MADNESS

I didn’t report to work today. Had migraine attack.. . Or more like I willed myself to be sick in order to escape work pressures (and life pressures in general). Work deadlines are knocking my door… (and some self- imposed deadlines) .

Talk about …the mind wills and the body adjusts…

Any way, I was at home. I put my cell phone off. I told our maid “I am not home” so none would bother me. I shot myself off from world, and let it pass behind me, at least momentarily.

It’s uncanny how life would unwittingly remind how you suck even in the most random moment.

I was lazily surfing the TV channel when I caught the final episode of the Survivor Tocantins, Brazil. You know, that hit reality TV show that throws strangers in an island; they try to outwit, outplay, outlast each other and the last man standing would win a million bucks. Yes, Charles Darwin in 38 days. After the immunity challenge, one “survivor” was interviewed, or was it just a voice over. Any way, he said something like…It takes madness in order to live… or something to that effect. I did not really hear the whole quote but the terse phrase was highlighted in my mind.

You know those moments when your brain pauses, and then it automatically replays something very important that had just happened? It was one of those. Suddenly, you realized you have just been whopped in the head with a sledgehammer. Then you say “whoa, that was intense man!”

MADNESS. Indeed, that is what I lack in my shitty life right now. I don’t have that intense guttural MADNESS in order to live the life I have always I wanted. I have been living a mediocre life. Too comfortable with my lukewarm existence. What is frustrating is that I am not even excellent in what I do best.

MADNESS. I miss those times when I KILLED in everything I do.

Prometheus in Narcissus Complex

“Another bullsh*t!”

My brother spouted fortissimo, while dragging his deep-red luggage towards the queue for our terminal fee. The flight to Manila has been delayed from 10: 15 am to probably 12:00 pm, we were informed. The airline, thanks to its prize-winning idiocy decided to change to a bigger plane the last minute because, in their words, the passengers turned out to be more than what they expected. The Christmas before, with the same airline, his trip from Manila to home was cancelled and he had to endure the long and torturous trip by land so as not to miss our cousin’s wedding. He came home bruised and harassed. The cancelled trip caused a series of unfortunate events which resulted in a rift between my sister and my aunt. How it happened, the details of which I will not discuss as it is a worthy plot for a soap opera, complete with confrontational scenes, raising of thin eyebrows, high-decibel voices, name calling, and intense lachrymal outbursts… in the midst of a wedding celebration.

The sudden rupture of self expression has its moorings from the perennial bad experience with the airline. He’s been complaining for the PAL domestic services but he has no choice as it is the only airline operating in our place. Being well travelled, thus used to first rate services, my bro is aware of the services that are due him. Give him a service less than what he deserves and he would launch into tirade at unsuspecting victims. On the other hand, treat him like a king and he would rave about it in your presence. One time we dined at restaurant with a first rate service. He complimented it with a glowing review of the food. At every bit of the morsel he would utter aloud “oh, this soooo gooood!” two to three times. I had to remind him that he only ordered clams.

His reference to the gross human dung was so palpable that everyone in the airport could smell the stink. Like a bomb joke, I was concerned that he would be arrested or blacklisted as a potential threat, or the least declared persona non grata. From my view, an airport personnel kept looking at him while talking to his walkie. I was afraid that he has alerted the security giving information of his identity: "Roger... Roger...subject identified… over…short, dark complexion, in tight shirt, skinny folded shorts, and leather slippers; hair stylishly messed-up to conceal a receding hairline”.

Before we left home noting the overcast sky, he dreaded for delay or worse, yet another cancelled flight. He is leaving for Chennai the next day and his schedule is as tight at his lacoste shirt. As a corporate animal every second counts and a millisecond difference could wreak havoc. With the delay, he had to run to OWWA before 4 pm and spend the remaining hours for shopping for pasalubongs.

