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.

Synchronicity

12 a.m. 24 August 2008.

In Peshawar, Pakistan , Pakistani troops pounds Islamic militants in the volatile northwest killing 37 in retaliation for suicide attacks that have put pressure on the new government to counter a growing extremist threat.

From where I am sitting, I see an army of red ants feasting on the morsel my sister dropped on the floor.

Deep in the center of our galaxy, circling suspiciously close to the giant black hole lurking there, is a group of massive stars being formed from a tenuous cloud of gas, that have been ripped apart by the savage gravitational forces from the black hole nearby.

There are 849, 204 people having orgasm right this very moment.

Floods in southern Chad have forced 10,000 people from their homes and killed three, the United Nations said, adding to the toll from seasonal rains spreading destruction and disease across Africa's Sahel region.

Our neighbor is honking his car. I hear their gate opening, his dog Theodore yelping and from afar, the droning bellows of the balut vendor.

Government troops have penetrated the lair of separatist Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) leader Abdurahman Macapaar, alias Commander Bravo, as military offensives mounted in Lanao del Sur.

Planet Venus opposes Uranus while Mercury makes an awkward, 150-degree tie to Neptune. Mercury and Venus keep upsetting the status quo because they are close together in the sky and they are making the same contacts with Uranus and Neptune, day after day for the time being. They will continue this unifying and yet often frustrating dance into the first two weeks of September when they will join forces with Mars -- the red planet already establishing itself in partner-oriented Libra.

Olympic host city Beijing is sunny and clear on the 16th day of the Games, with temperatures expected to rise for a broiling midday men's football final between defending champions Argentina and Nigeria.

Another young girl in Kenya is undergoing intentional clitorindectomy.

What is the connection? What is my point? I don’t know. Or maybe that is the point. A lot is happening around the universe right now without apparent reason.

And oh, today is my birthday. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!

Crouching Tigress

“Why are you here, when I don’t need you?”

My friend Kat asked when she opened the door of her single-room apartment. The visit was a spur of the moment decision. I was bored at home: I brought home some work. In my multi-tasked job, I will be a Legislative Liaison for the rest of the week; I am working on a bill due on Monday so I brought home books and articles for references. This morning when I saw my cluttered work nook and the blinking computer, I was disconcerted. It reminded me of my office. So, I decided to go out. I didn’t have money for a movie, have read the atonement the second time already (probably this explains my grumpy mood lately), the last book bought and I am still waiting for the release of the DVD TV series I am addicted to.

“I am hiding from my life, what else?” I said.

This sound perfectly reasonable to her. She led me to the coach, beside the crib where the baby was sound asleep. I kissed my goddaughter and then I lazed on the sofa. I reached the remote control on the table, clicked the on button and a bevy of gyrating scantily-clad woman of woweee appeared on the screen dancing the show’s theme song.

“You can’t stay long. My husband is arriving tonight” she said as she made finishing touches to her heavily draped room – walls, windows, doors,closets, tables, chairs etc. The room was virtually flowing with curtains, with the electric fun in full throttle, we looked like we’re in the Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon scene. I was a bit concerned that her husband might wake-up in the middle of the night, found himself lost and entangled with all flowing satins.

"You mean TL is coming home tonight, he’s flying over?"

I was starting to get jealous again. I am possessive of my friends. She is married to a white man: blond and blue eyes, from the land of milk and honey. They were married last year. They were introduced electronically by her relative based in the US, exchanged photograph. The white guy was smitten by the virginal, petite, exotic beauty from Las Islas Filipinas; the girl was attracted to the bright future ahead and the prospect of having offspring that would look like Kristine Hermosa or Sam Milby. After a year of courtship through yahoo messenger, he came here, impregnated her, he went back, she gave birth and then he came back again and they were married. In all fairness though, both are in loved with each other.

“He’s coming to get you? Are you leaving soon?”

“I told him to come over and kill those US embassy people who made fun of me. Those idiots thought that I got my papers from Recto and told me there’s no way that my daughter could have been sired by a white man. Those stupid people expect that my daughter would be the clone of her father- blond, fair skin and blue eyes. What about me? Bakit ki-----t lang ba nya sarili nya?”

