, yes she did Andy, Tom would later say in his letter to his best friend. That letter spoke from the heart and resonated with pure insufferable guilt, the kind that would haunt and begrudge a man until it became reciprocated with the alms of compassion.

"She had nowhere to go Andy, I just saw you get bludgeoned by your own father at the plaza right before my eyes and I cannot stand the same scene happening again with Lynn on the receiving end. You know how ruthless her father can be when he's enraged. He might even kill her. I took her with me, Andy, I took her. I was ready to claim the baby for my own. Yours and Lyn's baby Andy. I just have to do it. Lyn and her baby deserve better. Pease Andy, I hope you forgive us. We love you Andy and you know that. I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."

It took all of his Christian faith and all of twenty years before Andy could give to Tom the absolute compassion that he craved, which Andy's father unfortunately never lived long enough to receive from his son, one of the greatest regrets Andy knows he will bring to his grave. When at last he was sure his heart was completely cleansed of hatred and indignation, Andy took the first step to reclaiming his life from its silent sins. He returned home to Dumaguete to administer to Tom and Lyn, the holy sacrament of matrimony, and more importantly, to belatedly kneel before his father's tomb to ask for forgiveness and assure the dead man's soul in return that this prodigal son had forgiven him...

Manny Pacquiao

2008-12-06T08:33:00.011+08:00

About ten years ago, I would be roused from sleep on a late Wednesday night at the incessant prodding of my father. It was fight night on teevee and he couldn't wait to watch his favorite boxing show. My old man needed company whenever he's up for the late night fights but on that particular occasion, he was more adamant, almost desperate that I watch the show, literally dragging me from bed. The reason for his eagerness was a 16 year old kid who had started to make waves in the sport. I had caught a few of his fights and what I saw was pretty impressive but I wouldn't even in my most generous day, call the kid world class.

He was awkward and freakishly built like a lollipop with the oversized head on a stick for body. The kid was starving and it was pretty obvious. Like most fighters here in the Philippines, They come from poor background, mostly unfed, neglected runaways who stray into some gym and found a way to unload their angst and bitternes at the world. Just my opinion. I have never ever been big on boxing anyway, or at least not the way my father had been all his life. The idea of two men bashing each other's head was not at all entertaining to me.

Fast forward to the present, my father is gone and I am sitting here a nervous wreck on the eve of the country's biggest fight to date. I say the country's biggest fight because when Manny Pacman Pacquiao faces Oscar de la Hoya at almost exactly the same time in Las Vegas tomorrow, it is not one man making a bid for personal glory. I know this has been said many times before but I can't help saying it again. Everytime the Pacman fights, the entire nation of 85-million filipinos prepare to go to war with him, sharing the pain from every punch that catches Manny, his heartaches, and the inevitable blood that would be spilled since Manny's fights are consistently brutal and violent, may as well be the blood and heartaches of his every countryman.

Boxing, and sports for that matter was never a big deal for me. Born unathletic and ungainly, I couldn't even win the simplest street game in the neighborhood as a kid. The other children would consistently kick my butt at play, whether the game involves some running or jumping, and some muscle power needs to be had which I suspect, I don't have. I even suspect I was born without reflexes and balance, a suspicion reinforced by my tripping on the stage at sixth grade while accepting my grade school diploma. Yet on this particular day and at this particular stage of my life, I have become converted to sports, at least as a fanatical observer in the most unlikely game of boxing and all because my heart goes out to Manny Pacquiao. He made me a believer.

Unlike the ordinary sport fan, I wouldn't say my deep affection for Manny is borne out of my understanding and appreciation of the sport of boxing. Without him, boxing wouldn't mean much to me. He was bigger than the sport itself, and larger than life. To me Manny Pacquiao represents the last ray of hope in so bleak a moment in the history of our nation, when all hope it seems is gone. With his rise to stardom, and the success he continues to reap, we realize after a long while that we are capable of fulfilling the dreams we set to accomplish for ourselves. For the first time in years, a filipino competes with the best in the world, and he is not looked down as an underdog but a force to reckon with, an equal of any other man, if not the superior one.

The good thing about it is despite his lack of education, he just finished sixth grade, Manny is a paragon of decency and character. For the first time in years, we see a great boxer who does not thrive on bad publicity, or scandalous behavior, he does not even cuss or badmouth even the most hated, the most hateful opponent, but treats the other man with respect due him. The last time I checked on the web, he had reportedly given Mike Tyson free tickets to his fight, the report insinuating the former heavyweight champion who had fallen in bad times couldn't afford to pay his way to the fight. It was just the natural thing for Manny to do that.

Best of all, he fights for his people. Manny has assumed a very daunting responsibility in dedicating his every effort to the people instead of downplaying the significance of the fight's outcome to a personal matter between him and his opponent. The stakes are already insurmountable the way it is, and Manny took it to an even higher plane by getting the entire nation involved. We share his grief and his victory and even his wealth to some extent The long queue of thousands of poor people lining up outside his house to receive dole outs at his every homecoming will attest to the generosity of the boy who once had nothing to eat and no one to ask for help. I wish my father is alive today to see how far his favorite boxer has come.

So here I am, trying to write something sensible notwithstanding the nervouness clouding my mind, derailing all my faculties for sensible thought. I will cheer hard and pray harder for Manny tomorrow. My heart will be broken if he should lose. It's my fight too.

"I am Legend"

2008-12-01T05:23:00.005+08:00

I rushed to the restroom and locked myself up in a cubicle, fighting to keep myself together as the enormity of the decision I just made began to sink in. The door opened and the footsteps of two men echoed on the cramp tiled room.

"I couldn't believe anyone could have done that. The guy was an absolute disgrace, I mean, how could anyone throw it all away".

"I've been with HR for years and this is the first time it happened and hopefully it would also be the last, maybe we should change our recruitment policies to screen out those lunatics".

"Ha-ha-ha... People will be talking about this for a long time."

Their laughter filled the room for a while, and then silence as the footsteps headed for the door, which gave out an audible creaking sound as they went out. I waited a few minutes before stepping out of the cubicle pushing myself into a brisk walk. I couldn't wait to leave.

Two weeks of grueling apprenticeship had ended at this afternoon's citator examination, a hands-on, job-simulated process of analyzing data retrieved from the web through a series of coded entries the apprentices were methodically thought to memorize and put into application during the training period consisting of daily lectures, quizzes and oral recitations.

During the first few days of the apprenticeship, my lack of training in computers and complete unfamiliarity with a class-room environment, it's been years and I couldn't quite recall anymore how it was to sit in class, were a revelation that quickly overwhelmed my initial excitement at having finally landed a second job, rather, the opportunity to land a second job.

There were moments I would completely lapse into an absolute state of ignorance, an alien in a strange planet, while everyone around me were on the same page thinking in the same wavelength, the language they speak a mystery I couldn't quite comprehend. By the end of the week, and following a series of failed quizzes one after another, and equally disastrous oral recitations, I have fallen deep down the bottom rung of the pecking order.

Finally, this afternoon, during the finals, the last straw.

The multi-colored computer screen seemed to mockingly stare at me, while I held the two-page questionnaire, unable to even start. Two weeks of preparation proved to have amounted to nothing as I agonized over each and every question but not finding any sense out of the whole exercise not even the slightest idea what is asked, much less, what is the answer. The computer wouldn't oblige to my command, I couldn't even leave the first page. I went brain dead and it was hopeless.

At some other times, it would be ridiculous, this experience that I am going through except that this all-important opportunity was supposed to make a huge and lasting impact on how I could financially cope with life in the next few years, and how I can feed my family, so it is completely difficult to find the humor on my latest monumental failure.

After one full hour of futility, I've had enough. I handed back the questionnaire to the stunned trainors in the same blank immaculate condition that it was when I received it. "I'm so sorry, I can't go through this".

From the rest room, I went straight to the lobby guards downstairs to claim my ID and sign out. They fell in a hush as soon as I arrived but as I turned my back to leave, one of them whispered to the others "He's the one".

I am legend...

The Pleading

2008-11-08T06:32:00.019+08:00

He went home to a cold bowl of arrozcaldo.

Leo thought he could put it on the stove to simmer a little bit but his empty stomach just couldn't wait any longer. It's almost midnight now and that's all there is for supper. He found a spoon and quickly dug into the porridge that by now was beginning to get bland and sticky, which is what happens when food meant to be eaten freshly-cooked is left untouched for several hours. The probing spoon found a chicken leg deep into the bowl the hungry father of three immediately cleaned up to the bone. Had he come home in time for dinner, Leo thought he would not have missed the fine meal and cheerful conversation, the arrozcaldo would have been delicious as always, the comfort food that he would always crave during the harsh stormy days like this. But now he had to eat in the dark. Alone.

Outside, flood had already engulfed part of the town with no sign of subsiding, the massive blackout and whiplash howling wind and vicious rainfall on the roofs reveal the making of yet another potential disaster.

The announcement came just before noontime earlier today. Immediately, everyone at the firm rushed to pack his belongings hoping to reach home before the super-typhoon makes landfall directly into the city. There were loud angry complaints at government officials sleeping on the job again when they could have suspended all work and classes in the early morning hours so that the people would have not have risked getting caught in horrible weather like this away from home. Late as the announcement was, Leo welcomed the thought of coming back home early to cuddle up in bed with his wife and children to pass up the storm. He couldn't wait to head back to Aileen and the kids but he was summoned to the office of the boss.

"Leo, this pleading must reach the De la Cruz Law Firm in time. A multi-million peso contract depends on this so we can't afford to blow it. Make sure you deliver this no matter what happens. I don't care how you do it but I want this pleading to get there, you understand? You screw up like the way you did last time and you might as well start looking for another job. Don't say I didn't warn you, Leo. Here, take a cab".

Atty. Joven De Leon handed him a wad of bills before the boss himself rushed for the door, raring to get home while Leo lingered a moment, lamenting his terrible fortune. At least he thought to himself, he can keep the cab money and bring it home to Aileen by taking the jeepney instead, which is exactly what he always does to save up on transportation allowance every time he is sent off to serve a pleading. With two large envelopes pressed in his armpit, he walked through the door with the other scurrying employees eager to leave the high rise Makati building.

One look at the surroundings the moment he stepped out into the streets showed Leo he wouldn't need a cab, or a jeepney for that matter. A massive flashflood brought traffic to a halt, the vehicles stood still bumper to bumper, transforming a long stretch of Ayala Avenue into an extended parking lot. He waded into the flooded street, and made his way to the post office to mail the first of the two envelopes to the court then he rushed to Manila to deliver the other envelope to the Dela Cruz Law Firm.

He had to twice take the elevated train to make it to his next stop. And while flashfloods and traffic jams were never a problem as far as traveling on the train goes, the journey was anything but fast. The crush of humanity that would inevitably gravitate towards the train stations when all other means of transportation become impaired by the weather would always reach unbelievable proportions. This time, Leo was shocked to find something worse than he expected. The queue stretched all the way down to the street, a mob of disgruntled hundreds shoving and pushing for space while trying to inch their way one agonizing step after another through the stairway and then upstairs into the security checkpoint and finally after nearly two hours of supreme punishment, the boarding section where every coach that would open at every stop, already filled to capacity, would have one or two passengers stepping out, and ten others trying to squeeze in. A riot was practically threatening to explode at the mere sight of an approaching train.

When finally Leo managed to step into one of the coaches or rather after he was violently pushed inside by the jostling crowd, he found himself squeezed in the middle of what seemed like a human wall of tired perspiring bodies. Within seconds, he was dripping in perspiration himself, and almost suffocating, the smell of his own sweat adding to the already explosive cocktail of human stench permeating the cramped oven-hot train.

If getting inside was a struggle, getting out in one piece was just as difficult as the crowd waiting at every stop seemed to get bigger and bigger, and panic would hang in the air as soon as the sliding door would open so that when his turn came to disembark, Leo had to walk through the gauntlet like a neophyte in the initiation rite taking a beating from a phalanx of fraternity masters. And when finally it was over he paused to check if his ribs were intact and his vital signs still working. The envelope containing the pleading was moist with sweat and crumpled notwithstanding the heroic effort he put up to protect it.

What had been a drizzle earlier had become by now a vicious rainfall prompting him to seek cover at the canopy of the establishments lining the sidewalk. Leo fought the urge to buy an umbrella from a passing vendor, telling himself the money must be put to better use than a temporary respite from the rain but it turned out he never had a choice even if he changed his mind because when he reached for his wallet, all he found was a slit the pickpocket had skillfully cut to take his money.

He hugged the envelope close to his chest and contemplated the long cold road ahead while watching the rain.

The Revenge

2008-10-28T05:38:00.028+08:00

He used to watch them from a distance atop the hill where he and his friends love to play but now they are closing in. The land developers have arrived at the village with their tractors and heavy equipment, clearing the savanna, and mowing down his father's farm. The machines roared like battle tanks on full-assault. Armed soldiers escorting the operation kept the villagers at bay so all they could do was to watch their lives being destroyed. The boy Edward wept, remembering what his grandfather used to say about eagles and men. He was 12.

Ironically, the summer started on a high note for Edward and his family. School has just ended with Edward getting the highest honors at their elementary school graduation. His father threw a feast, butchering the fattened calf along with the ten pigs and dozens of chickens that met the same untimely death at the hands of the butcher, but their sacrifice was worth it, leaving an entire village satisfied and bursting in the belly, what with the feast lasting three straight days. The palay stalks bent to near breaking point from the sheer weight of the grains they held symbolizing the abundance of a forthcoming harvest. And best of all, Tisay had whelped, giving birth to a healthy litter of eight, from which Edward picked the biggest pup, a boisterous male he named Habagat.

His first encounter with the Haribon came one late afternoon during a kite-flying adventure on the hill. The sun was slowly approaching the final stage of descent casting streaks of crimson into the clouds when Edward noticed that the kite he was flying did not have the whole of the sky to itself. A tiny speck had materialized from nowhere in the infinite vastness inconspicuously at first and then slowly it started taking shape. "Another kite", the boy thought to himself except that it never stayed in place, making a circular flight, unaided by the wind, and at times going against it, slowly, slowly revealing itself while losing altitude in what seemed like a graceful aerial dance no kite could ever imitate. By the time he realized what it was, the eagle had taken a tailspin, disappearing in a flash and hurling itself into the direction of Edward's house at the foot of the hill which is still fairly visible from his vantage point. It re-emerged in the blink of an eye clutching a chicken on its grip, the poor prey wriggling and shaking but not so much in trying to extricate itself than simply demonstrating the primeval urge to cling to life down to the last agonizing breath.

"That bastard raided my fighters again. That dead rooster was a three-time winner. I'm gonna get me a shotgun and blow up that monster to smithereens", his father Mang Bitoy fumed, while holding a gray rooster, and looking at the distance where the eagle had escaped.

"Jovito, why don't you just keep your chickens locked up inside the coop or you yourself watch them closely when you put them out to the sun instead of blaming the eagle? Retorted Edward's grandfather, Lolo Bentong. "Besides, I don't feel good about you betting on those stupid cocks anyway. So perhaps the eagle may have saved you from losing your shirt at the cockpit. You should be thankful instead."