It is the pasalubong that excites us. Like Prometheus who brought fire from the gods and gave it to the mortals, my bro is often obligated to bring home stuff for us whenever he goes home: leather products and spices from India, teas from Vietnam or Sri Lanka and chocolates and branded clothes from Duty Free. His home-coming is always an Event. From my parents to our youngest nephew, we would gather in our sala all in suspended animation as he opens his large suitcase. There is always something for everyone. The same way when he goes back, he would shop for pasalubongs for his friends and colleagues. Their favorites include Goldilocks sweets, Cloud 9 and Choc Nuts chocolates, statements shirts from Green Hills, Bench underwear, Island Souvenirs and Ilocos cigars.

In exchange for the airfare I would be his slave. Before leaving abroad, I am always the official alalay of my brother as he scours Manila for his pasalubong and personal needs. I wouldn’t mind because it has its perks: I get to swipe his gold credit card for branded clothes and skin and hair products, dine in fine restaurant, swill loads of star bucks fraps. Except the part where I get to be his photographer.

It’s the picture-taking part that I dread. Unless you’re both tourists, two grown man taking pictures with each other is unsightly. He would take snapshots of anything that catches his fancy. I would take snapshots of him everywhere. In these times of facebooks and blogs, he documents everything in pictures. Judging from his files, I think my brother is the world’s most photographed man…. by himself. In fact he has mastered his best angle which involves slight body contortion, as if constipated, with his patented semi-smile look.

My bro is leaving the country again. From the NAIA waiting area I wave at him goodbye. He drags his large red suitcase, this time filled with pasalubong for his friends and colleagues.

Our Prometheus will be back in three months time.

i carry your heart with me

We are bubbles in the cosmic soup, so says one philosopher. I have constantly revolted against this idea although, circumstances oftentimes lean towards it. Life is random. Life is ephemeral. One day we burst and vanish in thin air to oblivion. Yet, we humans have the capacity triumph beyond our mortality. We carve momentous victories. We spread good deeds.

…and we establish relationships that could defy time and distance ; even endures in the afterlife: Be it filial, romantic, or friendship.

Ok, that is heavy. Blame it on the booze. Its depressant effect is now taking its toll on me. As I type this, my head is swirling and feel my shoulders slowly dissipate. I feel there is big lump in my throat. I just came from friend's despedida party with her family. What started out as fun party became emotionally charged and exhaustively lachrymal soap opera.

Please allow me to indulge. My best friend, the only one left, is leaving for US for good and I must admit, it breaks my heart. So Kathy, my dear, my best friend, this is for you:

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

---e e cummings

Going Nietzsche Over Myna

I just realized why I have always been cranky. I never had enough sleep these days. These past few days I easily flare up at the slightest provocation. I just felt I wanted to punch people in the face, or hurl them at the speeding train, or imagine hitting their head against a concrete wall: those stupid people I randomly meet at the MRT, at the bus, at the jeepney, on the way; those who unwittingly disturb my peaceful existence.

It’s that bird our neighbor has; it’s the culprit. That little pesky and loquacious talking Myna. The little devil has effectively disrupted my biological clock. At 5:00 am it would launch its loud senseless prattle. The caged bird is kept adjacent our apartment; imagine being pestered early morning with the Myna’s shrilly version of boom tarat-tarat, alternated with a blasting sneeze, or loud tootles, or repeated call for ate Ems (the name of the maid) , or Theodore (their pet dog), or what appears to be its version of car alarm or tire screech or whatever sound the bird has mimicked from the street. Burying my ears with my pillows wouldn’t help; before long I realize I am already wide wake yet unwilling to get up. Fine, it could be a potent alarm clock, but for me who sleeps at 2pm, is a major nuisance.

Thus, it’s the bird’s fault, why I berated a young student whose IPod bled loudly from his ears. I told him to keep it low as we do not want to be tortured by his poor taste of music. It’s the bird’s fault why I obnoxiously and adamantly did not yield my seat to an old woman at the LRT. I took the idea from a friend (or did I read somewhere?): Why do I offer my seat to someone who do not even acknowledge or embrace her old age? Taking the cue from his colored hair, tattooed eye brows, heavy make up and botoxed face, I snubbed her. Also, it’s the bird’s fault why I threw a dirty finger and expletives at a driver when he almost sideswiped me, though it was my own fault. Why my mind was capable of conceiving murderous thoughts, I attributed to the bird.