The clinical remark of course was in reference to Gregory Mendel. I didn’t pay much attention to her rants. Shit always happens in the US embassy after the 9/11. Every person applying for visa is a suspected terrorist.

“I want to see him. I’ll ask for pasalubong.”

“Na-ah. I was specifically instructed by him: no visitors in my apartment, neither relatives. He is leaving after two days, he’s here just to process our visa. I miss my husband and I want to spend quality time with him. We need privacy.”

“You are excited!”

“Of course we’ll have passionate... unbridled... sex tonight... rrrr!”

"Need a hand?”

“Perve!”

The pizza came. We ate, watched, drank coffee, smoked, and yawned. I decided to go home.

“Good idea” she said.

Portents

Once again I am stuck in traffic. Amidst the torrents brought by typhoon Helen, it slowly drags itself. Like a lazy slug.

I commute everyday. The daily traffic that I have to inevitably endure has become the metaphor of this lackluster existence. Everyday from my point of view, I have a spectacular view of the Armageddon.

I am working overtime but I am underpaid. My salary could barely meet my basic needs. I have been thinking of quitting the job but I feel bad I would leave my boss mid air, who so rely on me, in the midst of so many projects. The only thing that keeps me here is the thought I am doing good service to the society.

Before you choke with your own saliva, let me explain. That may sound like a motherhood speech of some sleazy politician but that is sincere. Long before the release of the bar, I made a promise to God that if I’ll pass I would devote my first year as a lawyer to help the needy. I really think that my selfless and altruistic prayer moved God. Given the state of Justice System in the country, I could imagine that God kept rolling His Omnipotent Eyes, His Omnipotent Lips kept on saying Duh! His Omnipotent Ears getting numbed from the prayers of the over 7,000 would-be snooty lawyers (mulitiply it by 10 for their families and relatives, sucker friends who want to be associated with them and some criminals or potential criminals awaiting defense from them). So my prayer was like a breath of fresh in a stale room. Shortly before the release of the when the Chief Justice announced that the passing rate was lowered, I knew then that God lifted hid Mighty Hand for me.

I have kept my promise. I recommended to my boss a project for our 2009 department’s budget which addresses in the most urgent way the pollution problem in Manila. I have conscientiously looked for justification for the allocation of funds for a severely marginalized sector severely pummeled by the impact of oil price increase. Both were approved, were made as a priority project of the department. Both projects even landed in the front page of a broadsheet.

I must add that I never brought home any government property (except the laptop, only because I bring home additional work during weekends) like pens, folders, bond papers, toilet paper, even if all of my officemates thought that embezzling office supplies was the most natural thing to do.

Lately, I am starting to get frustrated. There are so many things I need that I could not afford. I have to feed myself; I have bills to pay: rental, phone, water, electricity. I have to fulfill the more basic needs: I have to buy books, I have to watch movies. You see, I attend numerous meeting. My job and profession demands that I would dress properly to exude credibility and authority. I am jeans and t shirt person so I didn’t have enough formal wardrobes. I spent quite a sum for barongs. I could not even afford to buy the Altec Lansing speaker for my ipod. And it breaks my heart if can’t give spare for my parents who have no source of income.

Did I mention that I am obliged to give a big chunk of my salary to the government to be consumed by pigs in suits?

I have talked to my boss about this dilemma. In as much as he wanted to help, he said, his hands are tied; he could only empathize. Of course I knew. I just want to send a message that anytime I would quit, once there’s a greener pasture out there.

In the meantime, I’ll go on in my daily toil. Painstakingly toiling to survive these crises of mind-boggling severity and indefinites: food supply shortage, unabated increase of prices of necessities, and the now palpable effects of global warming.

Sex and Mandaluyong City

It was 5:00 pm. I shut off my laptop, fixed my table; I was all set to go. I was excited to go home on time. A rare occurrence since my boss was in a meeting and I won’t be held captive until 7:00 pm. Plus I was excited for the long weekend ahead, Monday being declared a holiday.

“Let’s watch Sex in the City!”

My female colleague beamed as if she has just thought a brilliant idea that could save humankind.

