Memory Gap (Fiction)

The portable TV, what’s the significance of the portable TV lying on the bed of the murder victim? The Bulik-bulik Bureau of Crime Detection Unit was puzzled. Pedro Pouetmo, the senior investigator, holds the record for the most cases solved in the department, but this case puzzled him for its bizarreness. (It was rumored that Det. Pouetmo was a descendant of Det. Hercule Poirot (Herr-kyu-ley Pwah-ruh) Agatha Christie’s legendary Belgian sleuth). Nothing was taken, Mr. Pepito Tubangbakod, the victim was well liked in the neighborhood. He regularly attended the Church of the Parish of Santa Claus; he was a regular of the local Kawangis club, and practically every child in the neighborhood was his godson. He was a bachelor. But there’s nothing wrong or strange with single hood nor was he a sexual deviant. The man was practically qualified to be beatified by the pope. So, there was no reason to believe that someone wished him harm.

Mr. Tubangbakod was found dead inside his entertainment cabinet where his TV used to be. He had a clean death. There was no wound, nor any signs of struggle, in fact, the police were ready to conclude natural death except for the macabre circumstance of the victim and the TV’s changed places—the TV was on the bed and Tubanagbakod was on the entertainment cabinet. Detective Pouetmo tried his best, but he had exhausted all his investigative prowess and resources, and he was about to surrender and add the case as a blot on his impeccable record when he remembered something.

Mr. Tubangbakod was famous for his memory. He was hospitalized three times for major injuries because of it. First was when he was almost blinded when a spoon pierced his left eye because he forgot to remove it before drinking his coffee. Second was when he was almost electrocuted when he inserted his finger into the socket instead of the rice-cooker’s plug. Third was when he drove on the wrong side of road and his car collided with the garbage truck. And there were other minor injuries and damages to his and other people and their properties but it was always settled amicably for he was well liked--everyone knew of his affliction.

“Chief do you read Mark Twain?” Det. Pouetmo asked.
“No, why? What does Twain have to do with the case?” Capt. Cruz asked.
“Nothing, just an idea. But I think I know what happened to our dear Mr. Tubangbakod”, the detective said.

“Okay, let me hear it Detective.” Capt. Cruz warily replied, “I hope this is not another one of your literary blah, blah,”

“Ouch that hurts. Anyway Cap, I think our dear Tubangbakod was watching TV late, and he decided to go to sleep. Naturally, he would first turn off the TV then go to bed. But supposed he forgot, for someone who was famous for his memory problem, that it was the TV that was supposed to be turned off, and that he was the one supposed to lie on the bed to sleep--supposed he forgot the order of his actions.”

“Are you saying that Tubangbakod put the TV on the bed to sleep, and then he climbed inside the entertainment cabinet and turned himself off”, the chief blurted out.

“Possible.”

Brooom, Zero Backlog

Brooom, Broooom, Brooom
Here comes the guy on the Honda

Brooom, Broooom, Brooom
Here comes the guy on the Honda

Brooom, Broooom, Brooom
Here comes the guy on the honda

Hide, hide, hide
Said the tindera

Hide, hide, hide
Said the tindera

Hide, hide, hide
Said the tindera

Why are you hiding I asked?

Here comes Ricky
From India

Here comes Ricky
From India

Here comes Ricky
From India

Hide hide hide
Hide hide hide
Hide hide hide

Five sex five sex five sex

Kuyah nakita mo ba yung tindera?
No, no, no,
No, no, no,
Pero andiyan Nanay ko.

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The answer to your communication problem

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Rrrrrinnng, Rrrrinnnngg
Mommy, Daddy, how are you doing in the States?

Weyre faynnne and weyre learning slangggg
Thayyynks to PeeeEyllDeeeeeTeeehhhh weyylll ayyblllee to twalk
Hayyyve yowww heayyrd about PeeLDeeeT’s preyyject

What is it about mommy and daddy?

Zero Bayyycklog
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Son, here listen to your grandma and grandpa
Talking bout PLDT’s project

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Mommy, ano po yung Zero Beklog? Patay.

Sins Of Omission

I was going through piles of used books at Diplomat, randomly picked up an old and jacketless one, and randomly opened it, and here’s what I found.

The Sin of Omission

It isn’t the things you do;
It’s the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you a bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun

The tender word forgotten,
The letter you did not write,
The flowers you might have sent
Are your haunting ghost at night.

The stone you might have lifted
Out of a brother’s way
The bit of a heartsome council
You were hurried too much to say;

The loving touch of the hand,
The gentle and winsome tone,
That you had no time or thought for
With troubles enough of your own.

The little act of kindness,
So easily out of mind;
Those chances to be helpful
Which everyone may find—

No it’s not the thing you do,
It’s the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you the bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun

---Margaret E. Sangster

The Book is “The Treasury of Religious Verse” by Donald T. Kauffman. I bought it for twenty nine pesos.

This is a good poem. It made me reflect on sin. The Old Testament generally defines sins as disobedience to the commandments of God. But in the New Testament where Christ is the fulfillment of the Law, sin is not all about commandments; it is all about the loss of relationship. Sin in the New Testament can be summed up in Jo 3:6 So everyone who lives in union with Christ does not continue to sin; but whoever continues to sin has never seen him or known him. Sin is being out of Christ. For if one is in Christ one is incapable of committing sin against God; this is justification. Of course it does not mean we can’t sin, it only means that the payment for our sin is already accounted for.
So simple yet made complicated.
I was thinking: Christ died for all our sins—sins of commission.
But for sins of omission?

Old picture

This is an old picture of my mother’s grandmother’s house in the Visayas. It was taken during c. 1950’s and this is the only memorabilia my mother has of her childhood.

My mother left the Visayas when she was only sixteen or fifteen (I can’t remember exactly) and she hasn’t come back since then. She always has this plan of coming back to visit her family. But if ever that would happen, she may be surprised to find out that home is not a place in this planet (see my earlier post “Home Sweet Home”).


When I was a child I remember my mother just bursting into uncontrollable weeping. And every time I asked her why, she would always say “self pity, son, self pity.”

I am a home body. Maybe I got this from my mother.

Everyone kept telling me that I looked like my father. And they’re right, I looked like my father but I think like my mother--a deadly combination, I dare say.

Beware of dogs

My younger brother and I put a “Beware of Dogs” sign on our gate to discourage gate crashers and to prevent people from being bitten by our dogs, or vice versa.

This morning my neighbor called me to tell that someone came asking if our dogs were for sale. She was laughing while telling me this news. I was puzzled because selling our dogs was the farthest thing from my or my brother’s mind. And why was she laughing?

When I came out of the gate, another neighbor asked me if I had already sold the dogs. I am puzzled at this selling of the dog business and the way my neighbor laughed when I’m told about this selling the dog business also. Something’s fishy and I can’t tell what.

Maybe because it was too early and my braincells’ still asleep, it was a few hours later that the realization came to me.

“Beware of Dogs”

The man thought that we are selling the dogs because….he thought we’re advertising them. I don’t if I will laugh or cry, but my neighbors think it was so funny that up to now they’re still asking if I already sold the dog.

Ang layo naman ng “Beware of Dogs” sa “Dogs for sale.”

Punch

A couple of weeks ago, I was punched on the head by a drunk. And this morning while staring at the computer, I heard a viodeoke machine blasting from our backyard. I was thinking, “My gulay, there they go again drinking at our backyard and when they are drunk, they will make trouble, and there is a possibility that I will be punched on the head again.” Enough! I was red in the face and fuming. If I didn’t stop them now while they were sober and sane I will never be able to, or if I did it later when they are already drunk and insane, there’s a possibility that I could be punched on the head again!

I went to our backyard and calmly but forcefully ask, “Whose occasion is this?” They were quiet for they know, boy, they know, they know, that I have a history of madness too. I can run amok too. They were silent. I came back and asked again, “don’t ever, ever let the guy who punched me on the head drink here or else I will do to him what he did to me and my wife.” I mean, the guy not only punched me on the head but he also berated my wife in front of my daughter. I learned about this only later and this changed things.