Edward felt bad for his father. He had lost a prized cock, and now, he couldn't even win an argument.

But deep in his heart the boy was completely enchanted by the swiftness of the kill and even more so with the way his grandfather put things in perspective. He may be old, nearly a hundred years, but there is no questioning his wisdom and his way with words. It may be the first time that Edward saw the great bird do its thing, but already the boy's imagination has long been captivated by fantastic stories from Lolo Bentong himself about the plight of the majestic bird. How as a young boy, he watched a pair of these eagles do their courship rituals in the clouds during a thunderstorm And when he was sure that Mang Bitoy could no longer hear them, Lolo Bentong narrated in almost graphic details the way the Haribon made the act of killing the three-time winner look like swatting a fly.

The eagle in the words of the old man, would transform from just a creature of nature into a spiritual crusader that embodies the soul of the earth from which man and beast and all the elemental beings have evolved and on whose survival, the continuity of the cycle of life depends. It's the only one of its kind, the last of a dying breed, that's why the bird is revered and treasured by people like Lolo Bentong who remain firmly attached to the past. To them, it will always be Haribon, the King of Birds. And the wrath of the Gods should befall whoever had meant to harm it.

To the old man, everything the eagle did was beautiful. He finds no cruelty in the way the Haribon plucks its prey in one swoop to deliver a swift and sudden death because such is the way of nature, the way it was created, the story of its life, and how it was meant to be. "The Haribon takes only what it needs, and it does not inflict pain to its own kind unlike man who lusts for everything and who would not hesitate to take the life of another man to satisfy his greed," Lolo Bentong would always say. Then he would ask, "now who's the evil one?"

From that day on Edward would find himself staring aimlessly at the skies wishing to catch a glimpse of what had become the mythical bird of his imaginary world and when he does find it, he would never cease admiring the grace with which it dives and glides to the rhythm of the wind and as soon as the eagle disappears from his sight, the boy would be left wondering why a creature so beautiful would be condemned to live the cursed and lonely life. Every sighting of the Haribon is a profound moment for Edward until one day.

Habagat had broken off his leash and the runaway pup exuberantly dashed to its freedom faster than his nimble legs could normally carry him to explore the world and its pleasurable scents chasing locusts in the ricefields and searching for bird's nests and edible worms in the hollows of fallen trees. Edward who had so nervously searched for Habagat across the village was already closing in when he heard a loud yelp and the flapping of wings. The Haribon took off meters away, making huge strokes with its powerful wings to slowly pull itself up from the ground with the heavy carcass of the puppy hanging limply from the powerful talons of the great king of birds.

He could almost hear his grandfather ask "now, who's the evil one?" as Edward watched the clearing operation along with the angry villagers. He wondered what would happen to them now that they have been completely stripped of their land, their source of livelihood taken away just like that, and so with their dignity. This must be how it felt to the Haribon, throughout its painful struggle to survive in the rapidly changing world. A struggle that finally came to a tragic end one day when the King was caught in the trap father and son had built to take revenge on the adversary. Edward recalled how the King who ruled the earth and sky with such boundless courage and energy appeared to have lost the will to fight once it realized it was grounded and how the eagle stood motionless, calmly resigned to its fate it seemed, as his father struck with a butcher's knife, delivering the death blow.

This must be what Lolo Bentong had meant to say when he spoke of the wrath of the Gods...

The Merchants in the Dark

2008-10-18T06:09:00.018+08:00

I ate lunch in a hurry. After gulping down a third glass of ice cold water I rushed upstairs to the Transcription Jobs Department to find the lights out as the hum of the airconditioner competed with the funny snoring sounds by office mates taking advantage of what remains of the one-hour lunch-break to steal a catnap. My luminous watch says there will still be a full 40-minutes of precious sleep.

I adjusted to the darkness and frantically searched for chairs, I needed at least four of them to align into a makeshift bed. Thank Goodness, there were not just four but five free chairs for me. My lucky day! The cold and the dark work in magical ways caressing me to sleep in no time. As soon as my back touched the cushion I was drifting off, my own snoring and grunting blending in perfect harmony with the ridiculous musical chorus of tired office workers.

Alas, they came! They walk in pretending to try to stifle the noise they make but you know they can't because their footsteps and their familiar voices intrude into your sleep especially if you happen to be a light sleeper which I am. They huddled around the huge front desk of the supervisor where all sorts of merchandise were hurriedly laid down. We call them, "Mga Negosyante ng Kadiliman" or the Merchants in the Dark. Smart enterprising officemates who use spare time to make spare cash.

"How much for this bra? Is this 36-C, Grace?"

"Five hundred, two gives (meaning, two installments), 450 if you pay cash."

"Well, it doesn't feel right, cup's too small".

"Here, put this on."

"Still don't fit? Are those things boobs or water melons? Okay Beth, remind me later to order the next size so that you can have it tomorrow".

'This phone charger China?"

"It is, Evelyn but I have sold dozens of that and not one's been rejected so far, it works, I assure you."

"These t-backs are gorgeous, I'm wearing one right now, you've got to try this Nimfa, I'm sure the boyfriend's gonna love it."

"Grace...!"

"Just kidding, well, just because you're born again Christian doesn't mean you can't wear thongs right? Who's gonna find out anyway? Does Brother Mike check you down there before every prayer meeting?"

"You crazy b----"

"Hey, watch your language, you're born again Christian, remember?"

The snorings have stopped and were immediately replaced by a lot of giggling and teasing as those awakened by the noise and who have already been eavesdropping on the sales talk could no longer suppress themselves. There goes our siesta... Now, back to work.

That afternoon, I went home with a burning fever. The lady who sat next to me in the cramped Toyota Revo looked every inch under the weather with reddish tearful eyes, and running nose that she tried to cover with a handkerchief throughout the trip. She was the culprit.

The minute I reached the dorm, I kicked off my shoes and threw myself to bed then dozed off. After a while, I felt the door gently opened. I heard the familiar voices of women, making small talk interrupted occasionally by bursts of laughter. The merchants again, I said to myself. I must have been already awake or perhaps I was dreaming but I realized I just came home from work so they couldn't be here. I backtracked to the day's events from the time I stepped into the dark room, the conversations that I had been eavesdropping on in the dark, and up to the time I took the trip home seated next to a sick girl... Maybe it was the fever. I must be hallucinating but the more I try to make sense out of what's happening, the more I get disoriented and the confusion slowly was growing into a cold fright. I listened closely to the women in the room and what I heard sent my hair standing on end.

Grrr... Grabagra... Grumpbhgragraphraga.... Grugh..
Rubrgrhara... grabraghagarapbharagh......
Habragrhrabrhabaghhaggrh...
Rugrubrugapghraga.... Grabraghabraghah....
Vraghbraghadda... Dhagrabhagahhh...

Strange. I couldn't move. I couldn't get up. I couldn't even open my eyes to look at them. I wanted to scream. They must have noticed my agitation, I really felt so, because the laughter grew louder. Someone sat on the bed close to my belly, I could feel it as the cushion unsettled, rising a little from the pressure. Then I felt a tremendous weight on my groin, like someone had mounted on horseback. The long slimy hair cascaded down my face, making me feel itchy all over. They were laughing out loud now, celebrating, cheering their hearts out. A hand reached for my neck, gently touching it at first before taking a firm grip.

And still I couldn't move...

(Strange voices coming from my room caught my landlord's attention. He thought I left the TV on full volume but when he came in, he was shocked to find me alone in the dark and gasping for breath having a seizure. Eyes wide shut. I was rushed to the hospital...)

The Love Triangle

2008-10-10T20:56:00.035+08:00

The uphill trek seemed to take an eternity but from where he stood he knew it's still a long way from the summit. Hunger, weariness and the lack of sleep made every single step he takes excruciatingly heavy, and only that deep longing for what lies at the end of this journey drove him to move forward. He tried to amuse himself with reminiscences of the childhood that he spent in their ancestral home at the foot of the Bulusan volcano where he would walk this uphill trail with Anna, who even as a boy he had always fantasized to become the love of his life someday, a belief he shared with his family and the entire town of Irosin for that matter.

In this town which seems to have been a willing hostage to the past, it is quite ironic that the future is still possible to foresee in life and relationships primarily because tradition still wields the power to impose in a way that most mortals can hardly refuse, which, however was the reason he decided to launch a personal rebellion by leaving the town to find his fortune in another country. He wanted to fly, to soar higher and farther than anyone from his town ever had, to swim against the raging tide, and to simply do what he had been made to believe he can't, and the first step to achieve that dream is to follow the voice from within and set the spirit free.

Yet, the luster of his achievements that began from the time he took flight, had already started to wane for Carlitos. Sure, he had turned his life full circle into a fairy tale of rags to riches by becoming a doctor in America, his ticket to a life lavished with all the luxuries of power and wealth. He had defied the odds in an almost miraculous way, to emerge no less than a folk hero to the eyes of his town-mates with the sheer magnitude of his conquest. But there are times he would still struggle with self-doubt. In moments of painfully honest soul-searching he would feel empty and while he alone knows about it, those were the worst of times, when the blind faith of those who chose to stay, those who willed themselves to suffer and endure seemed to eclipse the triumph of the brave ones like himself whose life flourished by moving on.

"This is where I belong, I love it here and I will never leave this place no matter what". Those were the exact words that summed up the parting message of Anna when he told him of his plans during their college graduation. He used to call her the lava lover, and he truly suspects she has an obsession, perhaps even a love affair with the volcano. When she was a little girl, she was convinced that Bulusan is God, and everything there is - from people to forest to dragon fly and lifeless rock - everything owe their existence to the compassion of the volcano.

And so in her mind they should willingly surrender to the judgment of fate when the time comes the spring of compassion finally runs dry and Bulusan breaks into a mighty outburst of deep-seated fury. It was an obsession that he desperately hoped Anna would outgrow eventually but she never did. Instead as Carlitos proceeded to the path of material enrichment, she on the other hand left everything behind and headed for the opposite direction propelled by a consuming passion to dedicate her whole life to science. She would immerse herself deep into the lonely task of discovering the secrets of the volcano, and after college, Anna would retreat to Irosin instead of marching forward to a brighter day, accepting full-time duties at the observatory which stood dangerously close to the fire-spewing crater of her beloved Bulusan.

The worst fight that they ever had was when he casually mentioned that Mayon, thirty miles away, was the one landmark and certainly not Bulusan that came to famously symbolize the Philippines in the world map and that Mayon already laid claim to far more pages in history books for having the perfect cone to which the world had become eternally infatuated, an image that had inspired generations of artists to create masterpieces and spurred tourist arrivals into the islands. Just like that Anna flew into a rage, the kind of which he had never seen in even the worst of volcanic eruptions. She was ready to lay down her life in defense of Bulusan, and Mayon from that day on was never ever mentioned in any of their conversations again.

Earlier today, and indeed as he drove past Mayon at the break of dawn, the memory of the fight made Carlitos wince at the magnificence of the volcano's perfect symmetry looming larger than life against the eerie stillness of the ruins of Cagsawa, where what remains of the church's bell-tower protruding from its stony grave eloquently spoke of the once deadly rage that rose from deep beneath the stillness of it all, creating in the aftermath, this thing of beauty which is a statement more powerful than the actual eruption itself, loudly and effectively contradicting Anna's spirited, if futile, stand.

It was totally different from the feeling that he had three hours later at the sight of Bulusan looming over the rustic landscape of his hometown of Irosin, which had noticeably experienced little changes since the day he left. He saw it as a monster eager to devour him and immediately he realized that among the things that remained untouched by change were the grudges that he still holds deep down in his heart. It hurt him to realize that the feeling of contempt consuming him because of all the misfortunes and for all the things that he had lost in this place still seethed within him after all these years, refusing to wilt with the passing of time.

It hurt even more that on this day he had broken a promise to never ever return but Carlitos quickly consoled himself with the thought of Anna, that if only he could take her away, it would be payback time and hands down the ultimate revenge.

A horn-bill flew overhead and settled on a branch, grooming itself momentarily and almost immediately the bird proceeded to feast on the fruits of the pili tree. Carlitos heard the wild bantam crow from a distance, seducing the female with the same ancient sound of procreation, that may have reverberated in this volcanic jungle since the beginning of time. Some things never change.

And then he heard the footsteps. The gun-wielding men emerged from nowhere and Carlitos found himself surrounded. They grabbed him. Twisted his arm. They frisked and blind-folded him. They took his watch and yanked at his wallet when it got stuck in his backpocket. A punch on the gut drove him to his knees and while on that position pleading for his life, they told him to say a prayer for the last time. In that fleeting moment of a chilling riveting silence, Carlitos remembered his father, how he laid dying in his arms following a crushing fall while they were on a happy trek to the summit of Bulusan to celebrate his 13th birthday. This place indeed may have been the curse of his life, with the manner it took his father away, and how it stole the heart of the only woman in the world he had truly ever loved, and now, it's about to take the ultimate price, his own life.

Anna began her descent from the summit, her backpack stuffed with instruments and soil samples which she would store at the observatory for the ongoing research on the presence of mineral deposit in Bulusan, and the potential usefulness of volcanic heat to the generation of alternative fuel energy. Her complexion already a deep bronze from the everyday burning by the sun, she proudly wears the hallmark of the life she had chosen, a lonely and difficult life that many including her own family and even her closest friends have given up trying to comprehend, but which they have come to accept as the life reserved only for Anna and her kind.

She reached for the letter from her files as soon as she returned to the observatory. She must have already read it a thousand times but the words that he wrote filled her heart with joy, and it was beautiful to realize how Carlitos could vividly remember the past in spite of the time and distance that stood between them. He had asked in ending what would it take to make her listen to her heart and for once leave her desolate life to give herself the chance to discover what true love is before it's too late. And after giving it a serious thought now she knew exactly what the answer is going to be. She began to write him a letter to let him know. She didn't hold back and the words flowed like the spring in a calm summer day, the emotions of the moment so real she could almost feel his presence.

The crack of a solitary gunshot echoed through the woods and startled Ana at the observatory, which made her pause from her writing, her heart struck with sadness at the sudden thought of yet another bird or buck felled by what she imagined was the ruthless hunter's gun but in no time, Bulusan had reclaimed its serenity.

Finding Miss Nelia

2008-10-01T21:14:00.025+08:00

(This Brazen Teacher, one of my blogging idols recently wrote a post about the phenomenon of the favorite teacher. I was inspired to write on the same topic and this is the result. Thanks to the Brazen Teacher...)

My search has ended and my heart is broken.

The old man at the rusty iron gate who gave me direction was right on the spot with his instructions. Walk straight up to the end, then turn right, and you will find the apartment section, it's somewhere on the fifth row from the bottom of the block. Look closely and carefully read the inscriptions, because the paint is most likely beginning to peel off. Now here I am, misty-eyed and feeling stupid for doubting the soundness of his memory.