I smiled and shook my head: my polite way of turning down an invitation. I caught some episodes of the TV series, I kind of enjoyed the witty dialogues but I was not entirely sold out with the idea of watching it in the big screen.

“It will be fun, Cha will come with us.”

Apparently she didn’t get my nonverbal response as she was busy touching herself… err retouching. She was putting copious amount of baby powder on her face. The white powder covered her entire face, including her pupils.

“Sorry, I have other plans”

I said finally because no amount of vigorous head shaking would signal her. This time she was busy curling her eyelashes with what appeared to be a pair of pliers with dexterity even without the aid of a mirror. I have seen her do this countless times but it always made me cringe. I would always imagine that she could rip her eyelids and the dismembered part with curled eyelashes would end up on the floor.

“Ano ka ba. Don’t be such a KJ. Minsan lang akong nagyaya”

She fluttered her eyelashes. Content with her eyelashes, she put back the pliers in the kit and held out a lipstick. She lifted her mouth forward as if to suck an imaginary suso, she applied a red paint on them and then made a faint smacking sound.

“Sige na. Please come, I need company.”

She proceeded to pencil her thin eyebrows. She sprayed herself cologne in a swirling motion from the top of her head down to her body. The smell filled the entire room. She made finishing touches to her Gretchen-esque hair, the hair currently on the round this days. She zipped her huge Gucci bag. She was ready to go.

“O, tara na”

She put on a jacket over her turtleneck blouse. As if we're going to a place were there is entirely a different weather.

After playing hard to get I agreed to come along. Well, I could not say no to her sudden burst of generosity: she agreed to pay my movie ticket complete with starbucks frap.

We met her friends at Robinsons. I entered the theater in the company of women clacking in their vertiginous stilettos.

In the movie every time Carrie would appear in her dress or shoes or bags, I could hear their collective sigh. I could not understand why women have such profound spiritual affinity to shoes and bag. After the movie, they were so moved by the oeuvre that they engaged in unbridled shopping.

The movie? Well, I enjoyed my frapuccino.

They say the movie is about women empowerment. I wonder how a one and half hour commercial of Manolo Blahnik shoes would convey women empowerment.

Bad Day

You are sleep deprived for days. Your tired and battered body longs for the pillows and your soft bed. It’s Sunday so you anticipate a full, blissful and indulgent bed rest, so you get your bedside book to read until you fall unconscious.

Just when the book slowly slides from your hand and your eyes begin to close, your phone rings. You try to ignore. You take a peek at your phone but you cannot ignore the name blaring in the screen: your boss. Suddenly you feel a hot surge of anger spurt up your esophagus. You deeply resent the untimely intrusion. Holding your patience, you held your phone and groan your most courteous tone.

“Yes sir, good afternoon”.

“Sorry to bother you during weekend but I want you to draft a department order. This concerns the guidelines we’ve formulated. I will present it tomorrow before the secretary and undersecretaries for approval.”

“No problem sir. It’s Sunday afterall and I am just killing time”,

You say it in the hope that he can read the subtext screaming: “Of course, you are bothering me! You’ve just intruded my most private moment. I am not supposed to work on weekends! Asshole!

“Good. Please email me the draft today so I can make the necessary corrections”.

“Yes sir. I will.”

He is the boss. You are the lowly subordinate. You do the dirty work. He gets the credit. As if the weekly enslavement is not enough, you are expected to deliver in such a very very very short notice.

You get up in vertiginous state. A lightening bolt of stress flashes from the top of your head to the base of your spine. Stomach acid heaves up your esophagus and starts filling your mouth with the taste of regurgitated lunchtime sinigang.You light up your cigarette; you vigorously puff. A cloud of smoke comes out from your nostrils.

You curse your fate.

UP Naming Mahal

I am a proud Isko.

Finally I got hold of the UP centennial planner after over four months of waiting. When I leafed through it, I cried. That is an OA statement, of course. The sepia tinted pages evoked nostalgia. It opened the flood gates of wonderful memories. Memories and experience that were greatly part of what I am now. I remember I was a young virginal (literally and figuratively) farm boy whose life then had been confined in the barrio and was abruptly thrown into a radical society. The Oble literally loomed over me; I was but a fleck in its agoraphobic campus.

