Reading the blogs on my blogrolling links, I came across Mell Ditangco's post:

Do Filipinos’ have a Victim’s Mentality?

I must confess that I am frustrated. Why? You ask. I really thought that micro-lending is the answer to the poverty that is gripping more than 60% of our countrymen in the Philippines. Based on my research results, the government’s initial micro-lending program was a failure. According to an independent study by the Philippine Institute of Certified Public Accountants, recipients of the micro-loans thought that the funds received from the government were grants. The government’s micro-lending program was designed to be self-sustaining, but since too many beneficiaries defaulted it effectively shut down the program. This failure seems to imply that even if poor Filipinos are given an opportunity to improve his/her life he/she will manage to screw it up.

The Philippine government is always seen as a bastion of corruption. However in this case the common Juan Dela Cruz squandered a golden opportunity to improve his lot in life. Had those beneficiaries paid back what they were loaned, they would have had the opportunity to borrow larger sums in the future to further grow his/her business.

Filipinos need to change his/her mindset before he/she can improve his/her condition. I am afraid that a good number of Filipinos, whether from the lower and middle class, suffer from a victim’s mentality. Rather than look for ways to improve his condition, he would rather blame the government, the multinational corporations, the Americans, corrupt elite, etc.. Let me make myself clear, I am not saying that there are no injustices occurring in the Philippines, but let us not play the blame game and quit trying to improve our lives. Let self-reliance be our battle cry to combat the injustices that we see. Let us not sit idly by and let opportunities pass us by.

We have no right to hope for our beloved Philippines if we do not change our ways.

To which I responded:

I agree with this statement, absolutely. But material conditions structure people's lives. It is not as easy as saying "change our mindset." Being born of a poor family means being disadvantaged from the womb. The baby will come out malnourished, will stay malnourished from birth, and will tend to be under-educated if not uneducated altogether. Under these conditions, how can one "beat the odds" when one doesn't have a fighting chance from the beginning? "Mindsets" are the result of the material environment. So, the culture of "kawawa" didn't come out of nowhere. And if human basic needs aren't ameliorated, how does one expect a change in mindsets?

Now if only solving poverty were as easy as micro-lending. With financial institutions running the whole world, there shouldn't be any poverty left.

Commodification of Culture: From Black Oppression to Black Coolness

How could Identities pose a viable revolutionary alternative when ‘identities,’ racial, religious or cultural, can and are co-opted?

Nowhere is the exploitation of culture and differences more evident and indeed tragic, as in the United States. Hip hop as a culture of marginalized African Americans has in the past two decades been gradually integrated into the mainstream. As an art form of potential radical roots, it has been sacrificed on the altar of the American music industry.

Emerging out of the ills of urban America, hip hop was descriptive of the social conditions wherein economically marginalized Americans found themselves. Undoubtedly, the legacy of slavery casts a long shadow over black people today. Latinos who emigrated from South America, now the largest non-Caucasian minority, are recent additions living in similar conditions as African Americans.

Hip hop used to be in the underground. It used to speak of the language of oppression, a running social commentary on the deprivations people of color suffer in urban areas in arguably the richest country the world. But Hip hop has lost its edge. Its potential for an articulation of social ills and racial, economic and political discrimination has since died with Martin Luther King.

It is not clear, to me at least, how the transition occurred. It could have been due to the stagnation of the music industry since the demise of ‘alternative music’ (best represented by the Seattle-based grunge bands such as Nirvana and Pearl Jam) in the early to mid 90s. Big Business was in search of something novel, something edgy, something radical and divorce from the stale and formulaic pop and rock music. It seems far fetched but the idea of ‘flexible accumulation’ based on product innovation seems to apply.

Hip hop music is now the new pop. The Philippines being a barometer of what is popular in American culture, one need only turn on the radio and hear local stations churning black music constantly these days. Today’s contemporary artists, far from pioneers such as Dead Prez and Public Enemy, now speak the ‘good life’ marked by superficial indicators of success such as cars, easy women and ‘bling-bling’ (jewelry). “Gangsterism” is glorified, highlighting the depiction of the violent black male. The tragedy is that this image is a self-fulfilling prophecy as the ‘gangsta’ life is increasingly portrayed as not only the epitome of cool but a viable vehicle of deliverance from social and economic marginality.