Before this, my search took me back to the town where I grew up, to the last known address where I used to visit Miss Nelia - my science teacher in fifth grade - back in those days when I was eleven and aching for affirmation, and desperately looking to make something meaningful out of my life back then. On the same exact place where the teacher's house stood during my youth, a fish sauce (patis) factory had risen in its stead, obliterating the last remaining vestiges of remembrance that I still keep of that house. The security guard, who was about my age, told me he had no idea what this place used to be and what significance it held if there was anything like it somewhere in time; like who were the folks who lived here before and what they did, and if they are alive, where they are now. No, he just can't have none of that. The past that this place held secretly in its deepest darkest corners and still had me enthralled after all these years holds no special meaning or significance to him if you want his honest opinion, and that past will remain a secret to this man forever, not that he cares to know anything about it at all even if I should insist that he listen to my story. So on that sad note I left with a heavy heart.

From there, my feet took me to the site of the old primary school which at least still stands to this day and which I see now as monument to my lost years, a symbolism that defies time to preserve the memory of the growth of my personal universe. I was subconsciously hoping the fire trees were still there but maybe it was too much to wish for.

I have a confession to make.

Under the unforgettably expansive shade of the fire trees that once stood proud at the school yard which from a distance assumed the collective appearance of a fallen crimson cloud, I once went on a killing spree, murdering innocent birds with my slingshot. The fire trees among other things made the school such a special place to me if only for the memories of the happy summer days that they are capable of bringing back to life, memories that are meant to defy the power of time to blunt the magic of my childhood nostalgia no matter how long it had been since the memorable event actually happened.

School was the extension and expansion of my life back then, as I was beginning to discover to my eternal amusement that the world is bigger and much bigger indeed than the four corners of the apartment where my family used to stay, that there is such a thing as a place dedicated to the attainment of the profound objectives of education, where you get to be transformed from a son or a brother or a neighbor to become at first a complete stranger, before fitting into the mold of a classmate, a student, and in my case, a surrogate son. And whatever lesson I learned from here it allowed me to ease into my next bigger roles in the higher scheme of things, as for instance a member of the church, of my community, of society, and ultimately of the flawed and eternally suffering human race.

And then there she was, Miss Nelia, she was as usual, in a mad rush to beat the 7 o'clock buzzer that would announce to all the start of the flag-raising ceremony, which the school considers as a sacred tradition never to be missed, and certainly not to be taken for granted or doom befalls the uncaring soul. And there I was, following her footsteps, on my shoulder hung my old school bag barely held together by stitches my mother had patiently sewn with nylon thread the night before, and which she gave to me with a heart-wrenching promise that "we will buy a new one son, as soon as we have some spare cash". I held in my arms, or rather I had embraced so tightly and so close to my heart the thick heavy pile of folders and lesson plans that to my mind were a special privilege to carry for her, because she is a person I truly admire and respect, even though I was too young to know what it meant at that time.

She would demand that I stay after class and we shall review - those were actually military drills on memorization and word-association techniques - to coerce my brain into memorizing the names of the great scientists and the great things that they invented that were to become their claim to fame and immortality, the distinction between force, gravity, and inertia and a million other scientific definitions, the table of the chemical elements, and the amazing explanation of science why food, travelling the circuitous route of the digestive system, would end up into despicable matter when expelled through the most despicable body part of all.

Saturdays, the mental military drills assume an almost sadistic degree of difficulty. There will be sanctions imposed if my mistakes would reach unacceptable numbers - a vicious tongue lashing that would often leave me in tears, a total emotional wreck. But I always look forward to the end of those sessions - Miss Nelia and I would have a late afternoon snack, usually porridge and ice cold drink from a roadside eatery just across the street from school. I was only half thankful that she pays for our food with her own hard-earned money because the school, and the government itself is too poor to spend for our ambitions- the other half of me tells me I actually earned it, considering the agony that I needed to endure for a measly reward of a bowl of porridge and a little refreshment.

All of these because we were preparing for war.

Back in those days, the Science Quiz Bee was fought with the ruthless intensity of some of history's most vicious wars, the kind of struggle in which honor is at stake and the saving grace is a team spirit bordering on a willingness to live and die together. We were a team to the bitter end, that was our mantra, that was also our promise and our threat to the whole world. On the day of the competition I remember wearing an ill-fitting Barong Tagalog, and a pair of trousers my father had worn the first time he came to Manila as a teenage boy. My battle gear was crude but the size of my heart immeasurable. I breezed through the easy and average rounds but qualified into the succeeding difficult round by the proverbial skin of my teeth. It was in the clincher round that the cookie finally crumbled.

"Why do we see lightning first before hearing the thunder?" It was the million dollar question that I picked from the crystal bowl. I searched my mind, reached into the very depths of my soul and my being but couldn't quite find the stroke of wisdom equal to the task at hand. I searched for her face in the crowd looking for salvation as the seconds ticked away, and found Miss Nelia head vowed and face buried in the palm of her hands. I honestly couldn't remember anymore how I struggled to answer the question in the most honorable way I can and how desperately I tried to make my last ditch stand against the inevitable like the proud warrior preparing to go out on his shield. Perhaps my forgetfulness towards that episode was the mind's way of blocking off memories of many humbling moments in our lifetime which could otherwise leave a person permanently damaged for life.

She met me at the backstage and we cried. We cried the entire trip back home.

Today, twenty years later and after a long and painful search, I found her at last, but not in the joyous manner I had so desperately tried to envision whenever I dream of this reunion. There will not be another long conversation like the ones that we used to have before and which I had honestly been looking forward to having with her once again. There will not even be a short talk or some pleasantries for that matter and yes, there will be no explaining where I failed and where I succeeded in the dreams that we have built, which was the part I feared the most about this meeting - to be telling my teacher face to face that the disaster at the Science Quiz Bee was not the first nor the last but just the beginning of a series of many countless heartaches that came to be the story of my life. The life of her favorite student, the boy he predicted to become a brilliant lawyer someday had fumbled and failed in a big way. I did find work at a law firm alright but not as an attorney. I am a just a lowly messenger.

The long and painful search did not exactly prepare me for the bigger tragedy of its conclusion. How I wish this is just another one of my bad dreams. How I wish I were completely mistaken to be in a place like this. How I wish that I could change the irony of my fate. Yet the inscription on the stone brought a heartbreaking finality to my search. Indeed, the paint was beginning to peel but still it clearly read: Cornelia Dimaculangan, RIP...

The Maid

2008-09-24T22:18:00.010+08:00

The new maid Inday had been terribly ill, too ill that it kept her completely unable to do anything but lie down the whole day she couldn't even pull herself out of bed. She was throwing up all over the place, spilling out the contents of her guts, her eyes at times bloodshot and at times glassy, her body seemingly threatening to burst into flames because of a horrendous incomprehensible fever. But the thing that disturbed Mabel the most was her vital signs. From years of experience as a former nursing attendant, she has yet to encounter anything like this, that's why it's difficult to explain the events she observed during the last couple of hours.

She would take her pulse and find great trouble detecting anything. And then at last when she did feel the very faint beating, it was like electricity would flow through her, sapping away her energy. And afterwards, a few minutes of not feeling anything would transpire before yet again, a strange sensation comes creeping in. It was weird. Simply weird. Mabel would have liked to continue checking the maid's pulse at regular intervals and then perhaps clean up the mess but she started feeling dizzy herself, her strength beginning to ebb. It was physically draining.

To make matters worse, the phone had just went dead. There was no one to call for help in this bad weather and terrible situation, considering the distance between their new town house where they have just transferred last week, and the nearest occupied unit five blocks away. She didn't like the way the ailing maid looked at this stage, like the blood had been systematically drained from her frail body but at least she had already fallen asleep although she was still breathing heavily and with apparent difficulty. The medicine she administered was hopefully beginning to take effect. Mabel wondered to herself when would Paolo be coming back?

She left the maid's bedside and walked into their bedroom to catch her breath and wait for her husband there. But she fell asleep. A slight drizzle had started again, the wet pavement glistening under the moonlight. The grass on their lawn gathered dew as the hours passed while a stray dog howled at the moon from faraway.

Paolo honked twice the moment he approached the house, and almost immediately, the heavy iron gate parted in the middle revealing against the glare of the headlight, a woman in flimsy sleeping dress, her flowing black hair accentuating the round radiant face that seemed to reflect the glow of the moonlight. Inday greeted him with a wide smile and watched while Paolo backed the car up into the garage.

"Where's your Ate Mabel?", he inquired.

"She fell asleep waiting for you Sir". The maid answered still smiling broadly, as she walked on bouncy legs, humming enthusiastically while heading back to her room upstairs, the exuberant strides almost a bizarre dance. Paolo wanted to ask why she is up this late and how come not a single light was on inside or outside the house but the maid was gone in an instant and he was just too tired to ask.

Mabel couldn't believe her eyes the moment she awakened late in the morning in which she almost instinctively rushed downstairs without bothering to fix herself. The bathroom had already been scrubbed clean, while the clothesline in the backyard strained under the weight of the still dripping laundry, the smell of freshly-cooked breakfast permeated the morning air from the kitchen, while Paolo sat beside the dining table, his attention torn between a late breakfast and the newspaper in his hands. He noticed her presence and gave Mabel a look of concern and a half-smile.

"You overslept, honey, come on now and let's have brunch."

But with a million questions racing through her mind, food was the last thing that mattered for the perplexed young housewife. "How is Inday? She was sick to death last night, what happened to her? And where is she now? Her words came in rapid succession, desperately craving for answers.

"What do you mean sick? That woman's a machine, Belle, working non-stop. I'm exhausted just watching her go at it. I just had to beg her to please stop, to take it easy, my God. She's upstairs now, resting I hope... Looks like we lucked out on this one, Belle... she's worth every single cent we're paying."

Mabel was incredulous. She had been with many sick people at the hospital, she had personally witnessed how some of them would sink so dangerously close to death only to come back from the brink, but never in the miraculous manner her husband was trying to suggest in the case of the maid. The stench of vomit seemed to return as she recalled how it was last night and so with the feeling of dread that swept her in anticipation of a terrible tragedy and almost instantly Mabel felt nauseous. It all seemed surreal now in retrospect, and maybe it is. She must have been dreaming all along last night. Yes, it could not have been anything but a dream, a very bad dream indeed.

That night as they laid together in bed, she felt Paolo put his arms around her and teasingly nipped at her ear, before gently whispering "So, when are you making the big announcement? I've been waiting for you to say it the whole day, the waiting is killing me, Honey".

"What announcement?" she asked, trying to stay awake.

"Oh don't you play innocent with me, you little liar, Inday told me about it at dinner tonight".

"Told you what?", she was visibly agitated now and this time Mabel made no effort to conceal it.

"Hey, wait a minute, Belle, didn't you tell her you were pregnant?"

"What?" she fought the urge to curse. "The hell with that... I don't even know it myself. Me, pregnant? How dare her say that?"

"You mean?"

"Hell, no. And if this is a joke, it isn't funny. She's making up stories, that miserable bitch. She'll have some explaining tomorrow. We'll see about that."

For several hours, and long after her husband had began snoring the night away, Mabel was still seething. It was impossible to sleep with that kind of temper. Finally she decided she can't wait for morning to come. She rose and instinctively reached for the switch only to find to her shock that the light wouldn't turn on, no matter how many times and in which direction she pressed. Slowly, she found her way to the maid's room, the door unexpectedly unlocked. The stench of vomit assaulted her the moment she walked inside, and because of moonlight coming in from the open window, she could see that the bed where Inday had been lying in horrible condition the night before has remained in disarray reeking of vomit. But the maid was nowhere to be found.

Mabel looked outside the window, into the moonlit night and across the street until she noticed the familiar outline of their roof cast against the vacant lot below. On its slope right above the exact spot where she was standing loomed a shadow that was almost unrecognizable, almost imperceptible at first until slowly it rose, revealing the unmistakable figure of a woman, her long hair drifting in the direction of the wind, Mabel could tell that she was stark naked when the shadow stood still, and then the silhouette started moving, leaping and crawling on all fours, then pacing about and walking on seemingly bouncy legs, the exuberant strides almost a bizarre dance. A stray dog howled at the moon from faraway...

The Kite

2008-09-16T21:05:00.002+08:00

"He's been badgering me the whole day, Fred, asking when are you coming back until he fell asleep, waiting for you to arrive."

"Oh yes, I remember he asked me last night to make him a kite. I think he wants to show-off to the other kids in the neighborhood."

"Well, next time you should think twice before making promises to that kid. He just wouldn't stop asking. Have you eaten yet?"

There was nothing on the table and one glance at the empty kettle lying on the sink let him know that telling the truth to Martha will not make any difference.

"Don't worry Martha, I'm not hungry." Fred lied through gnashing teeth while ignoring the tearing pain in his gut. Then he lovingly carried the boy Ben in his arms, kissed him on the cheeks before putting him down gently into the wooden bed, which fills more than half the entire spread of their one-room abode.

Fred remembered something and reached down his pocket where he had kept the sewing thread. He paid for it with money from his fare, so he had to walk almost ten kilometers to make his way back home. He also remembered that they have just about cleaned up the last of their savings from his previous trip, when he was hired as an oiler on a gigantic cargo vessel bound for the Marianas. Now the family is practically living on dole-outs from relatives and friends, and even their generosity is just as quickly running thin.

His entire body ached from weariness and hunger, but that wouldn't compare to the pain of his crushing failures. For almost a year now, he had been joining the daily queue from sunup to sundown alongside hundreds of other seafarers like himself at the Baywalk in Manila; those starving, desperate men praying for a miracle to happen, which actually meant being called aboard should someone had been foolish enough to miss the boat.

He turned off the light and joined them in bed and as he slowly drifts into sleep, Fred made sure the last images on his mind were the faces of his wife and son, his last chance at happiness, so he's taking them along wherever his dreams would bring him.

He figured, if perhaps by doing this, he could do what he couldn't accomplish in this hard luck life, if this way he could take Martha and Ben elsewhere, somewhere, anywhere, except here, just some place the pain and sufferings could not reach, then maybe there is purpose to waking up to yet another day even if it's meant to be spent in the pursuit of a futile and lonely quest.

It was a little bit gloomy in the morning, and a mild drizzle at dawn left patches of mud on the lahar-covered vacant lot between the highway and the slums where Fred and his family had lived for as long as they can remember. Ben recognized some of his friends with their colorful expensive kites but he pretended to ignore them and kept his eye on the contraption he was holding, the kite that his father made out of old newspaper and broomstick, held together by morsels of cooked rice instead of glue. Fred on the other hand walked self-consciously behind his son.

"Okay, I'll throw. You've got to pull hard at the string the moment I released the kite", Fred instructed Ben while backing up to the direction of the wind, a mild breeze with occasional gusts strong enough to send lahar sand flying in a swirl, recreating the surreal image from old western movies, in those scenes when hero and villain face off in a final mortal gunfight.