One thing UP taught me: There is no limit to human capacity.

The planner chronicles the UP history: It reminisces the milestones that are etched into UP’s rich history, a proof that UP has produced a plethora of great minds and trailblazers that defined the country’s history. It also showcases the contemporary and timeless symbols that make for what we often call tatak UP such as the UP Ikot and Toki, the Oblation Run, Lantern Parade, the Lagoon, AS steps, the Sunken Garden etc. Every week, in the planner, one would be inspired by the quotes from different UP famous personalities. Something that would remind as of the UP ideal; something that could embolden us wherever we maybe.

I don’t know, but there is something about UP that bewitches us all. It lures us back wherever we may be. Every now and then, I would visit UP. Somehow the familiar environment would bring me a different feeling. The same way I long for the comfort of my mother whenever I feel sick. Without fail I would run into an old friend or classmate who does the same thing.

Kudos to the University Student Council for spearheading this once-in-a lifetime publication! MABUHAY ANG UNIBERSIDAD NG PILIPINAS!

All in a Days Work

I am sorry my dear readers (yes, I have two readers) for keeping you in dark. I could not really find time to sit, surf, sort and scribe to share interesting snippets of my life (say that five times, fast) .

Two days after the release of the bar, I got a call to report for work in a government agency. I wasn’t sure yet whether I would practice so I tried government service. I gathered it is permissible to practice on the side while working in the government. So off I went.

During my first day, I met my boss, the undersecretary. It turned out that we both came from the same law school so we talked about people he knew in school that I may have known, some dickhead law professors, and unreasonable questions during the bar exam. After a few minutes, probably realizing that he was boring me with the useless blathering, he called the secretary through the intercom and asked her to book me a ticket to Boracay. I was taken aback but I ignored; although at the back of my mind I was wondering what I did in the last 10 minutes that could have merited a vacation. Then he drove me home so that- in his words - to enjoy the rest of they. Before I left, he gave me a pat in the back and called me with my nickname. He was even apologetic for clutter in the office and my still unprepared cubicle. As if I went there for a pajama party…

Who can beat that? My first day of work and I have established a close relationship with my boss. My first day of work but I was not told to work. Instead I would spend my next few days in the beach. Of course I would be there on official business but what’s the difference? I would still wade and frolic in the famed powdery white beach.

I had the impression that working in the government is a walk in the park: I would just sit in my cubicle pretending to be busy, siesta every after two hours, attend meetings or conferences in hotels or beach resort, eat gourmet food etc. and the receive my pay check after the end of the month.

I was dead wrong. I never thought that that the coming days were portentous.

The next time I reported for work I was told to attend a meeting to observe and immerse myself. It was like a boardroom meeting and some one is making a power point presentation on what appears to be the status of a certain project. My nose hemorrhaged trying figure out what the f--- he was talking about. He talked about synergization, multi-modal system, administrative time-phases, synchronized transitional concepts and other gobbledygook. To make matters worse, the other responded in acronyms like TVR, OTC, PBML, QPL, LMP, PBS, PKKP, MDPPA etc. It was so disconcerting that I went out with extreme case of vertigo that I had to engage in unbridled smoking to calm the throbbing nerves in my head.

The experience gave me paranoia. I always had the nagging feeling that any time my boss would ask my legal opinion on something and I would give him a blank stare. I felt I had to make an independent study to understand the organization I am in. So I braced myself and started poking the ever reliable little mouse. I read everything the net has to offer about the organization: its mission and vision, its mandate under the law, powers and functions, I perused its rules and regulations and other issuances, I even codified all laws pertaining to the said organizations, the different departments and divisions , it organizational structure, etc.. I learned their jargons to adapt myself in their language game.

Within a few days I started to speak in tongues with my boss.

My boss gave me my first assignment: to draft a department order pursuant to an executive order issued by the president in order to address the complaints of an influential sector and to formulate the implementing rules.