The sublime message of today’s hip hop artist seems to be “I am from the ghetto. I hustled, I sold drugs, I was a gangsta. This is my life and that is why I rap about it. I am black, I’m tough and I made it in the entertainment industry (because I wasn’t physically gifted to make it in the sports ‘industry’). I now sell millions of records world-wide. I am successful. I now have my own clothing line, produce and act in movies. If I can make it, you can make it.”

The promise of escape lures black Americans today. Recent Latin-American artists mirror the co-optation. Hip hop is a clear example of identities stolen for profit.

Balitang Nakakayamot!

Matapos na paslangin ng ating kagila-gilalas at kagalang-galang na kapulisan ang 22 presong pinaghihinalaang mga miyembro ng walang-kamatayan at walang 'sing tinik na Abu Sayyaf, tila ambon na unti-unting lumalakas ang mga pahiwatig ng hinanakit ng ating mga kapwa-Pilipinong Muslim.

Ang kadalasa'y nanahimik at abala lamang sa pag-smuggle at pagbenta ng ating mga paboritong Debedeh, ngayon ay malapit na yatang maghimagsik sa sama ng loob dulot ng engkwentrong ito.

Ang tangkang pagtakas ng mga preso noong Lunes ay umabot sa pag-hostage ng kulungan, ang Camp Bagong Diwa. Ang pag-iiringan sa pagitan ng dalawang grupo ay umabot din ng 24 oras, at tuluyang tinuldukan ng ating matitikas na pulis noong Martes.

Kung 'di ba naman ginagamit ang PhD-utak ni Presidente GMA, kanya pang pinuri ang madugong bakbakan na walang-awang kumitil sa 22 buhay ng kapwa n'ya Pinoy. Siguro kase, nagpapabango na naman sa mga Kanong puros "terrorismo" ang nasa utak. Ay, ang mga gunggong.

Ayon sa balita nitong gabi, malakas ang ugong na maaaring bumuwelta ang Abu Sayyaf. Bantay-sarado naman ang mga daungan, paliparan at malalawak na pampublikong lugar bilang paghahanda sa maaaring karahasang maganap.

Sa akin namang palagay, bukod sa paghihiganti laban sa pulisya, nasaring din ang "pride" ng mga Abus, kung kaya't tuloy ang pataasan ng ihi. Ay, ang mga gunggong!

Kung 'di mag-iingat ang ating mala-dwendeng Pangulo, maaaring pagmulan ito ng "civil unrest" mula sa ating mga kapatid na Muslim. Kung ganito man ang mangyayari...paano na ang supply ng ating mga Debedeh?!?!?

Liwanag

Ang lahat ay nagaganap
Sa panaganip,
Tulad natin.

Ngunit kailangang
Magising,
Imulat ang mata't
Tanawin
Ang mga pangarap
Na naglalaro
Sa kamalayang himbing.

Kung saan man
Umabot ang pananaw
Bagtasin.
'Wag matakot magtangkang
Ang lahat
Hamakin.
Dahil ikaw
Ay ikaw,
At ikaw
Ay magaling.

On Democracy

Ruling People

Democracy presupposes everyone is equal in the most fundamental of ways. That we all have equal capacity to discern what is right, what is wrong, what is best for everyone else. As one scholar says, “to be a democrat means having faith in people.” While ‘rule of the people’ and the ideals of democracy, the empowerment of the individual are certainly worthy and noble values to strive for, is it really practicable? Realizable? For in truth, not everyone is created equal. Are we?

‘Created’ of course might be a controversial word in that…what conditions and factors ‘create’ people? The environment? Genetics? Social structures? History? In truth, aren’t human societies fraught only with inequalities? Of the powerful and the powerless? Of the systematic disenfranchisement of certain groups of people? Like women, children and non-Caucasians?

The model of Democratic Autonomy puts the principle of autonomy/liberty as the rationale for effective rule of the people and active participation in government. It is highly idealized in that every single ‘citizen’ is capable and literate in political involvement. Already, this idea is problematic. How can one partake of government when one’s energies are completely consumed by providing for one’s basic needs? When one is eking out a living, literally subsisting from one meal to the next, how can one even think of the society’s concerns? Herein lies the opportunity for the ideals of democracy to be corrupted. Certainly, in states wherein citizens are far from achieving their full potential as individuals, then the system of equal opportunities and rights may well be abused, as is the case in the Philippines where votes are bought and sold at a pittance.