After a few minutes a little lady came to our house, “kuya birthday ko lang po.” She is my nice neighbor. “Owwww, sorry, I thought you’re…eniway use our backyard, no problem, just don’t let that guy who punched me on the head…”

I was mad. But I have no right to be, because I punched a lot of people too.

I accepted the punch and was philosophical about it…

But why would he berate my wife…

I mean…..

I moan…..

I moon…

Relax.

This morning the guy and I had a confrontation. It ended with a drama. I thought that we're going to end fist fighting but things got calmed and his wife cried,…all’s well that ends well never mind the punch.

Thesis titles and stories

Here I go again racking and juggling my brains trying to write questionnaires for my thesis. The thing is I find it very, very, very difficult to do things that I don’t like; like writing a thesis and writing questionnaires for a thesis. My brain cells simply refuse to work; they will not follow my orders. I’ve tried music to waken them and to get them into that writing mood but…Coffee works, but my classmates told me that I’m starting to look dehydrated and miserable, but what can I do? I’m a night person and all that coffee only worsens my insomnia. But if its coffee that I must have in order to finish this unspeakable thesis, then coffee it is.

Since I’m into student organizations, I chose our campus student organizations as the subject of my research. The first and second chapter of the thesis was simple enough; I just wrote a corny essay about the blah, blah, blah, of student organizations, and the blah, blah, blah…

My thesis is boring.

Now, my science major classmates are another thing. Their theses’ titles are really, really creative and I wish I could write even just the introduction of their research for I know that I will do a very good job of introducing their concepts.

For example:

Feasibility of Using Rotten Tomato in Making Paper.

My introduction would start with…

Background of the study

The Philippines is one of the major growers of tomatoes in the world. Since the country has a lot of rotten tomatoes disguised as politicians the country has the potential of becoming the rotten tomato paper capital of the world…

Feasibility of Using Talbos ng Camote in Making Candies

Background of the Study

Camote (Fartus Promotus G. (as in George) is an indigenous Philippine root crop. It is available every year. Since scientists have proven the flatus producing property of the plant, the researcher deemed it proper to make it consumer friendly by disguising the camote as candies (of course the researchers are still awaiting the result of the test done to see if the gas emissions that will result in the eating of the candies will comply with the Kyoto Protocol on Greenhouse gasses).

Problems Encountered in Thesis Writing

Background of the study

Thesis writing is the most boring thing on earth. The National Center for Mental Health lists thesis writing as the number one cause of suicides among students. In this regard, the researchers deemed it timely to write a boring thesis about writing a boring thesis….Bang!!!!

Feasibility of Using Kangkong as ingredient for Burger Putties

Background of the study

The Philippines has a lot of body of water. Pasig is the most historically significant of these bodies of water. With the proposals this feasibility study will come up with, the economic potential of Pasig River could be realized. It is well known that because of the high organic waste content of Pasig River it is the ideal place for cultivating water spinach (Kangkong). With the nutritional elements of organic waste in Pasig River’s water infused in the Kangkongs, the solution to the country’s malnutrition problem is near at hand... (Soylent Green! Soylent Green! Soylent Green!)

An Evaluation of the Written English Communication Skills of Non-English Majors

Background of the study

The students in the majoring of non-English is measured their skill on the communication about writing. The researchers are try to found out the encountering problems of these students and the solving to the problems…

Implementation of Gender Awareness and Development Program in the Campus

Background of the Study

Man are created equal. He is created with no distinctions except in their physical appearance.

With this study, the university will be able to evaluate the effectivity of the campaigns against gender bias in the campus for the university believed that men are created equal no matter what their sex is...

These are actual theses titles. There are more but I need to get back to work.

________________________________________________________________________

I remember one critic telling this story.
She was proofreading a thesis titled Feasibility of Using Squash as Shoe Polish and when she came to one of the charts she was astounded at what she read. The first three columns were on durability tests etc. but when she came to the fourth column she found a Palatability test.
“If you’re going to copy other people’s thesis make sure you do it right!” She told the plagiarizers.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­
I was looking at some of my instructors’ masteral theses and I’m impressed. It seems that the higher you are on the academic studies the heavier your thesis will be. I mean, the thickness of the papers….I remember my Measurement and Evaluation instructor telling us that one of the methods used by lazy teachers in grading essays is by measuring the length of the essays using a ruler. “Hmmmmm, twelve inches, 90 percent; hmmm, 4 inches 75 percent lang…”
And I am looking at the masteral theses…”Hmmmmm, 3 kilos, 1.8; hmmmmm, 4 kilos, 1.5; hmmmmmm, 1 ton, flat 1…” “Guard! Paki tawag yung magbobote!”

My original thesis was about textbooks. I plan to evaluate them because they contain errors that are obviously not typographical. Most of our textbooks are just cut and paste works of foreign authors. Some are so sloppily written that they are simply a waste of ink and paper.

(“This is not a novel [book] to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force”—Dorothy Parker. “This is not a book to be thrown with great force. It should be force- fed to the authors, without water if possible”—George C. dela Paz)

There are even imported Indian textbooks that are not fit for Filipino consumption. I have nothing against the Indians but their English syntax is definitely different from ours. I’m not saying they are bad, just different-- must be a dialectical blah, blah, blah. (For the Afro-American they call their English Dialect Ebionism from Ebony. One American author proposed to call our English dialect Filipinism from Filipino. Now for the Indians well…I don’t want to be politically unpolitical…figure it out.)
Of course my first title was shot down even before its defense. “College students don’t use textbooks. You have academic freedom to use any book you think is right and you don’t have the expertise to analyze books.” That’s it.
Then why buy all those text books, may I ask? I’m not an expert but I plan to write about it from a student’s perspective. Anyway, one doesn’t have to be an expert to see how bad our text books are. Grrr!!! Grrr!!! Grrr!!!...

Why? Oh, Why? Oh, Why? How can I finish this thesis if I kept writing about nonsense stuff!

Talking about non sense I heard this story….enough!!!!! (You know these parentheses) (It’s really my mind debating.) (Write on about nonsense) (No, you must finish your thesis.) About nonsense….(no) Yes) (Stop) (finish your thesis). I am one hell of a crazy guy.

Sexuality and the church

Rummaging through piles of used books, I chanced upon two troubling (that is, for me) books about church and sexuality. The first is Mary Daly’s “The Church and the Second Sex” and the other is “Living in Sin?” by Episcopalian Bishop John Shelby Spong.

The Church and the Second Sex is a troubling book because of its graphic indictments against Religion specifically Christianity and her churches for its treatment of women.

A portion of Daly’s 1985 foreword of her book is enough to exhibit her attitude towards Christianity and religion in general…

“…For there is a truly Tremendous Event that is “still on its way, still wondering—it has not reached the ears of man (from Nietzsche).” And women have done it ourselves. This event is the self realizing of women who have broken free from the stranglehold of patriarchal religion, with its deadly symbols, its ill logic, its gynocidal laws and other poisonous paraphernalia.

The bringing about of this event, exorcism of the poisonous patriarchal god and his attendant pathologies, has required and continues to require Courage--…

The courage to leave such an institution as the catholic church and, beyond that, Christianity in general and all patriarchal religion in all its form—both sacral and secular—is often born out of desperation. If the motivating force that propels one to leave is realization of one’s own spiritual and elemental powers, this leaving involves leap after leap of living faith. It is my observation that Living faith propels women out of patriarchal religion…

This still comes down to the problem of literalizing the Bible with regards to its archaic teachings about women, which is really ungodly. Daly talked about transcendence and she’s right, but the realization of that transcendence for her is in leaving the church and in dismissing what she calls “patriarchal religion” and not on transcending biblical literalism and “going in to Christ.” Or she might have already done that, and I’m sure she did, and she still found it unacceptable because Christ is a man.

It must still be about Christ and Christ’s attitude towards women that must be the basis for the church’s relation with the other sex and not biblical literalism.

“Harvey Cox expressed the Christian condition accurately when he said that Jesus Christ comes to his people not primarily through ecclesiastical traditions, but through social change, that he goes before first as a pillar of fire. There is no need then to be obsessed with justification of the past. In fact, while it is necessary to watch the rear view mirror, this does not tell us where we are going, but only where we have been.”