I decided that the talking Myna is dangerous to human relations. Before I could murder someone or the very least cause pain to a fellow human being, I decided to take the matter in my own hands. Corollarily, did someone say that a mere flutter of a butterfly’s wings could radically alter the course of the universe, like, it could cause a tornado that could bring great havoc?

Option A was to buy a gun with a silencer. From my window, I have a perfect view of the bird, I could aim the gun there and presto, its sorry little head would splatter on its cage. After careful thought, a gun would cost a fortune plus the hassle of securing license and permit to carry, so I decided against it. Option B was to build a scare crow and stealthily install it beside its cage. Some said that birds could die of heart attack, so to maximize its freight effect, the scare crow would be in the image of Osama Bin Laden or Lolit Solis or Madam Auring. Again after careful thought, I would run the risk of being sued for malicious mischief. That would be a major bane considering my profession. So, I was left with option C, (like any burden in life that I am powerless against) that is, to adopt the Nietzschean philosophy: What does not kill you will make you stronger. Lest, I would suffer the same fate of the dinosaur, Tasmanian wolf, dodo or the quagga, I had no choice but to adapt myself.

Last time, I didn’t have to report for work, so I decided to listen and entertain myself with the Myna's drivel. I was told that the Myna was kept inside the house before. My cousins whose room was adjacent the caged bird, was charmed the then very sweet and courteous Myna whose talk mainly consisted of, “hello po”, “salamat po”, “kuya pau”, “ate ganda”, and “good morning” which reflects the character of the owners. I wonder what made them bring the bird outside. It was a bad idea as bird turned uncouth (walang modo).

Then I sneezed. The bird sneezed back, loud too. I tried to listen to every sound the bird made; I was taken aback because it was us the bird has mimicked all along. You see, we (I live together with my cousins and my sister) are a noisy lot. We come from the province and we are used to loud talk. We do not know what subtlety means and we were raised to speak our mind, loud. I realized that the “loud sneeze and the curse in our dialect” is me, the “shriek and eewwwee” is my colegiala cousin, the phrase that sounded like “ate, paabot ng panty ko” is my sister, and the “Boom tarat-arat” is our kasambahay who is always tuned to WOWOWEEE. I never knew that the bird has picked up our expressions.

The noise created by the Myna which I loathe with passion was actually US.

Cold Beer, Warm Duck Embryo

After we met at the MRT and exchanged numbers, my former student had been texting me for a drink. I always declined as I have been busy trying to strategize how I would complete my work due next week. Last night, he invited me again. I ran out of excuses so I finally asked for the place. I figured, I have been working late the whole week, reviewing voluminous dockets, writing pleadings, attend hearings, and running after our cases in the Department of Justice, it would be quite a reprieve to down three bottles of strong beer until I feel dozy then head home and sleep the whole day to recharge.

“Seattle”, the text said.

I pictured a spanking exclusive bar, one that you can’t come in without your name on a list. I came from a mediation proceeding so, I was still in my immaculately white barong, sleek shoes and a leather bag: my dress code in every mediation in to give off an impression of power to effectively cajole the other party to submit into compromise and yield to our counter-offer. The barong is a fairly a versatile garb so I figured I would fit in the crowd.

“I need specific landmarks,” I texted back.

“The second street from EDSA. Right turn. Just opposite Aling Mamengs Carinderia, beside Triple J Vulcanizing shop. Near the bus terminal”.

The roadmap was oddly familiar. It turned out to be a street in Cubao, near Harvard and New York. I was bit startled. The scene I had in mind: clinking jiggers, tequila shots, women sucking lemons and licking salts underscored by jazz music quickly evaporated and replaced with tabloid headlines of homicide and robbery. I wanted to back out the last minute and later concoct excuses like I was abducted by aliens, or got lost and the cab serendipitously found my apartment instead, when the driver lurked into a narrow street and halted in front a noisy videoke bar . I peered though the window; before I alighted I secured my wallet, cell phone, and watch. On the second thought, when I mentally calculated that the fair market value of the properties in my person could not even buy a palayok, I said, what the heck.