I was an overzealous student trying to impress my teacher who after reading all the assigned readings started to make advanced reading. I accomplished my assignment way ahead of the deadline. I even gave my comment and recommendation with all legal basis that I could get, including Supreme Court decisions and US decisions to boot.

My boss was impressed. The next day he piled up work on my desk.

A week ago, my boss got sick and had to be hospitalized for five days. With minimum instructions I ran the office. I wrote memos and correspondence in his behalf, attend meetings as his representative, make decisions and recommendation in lieu of his.

Probably thinking that I could do the job even without him. He started delegating all his work to me, which includes making a complaint against PLDT for disconnecting their line without prior notice.

Right now, our department is undergoing a big project pursuant to an Executive Order. My boss gave me all the dirty work with very few staff which involved researching for jurisprudence, applicable laws scattered everywhere, formulating guidelines and policies, reviewing all rules and regulations of the department and including ordinances enacted by LGUs, making recommendations etc.

I have a bottle-neck work load. I can’t breathe.

And oh, tomorrow I’ll fly to Davao and then fly back to Manila the following day for another meeting. Aaaargh!

Hurraaay!

I made it! Finally, the long torturous wait is over. I passed the BAR exam!

Thank God!

I see fireworks! I am dancing non-stop!

Allow me to indulge in this sweet victory...

My Brother Joseph

Tomorrow is the feast day of St Joseph.I knew this well because tomorrow is also the birthday of my brother Joseph, who obviously was named after him. Or Pepe, as we fondly call him. Although to this day I wonder what came to my mother when she chose that nickname. In our dialect pepe loosely translates to the female genitalia.

(Whoa. What a way to start this so called tribute: a saint and then a reproductive organ.)

Last year, I unearthed an old photograph of us in an old chest. It was taken when I was five, he was eight, in what supposed to be our veranda, and the only structure remained after it was blown away by the super typhoon Weling. To this day I never figured why mother chose the backdrop: We looked like Vietnamese orphans during the Vietnam War complete with all the rubble. Probably in one of her dramatic moments, mother would want to convey to father who was then working abroad that despite ruins left by the disaster our spirits remain unbroken…unscathed.

Where am I?

In the picture my brother was wearing a bright yellow polo shirt and shorts, posed proudly with both hands on his waist (whether he was doing an impression of chicken dance, I don’t recall). I was wearing brown shorts and faded green shirt and I looked like I was a kitten frightened by headlights. In the picture, he has overpowering presence that made me looked like his mere shadow.

If pictures tell a thousand words then that picture eloquently tells our opposite personalities. We were born few years apart. We practically grew together. We live on the same house, although sometimes we were shipped to our grandparents or aunts house which were actually very near our house, went to the same school until college (except that we came from different UP campus) , were subjected to same set of influences and, if social scientists are to be believed should end up veritable twins.

It did not happen.

Except our elephantine ears, which we both share, my brother and I looked nothing alike. He takes from my mothers Correo side and my father’s Macarilay side which translate into, thin hair prone to baldness, snub nose, short legs, and a Moreno sheen. I take from my mother’s Calimag gene pool: I am taller, at least, I have a nose bridge, slightly fairer. In a conventional way I am better looking (he would never concede of course); he is more on the exotic side. I submit however that he matured better. Only because has been conscious about his looks. Add the expensive trapping he put upon himself. Me? I blame law school, smoking and beer.

My brother is very likeable; he has a knack of getting along with people and he smiles a lot. In fact he is like a giant magnet; his presence draws everyone around him. I am on the other hand is obnoxious. I have an aptitude of alienating people. I rarely smile except when terrible things happen to stupid people. In our community, everyone knows him. I suspect whenever he comes home, our neighbors would alert everyone. When at home, he would receive dinner invitations. Mothers would love to talk to him. He would become the godfather of their children. They would urge their children to be like him. I don’t know how he does it, but when he starts to talk people would laugh their heads off with his witticisms. In school, teachers adored him. He was the first to be picked up in school play, to deliver speech, to host school programs. I am always the saling pusa. In school, when I reap awards I would always hear people saying: “He is the brother of Joseph”. Often my parents would say: Why can’t you be like your brother? I deeply resented that. I silently envied him. I wanted to be like him so that I copied virtually everything he does. Except that part where he braids the hair of our younger sisters with dexterity.