Change is forthcoming and the church will survive. It survived the Copernican revolution that removed humanity as the center of the universe. Why won’t it survive another revolution that will make men truly equal with women?

“Living in Sin?” is an interesting book for its position on homosexuality. The books discuss many issues on sexuality from “betrothal” i.e. trial marriages sanctioned by the church but not by the state, to “divorce ceremonies”. But what caught my attention was the book’s exegetical study on homosexuality.

1. Biblical references to homosexuality are small.

2. There is not one reference to homosexuality in any of the four gospels.

3. The Lord (Jesus) appears to either have ignored it completely or to have said so little on the subject that no part of what he said was remembered or recorded.

4. If one reads the Sodom and Gomorrah narrative with an open mind one will discover that the real sin of Sodom was the unwillingness on the part of the men of the city to observe the laws of hospitality. (It is impossible that all the men in Sodom are homosexual, why offer ones daughter to be ravaged and gang raped?)

5. Why was it that biblical condemnation of homosexuality was limited to male homosexuality?

6. How about Paul’s condemnation of the effeminate? (1 Cor. 6:9-11). Paul never married. He seemed incapable of relating to women in general except to derogate them. He talked about a thorn in the flesh. Was that connected with Paul’s understanding of himself, of his own sexuality?

….many more

Even if one is a biblical literalist, the biblical references do not build an ironclad case for condemnation. If one is not a biblical literalist there is no case at all, nothing but the ever present prejudice born out of a pervasive ignorance that attacks people whose only crime is to be born with an unchangeable sexual predisposition toward their own sex. (The author cited scientific studies that affirm homosexuality as a genetic occurrence as opposed to the Freudian theory of homosexuality as a psychological deviation or the churchs teaching that homosexuality is an abomination.)

If new knowledge about the cause and meaning of homosexuality confronts us, then we must be willing to relinquish our prejudice of Holy Scripture and turn our attention to loving our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters, supporting them, and relating to them as part of God’s good creation. That will inevitably include accepting, affirming, and blessing those gay and lesbian relationships that, like all holy relationships produce the fruits of the spirit—love, joy, peace, patience, and self-sacrifice—and to do so in the confidence that though this may not be in accordance with the literal letter of the biblical texts, it is in touch with the life giving spirit that always breaks the bondage of literalism.

Looking back, most of the Old Testament bible is in reality a survival book for the Jews. Most of its laws are meant to preserve the integrity of the Jewish race and of their religion. The same with the New Testament, it is mostly a survival book too--a call for exclusivity against the onslaught of the other religions. But since the threat is not there anymore, there is really a need to redefine the bible especially in the age we are in now. One must be ready to “transcend” the letters and go beyond to the Word.

An open but discerning mind is the best policy here.

Eyes wide open

“My late mother told me that babies born during her days were different from babies born during my days. During her days babies were born with their eyes closed. While when I was born my mother told me that my eyes were already opened.” The grandmother of my daughter’s classmate told me this while we were waiting for our wards. Her daughter, incidentally, and the mother of my daughter’s classmate is also my high school classmate.

Of course what’s she’s talking about was generation gap and the lost of innocence. When we were leaving the school she was still shaking her head. “Look at their bags, so many things to learn, so many things to put in their heads.” She laments.

Where is their childhood?

My daughter tells things that even surprises me. Facts and recent changes in the school, I was even surprised to find out that our national symbols have gone through revisions. Our oath of nationalism and national bird and national dance and national flower etc. are different than those of my elementary school days.

When a dragonfly entered our house, my daughter was scared. “What’s that?” She shrieked. “That’s dragonflies! When we were your age we used to catch them using brooms made out of coconut stem. We would tie strings on their tales and made pets out of them. We would also catch bees by putting plastic cellophanes on the exit holes of their nest and then tap the nest to force them into it. We would then put the bees in a match box and made radios out of them. To tune in, we simply tap the matchboxes and then we would hear this humming and that’s music for us.”

Of course my daughter may not experience my stories anymore because she has so many things to learn in school.

I agree today’s children’s eyes are open to so may things but they are also starting to close their eyes on so many things too.

Grades

Grades tell you how you did at one point in time (yes, there’s a point in time) and nothing more.

There’s too much hype about grades. I am not saying that getting good grades are bad but there’s one thing that students should understand—they should be able to live up to their grades.


In the school where I’m studying, it is the goal (sometimes the dream) of every student to get that flat 1 grade--1 being the highest mark one can receive. But having a flat 1 in one’s transcript can be hazardous to one’s health especially if it’s achieved mnemonically or through memorization and not through critical studying.

Imagine an applicant applying for a job and the human resource department personnel in charge for hiring saw those flat 1’s on the applicant’s transcript. The HR people would be impressed. Two possibilities here: if the applicant passed the exam and the interview and the applicant would be hired with flying colors. But if the applicant failed miserably in both there is a possibility that the applicant and the school where the applicant came from will be blacklisted or even sued for…er…human rights violation.
Of course applicants who have a lot of 5s (the lowest grade) don’t have problems with applying for they will never get past the guards.
But let us assume that the applicant with the flat 1s did get hired. What do you think will happen to the applicant?
“The new hire has a flat 1 in English let us delegate to the new hire all the memo writing; look the new hire also has flat 1 in math let us also delegate to the new hire the accounting, the petty cash, everything….”

Of course if the applicant with lots of 5s gets hired the applicant with lots of 5s will have no problem with the work load for the applicant with lots of 5’s will be equipped with pushcarts. The applicant with the lots of 5s main problem is unloading the loads.

Grades on grades

Here are my grades on grades. This is based on air and the margin of error is between 99.5-99.9 percent.

1-1.2 Very employable. Either will be president of the company before forty or will commit suicide before the probationary stage ends. Or, if wasn’t able to live up to the grades, will be fired before even being hired and will be declared an anathema.

1.3-1.5 Highly employable. Either will be VP before the age of forty or will be a corporate nomad ever seeking that VP-hood for the rest of their lives.

1.5-1.7 Employable. Will be a good employee with a healthy sex life. Will never rise beyond supervisorial level and will retire loyal to the company.

1.8-2.5 Moderately employable. Most will be good rank and file employees.

2.5-3.5 Slightly employable. Union leader material and union buster material also.

3.5-4.5 Moderately slightly employable. Good manual laborers.

4.5-5. Forget about it. Most will spend the rest of their days thinking what course they took and why they took it and how they failed it.

It is well known fact that there parents who drive their children nuts by setting grade standards that are either too expensive for their financial ability or too high for their children’s intellectual capacity. Realistically speaking, parents urge their children to try to do well because they connect good grades and good school with employability and opportunities. Well, all parents want that. But, where’s the children decisions? Forcing a child, overtly or covertly, to take up a course purely for economic reasons will result to unhappiness. When it’s all about employment then what they get is employment, then they die unhappy.

When nurses became in demand, nursing schools mushroomed. When call center agent demand rose, we have training centers for callboys and callgirls sprouting everywhere.
What’s in is in…if there’s a demand for jobs washing incontinent retirees we’ll have a school for that too. We did…er... I mean we do?!

Cargo Cult

 An indigenous people in Melanesia developed a mystical cult around a flagpole. The people were exposed to the affluence of an American military base. Frustrated with their own lack of possessions they responded by trying to crack the mystical marching code of the soldiers believing that an airplane loaded with cargo would arrive for them.

These indigenous people are primitive and they don’t know any better. But a closer look on why we go to church to worship may surprise even the best of us that we are no different from the cargo cult of Melanesia. Why do we go to church?

1Ch 16:29 Give unto the LORD the glory due unto his name: bring an offering, and come before him: worship the LORD in the beauty of holiness.

Joh 4:24 God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth.

1Co 14:25 And thus are the secrets of his heart made manifest; and so falling down on his face he will worship God, and report that God is in you of a truth.