Liberal Democratic theory in general has little to say about socio-economic or other forms of structural inequalities either within states or globally because it presumes that they are unimportant for the exercise of citizenship. But the experiences of the Third World suggest that equal citizenship cannot take root alongside extreme income inequalities.

Is true Democracy ever possible? Or is it more of a vision? A lodestar? Not quite of this earth?

Theories arise out of historical conjunctures. They do not drop out of the sky like manna from heaven. Theories are not objects divorce from subjects. Humans make theories. Humans are products of their collective experiences and are necessarily shaped by their interests and biases. Theories are versions of truths. Theories are peddled to interpret truths.

What is the Moral of the (Hi)Story?

My History teachers have failed me. In my learning experience, history has generally been portrayed as nothing more than facts, dates and figures, as though the events of the past were an artifact displayed in a museum somewhere, to be ogled and viewed like an ancient relic divorced from the now.

The period of colonialism is similarly dismissed as though it were a terrible nightmare from the past best forgotten, and that the best way to do so would be to move on as if nothing happened. There was never an acknowledgment of the impact three and a half centuries made on the Filipino psyche, assuming of course that there is even one. If nothing, the story of the colonial experience is much like a Filipino soap opera, one of a perpetually tearful, oppressed and long-suffering protagonist being victimized by the much stronger villain for no other reason than s/he could do so. The script ran from one tearjerker moment to the next. Boohoo. So what??? I don’t believe this question was ever answered by my history teachers.

“History is both contextual and constitutive.” History is not a relic displayed for us to view behind the glass casing. History is not a rupture between the past and the present. Much the same as the colonial experience did not end just because the US declared it to be true in 1945, or in 1898 even. These dates were markers, dividers, separating the Before and After as if there was no continuity in between.

Periods in time both encapsulate and perpetuate. Periods in time are characterized not just by events and actors, but by the events’ impacts and the actors’ intentions. History reflects the human condition, humanity’s story. It is reflective of who we are, and boy, the mirror reveals spectacular moments of atrocity. I wish my history teachers taught me that.

Of Gods and Monsters

In a world that is increasingly ephemeral, where symbols and ideas now more than ever proliferate the globe, penetrating artificial boundaries, Realities are being created and destroyed, meanings transformed. In today’s world, these Realities are shaped willfully and consciously to advance the interests of those who have the instruments to do so.

Democracy is one such commodity being refashioned in the image of hegemony. It is marketed and advertised as a global good. The values of so-called ‘Freedom’ and ‘Rule of the People’ are the popular tag lines attached to this abstraction. ‘Otherness,’ whether indirect or in direct opposition to Democracy is re-cast as its antithesis, the Evil versus the Good.

Depicting non-democratic societies and cultures as the ‘Other’ necessitates delineation from democratic societies. Making concrete the boundaries between, emphasizing the most obvious of differences and overlooking commonalities in social structures underlying.

Images and identities are hewn in the superficial and what is easily identifiable. In a supposed global village, ethnicities, religion and cultural identity are in the forefront of explaining away conflict. Projection of Hegemonic Democracy as a must in every society calls for the annihilation of ‘Otherness.’ Values differing from those imbued in Democracy are ascribed as incompatible with this global good and therefore seen as obstacles to a now universal goal of democratization.

Humankind is being made into the image of Good, all wise and all knowing.

Memories of EDSA

1

I've both cold and warm feelings remembering the first EDSA revolt in '86. Warm because I was a six-year old kid in kindergarten who was only too glad school was out, and my parents stayed home on a couple of weekdays for a change. Cold because there was nothing on TV, there were terrifying aircraft zooming overhead every so often and old folks were talking about "Marcos" and "Cory" and people getting killed in either hushed tones or lively banter. The radio was on until that was cut short too. And there was nothing to do but play with my brother and a gaggle of other school kids who were on vacation as well.

There was a rumor that spread among us that "Cory" actually lived only a few blocks away. It became a little adventure as we all trooped to "her house" and tried to catch a glimpse of her yellow outfit, her glasses and short curly hair. I wanted to see Cory so badly and maybe to even speak with her and ask her what the fuss was all about.