My brother is the happiest person on earth. He is always filled with sass! Chutzpah! Pizzazz! Razzmatazz! Joie d vivre! Yes, everything to him should end exclamation point.

I on the other hand, am always morose and brooding. His contagious personality extends to his fashion sense –he loves loud colors, screaming with attention- which of great advantage to me especially that I am always tasked to meet him in the airport when he goes home from India or whatever country he chose to visit every year: With his height he could easily be drowned by a crowd and his dark complexion could easily blend with environment, I could easily spot him. Rather, he presents himself to me like an early warning device, you can’t ignore.

In my bookshelf, are books about ramblings on the absurdity of life (Dostoyevsky, Turgenev, Camus, and Nietzsche.). I discovered only later the profoundly passionate and life affirming Latin-American novels (Gabriel Garcia- Marquez and Isabel Allende) and the alternate world of Philip K. Dick. My brother on the other hand read “corporate /business” books of Malcolm Gladwell and John Kotter and inspirational novels by Paulo Coelho. Those kinds of books I don’t even care to browse. He once gave me a book about some uber rich guy who one day had an epiphany, gave up all his hard-earned wealth to charity and became a monk. In told him it was inspiring, which was a lie because I did not finish reading it. I struggled to read the first five pages because it brought me to coma. Well, I abhor books that tell how one should live one’s life.

While I have taken great pains to highlight our sibling differences, I must point out that, for strange reason, we get along. When he comes home, we would spend time together. Sip coffee and talk about our family projects. We would watch movies together. Shop at Green Hills together. Or go malling. Although sometimes I may look like someone from the escort service. We may poles apart but we are a team. When we were young, we would do house chores together. He may not admit but we were young farmers, and shepherds: we cultivate the farm, sow and harvest corns, peanuts, mung beans, and tended our four carabaos (water buffaloes). Although sometimes he tends to be manipulative and domineering. I would end doing the more difficult part. Or he would pass on me errands assigned to him.

My brother for one thing has unbelievable passion and zeal in pursuing his obsession. This often translates to celebrity worship. For as long as I can remember, he had been following Sharon Cuneta’s career. It was his sacred vow to watch all her films, knew every salient details of her filmography, keep himself abreast on what’s going on in her life. His fanaticism extends to her children especially KC. He took upon himself to closely watch her grow as if he sired her. He would track KC every wherever she goes through the net- knows hers friends, shows, trips, new commercials, every engagement, latest beau etc. Last time he called and related how happy he was when KC was appointed as UN ambassador. I thought It was a firsthand account, be cause he sounded as if he had just coffee with KC in Starbucks.

*****

Long ago, there is this story about the first brothers of humankind in the book of genesis- Cain and Abel. One day, God asked Cain: “Where is thy brother Abel?” Cain answered: “Why, am I my brothers’ keeper?”

I’d be remiss if I wouldn’t say that he has been a brother’s keeper. I have encountered life threatening situations in my life most of the time by sheer stupidity and he has been behind me all that time to make sure I was okay. During my lamentable bad-boy phase- always angry, angsty, pa-existential, atheistic, he never confronted me, but dismissed it as a part of growing up. Today, I am confident that I would survive anything the world would lob at me with him around. I remember the first time he left home to work abroad. I hid my tears. I felt a part of me was gone as well.

My brother is the most influential person in my life. I realized that I reaped awards and honors because of him. As child I wanted to be like him. Unluckily for him, I surpassed his achievements in school. I became the editor of our school paper, won in quiz bees because he encouraged me to read. I made it to UP because of his continuous encouragement. I went to law school because of his financial support. I would even concede that if someday I get rich and fulfilled, it would be largely because of him.

I am a terrible brother; I have been undemonstrative of my affection towards him. I have become a brat lately. Probably because I take comfort to that fact that whether I earn enough or not there there will always be my brother who is willing to help me pay for the good life I have accustomed to. Probably when he goes home next month, I would give him a big fat brother’s chest bump (on the second thought, I would be difficult for him, he would need a spring board).I know I won’t way say it often, if at all, but he knows that I am proud of him.