Worship is being one with God in beauty, truth and holiness. One can sing about beauty, truth, and holiness—and, worship. Holiness is not about being holy but trying to be holy for God alone is Holy. Sometimes worship can be noises; it can also be silence. Crying is worship, laughing also, but long prayers may not be worship just as well as short prayers can be—it’s in the heart but it’s also in the mind and in the volition. Walking and thinking about God is worship. Giving is definitely worship and taking can also be. Everything done in the beauty, truth and holiness of God is worship but not all the time…but…

….sometimes the best place to worship is not in the church.

Left, right, left, right, abooouuuuut face! Left, left , right….jump into the river….

Song Attack

I’ve barely felt the two weeks sembreak and now its back to the class room again. My new class schedule tells me that I have to readjust my biological clock. Morning classes! This will be a challenge. I am a nocturnal person and it is a torture for me to wake up at six in the morning, but wake up I must. This means that there will be time that I will be in class with not a minute of sleep.

I remember when I had this “song attack.”

I was sleeping when I was jolted from sleep because of a song that suddenly entered my dream:

“Superman was killed in Boston”… what was the title of that song? I woke up and asked myself. I forgot. Better get back to sleep.

“Superman was killed in Boston”…Stevie Wonder and who’s that singing with him? Who is she? Better get back to sleep. It’s already ten o’clock and I have classes tomorrow. I must get back to sleep.

“Let’s cut the class, I’ve got some grass, the kids are wild….” What are the next words? “We just can’t blame them? “Or we just can’t tame them”…Why can’t I get that song out of my head? I better get that song out of my head. Wash my face. Do a little weight lifting and get back to bed.

“There’s no love in the palace…” Aaaah gotta get that song out of my head. Read. Write on my computer. Read. It’s already twelve o’clock I must get back to sleep!

I’m sleepy. “Superman was killed in Boston…” I must get this song out of my head. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. “And someone took away the Beatle’s lead guitar….”

“Superman was killed in Boston…” I give up! I’ll just read. I’m sleepy. Better get back to bed before that song…”Lets cut the class…”

It’s already one o’clock, and I have classes tomorrow.

“Superman was killed in Boston…” Grrrrrrr

Two O’clock and I still can’t sleep. I’ll read again. Get back to bed.

“Superman was killed in Boston….”

Three o’clock…

“Superman was killed in Boston…”

Four o’clock….

“Let’s cut the class…”

Where is that song coming from?

Five o’clock…

The alarm went off and my wife is already awake.

“You’re early or you didn’t sleep again?” My wife asked.

“No, I just want to review my notes that’s why I’m up early.” I lied.

Six o’clock…

Took a bath…

“There’s no love left in the palace….”

Seven o’clock at school…

Sleepy and haggard, “Where’s that song?”

“I need to stay awake, broadcast you song!” Broadcast!”

Eight o’clock…

Silent…no song…sleepy…zzzzzzzzz

“George any comments?” An instructor asked.

“Slurp, ahhhh, the—tion, of the ---tion, pardon the question ma’am?”

(Where are you song why won’t you broadcast?!)

Christmas pfft

Christmas is out of the air


It seems that Christmas air here in our neighborhood is late in arriving. Although it’s already the middle of November and the air nippy, the usual merriment and expectations is not that evident instead what permeates the air is an aura of tiredness. The Christmas lights that usually appears on the first days of September is still absent. People don’t play Christmas song anymore and if ever they hear it on the radio they shook their heads in surrender.

This gloom can be blamed on the materialism that became of Christmas. Christmas is now all about food, gifts, and having fun. There’s nothing wrong with this but it’s the excesses that’s destroying the real spirit of the season.

Maybe in this state of need and defeat will the people realize the true significance of Christmas—vacation.

Bad Trip (Fiction or Fact?)

“So how was your trip to Batugalang?” I asked my kumpareng Brownie, “Bad trip,” he bitterly replied. “Care to tell me the details Pare,” I said to him as I take a seat at the other side of the bench in front of his house. “Okay, but we better have something to drink to make the story flow smoothly.” So I, knowing the cue, got up and went to Kalbo’s store and bought a half a case of beer. Here was his story:

My wife came from a remote village in Batugalang, wherever that is, and her village celebrates its fiesta only once every twenty years. It’s very important for her to come. She asked me to go with her, and I did. I packed my bags and accompanied her on the most unforgettable trip of my life.

After debarking from the boat, we rode a tetanous jeepney for four agonizing hours, then rode a horse that looks more like a dog than a horse for two hours, and then trekked the mountainside for eight more hours. “No wonder the village celebrates its fiesta only once in every twenty years” I sarcastically told my wife, “the travel alone would take you five years”. When we finally got to the village the first thing I noticed were the carabaos. They were well groomed some of them even had leis of flowers on their necks. What surprised me most was that they were not working the fields; they were kept tied in the balcony of the houses like a pet dog. I asked my wife about this, and she told me that in their village it is an honor to own a carabao, and they are treated the same way we treat a pedigree pet dog or cat. “Weird, but to each his own,” I replied.

After three days of traveling, at last I met my in-laws. They live “primitively” like most of the people in the village. Their house is a classic nipa hut with no electricity and running water. It seems that time stopped here and even the clothes they wear were pre-Spanish in style and their Tagalog is so pure untouched by English, Spanish, and Chinese that I thought I was in another country. We ate dinner and I enjoyed the meal they prepared for us, the vegetables were sweet and the chicken meat, although dark, was rich. Curious about the carabaos, I jokingly asked my in-laws about the grooming and the flowers. I told them that in our province carabaos are working animals not pets. They were angry at hearing my words “Carabaos are beautiful creatures, they are not made for work, here we respect and treasure them, for we believe that they are the reincarnation of Apo Kalimagmag’s dog that saved the life of the Apo, and it’s an honor to own one,” they angrily told me. That was the end of the dinner, and I think I did not made a good impression with my in-laws

Hoping to make amends, I told my wife to discreetly ask how much a carabao would cost. I was hoping that if my allowance would allow it, I would surprise my in-laws with one. She came back and told me that they cost two hundred pesos each. I was elated, “Two hundred pesos! That’s just a kilo of pork in Manila.” I told my wife, “Go and buy five, let’s surprise your mother and father,” I added.

I can’t describe my in-laws reaction when they saw the five carabaos tied to their house post. I thought they would collapse on the floor. They are so ecstatic that my father-in-law even kissed me. I was happy at what I had done. Five carabaos for them, they are millionaires in the eyes of these people. And for only two hundred pesos each, it’s a bargain. I was almost asleep when my in-laws went to their side of the hut. They were still talking about the carabaos.

Early the next morning, I was awakened by the noise of people talking. When I rose from the bamboo cot and peeped outside, I saw ten people’ who all bowed to me, talking with my in-laws. My father-in-law invited me to join them in their discussion. After having coffee and rice cake I joined them. “Son, these people are the elders of the village, and it is the unbroken tradition of the village for the giver of carabaos to christen each in ceremonial feasts before the receiver can formally accept them. We were touched by your generosity. The village council had to be convened because this is the first time in the entire history of the entire village for someone to give five carabaos at the same time. And now we are discussing the details of the ceremony: like the twelve customary sets of godparents for each carabao, the musiko’s, the feast, and the traditional three-day announcement of invitation to the whole village. Since you gave us five we are discussing of having the feast at five day successions, of course the actual village fiesta will not be included in the five day count.”

I lost consciousness and remember nothing more of the conversations. The next thing I knew was the albularyo saying some strange words to my ears. “ Pare, aside from exhausting my ten thousand pesos allowance, I had to sell my watch, my wife’s watch, my camera, my necklace, our wedding ring, and even my extra pair of rubber shoes so that we can go home” he cried.

I had never seen my kumpare cry before even after his father’s death. I was surprised when he did this time.

I don’t know if my kumpare’s story is true but from the way he reacts every time he sees a carabao I’d say he’s had a traumatic experience with them.

All About Underwear

Ate Myra Gaculais-del Rosario e-mailed me her article about underwear and words. But with all due respect for her, I believe I’m a better expert when it comes to underwear, but I admit she’s better when it comes to words.

Maybe it’s time I write something about underwear, just for fun.