The first attempt by Ben at flying a kite was just exactly what Fred had expected. The kite pulled up at the sudden burst of head wind and then quickly took a sharp dive like it was loaded with brick, barely missing Fred's head. Fred plucked it from a mud patch, tossed it to the wind and the kite took off again. Ben yanked hard at the thread, then dashed spiritedly against the direction of the wind to propel the ascending kite. But the boy tripped on a rock and fell hard on his face. Fred rushed to his son's aid while the other children couldn't help but laugh so hard at what they had seen.

They exchanged places. Ben tossed the kite and Fred, remembering all the important kite-flying lessons of his boyhood days and using them to the hilt had successfully launched the kite soaring above the houses and past the tallest trees, above the power lines in the distance, and way past all the rest of the other children's kites, the thread unravelling at lightning speed as the flying devil on the other end of the line bravely held up to the power of the whirlwind and couldn't seem to have enough of the joyous and purest ecstasy of flight.

Ben ran to his father and hugged him.

For the next few hours, the boy Ben held on to his kite while his father watched his son live out his childhood dream, that beautiful dream of soaring above the clouds with an exhilaration reserved only to the birds the first time they spread their wings to fly, the dream of conquering one's fears and reinforcing the faith, the dream of turning into a monumental triumph what others who don't have the faith to believe, would simply equate to an impossible dream.

"Father, how come you fly kite so well, where did you learn that?", Ben asked without looking at his father, his eyes fixed on the kite which is now reduced to the size of a black dot in the sky with the thread stretched out to nearly the entire length.

"Well, your grandfather used to go kite-flying with me when I was a boy your age here, at exactly this same place. We spent countless summer days like this just flying kites until the sun goes down. I still remember what my father used to say about kites. "If you really want this thing to fly, you've got to let the wind take it away. You just have to learn to let go."

"You mean grandfather did not leave the house most of the time like you do? How come you always go away, Father? I wish we could spend more time like this together, flying kites and just having fun..."

Every word the boy said tugged at the heart but Fred fought his guilt.

"But I can't afford to be always with you like this Ben, the times are different now and you have to understand that. When I was your age, this place was a rice field, and all that you see is green, there were fruit-bearing trees all around and lots of fish in the lake which is so totally different from the way it is today. The Mt. Pinatubo eruption took away everything that I have, including my father. Before the volcanic eruption, we were better off and my father can afford back in those days to feed us, send us to school, put clothes on our backs, and provide a decent life to us with what he earns from the farm. I can't do that now, certainly not in a situation like this. I just have to leave and find a job Ben, or we all die."

Martha arrived, hoisting a piece of paper in her hand, a telegram... her smile visible even from a distance. "Fred, oh god, Fred, the good lord finally heard our prayers. The shipping company in Subic sent you this!"

Then she and Fred embraced, Ben squeezed in between, wandering what magic spell came over his parents. Whatever it is, he wouldn't want it to end. In fact he wanted this moment, this happiness that he had not seen on the faces of his parents for a long time, to last forever.

That night, as they packed his father's clothes, the boy couldn't believe how anyone could feel like wanting to celebrate and wanting to cry at the same time, but that is the situation that would exactly describe how he felt, and at least in his young mind, he thought to himself, it's better this way than not feeling anything at all after the bitter-sweet moments during the day. He felt his father's lips touched his cheeks perhaps for the last time to say goodbye while he put him to sleep. In the morning, there was only himself and his mother, and Ben was overwhelmed with a terrible longing although he expected this.

He took the kite out to a windswept day under gray-painted skies. A splattering of red and purple hues gave hints it would be some struggle before the sun breaks free from the clutches of the seemingly impregnable clouds. The kite sprung to life against the wind, and tugged hard at the thread like a wild vicious animal on a leash. It hurled itself into the sky as soon as the boy set the thread reeling off, guiding it skillfully with his hands. His father would have been so proud to watch him in this effortless mastery of the secrets of flight, if only he were here.

The weather-beaten landscape suddenly turned from gray to a glowing green, rice fields emerged to reclaim a wide expanse of the poignant lahar-ravaged plains, and the boy Ben became the child that his father was when the earth was still beautiful and life had far more frequent moments of joy. He thought about his father and the ship that took him away. He remembered what he told him about letting go.

Go find my father and tell him about how it was today, the boy Ben whispered to his kite while he cut the thread and set it free...

Of Flies and Lions

2008-09-09T21:27:00.012+08:00

(Payatas is a huge mountain of garbage that is home to thousands of urban poor filipinos struggling to eke out a living as scavengers. It's the latest infamous landmark after Smokey Mountain. This short story is a satire on the urban tragedy.)

Loud, obnoxious, and drunk as hell, the three men strode unsteadily along the narrow street bordered on both sides by rows of shanties. The great beast appeared a few yards away, the enormous head brushing against the shanty walls. They froze and waited for hopefully a swift and painless death but as the three men collapsed in terror the creature in one mighty leap catapulted itself above them, landing several meters away before disappearing into the night.

Lt. Pocholo Tango was about to lapse into another asthma attack at the sight of the unexpected guest, a bearded, hairy caucasian in ridiculous skin-tight pink leotards who spoke like some alien from outer space, a Santa Claus stricken with anorexia. The lieutenant called out his trusted right hand man.

"Cabo!" SPO1 Alex Marino rose from his sleep the way that Lazarus came slowly ack from the grave. Half-awake and half-asleep, he tried to salute but his hand wouldn't oblige, instinctively reaching for his mouth instead to wipe off dripping saliva. The lieutenant brought him to his senses with a resounding slap on the face using a folded newspaper.

"You crazy bastard you're sleeping on the job again. Talk to this Martian invader and see what he's up to!"

And so began the tactical interrogation by the police officer of the Man from Planet Mars. But nothing he would manage to say could make any sense. The two police officers could only scratch their heads in desperation.

"Aha!" SPO1 Marino's eyes lit up at the sudden rush of a brilliant idea. "I think I'll get me an interpreter".

"An interpreter, at 2 in the morning, are you nuts? The lieutenant was at the end of his fuse.

"Just leave it to me, Sir", and Cabo disappeared.

Lt. Tango couldn't believe his eyes when PO1 Marino returned less than an hour later hand in hand with a long-legged blue eyed blonde with a plunging neckline. Immediately, the blonde bombshell and Mr. Pink-leotards-from-Planet-Mars started conversing in what sounded like an alien extra-terrestial twilight zone type of language. Recovering his senses, the lieutenant pulled Cabo aside - by the ear. "What in hell's name are you doing? And where did you get that interpreter?"

"Well, Sir, ah, ehr... I got her from ... er... the Pegasus strip club", the dimwit assistant responded sheepishly.

"What? You crazy bastard, what do you think of this office, a red-light district? Take those two nuttheads out of here or I'll blow your brains out".

"But... but Sir, you yourself say we can't get an interpreter at this darn hour, Sir. So, I got this lady here, by the way isn't she hot? The name is Anna... Anna Kournikova, well, I know it's just an alias, but she's one of those imported hookers from Belarus, who now works at Pegasus. See how it rhymed? From Belarus to Pegasus... she sure came a long way, Sir. And look, she and the Planet Man seemed to understand each other. See?

Anna turned to the lieutenant. "Welld Mizterd offizered, diz handzombed young man iz Brutuz, and by the wayd, hazd yourd azziztandt tolded you my named izz Ana?

"Damn right, Anna, and since you told me he's Brutus so maybe you might as well call me Popeye the sailor man. Hey miss, do me a favor, will you? Quit calling this damn thing a man or I'll have you booked for, let me see, grave insult to humanity. Or wait, you must be on dope to say those shitless things you say. You wouldn't want to do time in jail do you? I only see creatures like this on science fiction movies so don't go tellin' me he's a man. Take him back to his space ship and tell him to go back home to Planet Mars where he came from. Then maybe we can forget about this whole damn fiazco".

"Okayd. But juzt a zeconded Zir, wouldn't you liked to maked a quick milliond buckz? Anywayd, were leavingd nowd. Goodered luckt to you, Zir!"

The lieutenant's eyes widened, dollar zigns flashing out of them. Anna had a funny way of saying it, but the sound of a quick milliond buckz, was too loud and clear to escape the lieutenant's curious ears. "Hey, wait a second!" the police officer said, smiling. "It's quite hot in here, why don't we go inside my office? You and this handsome young man here can have coffee and chips while we talk business. A million bucks, you say?

Slowly, it all began to unravel. Brutus, the famous lion trainer from Russia had an accident. He fell asleep on the wheels while driving, so the van toppled, and the lion escaped. The beast, the undisputed star of the famous Russian circus is easily worth a million dollars. He's in fact considered a national treasure in Russia. "Help me and name your price" Brutus dared the lieutenant. But how can you go looking for a lion in the city without the people calling you sick in the head?

A loud banging outside startled Lt. Tango. Dashing out of the office, he found his assistant banging the phone.

"You crazy bastard, take it esy, what are you up to now?

"Well Sir, it's been a bad day for the two of us. First, we had this visitor from outer space, and now, you wouldn't believe it. I just received a prank call from some crack-head saying he's seen a lion, Damn right, sir, a lion. Can you believe this? A godamn lion in a goddamn city. Those goddamn idiots.

"Where you say did the calls come from?"

"Bastard says he's calling from Barangay Payatas. A lion in Payatas, by God!

Lt. Tango grabbed his assistant who was already bracing for the customary slap but the lieutenant planted a kiss on the startled assistant's face instead.

If they had arrived a minute late, it would have been all over for the big cat. Angry Payatas residents armed with lead pipes, rusty bolos, home-made guns, slingshots, and even kitchen utensils were all poised to attack. The runaway lion was cornered inside a hole the size of a small cave dug on one side of the garbage mound.

As expected, the Payatas folks would not be denied a share of the bounty the moment they heard the story. They bargained with the police officer on a sectoral basis the way they do it in any democratic republic, as their leaders would say. The youth wanted a dance party with master-rapper Andrew E. providing live hip-hop music. The jobless bums demanded a new basketball court be put up. The women wanted immunity from arrest when they play cards and bingo games in the afternoons. The neighborhood drunks, who took credit for being the first to find out about the lion, requested a week's supply of gin bilog. The born-again Christians asked for a prayer hall, with the latest sound system.

In return, everyone agreed to take turns guarding the lion day and night to prevent its escape and in addition, they will all help in laying down the trap to catch the beast. Cash advances were made from the richest businessman in the neighborhood, the owner of the lone grocery store in Payatas, for food and refreshment to be paid for when the money arrives. For several days, the Payatas folks held vigil but the lion would not come out. Brutus wouldn't dare get close to his runaway pet, aware of the big cat's temper - hungry and all - in a situation like this.

They came to encounter many startling discoveries. One is that, at high noon, when the sun is up and the heat in the rotten mountain of trash becomes unbearable, the lion roars like crazy, and it could be heard from miles away. To camouflage the mighty jungle call, the solution is to hold a daily noise barrage at the same exact hour. On the first day of the vigil, they launched a noise barrage against the greedy oil companies because of their oppresive oil price hikes. The second day, the Payatas folks went up in arms against prostitution, sex-trafficking and the exploitation of women in media and in this, our male-dominated society. The third day was their turn to launch a noise barrage against graft and corruption in government. Slowly the entire barangay was transforming into a society of political activists. But after the fourth day, as soon as the noise barrage for world peace ended, and with the angry residents having already lost their voice and their patience, a trap is laid and they made up their mind to get the lion by hook or by crook.

"We'll get him out!" boasted Asyong Lasenggo, the tubercular thug and self-styled drunken master of Barangay Payatas who volunteered to be the live bait. He will walk into the lion's den and let the beast come after him. For his sacrifice, he asked to be paid the kingly sum of ten thousand pesos to be divided equally among his four common-law-wives if something happens to him, a condition explicitly written in his last will and testament hastily-prepared by Payatas' resident lawyer, yes, a lawyer in Payatas. He used to be the celebrity of the neighborhood before this lion came to take the title. Then, the resident doctor of Payatas, yes again, there is a doctor in Payatas, took Asyong's blood pressure and vital signs, just to make sure he will not drop dead or die of fright at the sight of the lion.

And then finally, in what was to be hailed the high point of Payatas folklore, Asyong bravely baited the beast to emerge from his cave, but the suspense was short-lived. To everyone's shock, the monster that had terrorized their imagination day and night had been reduced to a walking model of canine skeletal system, its body covered with cankerous boils and pus, in which colonies of flies are having a feast. Life in Payatas was just too much for even the king of beast. After walking a few feet, the poor animal lapsed into what seemed like an epileptic seizure and then died with its tongue hanging out.

Just like that, everyone stood speechless. Their rags to riches ambitions came crashing down, without even taking off from the rags stage. Lt. Tango and PO1 Marino were lucky to escape being lynched by an angry mob, but the lieutenant was struck by a serious asthma attack from the chase. Anna and Brutus eloped during the meelee, never to be seen again.

But the Payatas folks, forever adapting to the foul moods of fate, were swift to find a way to turn disaster into jubilation. Gin bottles were quickly passed around and the dead lion was skinned, boiled and tenderized into a mouth-watering pulutan. The entire barangay partied day and night for two straight days until food ran out and then they lived unhappily ever after.

My Rain Dancing Days

2008-09-02T23:43:00.012+08:00

Watching the rain is one of my life's simple joys. I don't know if this is an addiction or if science already had invented a term for it but I think I personally would make a good case study. This fascination with rain started from the very time I learned to become aware of my environment. I suspect it meant right from the time my mother had me in her womb. She used to say that I was born in the month of September of a fateful year that had far more than the usual share of tropical storms. Perhaps I was a rain dancer in my previous life.

My mother would recall that days before I was born, a powerful typhoon came and wrecked havoc to the coastal town where my parents and older siblings used to live during the '70's. The town was submerged in flood that reached waist-deep in our neighborhood, and up to the roof-tops in some areas. During the height of the storm, the balcony of our house including the stairs leading up to the second floor was detached and swept away by the current. My father had to dive into the raging floodwater with a long rope to tie to the floating balcony and prevent if from drifting away.

To his amazement, my father recalled that a runaway pig had swam side by side with him while he was doing the one-man (plus one-pig) salvage operation. He decided that between the pig and the drifting balcony, the animal is more worth saving since it could drown while the balcony may be retrieved later so my father went after the pig. The bigger surprise was when he found out how good a swimmer the pig was. When my father was beginning to weaken from fighting off the current, he discovered that by holding on to the pig's tail, he can easily keep himself afloat and when the pig finally pulled him to safety, my father really felt he was the one saved instead of the other way around. Then, with a heavy heart he left the animal on its own. The thought of catching the pig for the family's consumption never crossed his mind. It would be so ungrateful, my father felt, to even think of doing such horrible thing to someone who had saved your life. To this day, it is a favorite topic whenever a typhoon comes around, my father swimming side by side with that prodigal pig.

When I was a growing child in that coastal town, my fondest memories of rain include those stormy evenings when I would be tucked in bed with my parents, listening while trying to cover my head with a pillow as wind and rain lashed angrily at our ancestral wooden house. No, I was never afraid. That's one of the lessons that you learn when you are a child, and it's the best thing about having your parents beside you during every storm. I always felt that as long as my parents are with me, nothing bad will ever happen. It's a testament to the kind of caring and loving that my parents showered me with.