I learned from a friend that in an unfamiliar territory make yourself superior. Though it sounded like it was taken from National Geographic rather than from Sun Tzu, I tried it and oftentimes it worked. My version was an authoritative suplado look and when confronted, I speak in rapid English. I do this when I enter a establishment to evade the hassle of the standard security check, interrogations and the gate pass, to get quick replacement for defective product, or when caught by MMDA for traffic violations.

I entered the videoke bar. Like in the Wild West movies, I wanted the push the swinging door and every one would freeze to acknowledge my superiority. Except that there was no door, only a wide open ingress. This means no security check, thus everyone could enter, even fugitives, arsonists, murderers and politicians. I searched for my students for the table sporadically arranged. I have a preconceived vision that each table is occupied by group of burly, pockmarked, mustached men, holding a tumbler of draft beer and laughing like mad, yes, the likes of Max Alvarado in FPJ movies. So that when I heard men arguing at the far corner, it was magnified that I half- expected I would hear a gun shot and I could almost see blood. At that moment I prayed for gas leak so that the night out be called off and I could go home and save my ass.

Just then I heard familiar hoots, I saw my former students rushing to greet me and led me to their table. One got my bag; the other pushed a chair for me. One reached bottle of pale pilsen from the bucket, and pushed a plate of pulutan: skewered pig innards (isaw).

I gulped my beer, and sighed with relief that my students did not turn in prison; in fact they did turn into responsible citizens of the world. I would like to think that I have touched their life.

We traded work experience. After the second bucket, our conversations consisted of kinky
experience, green jokes and funny anecdotes. Drama unfolded after we wolfed our third bucket of beer: Teary eyed, one went back memory lane and laid down his trials and tribulations he went trough.

It was fun to be with my students again. This time, not as teacher but a good old friend. Back then I would join them in an effort to understand their language and culture so that in that way I could be relatable. Now, I wouldn’t worry that I might have crossed the line or I might ruin my authority and credibility as their mentor. Now, I could laugh out loud with isaw in my mouth in their corny jokes. I would not hold back cursing if I have to, to express my disappointment. I could belt out Backstreet Boys’ Quit Playing Games with My Heart without worrying that it might haunt me for the rest of my life. I wouldn’t have to go to the CR once in a while to wipe off the grease in my face or check if I stink with sweat. I could pat my potbelly and burp loud in their presence.

It was riotous. Pure unadulterated fun.

It was 2:00 in the morning. Our fourth bucket of beer came when we ran out of pulutan. No pulutan can be served as the last order had been announced. One went outside and came back with a supot of five balut. I watched him cracked each balut, peeled off the shell, and put them in a bowl. Then he asked for vinegar and half filled the bowl. He crushed them with spoon and sliced them to bits. He pushed the bowl to me; I squirmed as I looked at dismembered premature parts of the aborted duck floating in the bowl, then I scooped a spoonful , shoved it into my mouth, and washed it with cold beer. It actually tasted good.

I looked at my watch and I said its time to go. I offered to pay for the bill but they insisted to pay for it. They led me to the street and flagged down a taxi for me. They cautioned the driver to take care of me, to bring me to my destination whole… because I was, in their words, their magaling na teacher. Then they all gave me high fives…

The Boss Wears Prada

I had enough. I resigned from work after dilly-dallying … twiddle-dee.

A day after, I was hired, thank God for connections, in well, another government agency. I am in a division called Civil Case Monitoring Group; my present job involves prosecuting civil cases, largely collection cases, in behalf of the government.

“Perfect timing” said one colleague, a former schoolmate, who later I learned was the chief of staff during my first day.

“We are flooded with cases. These unscrupulous persons are robbing our government with impunity. Go run after them. Here…”

He shoved me voluminous folders. I reached the documents, placed on my desk and flipped the pages.

“Draft a position paper due tomorrow… per order of the director”

He sounded like a sheriff imposing a writ. Quite stunned with the strong directive - I reckoned that the stack of folders obstructed his view of me - I gave him a dirty finger. In my mind, I was chanting. Asshole. Asshole. A.S.S.H.O.L.E.

“Motion to reconsider.” I said as I craned my neck to communicate with him.

“On what basis?”

“The order is arbitrary, whimsical, and capricious. Oppressive even. This voluminous record requires…er voluminous time.”