2

I'd always thought I'd wanted to be a lawyer. Why? Because everyone seems to think it’s a blast to be one. It pays relatively well, and carrying the title "Atty." before your name is carrying a talisman to ward off evil, misfortune and over-all unhappiness.

But the Moro-moro of the Erap impeachment trials single-handedly destroyed any left-over respect for the professional guardians of the sanctity of law. There is no such thing as “sacred” in this country in the first place, because respect for written rules is virtually non-existent, and what is customary is arbitrarily changed depending on the whims of the powers-that-be.

And so the plot unfolded with its heroes and villains and the politics of play. The masses were entertained, the middle-class exasperated and the elite determined to survive any changes in the power configuration. And I? I was equally entertained, exasperated and determined. Determined to exercise my political right to march the length of that historic avenue and howl at the fugly bronze statue at the shrine.

I marched aplenty during those days. I’d never walked so many kilometers in my life. To oust a perceived villainy, to kill that fat bastard of a penguin, I walked with friends and sat waiting amongst strangers. It felt absolutely marvelous, doing my civic duty. And that historic Friday, the 21st of January, it felt good to be drenched in confetti.

Looking back, I miss that old self where black never bled into white.

Transitions to Adulthood and Quarter-life Crisis

Whoever said the adolescent years are a turbulent and precarious period of a human being's life must not have lived long enough to reach his/her twenties. They don't call it quarter-life crisis for nothing. Lately the pressures of being in my twenties, particularly when I'm 3 months away from the big "quarter" of a century, is proving to be harrowing, depressing, and exhausting.

A couple of weeks ago, a friend writing her masters theses on "transititions to adulthood" has made me explore previously unknown avenues in my brain and has unlocked even more anxiety in my already paranoid and quasi-insomniac psyche.

The interview lasted an hour and a half. After which I felt as though I'd run a 10k marathon. My throat hurt, but my mind hurt more. I was able to reach deep-seated thoughts and feelings about my "transition to adulthood" but for some reason, this question I found, was the most difficult.

"What do you think makes someone an adult? Is it career? If you have a job, does it make you an adult? If you've finished college? How much money you make? If you're married? When you have children?"

Wow. So, what makes one an adult? I vaguely remember saying; "I guess it's in a person's perspective, or self-evaluation. If you think you're an adult, if you've decided you're an adult and no longer a child. Then you are one. It's really very subjective."

What a load of crap. I didn't know what I was talking about, and even now, I wonder if I really believe what I said. I've a relatively stable job. I make a decent living. I pay my taxes and SSS dues. I've never committed a crime against humanity or
beasts. I drink in moderation and have recently stopped smoking. I've never voted, but I do so in principle. I maintain reasonably healthy social relationships. I drive on the right side of the road and practice my rights as an individual consumer
assiduously. But do all these make me an adult?

What makes the twenties so difficult, especially for women, is this sense that you're running out of time. You've only roughly a decade to devote solely to yourself, on your self-development, career, life plans. Because, if you want to procreate then it
means you've got to have children by 30. If you push the limit you run the risk of having a difficult pregnancy or producing offspring with less than optimum capabilities as can be generated by you and your spouse's combined alleles.

But before having children you've gotta find the right mate. And God knows when you're about to hit the big 2-5 then you get this feeling the time for "fun" and "games" is fast diminishing in the horizon. Less time and space for fooling around and toying with other people's feelings. Less time and space for casual dates and flings. It's time for some serious natural selection; do I want my children to bear his genes? Will he be capable of providing food, shelter and a home?

But before finding a mate, any self-respecting woman of my generation, socially conditioned to make full use not only of the uterus, but of other equally working body parts, would like to make "something" of herself. What this something is, is usually nebulous. But you know its something bigger, greater, more relevant than yourself. And certainly as relevant as creating another life and providing for it decently.

So you see, a woman has got to make all the right decisions that will affect her entire life in her twenties. Finish studies, work, produce, consume, mate and breed, all while that clock is ticking. Not doing any of the above in the right sequence, and at the right time makes one a social anomaly. Abnormal and strange yes, but probably more stress-free.