I guess having a father who is willing to dive into rampaging floodwaters just to save one part of the house from drifting away gives me that unshakable faith in the absolute dedication of my parents to do the right thing for his family, no matter the dire consequences. That's why, I will always treasure the memories of days past when we would just stay in the house taking comfort in each other's presence while the wrath of a vicious storm is unleashed full force outside.

On the other hand, we would be worried and restless when any member of the family is not yet home during a storm. One of the most enduring memories of my childhood was when in yet another storm battered night, we huddled around a candle light waiting for my father to come home from work, and when finaly he arrived, I was teary-eyed to watch my mother welcome my father with a tight embrace the moment he appeared at the door, and then they kissed. It was a mushy moment alright but I would gladly give up anything if only I could make that moment happen again, and I wouldn't get tired of watching it.

We are taught about love by the examples of our parents, and I can say that that incident was one of the most powerful demonstrations of affection which I had ever seen and which I keep in my heart up to now. In fact I would even say that my propensity to seek love, to value that love, and to give it back in generous amounts would trace it beginnings on such experiences as the one I witnessed at the door on that stormy night.

There is something about the rain that makes you see the true value of the things that you have, and the importance of the people that you have in your life. I guess it's because the rain symbolizes the universal and indomitable force of nature that could take away the things that we value the most in the blink of an eye.

So every time that we walk through the vortex of the latest storm to come into our lives, we are reminded of our vulnerability, we realize that we are far from immune to pain and grief. Yet the silver lining to every rain is when our ability to cope with this indomitable force unmistakably rises to the occasion. We become more steadfast in our faith, we become more earnest in expressing to our loved ones that we love them. We embrace with much more heartfelt emotion, and the more deeply we appreciate the sheer joy of being together, riding out the tempest, and taking strength from each other's company.

I also enjoy the morning after.

We would wake up to a joyous announcement that classes are suspended while outside, it appears as if the entire community has embarked on a fluvial parade, walking on the flood that by then had receded to up to the knees-deep. You would think that these people who endured a night of relentless pounding from the storm and whose houses remain flooded would be a miserable lot but it is wonderful surprise to find too many smiling faces. This is a remarkable characteristic that can be found not only in our poor little town but practically in every part of the country. Truly, the ability to smile in the face of misfortune is one of the most endearing traits of our people You would see crowds wading happily on the flood, and some in fact would actually take a dip, perhaps pretending to be swimming in a pool at some exclusive resorts.

The best part is catching freshwater fish on the flooded streets. When I was a child, the river separating our town from the nearest neighboring town was not yet polluted. Fish and other small animals like crustaceans and a few snakes thrive in that river, and when the river overflows, you will find fish everywhere, jumping out of the drainage, swimming under your feet, getting stuck in the mud, and just appearing where you least expected them, as if by some divine providence, the fish seemed to be offering themselves to be caught and end up on the dinner table. And with some of the fish reaching up to a kilo a piece, it becomes irresistible for many people to take to the water and experience the thrill of catching fish with their bare hands.

We have since left the town and I know the river of my youth is now a dead river, the victim of pollution due to the indiscriminate dumping of waste into the river by the town residents themselves. It is quite sad really but at least I still have memories of a joyous past to look back to and enjoy when I need to be reminded of how life had been good to all of us, then and now, and perhaps long after my rain dancing days are over.

Scarlet Moon

2008-08-29T23:13:00.014+08:00

He was just a shadow in the dark but the familiar sound of his voice gave him away. Mark was holding something in his left hand, the other hand hidden behind his back. The pounding on my chest grew stronger the closer he got to me.

"So you came, my dear best friend... So you came... What a surprise... Good evening Jim... Take this, my present to you". His laughter reverberated with pure evil, and as I stood there stunned, he tossed to me the thing he was holding, it was round and black, and oozing slime.

As I caught the thing in my hands, the dim light under the scarlet moon allowing me to barely recognize it, I was mortified to be holding the severed head of Trixie.

Mark advanced, the hidden hand now exposed, he held it over his head and the butcher's knife glimmered in the dark, lusting for my blood. I reached for the magnum tucked in my waist. The last thing I remember was pulling the trigger then hearing an audible snap as the butcher's knife tore through my collarbone. Then I passed out.

We slept in the same room, dodged bullets and endured all kinds of humiliation from the drill sergeant at boot camp. My destiny was to become a cop and I resigned myself to fate with neither regret nor reservation. But Mark thought he was meant for bigger things. The top graduate of Batch '74, he went straight to law school while serving the command, and in five years he blossomed into a hotshot lawyer. The whole time, I was barely making ends meet catching criminals. Finally, I decided to take his lead, and followed my best friend to the legal profession but by then it was already twelve years after he had topped the bar examination. My mid-life decision to change careers was fueled not only by economic necessity but even more so by a nagging envy, which I wouldn't admit. I was nearing fifty when I finally passed the bar, at my fifth try. And then came the fateful night, the frantic call from Marian, the screaming in the background followed by a dead silence, the bloodbath, the night that I almost died.

The first thing I asked for as soon as I regained consciousness, three weeks after the incident was the forensic investigation report. I couldn't stand the post-mortem on Marianne and Little Mark, my godson, whose bodies were discovered in the bathroom. The report included the dog without a head, Trixie, a mild-mannered Rottweiler, the puppy I gave the boy on his eighth birthday and has since grown to become his playmate and friend. There was a graphic description of two dying men at the porch of the Balderrama Mansion, one had a slug inches from his heart, the other had a butcher's knife still stuck at the base of his neck, spewing blood. Yet miraculously, both men survived. Immediately after my release from hospital, I surrendered my badge and left the police force, which felt like losing your true love, but I have a new life now and I shall dedicate this second life to the defense of my best friend, not as a lawman but as a full-pledged lawyer. Nothing else matters.

With a plot full of twist made for the movies, the Balderrama massacre fueled a national hysteria. The family of Marianne was deluged with offers from big law firms hungry for the publicity to gain if they could send the accused to prison, some are simply looking for revenge, his own colleagues who couldn't get over the humiliation Mark inflicted in past courtroom encounters. On the other hand, I painstakingly went bank to my law books, searched the depths of my learning and memory and labored for long hours trying to muster every ounce of useful knowledge from my training in criminal law and police investigation. When a tabloid flashed my mug shot on the side bar of the running story of the massacre with the intriguing caption describing me as a former police major with limited litigation experience having only recently passed the bar, and hinting that the reporter knew of my four previous failures in the bar examination, I wanted to quit. I went from one sleazy bar to the next and stayed drunk for weeks until I was convinced it's still worth a try.

Sparks don't fly when lawyers make their arguments in court. It may seem that way in the movies but in real life, the courtroom is not a theatrical stage of intellectuals who speak in metaphors and pull rabbits out of a hat to win cases. I believe that litigation is hard work and he who put in the grater effort should enjoy a better chance at success; my blue collar approach to what people used to call a white collar job. My faith in my theory never wavered from the day I accepted the case, which no lawyer would dare touch, until the closing arguments.

"Your Honor, my client is insane and he is entitled to the exempting circumstance of insanity".

"We object to that, your Honor. There was no evidence of insanity before, during and after the commission of the act. If anything, the accused is not only mentally sound, but he is actually very intelligent, brilliant if I must say so, being a high-profiled lawyer and a bar topnotcher".

"Sustained".

"Your Honor, what motive can you have to commit something like this?

"Objection your Honor, motive is immaterial when the identity of the accused and his participation in the criminal act are clearly established. And we have sufficiently established that, your Honor".

"Sustained".

I knew I was losing it. But I would rather die than accept my fate. I ripped my clothes, off exposing the ten-inch scar dealt by the butcher knife that ruptured my collarbone. The women covered their eyes and the men cursed. I had thrown the gauntlet at the judge to cite me for contempt but he was too shock to react. I was a man possessed, shouting and cursing while security men struggled to drag me out of the courtroom.

Look here, all you motherfuckers. Mr. Balderrama did this to me. If he had struck sideways, he would have cut my head off and I won't be here speaking to you now. But guess what? I don't hold grudges and I could live with what he did but what I couldn't take is to allow you and your fucking laws to condemn to death this innocent man. The accused is crazy goddammit but you can't see that because you are all crazy blood-thirsty motherfuckers yourselves. Goddamn crazy motherfuckers.

A few months later, the entire nation was in a state of shock. Even the President, stunned, could only quip "no comment" when pressed in an ambush interview. She just couldn't say it was a travesty without incurring the wrath of the justices. It's even worse to call it "the triumph of justice" although that would make for a dramatic soundbite except that it would alienate the voters and seal his coffin in the next elections. Sometimes, it sucks to be a President.

I was literally dragged into a press conference the minute the verdict was announced. There I was chided, ridiculed, and then lionized by a press gone wild over the balding David, as one newspaper put it, who slew not one but a whole battalion of Goliaths in what was dubbed as the trial of the century. The David monicker sits well with me, but I hated the balding part. Can't they learn to give the compliment minus the insult? I was asked the usual questions and I gave the usual answers: how I feel, my message to the family of Marian, my opinion on capital punishment, I was bored from it all. My cellphone rang in the middle of the press conference. The secretary of one of the high-profile law firms was on the line requesting if I can meet her bosses asap, they would be pleased to know if I would consider joining the firm. We'll see.That was all I could say. Then someone from the press asked who would I choose to play myself if this case is made into a movie? The King, no less. But he's dead, they protested. Well, don't they say Long live, the King? The women thought I was cute, and how come you didn't marry, asked one of the women on the front row. It's none of your business, I answered smiling. Then a gay movie reporter apparently eavesdropping during my phone call earlier would like to know if I don't feel embarrassed being seen in public using the cheapest Nokia. I wanted to throw my 5210 at his face but decided against it so I walked out.

Tonight, all the television channels devoted entire newscasts to the verdict. It's amazing how easily these crusading journalists can turn full circle when not so long ago they have all but tried, convicted and crucified my client. Now they all concur that he was just a victim of circumstances and I am the savior. The news ended with snapshots from the reading of the decision, as the closing credits rolled down there was Marian's family grieving, screaming out loud, cursing but unable to comprehend this most hideous of pain, this crushing setback, this madness, this day in hell; and I know that from this moment until the day they die, they will hate me more than they had ever hated Mark, and they will condemn my soul to hell no matter if the whole world loves me now.

I turned off the teevee set and went downstairs to find the gate open. I instinctively reached for my waist, where my gun used to be, and realized just how much I missed my gun and my life as an officer. I looked around but found nothing unusual. Who would dare break into the house of a former police officer? And what's there to rob anyway? The night is cold and the moon is full, so full that it looks so near and almost scarlet in its fullness. I locked the gate, returned upstairs and walked into my bedroom. When I turned on the light, Mark stood in the corner, smiling a wide smile, and with fire in his eyes. He was holding a butcher's knife.

The Guest in the Glass House

2008-08-22T20:19:00.046+08:00

My special thanks to Jill for letting me tell her story...

It felt like being in a fish bowl. The sound-proof music booth enclosed by glass panels was no bigger than 3 X 3 meters, and with all that equipment eating up precious space, Jill was almost suffocating. The cubicle and in fact practically the entire building itself were newly-painted, she could tell by the way it smells, and the booth was smartly designed to sit the disc jockey in front of the glass panel facing the hallway, for easy viewing by passing visitors the same way the enterprising petshop-owner would put the prized arowana in full view of customers. The comparison with an aquarium fish made Jill smile to herself.

Needless to say, Jill looks the part of one who should deserve by all means to be placed at the centerstage of people's attention, and that fact is not lost on the ambitious working student, proud as she was that unlike most disc jockeys who are, as some insensitive people would bluntly suggest, 'better heard than seen', she had been abundantly fortunate to have that drop dead gorgeous looks to go with the spellbinding voice, the living proof to dispel the so-called 'better-heard-than-seen myth'. But tonight, her first time alone on the graveyard shift, she sat with her back to the control panel, avoiding to face directly the glass wall fronting the hallway or to even glance sideways into that direction.

She tried to keep herself busy by admiring the brand new equipment, the expensive furniture, and the state of the art surveillance system installed in the newly constructed medium-rise building housing Manila's number one radio station here on the seventh floor. Indeed she assured herself, this job is worth the trouble of spending sleepless nights in what amounts to a glass house. She felt sorry for the previous apprentice, the guy who quit without lasting a week on the night shift. But she would rather not speculate on the reason why he decided to go although she heard rumors that one day he would claim he was hearing voices and people thought he was losing his mind, validating the general perception that the guy, with filthy long hair, tattos and an awful lot of body piercing, in short, the classic 'better-heard-than-seen' stereotype, was heavily on dope. But then again, this is not the time to think about it, whatever the reason was.

"Time check, it's 11:15, Good evening this is deejay Jill on board. We're gonna be rocking 'til midnight. Coming right up, the music of The Cure, and this one goes to Debbie, who's listening right now. Hi Debbie, Henry called to dedicate this song to you." Switching on, she started tapping at the arm chair, humming along to "Friday, I'm in Love". Then she pressed the automatic play mode, to set up the next sequence of songs to follow unless she needs to change it to accommodate some late-night caller's request.

She sensed something outside and hesitated for a few moments whether or not to take a look. It was the lady guard, doing the rounds, she gave Jill the thumbs up then switched off the last remaining light in the hallway. "Oh great", she muttered to herself. Now, save for the light inside her cubicle, the whole place is completely wrapped in a blanket of darkness. Jill imagined herself inside the cockpit of a spaceship caught suspended in the middle of a blackhole. And she also imagined, despite efforts to suppress it, that if there are eyes lurking in the dark, then all of them must be totally fixated on her this very moment, watching her every move. She had never felt so vulnerable. The darkness is a beast trying to break in and who knows if the glass can stand it. She felt her hands beginning to shake, but failing to convince herself that it's because of the cold, Jill went back to tapping and humming. She realized Rick Astley had replaced Robert Smith.

The phone rang and Jill almost jumped off her seat. But she was relieved to hear a familiar voice on the other end of the line.

"What are you talking about, Henry didn't call you up..."
"What makes you so sure he didn't, Deborah?"
"Well, because he's with me right now!"
"What? You bitch, do your parents know about this?" She was giggling, teasing her friend, her imagination instantly filled with malice. Afterall, what would the likes of Debbie and Henry be doing if they are together at this hour?
"Keep your mouth shut about this or I'll kill you. Good night Jill, and take care", then she hung up.

Jill was putting back the receiver when the light inside the booth suddenly went out. But in the corner of her eyes, and during the fleeting moments before darkness swept in, she had accidentally caught a glimpse of the image just outside the front glass panel. It was the boy again, his face almost pressed against the glass. That was the last thing she would ever see before everything else disappeared in the dark. But this time the image lingered and wouldn't leave the imagination unlike in the past when she could simply dismiss it as just another illusion. This time she was dead-sure that this is for real. The boy with bloodshot eyes and a mask of blood from a broken cranium had returned to pay her a visit, sending a chill through her spine and to every inch of her being. She dashed for the door only to realize she was locked up. The door knob would not even turn. Jill screamed but no one would hear from the sound-proof cubicle. Yet she could hear voices. The boy was not alone. There were many others.