Ate My has three daughters, and she’s also writing for a Christian magazine so her article is a little bit tame. Me, I’m writing to release my excess gas and to exorcise my excess fats so this article (if you can call this that) will border on the bizarre and the macabre.

Classifications of Underwear

This classification is about the common Filipino men’s underwear but it is also applicable to the common Filipino women’s underwear the only difference being their…er…loads or the lack of it.
There are three types of men’s underwear for the common Filipino (I am one common Filipino): the brand new, the regular, and the bacon.

Brand new underwear are brand new underwear, unbroken and still uncomfortable to the …er…their loads.

The regular underwear are broken in, but the waistbands are still firm and the garment still intact hence, they are comfortable to the…er…their loads.

The bacons on the other hand, as the name implies, are underwear that lost their waistbands’ elasticity hence their waistbands sag like bacons; they are usually threadbare that wearing them feels like you’re being...er… de-wormed. Feels like something is trying to get out but actually it’s the threads trying to get in, and they don’t have enough...er…load support, so their wearers exhibit annoying mannerisms.


How to tell if someone is wearing a brand new, regular and bacon underwear?
The easiest to tell are the wearers of the regular underwear. They are at ease.
It is a bit tricky to differentiate the wearer of the brand new and the bacon underwear for they exhibit the same “symptoms” but there are clues.

1. Most wearers of brand new underwear do little cha-cha steps to loosen the underwear’s grip on the…er…loads. Most bacons on the other hand like to lift their pants up pretending that they are tightening their belts, but actually they are trying to lift their underwear to tighten its grip on its…er…load.

2. Most wearers of brand new underwear scratch the waistband area. The bacon wearers, on the other hand, frequently scratch the buttock area.

3. Most wearer of brand new underwear could run fast. The bacon wearers on the other content themselves with just trotting.

4. During summer, most wearers of brand new underwear are irritable while the bacon wearers are relaxed and at ease.

5. Most wearers of brand new underwear like to tack in their shirts in their underwear while the bacons always prefer loose clothing.

Underwear Economics

Most Filipino youth have mastered the economics of underwear. This may sound weird but based on my experience and those shared by my friends, the occurrence of this phenomenon is high among male teenagers and adults, but I believe that there are female teenagers and adults who at one point in their lives may have “economized their underwear”.

Underwear economics is the science of using underwear to its fullest potentiality and utility without washing them. This is usually referred to as the side A and the side B aspects of under-wearing. It’s really a simple but an ingenious concept that only a lazy person could conceive. On the first day, the underwear is worn like ordinary underwear. On the second day, the underwear is inverted. The important thing here is that only the theoretically clean surface of the underwear touches the …er…loads. I don’t think it’s possible, but some may have tried the C and D also. The C and D are the opposites of A and B and if they are ever used the hygienic implications are problematic.




Underwear Confession

I confess I once used the C side. But not because of laziness but because of things beyond my control--I run out of clean underwear because I forgot to wash our clothes. To solve the temporary problem, what I did was to go to the public market and bought extra large three-piece-pack Calven Klien briefs for thirty five pesos. It was too late when I found out that although the box said that the Calven Klien I bought was size extra-large what was really inside was size small, in fact too small. So when I wore them the...er…load spilled. I wore denim shorts and not having underwear is a no, no. What I did was to use the side C of the Calven Klien and the effect was amazing. It cupped the…er…load perfectly but the problem was, it felt like wearing a thong (or T-back as it is called here.)

Sexy and eerie was the only word I can use to describe the feeling.

The Calven Kliens didn’t survive the first washing. It became a bacon just hours after I wore them, so, just like ate Myra’s and her daughter’s old underwear, they are now used as rags for waxing the floor.

(“There ain’t no words on the floors” as ate Myra said. I say I agree, but definitely there are “wax bacons on the floor.”)

My Gulay!

(This is where I go for my afternoon walks)



I think I’m running out of luck. I was punched on the head by a drunk and now someone stole my mountain bike. There’s something wrong with my fortune lately. Maybe, its time I think about murder.

I don’t know how someone could steal my bike. I was in the internet café greeting my nephew Jared happy birthday and when I came out of the café it was gone. That bike was my only means of cheap transportation. I hope the person who stole my bike reads this blog and I hope that person will realize that he didn’t just stole a bike, he stole something priceless.

I’ve always wanted to have a bike.

In fact when I was young I envied my cousin the Galvez children and their cousins the Calderon children because they had bikes. (I remember the Calderon’s only girl Chayay. She’s always fighting with her three brothers, always crying everytime I saw her…) In order for me to ride a bike, my best friend Dude and I will convince them to go the unfinished part of Greenland Subdivision to race their bikes. Of course we’ll get our turn and have fun too. They are good children for they shared their bikes with me and my best friend Dude.

The Calderon and the Galvez’s children with me and my kumpareng Dude pedaling ourselves to death, laughing, sometimes crying, sometimes bloodied and crying because of the crashes; we had no protective gears just our dirty clothes, sweaty and soiled, sometimes bloodied too.

I’ve always wanted a bike.

For almost five years now I was without a job and up to now I'm still umemployed. Four years ago my friend hired me as a timekeeper for a construction project. Out of that job I was able to buy my bike. It was a second hand, fifteen speed mountain bike. I bought that bike from my kumpare and from then on I established a special relationship with that bike. I used it bring and fetch my daughter to and from school, to buy medicine, to buy viand, etc. But there is one thing that that bike and I only knew and shared--the joy of biking in the rain.

Biking in the rain is an unexplainable experience. The water splashing on my face, the wind, the rainbows, the birds, the thunder storm…I once tried biking in the middle of the storm and… my gulay…the freedom I felt was comparable to flying an open cockpit plane (one of my dreams is to ride an open cockpit plane)…the wind was blowing behind my back, so, I had no need to pedal. It was like sailing except my body was the sail.

I don’t know how many kilometers that bike and I had traveled and….

I miss my bike.

Foul language

Language is dynamic.

The Filipinos had long prided themselves with their command of the English language. This thanks to the aggressive American colonial education program and evangelical missionary efforts in the country during the early 1900’s. And this proved to be a great advantage for the country for it gave us the edge over our Asian brothers in diplomacy and in the academics in the early to the middle part of the 20th century. But because of the stigma of colonialism and the search for nationalism, government policy makers embarked on a Filipinization program. The program kicked off with creating a national language based on the hundred different language groups (not dialects) in the archipelago. The aim is not only linguistic but also political for a national language can unite this country of many nations.

But the program failed miserably. We didn’t create a national language what came out of the effort is in reality Tagalog—just plain old garnished Tagalog. Talk to other people in the provinces using the so-called national language and they will tell you that you’re speaking Tagalog. Filipino is an illusion. There’s no linguistic amalgamation that occurred, that’s why Cebuanos almost revolted when they found out that Filipino would be based on Tagalog and not on Cebuano, which is the local language spoken by more Filipinos. For the Cebuanos the greatest consideration the Tagalog based Filipino proponents took into consideration is pure and simple politics; the capitol is in Tagalog region. The sad thing is there is still more Cebuano speakers than the Tagalog based Filipino. So much for a national language.

Aside from failing to create a true national language, Filipinization destroyed our English foundation for in order to promote the newly created national language and at the same time promote nationalism (the catch word during the post colonial period), the education bureau replaced English with bilingualism or the use of English and Filipino as the medium of instruction in public schools. We must remember that for 50 years the Americans initiated a massive English based education program in the country that resulted in the literacy rate of the Filipinos that our Asian neighbors envied then. But the irony is that the people who benefited from these programs were the ones who destroyed our proficiency in English in the name of nationalism. We didn’t achieve the nationalistic fervor the program wanted to achieve, but at least Filipinization and bilingualism was able to destroy our English proficiency and its intellectual benefits-- so much with Filipinization.

The search for a national language ended with the Tagalog based Filipino. But as argued above, Filipino, aside from earning the contempt from people of other language groups, is only predominantly used in the Tagalog regions. And although required as one of the mediumsof instruction in public schools, what is actually happening is that people in non-Tagalog regions use their own vernacular and not Filipino in teaching in their schools thus defeating nationalization. Aside from failing to unite the nation with one language, Filipinization did not even create an illusion of linguistic unity for the Filipinos. The buy Filipino made movement didn’t even buy Filipino. So much with nationalism.