Prayer for the Dying

My God. Where has my youth gone? In the passage of the years, what have I to show for? I miss the heady revolutions I plotted in my head back when life was free of dead ends and only full of possibilities. Why have my feet taken me to this place of nothing? Of no color or light or energy? Now there are only walls to be breached, and threats to keep at bay. Paranoia is mine own and I am the enemy. My God. Where has the fervor gone? That boundless thirst for knowledge and quests for truth and resolution and victory. Now there is only the shell of my old self existing. I sit here, weeping for my death, the death of my youth I long to resurrect. My God, lift me from this place of breath drawn in or out and give me life.

Hangganan ng mga Hagkan (Tula para sa Yosi)

Upang ika' y tuluyan nang malimot, dapat na siilin ang panaghoy ng nakaraan. Mga alaala ng sandaling pagniniig, ng iyong yakap at ng aking pangangailangan. Silab ng marubdob mong hagkan ay pilit na'ng dapat ibaon. Mainam na ako'y umalpas sa mapanirang uri ng 'yong paghilom.

At mapanghilom nga, at tila mainam ang 'yong dulot na lunas. Sa lahat ng sakit na dati'y mariing dinanas. Sa mga pagkakataong walang kaibigang makausap at makapiling , tahimik mong kinanlong ako at ang bigat ng aking damdamin.

Ngunit panahon na upang ako'y mamaalam. Sa bilangguan ng iyong lingap ay dapat lang na lisanin. Tapos na ang mga araw na sa'yo lang nananahan ang sagot sa lahat ng bawat sakit at inakalang kakulangan.

Ito na ang hangganan ng ating munting sayaw. Ikaw na nagsilbing tukod sa pilay ko'ng mga binti. Sa susunod na tayo'y magkita muli, sana nga'y maluwag ang aking pagtanggi.

It's aliiiiiiive!

How'd you guys like (or dislike) my new layout? :)

Wow. My blog is 2 years old today. HAPPY BIRTHDAY BLOG!

My first-ever blog entry (back when i, along with many other newbies, thought it was cool not to use capitals):

Wednesday, February 19, 2003

well, this is my first blog...so, i suppose that means i should make it somewhat...meaningful? interesting? something to..keep the reader reading? kind of difficult to post anything that would interest...some random person sitting in front of her computer, from some random part of the world. well, what to share? what to...reveal of myself to a host of strangers? what to talk about....

difficult to think when your back is hurting. mine is. apparently, i have some form of mild scoliosis. which might be causing the sharp pain in my upper back. i've been to the doctor, and he said its just muscle strain and i shouldnt worry about my spine...but, it appears my spine is still causing me pain, even after 2 weeks (or more i believe).

aside from something to whine about, what else is there to say? well, im breaking my heart all over again. but, ill talk about that in the morning.

This blog also initially started as my rant machine:

Friday, August 15, 2003

dead inside you say. heartless you say. incapable of feeling you say. low emotional quotient you say. a classic emotionally retarded male.

a divorce occured in your psyche, in which the part of you that feels is switched off. whether voluntarily or not is debatable. the causes of such divorce might take some time to correctly identify and disentangle. and i am not in the position or frame of mind to do so for you. i have no rights. i have no obligations.

do you suffer the ill-effects of an unhappy childhood? have you learned to turn off that part of you that gets hurt each time you are rejected? is that it? or is it just because you're afraid? of what? of being hurt? we all get hurt. we all have our crosses to bear. we all bleed red.

don't you crave the feeling of closeness sometimes? don't you miss the feeling of belonging to something other than that world inhabited by one? is it worth it? are you happy living in your head? won't you venture out once in a while. being happy means taking risks. it means going out on a limb. it means reaching out and being reached in return. it means turning on those switches you've turned off.

why should you feel the highest of highs if you can't feel the lowest of lows? do you want a flatline? in the middle, seeing nothing. feeling nothing. open your mouth. say something.

...and a diary of my endless introspection:

Monday, March 17, 2003

sitting at starbucks as usual. sitting here, alone with my thoughts which insist on wandering off instead of concentrating on what's in front of me, i find much dissatisfaction. with myself, as always. why can't i be happy? why do i always find something lacking, not quite right in my life? there are many things to be thankful for. but deep within, my thoughts ping-ponging in my head, there is much to be desired, much to be achieved, much left undone and i sit here, wishing i were more.

where shall i find self-satisfaction? if i keep seeking it within and yet always afraid to put thoughts into action, where shall i seek satisfaction? if i were to think less, let my other body parts work more, will i be more content? will i stop expecting so much from myself? will i stop being too self-critical? will i stop seeing myself as a failure so young? the luxury of a simpler mind. i feel almost trapped.

the luxury of wanting simpler things. the luxury of being 'shallow.' i do not like the road in which i travel. the path where i'm headed. someone, something, show me the way.