Happy birthday! Always be HAPPY and GAY!

Laban Pacquiao!

Tomorrow, the whole nation will be glued to their T.V. sets.

There will be zero crime rate. The hold-uppers, pickpockets, agaw cell phone of Quiapo, the whores of Quezon Ave, including thieves in Malacanang will take a time off.

There will be less traffic.

The whole brouhaha over the ZTN scandal will cease momentarily. The grandstanding at the senate hearing that has been softly killing every sensible human being will be put in to halt. Those annoying hecklers on the streets with hidden agenda in the guise of national interest for once, will spare our already deafened and numbed ears.

There will be a collective respite from all this torture afflicting this goddamned nation. At least we will be spared for one fleeting moment.

Like a sudden whiff of fresh air in a stale room… or sanity in a mental asylum, Manny, thank you for this breather.

Laban Pacquiao! Laban!

What do we teach our children?

It was one of those things I could never predict it could happen to me. But it happened.

I was “assaulted” by a little boy.

I was smoking outside my apartment, minding my own business, when a little boy around 6 years old – in a school bus which halted in front my apartment to make way for a tricycle - peeled off his khaki shorts, shoved his ass from the window and wiggled in my direction.

I was taken aback .I wonder what crossed his mind to do such appalling travesty. I was shocked.I couldn’t believe he, a little boy, just violated my pensive and most private solitary moment.

But before I could something, the bus harrumphed and I could hear the boisterous cheers of his schoolmates.In retrospect I should have crushed my cigarette butt in those sorry little pink cheeks.

Kids these days are annoying lot. You go to the mall and you see spoiled brats that you instinctively want to strangle and beat them endlessly. And there are those kinds: hip- hoppers who wear nose rings, tattoos, who smoke, or smear rouges on their faces, or clad in micro-minis even Paris Hilton would be too ashamed to wear.

I remember I witnessed a toddler who went berserk, in crying fit when she could not get what she wanted from her mother: She wanted a baby, yes a live baby, because the one she had at home could not cry. I once heard my nephew threatening my sister- in- law who forced him to sleep during daytime while he was busy playing. He shouted: Isusumbong kita pulis! Makulong ka sana sa dami ng utang mo sa tindahan! (I will report you to the police! I hope you get jailed for your numerous debts!)

I wonder, what has gone wrong with the way we raise kids these days?

I feel we, grown- ups have gone too soft when dealing with them. They do easily get what they want. No wonder they have become a misguided bunch.

I remember watching WOWOWEEE. During the part where the TV host interviews the contestants, Mr., Revillame asked a girl contestant: Anong gusto mong maging pag laki mo? (What do want to become when you grow up?). The child enthusiastically answered that she wanted to go to Japan and become a dancer. Just then, she proceeded to the center stage and gyrated in way that could shame Luningning.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with becoming a Japayuki. But for our children to aspire to for a profession that conjures sleaziness and exploitation, it indicates a deeply rooted problem here.

Whatever happened to I-want-to-become-the-president ambitions? Gone are those days when children excel in academics to become famous. Gone are those days when children idolize scientists, great leaders and writers. When I was a child for example I admired the intelligence and eloquence of Miriam Santiago, well the pre- mad cow Miriam, and I get inspired by biographies of great persons.

Today one could just make a video of themselves – the more explicit or graphic the better- and post it in You Tube to become famous. What do these children look up to? Paris Hilton? Lindsay Lohan? Or Britney Spears where it’s cool to screw around, to get drunk, or not to wear panties in parties?

Maybe its time we reconsider the old way of disciplining our children: corporal punishment. Hey, that was way we were brought up. Our childhood was a literal pain in the ass. Call me old fashioned but corporal punishment builds character. It instills much needed discipline through pain and humiliation.

Atonement

I had the mistake of watching Atonement last night. Afterwards, I had trouble sleeping. I was up all night. Was I just completely consumed and enthralled? Or was it the effect of large dose of caffeine I swilled and the nicotine I puffed (I consumed half the pack) after watching? Maybe both.