Of course the formulators of the Tagalog based Filipino didn’t foresee the emergence of mass media and the power of information technology over language (only hindsight can do that) for if they did they would have stayed with English. What happened and is happening is that a new national language is emerging. It is neither Filipino nor English, it is both. The emergence of Taglish (this is not bilingualism but the fusion of English and Tagalog) is inevitable. This is because of the similarities in English and Filipino syntax (sentence structure), morphology (our rules on affixations is almost the same), and phonetics (our how you pronounce it-spell it rule is adaptable to English). Unfortunately proficiency in Taglish means incompetence in both English and Filipino. So much with Taglish.

The search for a national language is also the search for the true Filipino. This is has been going on even before the Americans gave the Philippines it’s independence (why do Filipinos keep insisting that we became in dependent in 1898 when in reality the last foreign forces that left the Philippine soil was in the late 1980’s.) The search for this Malay identity sometimes even took a ridiculous turn. An example is Jose E. Marco’s supposed discovery of the code of Kalantiaw. The logic behind this hoax was to prove to the world (or Americans) that the Filipinos were an ancient civilized people—they have government and laws. Mr. Marco forgot to take into considerations that with the harshness and barbarity of this so called code of Kalantiaw even the Vandals and the Barbarians would deny ownership of them. The sad thing was the Filipino swallowed this hoax because the Pinoys wanted to believe the precedence of Filipino civilization over the American’s. Why, there’s even a TV action series called “Mga Alagad ni Kalantiaw” in the early 1980’s.

Another ridiculous ridiculousness is the Marcos Maharlika (royalty) project. Everything was called Maharlika in those days. Channel 4 was Maharlika Broadcasting Corporation (the Government’s TV station), there’s Maharlika Highway, Maharlika Building, etc. One U.P. anthropologist did an etymological study of the word Maharlika and he found out that it means sexual virility, the true distinctive of the royalty and nobility. Why there was even the plan to change the name of the Philippines to the Republic of Maharlika, a true Filipino name—the Republic of Erection.

No wonder the Filipinos are multiplying like rats.

The Allies declared war on the Philippines!!!!!

And the day came when the Englishmen found out that their pure and pristine English became nothing more than an ancient and dying English dialect. It was too late when they found out that a new strain of the language aroused. It was too late because they were too busy trying to purify their English, to keep the rule of grammar and semantics rigid and free from other influences, they we’re too busy that one morning they were confounded and aghast when they heard on the news, “Brian Howard-Jones was found dead in the river Thames and her majesty’s police thinks he was salvaged”… “Former British Prime Minister Lady Margaret Thatcher announced her plan to run in the parliament again against another Prime Ministeriable Jones Brian-Howard”… “Reporter: What can you say about the Royal Police’s stringent anti-terror policies? Mrs. Howard Brian-Jones: I am very, very glad that her majesty is protecting her subjects. Now, I feel very safety…”

Her Majesty was shocked. Her Majesty’s Grammarians were shocked, the lexicologists were shocked, the semanticists, the philosophers of language, the linguistic theologians, the military, the Royal Order of Plumbers, they were all shocked at the mutilation of their beloved Royal English and most of all they were shocked because they can’t explain how it happened.

They fought back. Oh, how they fought back! They conducted a global war campaign. They hired lecturers of English to conduct re-indoctrination and to purify the Language. But they were shocked to find the lecturers writing feverishly on the board. They were writing on the board! They were writing on the board! The lecturers were writing feverishly on the board while their audience sleepily wrote on their spiral-with pictures of actors for cover-notebooks.

Armageddon! Damnation! Perdition to the enemy of her majesty’s language! They shouted. But the invasion was unstoppable.

Then they look at their children and think of what kind of language they will grow up with. Barbarous! They shouted and gritted their teeth. Then they caught a glimpse of their baby sitters smiling, smiling that contemptuous smile, their Filipino baby sitters were smiling contemptuously.

And the Allies declared war on the Philippines.

Writing should be fun

“Kuya George how do I write an essay about blah, blah?” “Kuya George, help me, I need to write a reaction paper on blah, blah. “Daddy George, help me with this blah, blah.” “Papa George how will I say this in English?”

“Just write”. I tell them. “Just write.”

“My grammar is poor and I fear that the teacher will fail me.” “I’m ashamed of my spelling; the teacher will surely fail me.” “I fear this, I fear that…”

“Just write.” I tell them. “Just write.”

Write the first thing that comes into your mind. Write the first word that comes into your mind. Write in whatever sentence structure, no matter how unconventional it maybe, that comes into your mind. Just write and don’t bother me. This is what I always tell them. Don’t bother me, just write.

The greatest hindrance to learning how to write is the things that should have made writing easy—prescription and rules.
For example:
George Orwell’s Politics and the English Language gives these six rules.
1. Never use a metaphor, simile or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
2. Never use a long word where a short one will do.
3. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
4. Never use the passive when you can use the active.
5. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word or jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
6. Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.

I like Orwell’s Politics and the English Language for it is a valid criticism of “dragging” English but when he starts dishing out rules like these, his essay becomes pretentious. He has no right to give any rules on English for English is and will always be arbitrary and dynamic—its behavior changes with time, geography, and culture that use it as a second language and there’s nothing anyone can do about it, not even the king and queen of England.
When I read his essay, I can’t write for days because I always think of “what will Orwell say of my compositions.” These rules turned my mind legalistic and not creative. Writing should be fun. Rule number six is the only rule I subscribe to, the rest are for the grammatically dogmatic entities with buttocks injected with botox (butolin toxin relaxes the skin).

Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style has twenty one rules on writing. Twenty one! (My copy of The Element is a second hand third hand third edition that I bought for nine pesos. Who knows, the fourth edition may already contain three million rules.)
1. Place yourself in the background
2. Write in a way that comes naturally
3. Work from a suitable design
4. Write with nouns and verbs
5. Revise and rewrite
6. Do not this
7. Do not do that blah, blah, blah
8-9 blah, blah,blah
Twenty one rules that will bother you when you’re writing, “Am I over doing this, under doing that, how many verbs have I used, how many nouns, no adjectives, must keep the adjectives to minimum, too many qualifiers, am I too breezy, am I orthodox or catholic, maybe I’m explaining too much, are my adverbs aardvark or are they awkward or backward, whose speaking here? A spirit?, am I using fancy words or 24 karat words, dialect this dialect that, avoid this, avoid that, be this be that...for dos for kwatro naman that’s why I am majoring in English because I hate formulas and here you have all these formulation and doctrines that will kill creativity anytime. Rule number two is the only rule I subscribe to. The rest are for the bland people who have enough space in their heads for all these rules.

John Trimble, not to be outdone by the other English-men and grammarians, has twenty six rules to confound student writers--twenty six rules that will promote impotence and allergy to writing.
1. Write with the assumption that your reader….blah, blah…
2. Write as if you’re actually talking….blah, blah, blah….
3. Substitute the pronoun that for which blah, blah, blah,
4. Use occasional contractions…
5-26 blah, blah, blah
The rest is too long and too technical and too much.
I subscribe to rule number two alone. The rest are for the nuclear physicists to decipher.

So many rules on writing, so many how to, so many how not to, I’m not saying these articles are worthless or useless, in fact anyone who wants to write must read all these things once in a while. What I’m trying to say is, if these prescriptions and rules start to bother your writing, if they start to make you impotent, if they start to make you legalistic, if they start to turn you into a linguistic Pharisee, if they start to have a voice of their own, if they start to hold back your hand from writing, if they kill your expression, if they destroy your spontaneity, if they start to irritate you, if they make your head spin, if they blur your vision, if they give you diarrhea… if, if, if, if, ..Then throw them away. Read them for entertainment and for nothing else for there are so many things to say and there are so many ways to say it!

John Holt (I love this guy) says: We learn to write by writing, not by reading other people’s idea about writing.
Getrude Stein when asked by a reporter “Why don’t you write the way you speak?” to which Stein replied “Why don’t you read the way I write.”