...It's also been a mute witness to severe pms-ing:

Monday, June 16, 2003

this blog is a cry for help. its the last resort before i drive myself insane. from everything, from feelings, from my personal dramas and turmoil. this blog is a release.

im afraid im an addict for emotional pain. why do i keep seeking it? why do i keep seeking out no-future relationships? is it because subconsciously i know it wont work out anyway, so in the end, im still safe? regardless of me beating myself up, regardless of the wasted time, regardless of the drama...is it worth it?

they say loving someone is the ultimate expression of loving yourself. its loving yourself through someone else's eyes. have i truly ever loved? have i loved unselfishly? because i feel im a selfish person. if i havent truly loved someone else...then i must've never truly loved me. why am i so unforgiving? do i feel i dont deserve to be happy? im sick of being alone. and im sick of running around afraid to have my heart broken. im sick of me breaking my heart first before someobody else does.

....to religious crises:

Tuesday, August 19, 2003

god has a bone to pick with me. this year has been a lesson in humbling. and without question, i have been humbled. i think s/he's teaching me valuable lessons in giving and in patience. in forgiving also. question is, have i learned anything? wish the learning process weren't so painful.

my damned pride won't let me realize how puny i am as a human. how inconsequential, how irrelevant. my world of course, always revolves around me. but i like it that way. reaching out to other people only seems to cause pain. and an added distraction i can't really afford. but trying to unravel other people is addicting isn't it? and once the mystery is solved? it all seems to go downhill from there.

sometimes i wonder if my brain is even capable of attaining even the slightest bit of immateriality. but i am material, made of flesh and bones. the spiritual seems farfetched, and not quite of this world.

....and heartbreak:

Wednesday, December 10, 2003

maligayang pasko

"mababaon din sa limot," o di kaya "maghihilom rin sa katagalan." sa pandinig parang kay hirap gawin. parang kay hirap limutin ang sakit na idinulot ng kay tagal. ngunit ang hindi alam ng kung sino man ang nagbibigay ng ganitong payo, at nang kung sino man ang makarinig, napakadali. napakadaling ipa-isantabi ang mga hinanakit upang ipagpaliban ang kagalingan.

halos dalawang taon ang lumipas na hindi ko halos s'ya nakita o nakausap. simple lang, umalis ako sa bahay ng walang paalam. ang iniisip ko ng mga panahong iyon? ayaw ko nang umabot sa pagkakataong masagot ko s'ya nang pabalang. tama na ang isang beses na akala ko'y pagbubuhatan n'ya ako ng kamay. umalis na ako sa bahay na 'di na magpang-abot ang aming galit.

halos dalawang taon. noong una'y hindi n'ya alam kung saan man kami ng aking kapatid. sa katagalan malamang ay tinanong n'ya rin kay mama. ngunit di s'ya tumawag. di n'ya ako inusisa kung bakit. marahil, nainintindihan n'ya ang mga dahilan. marahil, ayaw n'ya nang marinig.

malinaw sa aking alaala ang huling pagkakataong s'ya'y aking nakita. nakaupo ako sa harap ng computer. madaliang tinatapos ang report ko para sa klase kinabukasan. di ko namalayang pumasok s'ya sa pinto ng sala. bago pa noon, marahil ilang buwan na rin ang nagdaan na di kami nagkita. nagulat ako. napatda. ganoon din s'ya. tila umagos ang panahon ngunit sa katunaya'y ilang segundo lamang ang lumaro sa pagitan namin. ilang segundo ng katahimikan. napansin kong para s'yang tumanda ng ilang taon. at bakas sa kanyang mukha ang bawat isa sa mga ito. malumanay ang kanyang mata, na para bang may takot. bakit s'ya natakot sa akin? gayong ako ang may pakiramdam ng takot at hiya sa kanya.