I watched the DVD way ahead of the regular theater run. Sorry, I could no longer contain my excitement to see the film adaptation after I read Ian McEwan’s book. Though I always think it’s a categorical mistake to compare the book with the film - they use different medium: the former communicates through prose, the latter through visuals and images- Joe Wright did an excellent job in translating it into film.

The first time I watched it, I felt like hugging myself afterwards. The same feeling I had when I saw Almost Famous, Lost in Translation, Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind, and Sideways. Yes, that is a tell-tale sign that I really love a movie.

I am not a critic but I would say that the shots are gorgeous and beautiful to behold. It is flawless, powerful even. The use of different time frames and recreations of some scenes in different perspective are effective. The haunting score with the constant clacking of the typewriter effectively connects us with the emotions conveyed in the film.

Keira Knightley (as Cecilia Tallis) and James McAvoy (as Robbie Turner) are perfectly cast. They have beautiful chemistry. Already in the first part of the movie, you could feel the sexual tension between them; in a minute you would think that they would explode into flames. But the young Saoirse Ronan (Briony Tallis) outshines them. This child is so effective. Maybe it’s the spooky eyes that conveys so much…

I am going to watch it again during the regular theater run. I recommend that you do watch it. Watch it. Read the book. Please read the book. If you're not affected by it, boy, you have a deeply rooted emotional problem.

Without spoiling the movie, here’s one of the unforgettable lines that says everything about the movie by Robbie Turner in his letter to Cecillia:

“Dearest Cecilia, the story can resume. The one I had been planning on that evening walk. I can become again the man who once crossed the surrey park at dusk, in my best suit, swaggering on the promise of life. The man who, with the clarity of passion, made love to you in the library. The story can resume. I will return. Find you, love you, marry you and live without shame”

Still here...

Happy New Year! I am so back after a month long sabbatical.

Our computer crashed. My secondhand laptop went kaput after incessant abuse. I took it a sign to leave for a while. The best thing about being single is that you do not feel obligated to work or feel guilty to bum around.

I was supposed to be on a vacation. We planned it perfectly. We were to go on an outrageous road trip. We would launch at Cagayan North, head to Ilocos then trudge Baguio, and then slide our way to Naga. We would stay at our friends in those places for few days and indulge in crazy adventures. I was all set to go, my backpack was ready and I pictured myself as Sal Paradise in Jack Kerouac’s On the Road.

It did not happen. To my consternation, one idiot backed out the last minute and everything fell apart.

I was determined to wander alone. But as much as I wanted to scour the countryside with a motorcycle and experience a carefree life the way Che Guevara or Jack Kerouac experienced, it was not possible. For one thing I could not drive a motorcycle and for another, its a risky venture. With the way things are going in the country I could be one of those desaparacidos.

So I stayed home and sulked a great deal. I curled up in bed or planted myself in our couch most of the time. I read and read. Watched and watched. And munched disgusting junk food. For quite along time I avoided the sun. With less exposure to sunlight, I noticed I was getting pale. I half expected that I would crave for fresh human blood.

I traveled… well vicariously. The only thing closest to the real thing was when I braved Divisoria with my cousins during the Christmas rush and haggled with salesladies for gifts.

I read Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, re-read Kerouac’s On the Road and Gabriel Garcia-Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude. I watched the Motorcycle Diaries, Clint Eastwood’s Bridges of Madison County, Bertolucci’s The Sheltering Sky, Pollack’s Out of Africa, Minghella’s The English Patient.

Those heavy-themed films almost set me off to a crying fit; I had to take a large dose of anti-depressants.

Then work beckoned. Christmas was nearing and I had no cash. I called up friends for job and I worked for a few weeks just before I went home. I had brief stint as project coordinator for LIBERTAS (Lawyers League for Liberties). It is non-stock non-profit corporation, an organizational network of reform minded lawyers advocating civil liberties, judicial and legal reforms, and ethics in public governance. It is engaged in advocacy work and project management. The project I was in was in partnership with IFES Philippines and supported by the US Agency for International Development (USAID).

Then I went home for the holiday and help organize a big fat family reunion.

So there. You didn't miss much