Jill was in a state of shock and she was hysterical when the guards found her. She needed to be restrained and then sedated before they can bring her to the hospital. It took a long time before she could tell anyone her story. Today, the building where it all happened still stands along the northbound lane of Highway 54 in Guadalupe Makati but that building which stood proud and sparkling new not so long ago is now abandoned and the sign 'condemned' hangs on the lobby.

"Nag-iisa Na Lang Si Ninoy"

2008-08-19T17:37:00.011+08:00

Lovingly dedicated to "Ninoy"... Journalist, statesman, freedom-fighter, dreamer, and a hero whose assassination 25 years ago on August 21, 1983 lit the flame of what came to be known as the People Power Revolution... "The Filipino is worth dying for, he once proclaimed... and which later he unselfishly proved"...

"Nag-iisa Na Lang Si Ninoy"

Mas malungkot pa 'ko
Kay Ninoy ngayon
Itong limandaang lukot
Na may mukha niyang malungkot
Tulala
Nakapangalumbaba
At mukhang kawawa
Ang nag-iisang laman
Nitong aking pitakang
Kay nipis-nipis na.

Bakit kaya?
Siguro'y kanyang nabatid
Na si Tita Cory ay may sakit
Samantalang ako nama'y naghihinagpis
Wala pa ring pambayad ng renta
Ilaw
Tubig
At matrikula

Sana itong si Ninoy
Hindi nag-iisa

'Pag bayad ko ng tanghalian mamaya
Itong si Ninoy
Ay mapapalitan
Ng mukha ni Roxas
Na di magtatagal
Ay magiging si Osmena
Na di magtatagal
Ay magiging si Quezon
Na di magtatagal
Ay magiging si Mabini at Bonifacio
Na di magtatagal
Ay magiging si Aguinaldo
Hanggang sa maging si Rizal
Na siyang sumulat
Ng 'Mi Ultimo Adios"

Hindi na lang muna kaya
Ako manananghalian...

The Birthday Gift

2008-08-15T19:38:00.015+08:00

He woke up with a clear head. For a change. Then he and Annie had a quiet breakfast together. Black coffee and what's left of yesterday's bread for him while she had her fill of milk and her favorite chocolate-flavor cereals.

A minute later, they were in the bathroom.

"Where are we going father?" Annie asked gasping for breath as Tom poured water on the child's head to rinse away the suds while making sure to protect her eyes. Then he gently wiped and wrapped her in a towel.

"We're going to church, it's your birthday today. Remember what I told you last night?" Tom caught the sparkle in her eyes upon hearing this.

Then she carried her lovingly to the bedroom and pulled a familiar baby blue dress from the drawer, the same one worn by Annie to church last year, when Ellen was still here with them, which seemed now like an eternity away when it was in fact only a year ago. Tom was amazed at how fast she had grown.

"The dress barely fits her now", he whispered to himself.

Everything that was happening came and went like a blur which puzzled Tom, knowing that he is supposed to be sober today, for Annie's sake. One minute, the priest spoke about deliverance from worldly temptations, and then almost incoherently, about some obscure passage from the bible the next. He just couldn't grasp a thing. The sound system in church crackled to the choir's chorus, giving him a headache. Annie herself was becoming restless, the way it had always been with kids to whom religion is just something their parents tell them to learn to live with, when they would rather be playing all day instead.

As people lined up to receive the host, Tom swiftly scooped the child into his arms, and almost scampering away, they left. They left in a hurry. They left like someone's chasing them. They left without looking back. They went away, away from the faithful throng, away from the house of God, away from the echoes of song and prayer and into the crowded streets.

Tom didn't know where he was going to and he didn't care. He just kept walking. When his feet could no longer carry them, he slumped on a bench in the park, in front of an outdoor diner's counter. He realized he'd been walking around for hours, which explains his weariness, his hunger, his irrresistible thirst.

"I'm hungry, 'Pa..." the girl whispered to his ear which prompted Tom instinctively to reach for his wallet. There'll be enough to buy a fancy lunch and a birthday gift, he was glad to find out. For the second time today, they shared a meal, a better one compared to what they had earlier. She had pasta, toasted bread, fruit juice and a big scoop of rocky road with the cherry on top. Tom ordered lambchops and beans but he craved for something else, a craving he tried desperately to ignore, aware that this craving was the curse that ultimately shattered his mariage, and unless he can hold himself together, he would surely destroy himself with this craving, if in case it has not done it yet.

"No, not today, not this time, not now. Keep your head together Tom," he repeatedly reminded himself. "Save what little you have for the gift, for Annie's sake, do it, Tom..."

"Why don't you join the other kids out there", Tom said pointing at the playground teeming with children, "It's your day, sweetheart, have fun! I'll be right here watching over you".

"Okay, Dad..." She walked away - reluctantly at first, but pretty soon, Annie had joined the kids at play, running around screaming and frolicking in the grass, having a great time, not caring a bit as the hours passed, completely absorbed in the sheer enjoyment of their innocent, happy little lives.

Tom knew the moment the bottle touched his lips that there will be no turning back. One shot was followed by another and then another and yet another. The curse of the bottle had beaten him yet again. Tom sipped the last drop and spent the last cent of his money.

When Annie returned, she found Tom lying on the gutter, face down and slumped on his own vomit. She sat near him, and failing to revive her father the girl wept. What he said the night before was true. It was a birthday she will never forget for the rest of her life.

The Fight

2008-08-07T21:06:00.020+08:00

It was a night when an entire nation only has one thing in mind and speaks the language of pure excitement.

The rich and the poor, young and old, men, women and children - families enjoying quality time at home, the troops and rebel fighters camping out in the most far-flung barrios in Mindanao, the sick people in hospitals, the rich and powerful, practically everyone from people in high places to the most impoverished citizen - everywhere and anywhere you are for as long as the television or radio can reach you, and wherever you go - there was simply no escaping the anticipation of something truly special that within minutes is bound to unfold on this magical night.

That same fever-pitch excitement is a bomb waiting to explode in the Magpoc household. Dinner was served early and craning her neck to keep an eye on their black and white Admiral, Nena Magpoc was simultaneously washing the dishes now while she watched from the kitchen, water almost overflowing from the sink clogged by morsels of food the kids left on their plates the effect of excitement overwhelming the appetite.

But the forty-something housewife and mother of three couldn't care less, afterall this is the 70's and it would still be years from now before water crisis, rice crisis, power crisis or for that matter, any word associated with crisis rises to prominence in the national consciousness. The real impending crisis and one that this family cannot afford to even imagine is their team making an unforgivable slip against their mortal enemies on the hard court.

"It's starting, it's starting!" The boy Jun exclaimed as the panel rattled off statistics, trivia and some juicy tabloid gossips on the lives and loves of the jersey-clad millionaire players while they pranced around the court during the customary round-robin. Mang Teddy, the man of the house downed his fourth bottle of see hoc tong and reached for another bottle from the ref. Eyes still glued on the Admiral, he cut himself in the thumb as the can opener slipped off the tin cap and tore at his flesh. "Darn, this thing won't work!"he cursed, angrily throwing the can opener out of the window then licking his blood. The girls both barely in their teens huddled on the long couch, giggling everytime mug shots of the mop-haired scoring machine wearing jersey number 6 are flashed on teevee.

Everytime the two most beloved teams in the land clash for the title, the nation is split evenly in two. You can put them in a giant scale and you'll get a perfect balance. That's just how it is. The nation has been polarized by team loyalties. In politics, you can switch alliances as often as you change clothes and people will not begrudge you for doing that but in basketball, you are a fan of one and only one team until the day you die. Some nights you watch a game, but some other nights, you watch a fight.

Tonight is one of those nights, a championship night, a night of the great fight.

Mang Teddy has nurtured his family to be the loyal fan club of his beloved team. He must have figured "If I were to suffer serious anxiety attacks game after game, I might as well have company in misery, and who else could perfectly fit the role than the wife and kids?"

"What the hell in the world are you up to now, Teodoro? Throwing away the can opener like that, you're throwing away good money!"

"Throwing away good money? That damn thing is totally useless. You're the one throwing away good money buying such useless stuff!"

"Well, that's the only thing I can afford with the budget you gave me!"

"Shut up, Nena, don't insult me in front of the kids, chrissake!"

Then Mang Teddy quickly changed mood. "So what do you want for snack, kids?" he asked magnanimously, his way of atonement for guilt.

"Fish crackers" was the hometown crowd's overwhelming choice, the half a sack pack that sells for five pesos, which an entire family of five can take a whole week to finish.

"Give me the money now, Tatay so I can get to the store while it's still on commercial break", Jun the designated runner retorted impatiently. He's only 8 and already, he knows the game inside out like a real junkie. He reached for the huge one peso coins from his father's hand then darted out like rocket shot from a cannon. He took the backdoor leading to the balcony, ran downstairs at blinding speed, and upon reaching the gate, rode his imaginary motorbike at full speed to the sari-sari store, the frantic voices of the game announcers in his wake, the screaming from every house in the neighborhood at the jump ball accelerating the boy's magical ride.

As expected, the nearest store was jampacked with neighbors watching the game there. Jun had to squeeze his way between rows of sweaty, pot-bellied men and call out the China man three times in increasing volumes to make sure he gets noticed. Then, half a sack of fish crackers riding on his back, he transformed into the superhero The Flash, making his way home in split seconds.

The boy couldn't believe his eyes.

The hysteria of the household that he left a while ago has been replaced by darkness and dead silence. Every light in the house including the Admiral is switched off, the mood a funeral in the middle of a raucous new year's day celebration. Looking up in the dark, Jun saw the silhouette of his father alone in the balcony, holding his bottle and the boy knew better than approach him in the middle of the uneasy calm.

He dropped the fish cracker at the doorway and tiptoed across the pitch-black living room which has been littered by fragments of what seemed like a few broken plates. The door to the main bedroom where he sleeps on the same bed in between his father and his mother every night was locked and he could hear the familiar sobbing in the dark that he always dreads to hear. The boy slumped on the floor and began to cry himself until a shadow emerged from the girl's room and his big sister Delai took him by the hand. He will sleep with his sisters tonight, if sleep is possible amidst the tumultuous screaming from the next door neighbors who happened to be cheering for the opposing team.

It was indeed the night of the great fight.

Back to the Old House

2008-08-02T11:32:00.012+08:00

Every now and then I still have dreams that take me back to the old house which my family rented for only a short time when I was a child. My sister thinks of that house as ugly and creepy. The only thing good I can say about it is that that house came cheap for its size like what my father said so. Two floors, three bedrooms upstairs, and plenty of space at the ground floor to accommodate a living room, a dining area, a comfort room right under the staircase, and still some excess space for another bed which I used for afternoon naps when the heat upstairs becomes unbearable.

Outside, there is a fairly large front yard where we kept a small flower garden and a chicken coop. The house faced west so that in the afternoons during the summer, the houses and structures in front cast a long shadow upon us, creating an almost surreal ambiance indoors with the contrasting appearances of light and shadow. During the rainy months and when the sky is gloomy, it also gets dark inside even during the daytime so that we have to keep the lights on, or at least the ones in the living room to make reading and certain household chores possible.

The house stood in an impoverished neighborhood. It's not as if the house were the picture of affluence in the midst of poverty for my sister will strongly disagree with that. Only it's safe to say that ours is not as miserable as the other houses on the block.The view from the bedroom window has little to offer apart from the dirty rust-covered rooftops of surrounding shanties, where a discarded rubber tire or a makeshift loft for pet pigeons was a regular sight, an ingenious way to keep the roofs of those houses in place when the wind blows. Our windows were secured by iron grills which according to the landlord were placed there at the instance of the previous tenants who had been unusually fearful of burglary.

That house was a mystery. Or maybe I was just seeing things being young and extremely imaginative during those days. I was alone in the house one afternoon, and I fell asleep on the bed downstairs. In my dream, I was being attacked by a werewolf-like creature. Thank God I was awakened in the nick of time before the nightmare killed me but I swear that in those fleeting moments between consciousness and sleep, I saw a black cat jumped off my bed and ran upstairs. I searched every place and every corner of the house but failed to find it, despite the fact that all the windows and every door were closed and there was no way to escape. From that day on, I would have terrible nightmares and everytime I would open my eyes, that black cat would be there somewhere near staring at me and always it would be a step ahead.

My nightmares stopped only when an uncle and his young wife moved in. They took the other room upstairs, and paid a share of the rent to the delight of my father. But they were an odd couple. My uncle and his wife. They would fight all the time. Loud violent fights. One time, my uncle packed his bags and left for the province leaving his wife with us for several weeks. I commiserated with her loneliness, and I knew she appreciates my being there to listen and to offer a little sympathy.

She would tell me of her frequent nightmares. Of monsters appearing in her dreams. My hair would stand just listening to her stories. To think I have never told her of my own dreams before. One particular story made my head threaten to explode out of shock and terror, which I could still feel creeping in at this moment just writing about it. She said that one afternoon, after being awakened from a terrifying dream she saw a naked man jump out of her bed and turn into a black cat!

My uncle would come back and they would reconcile. But the cycle of marital conflict between my uncle and his wife would come back over and over again until my father finally decided that we've had enough, but instead of making them leave, we were the ones who moved to another house.

I do not know and I wouldn't like to know if there are other reasons for my father to decide that it was time to leave. I wouldn't know and I wouldn't care a bit to know if there is a connection between my not having terrifying nightmares anymore, and those of the harrowing experiences of my uncle's wife. I wouldn't know and I wouldn't care to know if there is a more sinister reason why a few months after we moved out of the house, she suffered a miscarriage which left her permanently incapable of bearing a child again and why a little later, that old house mysteriously burned to the ground.

At least I knew then that thank God, we wouldn't be returning to that old house ever again.

The House Blessing

2008-07-26T05:42:00.011+08:00

He was panting and perspiring heavily unpacking the last of the boxes. They haven't had lunch at already past 2, and Jay was about to collapse from hunger and exhaustion, his arms numb from lifting Tiny's stuffs, a collapsible bed, a standfan, a small cabinet, her travelling bags, her books and clothes placed inside half a dozen boxes.

She handed him a towel and Jay stripped off his shirt to wipe himself. He slumped on the edge of the bed trying to concentrate on the task at hand, making a mental picture of how everything would have to be arranged to save space and make the most of the four-by-five meter room, which is going to be Tiny's home from this day and through the next remaining four months of the review.

"Delivery will arrive in minutes, then we can eat, I know youre strarving", Tiny mumbled almost incomprehensively, her hand covering her nostrils and mouth as she was reaching at some cobwebs on the ceiling with a broom while standing on a monobloc chair. He refused to turn at her direction but from his peripheral vision, Tiny's legs seemed to glow against the filtered light coming from the lampshade, they were smooth, slender and porcelain-white, complementing her full buttocks and slender waist, which would occasionally show accidentally under her hanging shirt as Tiny reaches for the ceiling with the broom. She too was drenched with sweat and Jay wondered what women do to smell so good and even better the more they perspire. Five years in a relationship, this is their first time to be together alone in a room.