napatigilan s'ya sa may pinto. para bang ayaw nang tumuloy nang makitang ako ay nasa sala. nakawala ako sa aking pagkagulat at naibulalas ang mahinang "hi pa." di ko nakayanang ngumiti man lang. tila nanigas ang bawat laman ng aking mukha. tahimik s'yang lumapit sa akin at tiningnan ang monitor. "tinatapos ko lang report ko para bukas." lumingon ako. nakatingin sya sa aking ginagawa. may kung anong dahilan at inihain ko ang aking mukha sa kanya, at may kung anong dahilan na naintindihan n'ya na nais kong humalik. tumungo ang aking tatay at dumampi ang labi ko sa kanyang pisngi. na hindi ko ginawa ng halos dalawang taon. nanikip ang aking didbib ngunit di ako naluha. madaliang tumalikod ako at nagkunwa'y may tiningnan sa monitor. lumayo s'ya at binuksan ang ref, kumuha ng tubig. "susunduin ko lang ang mama mo." ilang sandali pa ay dumating ang aking nanay, at saka sila na'y umalis. iyon na ang huling sandaling nakapiling ko ang aking tatay.

tatlong linggo ang lumipas mula ng gabing 'yon nang dahilan sa init ng ulo, at marahas na pagmamaneho ay sumalpok ang kanyang sasakyan sa may edsa-balintawak. halos dalawang taon. napakadaling makalimot ngunit paano kaya maghihilom?

sa ika-24 ay birthday n'ya sana. unang paskong wala s'ya. ilang buwan pa....mga una na wala na ang aking tatay. sa ngayon, maligayang kaarawan at maligayang pasko.

So it has been two years of laughter, sorrow, triumphs and tragedies. What a journey. Looking forward to years more of the same, all documented on the fluid ether of this limitless cyberuniverse.

I still write pretty much about the same old themes as before, but hopefully the quality of writing has improved. Hehe. :) Here's to two years more. Cheers!!!!

Omnipotent, Omniscient, Omnivoyeur Fucker

Life sure is funny. Is it me or does the cosmos actually intervene in my life when I'm just full of complete and total crap?

See, I've been "depressed" for the last few days. I know people use this word lightly, and at the slightest hint of sadness use the term to describe their present condition to portray an overly dramatic state (cue tissue box and stress tabs). Well, that is how I'm using the word in this case. So anyway, back to my "depression."

I've been dealt with all sorts of blows lately. Financial, career-wise and family-related stuff. The year of the wooden cock has not been serving me well so far, and so I started the new year with this mind-set that things will get worse. And they have. Really. What could be worse than the absolute chaos on the outside (traffic, inflation, shitty people in the shitty city in the shitty country) complementing the chaos on the inside?

And so when you think that you're "depressed" and think you're entitled to wallow in your self-pity, here come the cosmos to slap you in the face.

See, I've a student who attempted to kill herself. Last Thursday she finally showed up in class after a month-long absence. "Hey, what happened to you? I thought you'd dropped my class." She handed me two folded sheets of paper. "Sorry Ma'am I was hospitalized." Valid excuse no? I usually take my students' word and so I made no attempt to read what I correctly assumed were the requisite medical certificate and excuse letter or whatnot. "So were you sick?" I handed her back the papers. "No Ma'am I overdosed on drugs." Oh. This should prove interesting, I thought. And so just before she could close her fingers on her letters I pulled them back. In big block letters:
NON-ACCIDENTAL OVERDOSE OF MEDICOL.

"I'm seeing a psychiatrist." Oh. Good for you. I would have quizzed her more, but the rest of the eager-beavers were eavesdropping. She fits the profile really. Goth-girl, keeps to herself, dark clothes and dark make-up. Anti-social and listens to grungy, depressing music. I know because when I asked her to sing a little something to audition for a choral competition last year she sang this Tori Amos-ey number. "Weird" would be the mainstream description. But I like weird. I like weirdos. Maybe because I fancy myself to be one. Although I'm really not.

Because I couldn't properly talk to her in class, I e-mailed her yesterday:

It's probably not my place to say this, but I'll say it anyway. We all have our burdens to carry. Some are better able to cope than others but we all need the occasional helping hand. You are young, and as you get older the load will get heavier as more pressures, disappointments and responsibilities come. It doesn't sound too promising but you learn to roll with the punches. And somewhere down the line, you'll have learned what it means to be alive. Just give it time. Ok?