Writing should be fun and rules are meant to be broken.

Nah, to be honest, I’m just trying to justify my bad essays.

(“What is happening to George?” My siblings maybe wondering aloud, “Even his writing is nihilistic”, to which my mother would reply, “Aren’t you glad you’re brother’s learning how to write German!”)

Home sweet home

I was looking at my daughter, and I was thinking of what kind of home I’m providing my daughter with. We have this traditional view that a home is a place with love with comfort and with future. How many people are homeless then?

There’s nothing more wonderful than growing up in loving family. I know because I grew up in one. It is not a perfect home, say, not even an ideal one but a typical Filipino one. Typical because the father is the head while the mother is the neck of the family. I say the mother is the neck of the family because mothers not only run the family they are also the visionaries in the family, they save, they wake their children up in the morning to go to school, they prepare the dinner; mothers hold the head (father) that turns the body (family) and that’s what Filipino mothers really are--control. I didn’t mean that negatively.

I experience lots of joy during my childhood days. I was my father’s boy (YES, HE'S DEAD!) . My father was a heavy equipment operator and his work allowed him to go to beautiful places. He works for the government paving roads for the national public works department and it brought him to mountains, forest, rivers and brooks, and fields. He always brought me along, sometimes my big brother too, but it was always me. I remember how he dammed a small brook with his loader so that the camineros could catch mudfish and catfish. Who can forget that scene? If only I can paint that scene is the first thing that I would portray. The monster loader damming up a river, while the camineros shouting and laughing while catching the slippery fishes, me standing by the steering wheel, my father’s hand on the controls and on my head, my father laughing, me laughing, all laughter. We had broiled mudfish and catfish with tomatoes with dirty hands with cusses with nature for lunch. Unforgettable.

I remember eating dinner with my siblings and laughing. I remember my mother pinning a handkerchief on my shirt so that it will not get lost. I remember my ditche telling me fairy tales while washing the dishes while watching our neighbor swimming in the flood. I remember my ate selling gulaman. I remember my kuya crying because my younger sister scissored his project, a Voltes V artwork. I remember Dadai eating halo-halo at ka Juling. I remember Beng crying and my father dancing her to sleep. I remember Dong pulling white hairs off my father’s head. I remember ate Myra, Jocelyn, Kuya Boy, Tito Buboy, etc. I remember home.

For me home is not a place. Although I consider our old house my home, so many things have changed that I feel like a stranger. For me a home is not a place with love, comfort, and future although I experienced that kind of home; that kind of home does not last, I mean, people leave.

For me a home is a place in time where I can always come back to visit.
This may sound strange, but I think my brother in Thailand, my sisters in Pangasinan and my sisters in Baguio know what I’m talking about.

So I was thinking, what kind of home am I providing for my daughter.

Education is always there and academic honors don’t mean that much to me, material things can be bought, money, toys, stuffs and things…future, who can buy the future?

So what kind of home?

I hope I’m building a home made up of beautiful memories that my daughter can come home to no matter where and what road she takes in life, no matter where she goes. And I mean, no matter where she goes, a place in her heart that will and always exist in her, a place in her heart that will pull him back if she ever comes to the brink, a place in her heart that can save her if it ever comes to worst -- like what happened to me, my home saved me and is still saving me.

I hope I’m building for her a home—a strong and a beautiful home like the one my father built.

Reading Heavy Stuff

On reading theology and philosophy:

It’s like crossing a winding rope bridge. Once you’re on the first rung you felt sure footed, like you know you know where you’re going. Then when you’ve moved to the fourth to fifth wrung, you looked back to find that the rungs behind you are disappearing, their falling into the abyss that you’re trying to cross. Then when you reached the other side, you looked back to find how much you have crossed, only to find that the bridge behind you disappeared, and that the other side you think you’ve crossed was really the first rung you stepped on earlier where you felt you know that you know where you’re going.


I mean, the only thing I can remember is the first sentence, the title, and the author’s name the rest is … as they say, forgotten history. If they only spiced them up with a few action verbs and colorful adjectives…

Why can't I write a poem?

Maybe it’s because I hate poetry
Who’ll love them anyway
They’re encrypted
Can’t tell what they meant

All that metonymy, irony, anthropomorphism
Hyperbole, synecdoche, paradox, and apostrophe
Iambic, trochaic, anapestic and anemic
What are they but highfaluting air
Useful for voodoo spell
But not for interpreting and writing how one felt

All that old English
That only the ancient understood
All that deep Filipino words
That only the martyr spoke
Are used for artistry
But in reality
They’re nothing but sophistry

The grammatical violations
With unconventional punctuations
Together with syntactical creations
Might as well write encryptions
For the French US Navy ng mga Hapon

Yeah, they can quote Frost and his road not taken
Or Dylan Thomas and the non dominion of death
Or Poe and his bells
But that does not mean they have culture
For culture is appreciation
And not pretension


Oh! All that love ballads
Inspired by hormonal imbalance
But after the ejaculation’s done
The girls will realize
That they’re nothing but formulas
For getting pregnant

I hate poetry for I know
That no matter what I do
No matter what I read
I can’t write a serious poem
For I believe that a serious poem
Is a poem not written by me

For serious poems are written by dead people

Walk Talk2

The rainy season is starting to subside.

I usually end my afternoon walk at five to six o’clock in the afternoon. But lately, I started going home late; around seven to eight in the evening—so my afternoon walks is extended to evening walks. I’m beginning to enjoy night walking. It’s a different world when you walk at night alone.

Darwin liked night walking too. Of course, that does not mean anything; it’s just that I wonder how many ideas he conceived while walking.

The executive village where I take my walks now have a night guard. The guard has a lonely outpost with no electricity. His only companion is his walkie talkie. He always sat on a plastic chair and whenever I pass by him, he would always ask me “are you going home?” To which I would reply “two more rounds brother, two more rounds.” I don’t know, but it must be lonely guarding a concrete road.

I would sometime see high school girls with their boyfriends making out at the darkest and grassy part of the circumferential road where I walk; the joys and adventure of youth. I just hope they don’t get pregnant; lots of gays making it out with guys too.

There was a man on a bike with a sack. I can hear the kittens meowing and I know what the guy is up to. He is throwing the kittens away.

The mosquitoes attracted by the heat of my body follows me wherever I go. I can’t drive them away, so, I just let them be.

I’m imagining the old lady that I once met who I think is already dead. I’m imagining what I will do in case I met her. Goosebumps. But sometimes we have to overcome this natural fear of ghosts and roaming spirits though sometimes I felt like running like mad. The lonely guard must have a lot of ghost stories to tell.

Meeting a large black dog on a dark road is very, very unnerving. I almost peed in my pants.
The trees are different at night. They seem to come alive. They start to have flesh and clothes and arms and legs… during the day you can see the branches but at night you can’t. So, the effect is the leaves and the branches seemed to merge into solid limbs and torso; they became human like, menacing…the illusions of moon shadow.

Looking up you see the stars. People seldom look at the stars today. Look at the people walking at night and they don’t care if there’s the heaven or there’s a star…nothing; just goes on with their lives. One of the reasons why people are not close to God anymore is because humanity conquered night. When what we all see is the power of humanity, technology, science, buildings…I don’t know, but something is taken away from God. The rural people are closer to God because they see the power of God daily. From their environment to their daily struggle for existence, they feel the power of God. In the city all one can see is the power of man. From the environment, to climate control, to communication, to instant noodles, people are not afraid of the night anymore. But when an earthquake occurs, or when a supertyphoon blows, or when floods arrive, people in the city remember God because they suddenly realized that there are things beyond their powers, their control, their technology and science, but when things get back to normal, its back to techno-worship, ego worship, and botox worship.


It is peaceful walking at night. Try it.

Midinght song

I can’t write without music, and the only time I’m in the mood for writing is between twelve midnight to breakfast. There’s something about midnight music, something so touching, so personal.
I heard Roberta Flack singing “First time ever I saw your face” and I can’t describe how I felt hearing her husky, melancholic voice. So…reminds me of something…can’t describe it, can’t describe how I felt.
I’m moved.