"So who's going to use the shower first?" Jay struggled to break the awkward silence.

"I will. Take a rest and wait for delivery". Tiny refused to meet his eye and Jay wondered if she had been trying to read his mind. Women do that all the time. Before he could speak a word, she was already headed for the bathroom, towel slung across her shoulder. The bathroom door has no locks, which reminded him to report it later to the landlady. The door closed gently and then Jay could hear water running from the faucet, followed by successive almost vigorous splashing sounds, and he wondered if Tiny was drowning herself.

Jay remembered his conversation with Tiny's father last Christmas eve. His promise. They would have been married a long time ago but Tiny pleaded to take the bar first. He know how badly she wanted it, and Jay respected her decision and love her more for that. He wouldn't have the heart to stand between Tiny and her greatest dream. He can always wait.

She stepped out of the shower wrapped in the towel, and again, Jay turned away, refusing to even steal a glimpse for even a split second in the corner of his eyes. Inside the bathroom he instinctively reached for the lock that wasn't there, cursing to himself. He was again besieged by visions, and by the sweet scent that wouldn't go away, he started to splash water at himself, in quick desperate succession, and almost viciously; his turn to drown.

Breaking the Ice

2008-07-23T22:08:00.017+08:00

Five days without a blog, I feel terrible.

When I started this blogging thing, the first challenge that presented itself to me was whether I have what it takes to consistently keep the energy level needed to sustain it. I wouldn't want my blog to start with a bang and end with a whimper. Before I made the decision to do this, I did some scouting myself. From random viewing of various sites, I found beautiful, well-organized and intelligent ones, which honestly pricked my self-confidence, but I tried not to get overwhelmed with my creeping insecurity, which almost always seems to be the case whenever I realized that the world is so full of people who are much better writers and immensely more intelligent than myself, actually, to say more intelligent would be putting it mildly. Some are simply freaking geniuses they make me feel like some hopeless moron, which I probably am.

Anyway, what upset me even more so was finding too many neglected and abandoned blogsites. They remind me of the lonely grave that no one cares to visit. The comparison is morbid and I do admit I am exaggerating a little bit but do you get what I mean? All I'm trying to say is that it's going to be really sad and tragic to begin a blog and then walk away from it forever and just let it go to waste like the grave that practically disappeared because someone let the bushes grow. I will never be able to forgive myself for letting that kind of thing happen, if in case it does. No, I won't allow it. My blogsite is never going to be the lonely grave that no one wants to visit.

So I will always keep in mind that if I would allow myself to lay off the computer, or hibernate from all writing activity whenever I feel like it, there is a chance I might get used to it and go on a slump for stretches lasting days or weeks, then months, and before I knew it, I would've given up trying to put something on my site altogether. The temptation to take a break is always there and it's up to us to choose whether to succumb to it or to fight the urge to give up. Given the choice, I would rather prefer to fight. The problem is that sometimes, the heart and the mind are simply not there to let us do the fighting, no matter how hard we try.

So what do you do when faced with such difficulies? Well sometimes, it is important to be able to know where to find the well of our inner strength and draw something from that well, to fill the need to spur us into meaningful action, that is often times the precursor of every accomplishment.

I tried doing that by relying on the fallback provided by personal experience. By visiting places that somewhere back in time made a huge impact to both my conscience and my consciousness, by bringing up the past, to search the particular person, the emotion, or the memory that left an indelible mark, I can at least give myself the fair chance to overcome moments of lack of motivation and desire. In my case, I often translate this into physical activity and take long walks along familiar places in my part of town, as this never fails to agitate that part of myself that knows the value and wouldn't let go of the past, where every moment is kept in reserve, and always available to be revived when the present just wouldn't provide any escape from this feeling of helplessness. A long walk at times can do wonders.

A friend once told me that the nerves of the feet are directly connected all the way up to the brain. Which is why, according to him you just have to keep walking to stimulate within the brain all the necessary creative impulses. I wouldn't go as far as say that this is true or that there is really a scientific explanation to support the idea. However, the long walks have done miracles to my life. They not only provided inspiration but probably saved me from making bad decisions, by cleansing my heart and my head of negative thoughts. I intend to continue walking as often as I can and as far as I can go. Afterall, we'll never know what miracles await us just around the corner.

This Dark Sad Day

2008-07-20T18:07:00.026+08:00

Even the sun
Is not immune to loneliness
There are times
When daylight
Is but a faint shade of blue
And a curtain of sadness
Blurs the vision
Of my world

Then I must fight
To hold back the tears

Wherever I go
I am condemned
To spend the day
Alone
In a world turned empty
As dusk sets in
Sooner
Than the sun permits

What makes this day
Paint gray
On the canvas of my life
What makes the wind
Restless and cruel
To the fallen leaves
What makes the earth
Cold and lifeless
As I drag my steps
What makes you say
Goodbye to me
When my heart is pleading
To hold you back

Tell me then
How can I live
Through this
Dark sad day

With my heart dying
A painful death

Who says 1=2? X-eyed Joe!

2008-07-19T09:18:00.013+08:00

Not all things that seem ridiculous are meant to ridicule.

Starting this blog with that kind of a disclaimer put me on the defensive but there are things that just had to be said. The labor problem at my place of work is beginning to look enormously serious. It wasn't the first time the employees went on regulated strike but the present situation has a far different feel from the ones that we have witnessed in the past. Before, there were larger, and louder crowds at the picketline. There are also a lot of hecklings and smiling faces, the kind of crowd likely to show up at a friend's birthday bash who can't wait for the bottomless tequila. There is tension in the air but this is easily drowned out by the almost festive atmosphere.

It's a completely different scenario this time around.

The crowd is thinner, the participants glum-faced, and grim. The hecklers and the peanut gallery may have missed the invitation because they are nowhere in sight. What remain are the hardest of the hardcore unionists. The speeches have become more and more acerbic after every passing day, and yesterday, they held a candle light protest, an event that would appear like theatrical posturings or just plain ridiculous in normal times. But given the present state of affairs, is that already the prelude to a burning of the bridges between union and management? Are they playing with fire? Let's hope not.

Much as I respect management's decisions in dealing with the union, and place my absolute trust on the sincerity of their explanation for the denial of the employees demands, I felt there could have been a more sensible way to handle the situation.

For one, you don't put on a brave face and a firm no and then refuse to see eye to eye with the union. You also don't choose your own fan club as the exclusive forum for your self-serving speeches then jump into conclusion that the entire organization had already understood and willingly accepted the point that you were trying to make. And more importantly, you don't pretend to have selective memory-loss because you might lose not only the moral authority to lead, but also the little credibility that you may still have left. And finally, you don't choose your advisers from within your fan club because they will only tell you what you want to hear.

I don't have to pretend to be a lawyer to understand that when two parties come to the bargaining table, do some horse-trading, make offers and counter-offers, cut a deal and seal it with a handshake like honorable men should, the resulting agreement should assume the character of a sacred covenant which both parties must obey and respect and if necessary, to try to defend with their very lives and honor against vicious attacks to its integrity. But right now, management is seeing things differently insisting that we are wrong and they are so damn right. I hope it's just the eye problem thing again.

Hey Joe, how dare you deny that done deal?

The Plastic Catastrophe

2008-07-18T22:43:00.012+08:00

Who would have thought that going to the marketplace would somewhat awaken the environmentalist in me?

I 've been watching the fish vendor go about her usual chores, making small talk with a young housewife inspecting the fresh herrings, to close a sale without making her eagerness appear too obvious. As soon as a sale is made, she would pick up fish from a heap, put them on the weighing scale, then hurriedly start removing gills, scales and intestines before putting all the cleaned-up fish inside a plastic bag, after that she would tie the handles into a knot then put the whole thing into yet another plastic bag, before handing it over to the customer who would upon payment place the item in yet another bigger plastic bag along with the other items that she bought, each also already contained in separate plastic bags.

By my estimate, one trip to the market by an average customer would have him or her bringing home at least eight to ten plastic bags of various shapes and sizes. And since not all people have the awareness to recycle, the discarded plastic bags would most certainly turn up among the rubbish within minutes after use and by sheer volume creating a monstrosity the inventors of plastic bags could not have imagined for if they did, they would have let us stick to paper bags instead.

The plastic bags were the major contributor to floods during the rainy seasons, the thinning of the ozone lawyer from the indiscriminate burning of plastic and rubber because of polyeurethane released in the air, as well as the poisoning of our rivers and seas. Now, if only those fish vendors knew what they were doing.

Being non-biodegradable, the plastic bags will have a long time to wreak havoc on the environment. We are bound to be outlived by our own dangerous creation. Those plastic bags will be here to stay long after you and I are gone. And because these are light materials, it is amazing how far and wide they can spread to inflict damage. Plastic buried underneath the earth would create gaps in what should be the solid foundations of the ground soil, the effect of which is manifested by the unstable condition of the surface of the earth that it cannot efficiently retrain water but becomes more vulnerable to erosion instead, unable to provide a firm stronghold for the roots of plants and trees.

When carried away by flowing water, plastic bags can produce more serious destruction, the most apparent are the frequent floods, because of tons of plastic bags clogging the drainage. Plastic bags that found their way to the open sea prove even deadlier as they sometimes end up in the bellies of marine animals like dolphins and tortoises. They are mistaken for jellyfish which are part of the natural diet of tortoises and dolphins, but since the digestive tracts of these animals are no match to the plastic bags, the undigested plastic accumulate in the animal's bodies until eventually they die.

In one bizaare incident from the local zoo, one of their long-time residents, a male African giraffe died of asphyxiation and severe malnutrition because of the three kilos of plastic bags lodged on the giraffe's elongated throat. It was found out that plastic bags blown by the wind become entangled atop the branches of trees inside the giraffe's cage which the animal accidentally ate along with its grass, mash and honey diet.

What does this tell us? Well, that not everything that makes our lives easier will prove beneficial to us in the long run especially if we refuse to always look forward to what comes next after we satisfy our present need.

"Showbiz Ako Ngayon!"

2008-07-14T21:11:00.002+08:00

In the 70's through the 80's there was John and Marsha, until Dolphy the laughing lothario of primetime television became embroiled in scandalous affairs that prompted even the church to question his worth to stand symbolic of the father that we all look up to, and while his fall from grace was later bestowed the forgiveness of a people infected with short-term memory, the death of Nida Blanca prevented all hope of reconciliation for the Puruntong couple in the teevee screens. John did make a television comeback but life, and the ratings were never the same again without Marsha. The '80's saw the tandem of Martin and Pops inherit the mantle albeit in a somewhat different genre, and with a major twist that saw the romantic script being played out in real life, leading to marriage, but ending in annulment.

More than two decades later, the emerging King and Queen of Philippine television are an odd-couple. Kris and Boy will never be an item for the loveteam-hungry fans, and thank God for that because , as everyone knows, only his name makes Boy a boy and nothing else will. Unlike Martin and Pops, or John and Marsha Boy and Kris can never play man and wife. To begin with, Boy was never a man. But together they make for a powerful tandem that could hold the masses in the palm of their hand and influence the way the people think, the food they eat, and who they vote for during the elections.

The confession of Kris, of getting STD from Joey and the quarrel with James Yap over his allegedly having dangerous liaisons with an attendant at Vicky Belo's clinic became national events. Meantime, Boy Abunda in modulated voice would continue to trump up the latest showbiz gossip at The Buzz and people pay attention more intently than they ever would at Sunday's gospel.

We have to understand that showbusiness is not the right place to expect moral sobriety. But at the same time it is quite disappointing to realize how far we have regressed instead of moving forward in our understanding of what entertainment is all about. The glory days of John and Marsha represented what could be considered as a lost period in pop culture in which the televiewers still possessed the sensibilities to appreciate a brilliant interplay of good acting and a good script in the comic portrayal of wholesome family values that espouses the virtues of marriage and parenthood while reinforcing the greater importance of happiness over money.

When John and Marsha faded from the scene, and Martin and Pops took over, entertainment value slowly took precedence over substance but at least we have a tandem that can truly deliver the entertainment that we crave for. They cannot act or become the role model that John and Marsha used to be at one point but Martin and Pops sure as hell can sing.

In contrast, Kris and Boy have little to offer acting-wise or in entertainment value, and even less so in terms of substance. And they don't even fit the image of role models who can at least contribute something to the betterment of society, or the education of the masses. In many ways, they actually represent the opposite. Kris never seemed willing to outgrow the ebullient, if prepubescent tendencies that once upon a time were endearing but not anymore when being flaunted by a woman not far from approaching menopausal stage which is what she is today. As for Boy Abunda, it is a sheer marvel to behold that one with neither the looks nor the talent can find a niche in showbusiness and even get paid millions just like that. Exposing scandalous affairs should not count for talent, but that is all he does. In fact not a few people actually find his antics completely annoying rather than entertaining.

But then again, maybe his limitations are the very attributes that make Boy Abunda appealing to the masses, perhaps by just being himself he is personifying the ambitions of the average joe that even without the looks or the slightest capability to entertain, anyone can hit paydirt by just being at the right place at the right time. Meantime, Boy and Kris, already the multi-millionaires that they are will continue to make more money because we just can't help but to keep watching them.

The Mouse That Mugged My Blog

2008-07-13T13:59:00.002+08:00

Muggings. They are terrorism in the streets. One day you're all alone walking down the 'hood and somebody sneaks up behind your back and before you know it, you're dead. They make me paranoid. But guess what, I just got mugged right here in my house, right here in my room, right next to my computer, right here, right now and in broad daylight at that. Luckily, it was not the kind that would leave you broke or dead.

I was mugged by a mouse.

Since it's a Sunday today, I decided to begin the day with a blog. I usually do the blogging late at night after a full day's work, when there is peace and quiet and before I hit the sack. But sometimes, the urge to blog, or not to blog, hits you at crazy hours, and when it comes it's almost as irresistable as the call of nature. You just can't shake it off or procrastinate. So, rather than fight the inevitable, I decided what the heck it's a Sunday anyway, so let me blog.

But lo and behold!

My mouse won't work. I bent down to check the connections, the plugs, the cpu, the usb, the ufo, the ilo, the imf, even the milf and you can throw in those Marxist-Leninist cpp-npa-ndf and all that alphabet soup mumbo jumbo, but no problem there. I unplugged the mouse then plugged it again. Still no luck. So I walked away and had my breakfast wandering what timing could be worse. Funny how at some other days, my computer would be working perfectly fine but it's my mind that goes completely out of sync, those were days when I would just slip into a deep creative coma; some sort of complete paralysis of the brain. But this morning, it's my mouse that decided to take the day off on a Sunday.

A lot of questions were running through my head, eating at me while I ate. One of those 'what if' moments.