And right after I hit the send button the cosmos bitch-slapping kicked in. I could have been giving advice to myself. And I sort of was, because I and my student share the same name.

History for smokers

Here is a great book review on a potentially orgasmic read that I am too broke to buy.

SMOKE: A global history of smoking
Sander L. Gilman and Zhou Xun, editors

Read the highlights:

In his excellent Cigarettes Are Sublime (1993), Richard Klein cites a motto that decorated a Parisian gentlemen smokers’ magazine in 1856, a gentleman and a smoker being at that time more or less the same thing: “fumer est prier”, smoking is prayer. The metaphor is as rich as it is ambiguous. It promotes the curious thought that clutching a cigarette makes the hand more and not less eloquent. Then there is that hint of divine inspiration (the word itself speaking of breath), of faith as narcotic. Each exhalation of the praying smoker rises up to tease the nostrils of the gods. The huddle of smokers outside the tall tower has the rattish look of a persecuted cult. Whatever can be said against smoking, you can’t argue that it isn’t meaningful: it “signifies signification”, as Derrida pungently put it.

More so than even more destructive pastimes, smoking is pre-eminently an adult vice. Imagine troops passing mince pies across no man’s land one nervous Christmas, or a brace of sated lovers nibbling on opposite corners of an After Eight mint. A defining characteristic of adulthood is the ability to consent to things happening to you. The efforts of concerned parties to protect the innocent from the clearly substantial dangers posed by passive smoking are as rational as they are laudable. But adults, innocent or not, are surely themselves entitled to be protected from infantilization, something present debates about smoking and public space often fail to take into account.

On Beauty: A History of a Western Idea

One among my very few favorite fiction authors has a new book out. Author of The Name of the Rose and Foucault's Pendulum among others, Umberto Eco is an Italian professor of semiotics.

Here is an excerpt of the Guardian article on the history of beauty.

On Beauty is an encyclopedia of images and ideas about beauty ranging from ancient Greece to the present day. It begins with 20 pages of reproductions of paintings and photographs, representing an enormous range of cultural icons, from Bronzini's Allegory of Venus to characteristic snapshots of David Beckham and George Clooney. More paintings decorate the next 400 pages of quotations from philosophers and writers - Plato, Boccaccio, San Bernardo. Kant, Heine, et al. The book is arranged according to various themes rather than chronologically, although, given the fact that it begins with the aesthetic ideals of ancient Greece and ends with pop art and the mass media, the chronology seems self-evident. On the other hand, as Eco points out in his introduction, "this is a history of Beauty and not a history of art (or of literature or music)". He goes on to ask the obvious question - "why is this history of Beauty documented solely through works of art?" - and he replies by claiming that "over the centuries it was artists, poets, and novelists who told us about the things they considered beautiful and they were the ones who left us examples. Peasants, masons, bakers or tailors also made things that they probably saw as beautiful, but only a very few of these artefacts remain."

Mga Puta

Naglalandi ang mga makikinang at bago at mahal at uso. Pilit na binibihag ang kung sino mang magbuklat, magsuri, pumansin. Nilalaro ang imahinasyon, "Ganito ka kung kasama mo ako."

Mga daliring di mapakali sa pagsalat. Kay kintab ng mga pahina, at kay gara ng mga bagay. Kaakit-akit sa ganito't ganoong porma, handang pabili sa kung sino mang mahumaling.

At marami. Maraming nahuhumaling sa mga bagay na makapanawag-pansin. Sa bawa't kanto'y naroon sila, puno ng alindog, pangako ang agad na ligaya. "Ganito ka kung tangan mo ako."

Kapalit ng salapi, agarang lunas sa kung anu-anong sakit. Sakit ng kalooban, mga hinanakit, pagkabalisa o simpleng pagkabato. Mga bagay ang sagot dito. "Ganito ka kung suot mo ako."

Magara. Pogi. Maganda. Sexy. Magaling. Samu't saring pangakong lantad ang paghain. Kailangan lang ay bilhin, at tumpak na mapupunan lahat ng 'yong mithiin. "Ganito ka kung bibilhin mo ako."

At sa ngayon nga ay nangungusap ang mga bagay upang sila'y mapasaatin. Sapagkat tayo'y 'di kumpleto kung wala ang mga ito.