“Denied.”

“Hey, you can’t rule on my motion. Lack of jurisdiction. Permission to approach the bench.” I said referring to the director.

“Go ahead kiddo and you’ll be in contempt.”

I rose from my seat, about to proceed to the director’s office to raise my concern, when another colleague approached me and he whispered in a manner that he almost nibbled my right earlobe. He whispered something like:“Bro, off the record, ha. A word of advice: The druid occupying that office wears Prada everyday.”

He said as if I have been taping the conversation. Though I would have been discombobulated with the peculiar remark (Only much later that I realized the allusion to the movie The Devil Wears Prada. The director is a Meanie:Once, in a meeting, he verbally lashed his secretary until she came out of the room a pile of bones.) , I was more concerned with his inconsistent statement that I highlighted it in my mind with a Stabilo Boss. I mentally noted: He said a word of advice but he actually spouted eight words. Aha. I wanted to object for inconsistency of the statements.

“Don’t you have like, some orientations for new hires? Like welcome speech or Champagne toasts? Or giving them less pressure during the first day, the very least?”

“Actually, no. What we have here is baptism with fire.”

Had I not known more than half of the people here, I would have tendered my resignation right there and then and run to my previous employer to recall my resignation.

Conversations With Peter Pan

I was consumed with work and preoccupied with my life. I felt guilty that I never asked how my best bud who is taking the bar, was faring along during his review. Last Saturday, before the first Sunday exam I called to boost his spirit.

Buti naalala mong tumawag. Nagtatampo na ako sa iyo.

Under normal circumstances, I could have given him an upper cut and told him to grow up and have a life. But he is taking the bar exam… again for the third time so I allow him to indulge in his own version of soap opera. Been there, I know the feeling: the mounting pressure could be a swirling vortex that could make you sick, nauseous, and make every food you shove into you mouth taste bland. Among many things, the first thing you need is a support group.

Don’t worry bro. bar ops kita for all Sundays.

In our fraternity, the barrister is King. In our language, bar ops mean, you become slave for him. You grant his every request and submit to his every fancy during the duration of the bar exam: What he likes for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and you deliver them pronto; you pick him from the hotel and bring him to the testing center; or give bar materials and last minute tips. I remember during my time I asked for warm milk before bedtime and it was brought to my room. My friend asked for an inasal na manok for breakfast at 4:30 in the morning and it was delivered. One may ask for an ox testicle soup just for the heck of it and they will make a way.

After realizing what I just said, I wished I could take it back.

I was thinking of some inspiring words that could motivate him but I’m a lousy motivational speaker. Instead, I blurted out: “No turning back bro, give your hundred percent. Kaya mo yan. Kaw pa?”

Of course. Siguro kamatayan nalang makapigil sa akin.

Where did that come from? Did his entire clan turn their back on him? Is he taking the bar at gun point? Had I not known him better, I would be taken aback and harrumphed to his rescue for his suicidal remark or I'll be forever responsible. Instead I just rolled my eyes and wait for his litany of whines. This person has a doctorate in whining; he never takes responsibility for his mistake and failures. He is thirty, already with children of his own, but with a maturity of a twelve year old. When we were in law school, during bad recitations he would blame the professor for asking him a difficult question. When he flunked the bar he attributed his failure to Karma because of his father’s casino habits. I learned that didn’t talk to his mom for months; he deeply resented his mother asking him to carry a gallon of mineral water into the dispenser: a chore which involve minimum strength considering the measly 90 cm distance. This silent treatment between him and his momI learned later has its moorings from his mother snubbing his request to hear mass in Basilique Notre-Dame-des-Victoires in France before the bar exam. As if God is having His sabbatical in France and this was his only chance to meet Him.

Bro umihi na naman ako ng dugo.

I would be insensitive and ungrateful friend if I did not feel concerned. He damaged his kidney when he was shot in a frat rumble. He is still under medication and under stressful conditions, he would pee with blood. Last Saturday, I came to his hotel brought him cranberry juice and apples which the doctor says are good for his kidney and his favorite Hap Chan siomai.

Hope and pray he'll make it this time.