What if this day was pre-ordained for me to write the all-time greatest blog masterpiece in the history of the whole wide world? You know, the "I Have A Blog" equivalent of Martin Luther King's powerful speech that left the black-bashing establishment of the US of A shaking in its boots? What if what I was meant to write today, only today, and at no other day, would solve the oil crisis, stop the war in Afghanistan, or save the earth from bloody alien invasion?

Anyway, that profound moment ended with a quick trip to the computer shop where I bought a brand new mouse. And then, by the time I was back in my room and in front of the computer, I realized that my mental bank deposit had hit zero-balance once again.

With no creative juices left to squeeze out of me, I was completely useless and unproductive so if only to get something out of this, I just have to have a thing to say about that darn stupid mouse that mugged my blog.

Meantime, my "I Have a Blog" moment and Martin Luther King, will have to wait.

Looking for Lawrence

2008-07-12T06:24:00.000+08:00

When I was five years old, my family transferred to another house with a room that was previously used by a man who may have been fond of reading. He left a cache of books on the shelf, maybe he felt that since he had already read them all anyway, there was no reason to bring them along and so he took only the objects he thought he really needed when he moved out, I guess he had too much to carry, so some of the load needed to be cast away. He may have decided the books should go. But I imagine if he really were a book-worm of some sort, the decision would have been a difficult one to make. Because if it were me, I would have a hard time parting with what I have, or at least those books that I really like, for deep sentimental reasons. Some of them I can read over and over a million times and still not get enough.

One particular book caught my attention, an old pocketbook with a potograph of what I thought then was a bloody hammer and a flower on the cover. At five, I couldn't read a single word and I was hoping there are at least some photographs I could tear-up and show-off to the other kids in the neighborhood. It was disappointing to find none. Somehow, I was so intrigued that I made a promise that when I grow up, I'm going to read this book and find out what secrets it held.

That pocketbook stayed untouched in the shelf for almost ten years gathering dust until one day, while searching for something, I had accidentally pulled it off the shelf and remembered a long-forgotten promise. I started reading a few pages and came to discover slowly and magically what could be the equivalent of first love - thanks to the late great Lawrence Sanders and his amazing cult-classic The First Deadly Sin. The suspense-thriller unravels the sick psychotic mind of random killer Daniel Blank, in masterful narration only an especially gifted author can weave. While I had read a few other books before this one by Sanders came along, it was really the one particular novel that led me to discover the joys of reading, and embrace the reading-habit for the rest of my life. After that, I started saving from my schooling allowance to buy the succeeding Sanders novels. Well, some of them were quite okay but in general they were simply disappointing. I guess The First Deadly Sin set the bar too high for the next Sanders novels that followed.

The First Deadly Sin became a best-seller and I imagine many fans of the book demanded a sequel, so quite predictably there came out a Second, a Third, and a Fourth Deadly Sin but none of them came even close to capturing the magic of the First. I understand that it was even made into a movie with a huge cast that included Frank Sinatra on the leading role of the private eye Edward X. Delaney, but again it was a disappointment, since the graying Sinatra was the last person I would expect to portray the brilliant, tough-as-nails detective. I do worship Sinatra, but only when he sings. The film adaptation also strayed from the book's finale but I can live with that since the technology of film-making at that time would not allow recreating the ending on top of Devil's cliff. Nothing Sanders ever did or failed to do after that could dent my respect for what he had accomplished with just one book.

I must have read The First Deadly Sin a second, a third, a fourth and a millionth time until the pages started to deteriorate to show its age. By then, it had paid me already a lot of favors, providing a cure to boredom and lots of inspiration to my youthful imagination - even to the point of improving my social life. By lending it to my friends, I felt that somehow having read the novel elevated our friendship to another level, creating a bond, a connection that would manifest itself in many conversations when we would almost inevitably drift towards Sanders. In fact, one of my friends must have gone crazy over the book that he never returned it to me. Unfortunately, I just cannot find a replacement copy today. I have been searching for some time in all bookstores and even at the dirt-cheap second hand bookshops at the U-belt with no luck. A few years ago, I also read that Lawrence Sanders had passed away. God bless this man. I still hope that someday, I am going to find even an old shopworn copy of the book that made me fulfill the promise of my childhood and rewarded me immensely with the joys of reading. Until then, I'll continue looking for Lawrence.

Don't Tell a Lawyer

2008-07-11T12:45:00.000+08:00

There is a reason why people despise lawyers. Even the bible reserved a passage where the lawyers are mentioned alongside elements of society that are regarded in general, as the scourge of mankind. If he had his way, Shakespeare would rather have all the lawyers executed. But without prejudging them, lawyers are an indispensable social force, providing the important perspective of one learned in the workings of the law to address various problems in all areas of human activity from crime to religion.

Sometimes, society itself is guilty of begrudging the lawyers of the privilege position that they hold in the world order. Being on top of the food chain, they are likened to those in the predatory class that are feared and avoided. Their achievements are looked upon in different ways, and elicit contrasting reactions from an admiration that is shouted from the roofs, to suspicion that is spoken in whispers. The presumption of innocence is not willingly bestowed upon the lawyer by a society so often victimized by a skillful distortion of the law to blur the line between right and wrong. Not that lawyering in itself is inherently evil. It is in fact an honorable profession except that because of the power it wields, and the inherent weakness of men, it can permeate a tempting occasion to corrupt just like what they say of good intentions - that they ironically pave the way to hell.

In a perfect world, lawyers will not have any role to play in the collective well-being of mankind for basically lawyers and the law come to play only when a wrong is perpetrated, and not when things are going straight and smooth. That we seem to have an oversupply of lawyers, and even more impressive volumes of lawsuits paint a clear picture of a world that is not exactly doing well. One wonders, is it because there are too many lawsuits that we have to have too many lawyers, or is it because there are too many lawyers that we have to have too many lawsuits? Or rather, to put it bluntly, does that mean the more lawyers there are, the more troubles we have?

Now, go ahead, tell that to a lawyer!

How I won the lottery (but lost the ticket!)

2008-07-10T20:01:00.001+08:00

How many times in our lives have we come to the cusp of golden opportunity only to blow it with some stupid unforgivable mistake? Don't feel bad because you're not alone. I confess I should be an authority on the topic, and one of these days, I just might write a book on how to lose sure-win situations.

Let me tell you an example. One time, right after college, during the height of the hunt for my very first job, I received a telegram (those were the days when advanced communication only existed in James Bond movies) from a printing company in desperate need of a fresh-graduate account executive.

The night before the interview, I couldn't get myself to sleep, as my brain, pumped up by pure adrenaline rush, kept playing a mental picture of what's to happen the following day. I just keep seeing myself breezing past the written examination and eventually passing the interview without a sweat. I was all fired up and raring to break a leg.

Well, I did score well in the written examination (it was indeed a breeze, just as I envisioned it would be the whole night) But just when my premonitions the night before were slowly unfolding into a self-fulfilling prophecy disaster struck without warning. We were sent out for lunch after the written exam, and instructed to return for the interview precisely at 1 o'clock in the afternoon. I couldn't help rewarding myself with a heavy meal, afterall, I deserve it for a job well done, or rather, almost done. The problem was, the lack of sleep, combined with the unbelievable stress, and the big meal triggered bombastic rumblings in my stomach.

I wouldn't have to elaborate on the scenes that followed except to say that I might have broken the world record for the fasttest sprint to make it to the nearest rest room where I practically spent the next three hours going in and out of there while my entire digestive tract transformed into a burning armory, blowing up in resounding sporadic explosions. By the time, I was through with the bombardment, everyone has gone home. I had seen my golden opportunity flushed down the toilet bowl.

And what about that day when I fell asleep during a movie and woke up at already past closing time and everyone had gone home, including my date who dumped me after that? Hey, I'm reserving that for another blog.

I am sharing these secrets at great risk of embarrassment because this is how we are constantly reminded that we are only human, and the follies that we make allow us to survive life's cruel jokes with good natured-humor, even when the joke is on us.

This Hyphen Thing

2008-07-09T16:40:00.001+08:00

Of all the punctuation marks, the humble hyphen holds the most possibilities for multiple interpretation, or at least that's the way it appears to me. It is easy to grasp the finality of the period, or to comprehend the fascinating dilemma of the question mark, or to anticipate the shock and surprise of the exclamation point, the same holds true of the isolationist attitude of the comma and its distant cousins the colon and semi-colon.

The hyphen on the other hand, is a complicated ambiguity bordering on near-mystery, a symbolism replete with contradictions. It is quite possibly the shortest stroke in printed or written text, and yet hyphens exist to connect, not to conclude, and despite the shortness of its length and breadth that could easily be mistaken for a short-lived existence, hyphens do not bring closure or finality to an idea the way the period does, but keeps it hanging instead. Perpetuity is the hallmark of this punctuation mark. Think floating between words. That is exactly the state of being the hyphen finds itself in the realm of the written, a barely visible stroke suspended in space, never to touch ground level.

By way of an analogy, the hyphen represents a transition, the progression of idea from one word to the next. The first word will not be completed without the second, as each of them taken in isolation will never make as much sense as having the two of them together, conjoined like inseparable twins by the tie that binds in order to achieve fullness, and serve their function well.

And further still, to stretch the analogy into metaphor, the hyphen might as well be the embodiment of life itself, the life that we have in its smallness, in its sheer irrelevance against the infinite magnitude of time and space. But though it might be a hyphen among words, this life however is not ended by death or the total abdication of physical existence. Rather, it simply undergoes a gradual transformation into a higher form, a great spiritual state of being which ultimately is our destiny.

Crash Course on Carpooling

2008-07-08T19:32:00.001+08:00

I am second week into a carpooling arrangement with a bunch of hardworking people, who became out of necessity, my accidental companions. Sharing a seat when going to work during rush hour is a lesson in tolerance, respect for personal privacy, and a little bit of pretending to be deaf, dumb and blind. Believe it or not, the two people I am squeezed in between during the daily early morning trips have remained complete strangers to me. I don't know yet their names, where they live, where they come from and where exactly they were going to. And because I cannot even bring myself to glance sideways at their profiles, I'm not quite sure I can pick them out in a police lineup.

Not that I am an obnoxious snob or I have completely lost all faculties for civilized interaction. In fact, I am quite anxious to break the ice and get into a conversation for whatever reason or purpose or even just for the sake of having one and I am sure they or at least some of them feel the same way too. I simply have no idea how to do it. For some reason, it seems best to simply shut up and make-believe that the person next to me does not exist.

It amazes me how they have been warm and friendly the first time I was spontaneously invited to join them in the carpool. I just passed by the van, an Asian Utility Vehicle, if we should get technical about it, while it was parked under a tree and the driver stepped down to ask where I was going, and then, the car window rolled down to reveal the smiling faces of the other passengers urging me to come aboard. Personally, I was delighted at the chance to ride in comfort instead of waiting for public transport to take me to work. But as soon as I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, that little cramped space where ten people, eleven including the driver, were patiently enduring a discomforting closeness, suddenly fell into a deep suspended animation.

I am aware that there is some kind of an unwritten rule that people should always keep their distance, no matter if physically doing so is impossible, but this is a situation where people take it to the extreme. We have been very subservient to the rules of courtesy to a remarkable degree. I noticed that if you really needed to speak, then do so in whispers, and without looking in the eye the person you need to be talking too. Never ever sneeze but if you can't help it, press the palm of your hand hard against your mouth, and let off as little air as possible. Stop breathing if you may, bite your lips, pinch your nose hard, or whatever solution that you think will work, just so you can sneeze sound-proof. Now if your problem is flatulence, then, you might as well wish you were dead.

Paying the fare is another tricky part. There is a small plastic tray between the driver's and the front passenger's seats just behind the gear. For some reason, the driver refused to touch the money or acknowledge your offer to hand it over, perhaps avoiding to break this sacred silence. So everyone makes it a point to prepare the exact fare before hand and at the right moment, one reaches for the plastic container to drop the money in there, again, without saying a single word or asking for help. And whenever you place your money, try to make a deliberate effort to show everybody every coin and every bill that you drop into the plastic tray lest you might be suspected of short-changing the driver if the day's collection falls short.

Sometimes, I wonder if this is worth the trouble; if car-pooling comforts like having an airconditioner to bring relief from the heat and not having to transfer vehicles are really worth the sacrifice of trying to demonstrate saintly behavior. Or maybe not. One of these days, I just might skip the car pool, start chasing good old jeepneys again and find out.

I hate to write a love poem

2008-07-08T13:07:00.000+08:00

I struggle with themes and verses
rhymes in the minds
and so with the tenses

To say whatever it is I mean
or mean whichever it is I say
so for all that is said
were all that is meant
with my rhyme in time
my heart on my sleeve
and my poetry in motion

For what good is the hyperbole
when now we are parted by a higher wall
and a simile is not worth a smile
when all you could say is
it's tough to put a title on that one

Those hanging verses
keep a secret
that each i seek to keep in harmony
with only a touch of inspired insanity
to set the pen into action

The words you dedicate
are words we can't remember
you with your games
and I with my pains
my dreams, my shame,
they all were a distant world away
if only a poem like this
were music to play
on lyrical lies that once made us
make believe.

I hate love poems.

Welcoming Me!

2008-07-08T12:21:00.001+08:00

This blog took a long time coming. The search for an appropriate title alone took quite an eternity. Actually only a day or two. But when you think of the eagerness that you have, the nagging excitement to sit down and finally do it, which is unfairly held back by the problem of when or how to begin with, the wait can be really excruciating. This morning while on the shower, the idea finally came to me like the unexpected rain, to complete my first step to the blog universe.

That every blogger wishes to be unique is a given. Your writing may not be a standout, and perhaps you are not even confident about your ability to sustain it, that's why you choose hiding behind the anonimity of blogs. One that hopefully will have the benefit of a strong name recall. This is why, it really feels good to have a good name to begin with. That alone is already quite an accomplishment when you finally get the title that you feel will most effectively articulate the message you want to say, or the catch-phrase that you want yourself to be associated with.

I see life at least in this world as a short tenure without an extension. A line no longer than the length of a hyphen, that we just have to spend every moment the best way we can.

I am eternally fascinated with life, fleeting as it is. I embrace it with a passion. I wish to be always doing the thing that gives me a sense of purpose and meaning, whether it is a revolutionary advocacy that could possibly change the world, or the completely mundane tasks associated with survival. And if I have the power to do it, I would love to preserve every moment, that familiar sound, the colors and flavors, the emotion, all that I am able to perceive every moment of my life whether consciously or unconsciously.

Because life has thought me that this is important. I have lost my father and I can never ever have him back. All that I have are memories of how he looked like, the sound of his voice, the smell of his sweat when I was a child curled up in his arms, the greasiness of his hair, the texture of his cheeks, the callousness of his palms.

My blog will hopefully provide a keepsake for the precious fleeting moments that were meant to be here and gone in an instant. I have never tried blogging before so I swear to make this my first and last try at becoming a blogger. Who knows, I might manage to summon the energy to keep this going for as long as my mind can regurgitate bits and pieces of experience in this long journey, while my heart beats with pure love for life.

If only since no one will, may I seize the moment to welcome myself!