My 5110

People tell me
That my cellphone is already old
And they try to impress me
With the 3G they own

Look George
There’s music
There are pictures
And Girls look at us
When we hold our cel high

Yes, you’re all right
I told them
Girls look at your celphones
But not at you
They see the thing
But they don’t see the person

I will tell you what kind of people
Will look at your celphone
But not at you
They’re the kind of people
Who has a digital heart
Whose happiness is when you give them prepaid cards


It’s not about the celphone
Nor is it about the impression
It’s all about communication

If people judge my worth
On my Nokia 5110 celphone
I can’t help but be sorry for them
For I know
They are not able to hold on things
For their taste and love
Changes as fast
As Nokia’s latest fads

I don’t care what they say
I love my celphone
That my eldest sister gave to my mother
That my mother gave to me
For there’s love in it
There’s history in it


I love my Nokia 5110
For I not only have phone
But I also have a deadly weapon

Handy for self-defense….

On Cloning

From Ethics and the Fears and Wonders of Human Cloning by Alfredo P. Co

Man would do well to realize that there is no law of nature that prohibits human cloning. For many undiscovered laws of nature manifest themselves in the discovery of science. What is scientifically possible is naturally probable, nay, even natural.

Suddenly, the fears and wonders of science will gradually fade and the new clone age will look to ethicists and philosophers for human inspiration. For while science can help create, preserve and prolong life the discovery of the purpose of such existence falls in the noble hands of philosophy—the science that defines the meaning of human existence.

Burning Leaves and Burning Hell

Burning dried leaves at midnight is relaxing. There’s something Zen-like about flames (whatever that means) even spiritual may I say. Lately I’ve taken to enjoying these little things that my mother used to do like pruning and watering the plants, pulling out grasses and weeds, looking at flowers, things that I considered mushy then, but now I find therapeutic. (SHE’S STILL ALIVE AND KICKING! Lest my writing sounds like I’m reminiscing of someone departed. Nah, I’m a son and a son is allowed to miss his mother who’s now with his sister somewhere in the northern Philippines driving her and her husband nuts.)

There is really joy in these things if one finds the time to do it, like burning dried leaves and staring at the flames at midnight while scratching your head...removing flakes…

I was burning dried leaves and looking at the beautiful dancing flame with its rainbow of colors, sometimes blue, sometimes orange, sometimes green, sometimes a mixture of all of them depending on the materials mixed with the leaves like copper, aluminum foil, and coconut shell etc. The flame was beautiful. I was thinking, how something so beautiful can be associated with hell, punishment, suffering, and damnation. I mean if it’s the burning sensation that we’re talking about with hell, negative degrees temperature can burn just as well and can hurt as well as a flame, but of course ice crystals are beautiful too.

I am reflecting here and not speculating. This is one of those strange things that I do. I stare at things and just let my mind meander wherever it likes to go. Of course I have to be careful when

I do this lest I’d be mistaken for a nut. Well…

Granted that hell is fire and that it was meant be the place for the condemned to suffer their fate in eternity isn’t it a bit strange even incongruent that the punishment for the immortal soul or spirit is predicated upon the sense and perception of the flesh? --to a physiological and psychological phenomenon.

Of course it cannot be proven that the soul or spirit is the entity that gives us sense and perception because it is an established medical fact that there are medical conditions where in an individual cannot feel pain (Dr. Noel Cruz knows about these things). Or it can be argued that the spirit or the soul is the entity that gives us sense and perception it’s just that it sometimes malfunction. Which of the two is more acceptable then? A non-feeling spirit or soul, or a feeling but sometimes malfunctioning spirit or soul.

Hell must not only be about pain or suffering. There must be something more to it, something more fearsome than torture, something more threatening than just heat and burning, and worms, and sulfur etc. These things are not to be feared for they are merely sensations, a stimuli and stimulus and response and blah, blah, blah (see Dr. Noel Cruz for the medical clarifications), which without the organic shell meant nothing. Now if ever an inconsumable body will be provided for the condemned then hell will be nothing more than a continuation of the absurd life here on earth. Then Camus would be proved right—one must imagine Sisyphus happy. For what would be existence in hell then but a Sisyphusian existence, fated to roll the stone up and watched while it rolls back down. In short, the absurdity of suffering in hell, if we take Camus’ reasoning, will sooner or later be accepted by the sufferer and sooner or later will make the best of it like Sisyphus reaching the top of the mountain looking at the futility of his effort, smiles and contemplate the absurdity of his situation smiles again and watched the stone roll back and then roll it up again…infinity is a short time to get used to torture no matter how creative the torturer is. Pain the opposite of pleasures the human referent for hell and heaven and how shallow are they…how shallow.

There must be something more to hell.

The problem here is language. It is the limitation of language to express what is inexpressible. So, interpretation must go beyond what is expressed to what cannot be expressed by language. Hell is Gehenna and Gehenna was a place in Jerusalem (I could be wrong about the place) where they burn the garbage. I think it’s not the burning that is important about hell but rather the separation, the uselessness, the distance, the disposing, the etcetera.

The same goes with heaven here. It cannot be all about the bliss or the singing and laughing…there must be something more to it--more than the Romano-Hellenistic- Epecureanistic-Utilitarianistic-Hedonisitc-Anglo Linguistic and blah, blah, blah definition of pleasures and delights, quantitatively or qualitatively if we take Mill’s classification of hedonism and pleasure.

As I’ve mentioned before, the real problem is language. It’s a case of a term having no referent and a referent having no term—accuracy and all that Wittgensteinian blah, blah, blah about language. One cannot accurately express divine concepts in human language. Isa 55:8 "My thoughts," says the LORD, "are not like yours, and my ways are different from yours.

Barth (an influential neo-orthodox theologian and a Christian existentialist) is right when he said that Christian faith is faith in Christ and not on the “exactitude” of the biblical account of Christ. Christ is the norm for faith; the Bible is merely the record of the Christ. One implication is that the fundamentalist dogmatism (beep beep to the Fundamental Baptists) on the interpretation of every adjective and every adverb of the Bible does more harm than good for faith because it reduces the understanding of Christ to semantics and hermeneutics—Christ can be known by what Barth calls “special revelation” because only God can say what means and methods are appropriate for his revelation and salvation and to make a book, a text, words, even the Bible, as man’s ultimate authority is to put another sovereign in the place of the living God. (I think Barth is afraid to use the words blasphemous and idolatrous.) Christ is sovereign over holy books that proclaim him. This is not to deny the sanctity and the role of the bible in the life of the Christian it is just to show the nature of the Bible and its place in the revelation of God and the Christ—a record of men testifying about God, not the record of God Himself. (I don’t want to use the simplification used by Barth’s critic because it’s too simplistic and under emphasizes Barth’s analysis. I am sad that I have no access to these people’s (Barth and Bultmann) “real” works but I get by through essays that I read about them and their theology. Books are expensive here in the Philippines.)

Man is limited to man and only God is the measure of God.

The Bible is sacred but it is not Christ himself. Christianity is Christ centered. Faith in Christ is faith in God and only a faith that comes from God is a faith worthy of God for only God is the measure of God and God has reached out to man through God through Christ.

Wowowwwee! Migraine these insights are, but very, very enlightening. All I’m trying to say is that there are parts in the Bible that cannot be simply, by reason or beyond reason or by linguistic limitation, interpreted literally but look where the staring at the flames and meandering went...If God judge peoples on what and how they think and not on what Christ had done for them, surely I’d secured for myself a ticket to hell. But I have something better, the blood of Christ and the seal of the Holy Spirit a safe passage, from God himself, to heaven.

 God’s grace is sufficient.

Yes there is hell and there is heaven but it must be beyond human description a place better and happier and in the case of hell a place worse than a place for physical suffering. There must be something more….

And if you’re wondering what’s the connection between burning dried leaves, hell, heaven and the Christology of Barth. Don’t. I’m just looking at the flames and letting my mind fly while scratching my head, removing my dandruff…ouch…blood…I need to change my shampoo he, he, he.