therblog

Rizal X

2011-07-23T08:16:00.000-07:00

Ang palabas na ito ay tungkol kay Rizal. Pero hindi rin.

That's how the play started--a caveat flashed in bold letters onto a wrinkled, white tarpaulin that was quickly hauled up. Impressive start. There's something in that opening statement that sounded crisp and intelligent, and brave, more importantly. A show of defiance of some sorts. Or maybe I was just thinking too hard and got carried away.

Unlike most Rizal plays that have already been staged, Rizal X is not about a loyal retelling of his novels. It is neither about his biography nor a classical portrayal of a period I can only describe in images of sepia. It is rather an ambitious effort to bring Rizal to the present -- a move so delicate that it would become painfully corny if not executed with layers of artistic candor and vision.

Rizal X was a play, and it was also a musical; not the Les Miserables type but bordering towards Rent or Glee, or the Glee Project to be more relevant. There were green, Party Pilipinas laser lights, too, to match the rock and roll. There were occasional scenes of kundiman and an interesting hip hop number and a few fluid, contemporary dances. And oh, there was also a short film--yes, they rolled down the wrinkled, white tarpaulin. And there was so much more: dialogues, monologues, animations and the humorous and witty packets of a standard Dulaang UP production we have grown to enjoy. Of course, there was Rizal. His women. His letters. His dreams. His disappointments. His 150^th birthday. And a huge party.

And there was us. I saw myself in this play. My sister was also there; even my neighbors in the province I used to play with. I remember the pink, cotton candy I played with my tongue when I was a kid. It was smooth, tangy. It disappears, never gets through my esophagus. Was thinking about a lot of things until the actors gestured their final bow. It was active thinking; I reassured myself.

It was a play about Rizal, pero hindi rin.

I was thinking too hard and got carried away.

Bucket List

2011-01-08T08:48:00.000-08:00

How to see a dying a man

With eyes that open less frequently now

In his sleep you witness the throbbing chest

Rises and ebs, rises and ebs.

How to see a dying life

The one you claim your own

You only claim it your own

When you realize it's no one else's,gone.

How to see a dying soul

That dies even before the death of life

Life does not bring it back to life

What happens then if life's gone first?

To see the world in the eyes of death

Is to see death in the eyes of life

How to see a dying man

Through the eyes of a dying soul?

Into the Wild

2011-01-08T08:11:00.000-08:00

Loneliness, if only you could talk

What would you tell me?

You are not a person who could say

Hi, hello.

To talk back to me

Yourself you betray

But what if you could

What would you tell me?

Would you tell me to look

At the shadows and

Imagine their real faces?

Oh, shove me away

There is no gravity

Only the intensity to frolick

In your silence.

But if only you could talk

You could also then listen

And capture the spirits

Of the tides, of the sun's rays in arrows.

But I will have to wait

Until you talk back

And I will wait even longer

'til I grow tired of you--loneliness.

And though voice you do not have

You have the perfect memory

To remember that I

Once asked you to talk back to me.

Marley and Me and Me

2010-12-30T19:09:00.000-08:00

My younger brother is studying to be a veterinarian. My bestfriend is a veterinarian. I have a cousin who is also a veterinarian. And so I need to mention that I have more than 10 good friends who are all veterinarians. I once filed for a leave of absence from UP to consider studying Veterinary Medicine at the University of Southern Mindanao, a leading institute for those dreaming to be excellent veterinarians.

I never became a veterinarian, and I believe I could have forced myself to become one but my passion for the discipline could only be limited to pure academics. I do not like dogs, or cats, or rabbits and iguanas. I cringe at the sight of someone kissing a dog's mouth wet with rabid saliva. And the smell of a cat's poop, I believe, is equivalent to a thousand rafflesia. I do not understand why some people get pets when there is so much more to do in life.

Chico and Delamar of Monster Radio once had a passionate discussion over this movie called Marley and Me. I remember Chico relating to the listeners that he was all in tears watching the film. Delamar was also in full affirmation with her squeaky yet endearing and intelligent voice. Listening to them while carefully trying not to fall asleep in a packed bus in EDSA somehow got me into a serious dialogue with myself: first issue was the accuracy of the term dialogue when in fact talking to myself would have been a qualified monologue; the other one was that I should try watching that film and find out for myself if I can laugh at or share in their sentiments.

And so today I watched the film, and boy I cried big time.

It is a story of a young couple played by Owen Wilson and Jennifer Aniston. They got themselves Marley when they moved to their South Florida home. They eventually had children and having Marley as a difficult dog to handle only made housekeeping and child rearing extra difficult for the couple. They brought Marley with them when the head of the family had to move to Philadelphia for a new writing job. It was in Philadelphia where Marley died and got burried by the family.

But the story of Marley is not just a word in a sentence, or a sentence in a paragraph. Marley was a labrador that bore witness to the growth of a marriage and a family. He was the first child that brought joy when the couple didn't have one yet. He was the pain of the household when he would cause havoc in the family living room. He was the unnecessary inconvenience for the couple when he would run amuck in an al fresco restaurant. He was the constant odd creature that had come to be part of a family's normal daily affairs. It was not just a labrador dog, he was Marley. And when he died, he was a brother to the children, and a dead child to the couple. He was the reflection of a pursued joy when getting there was against a person's perceived satisfaction. And his passing did not terminate the valid exercise of evaluating one's true desires.

Just like John, Owen Wilson's character, I am in a state where I feel there is a serious call for introspection. He moved to Philadephia Inquirer to write reports when he was already a good and popular columnist in South Florida only to find himself convincing his boss to allow him to go back to writing columns. The part in which John's ordeal with his imagined destiny as a writer was imposed in the movie in the course of Marley's death; and the angle of John's predicament in the workplace all shrinked to a measly dot on a plane of cosmic realizations of the importance of relationships and valued memories of an orchestra of what seemed to be a chaotic parade of life's defining events.

So the next time my veterinarian friends talk about their experience of calming down pet owners who worry much beyond the expected reaction of human beings over sick animals, I will no longer laugh at their poor estate. I will have the open mind to imagine how their lives, and dreams, and dissappointments have been shaped by creatures who cannot talk and advise but can only bark, and meow and yet be more human than me.

I will sorely miss you, and I know you will miss me, too!

2010-10-06T04:30:00.001-07:00

I will be leaving a corpororate job in pursuit of a long-time dream of realizing a career in research in the academe. Writing this entry, I feel the deep and rather unconventional desire to somewhat put into execution the famous literary technique of Virgina Woolf - writing in streams of consciousness. Inasmuch as I would like to structure this in a manner that would convey sadness and the feeling of happiness that goes with sadness, I felt that it is just too convoluted; exactly what a stream of consciousness write-up should appear to be like, but I must confess I am no good a writer to pull off an ambitious technique just yet. So here I go again resolving into enumeration, the proven effective manner of saying goodbye and salutation to good friends I will not be seeing in the next days, weeks, months or years.

I will start off with Adet because she's the one who dragged me into applying for GXS in the first place. I cannot reduce into a mere paragraph the good memories we have engineered in the process of exchanging sentiments, disappointments, merriments, and chizments. I can almost read the size of your cerebrum out of the incessant chatters in the office, jeepney and in SMS. I will sorely miss you, and I know you will miss me, too!

Marga may jokingly lash out expletives but I consider her one of the sweetest. A Contivo expert, she's on her way to becoming the next Ma'am Maybelle in GXS. Being Chinese, she claims to scrimp on things but ironically loves buying sandwich at Subway and that expensive, diarrhea inducing Horlics from Zentea. I will sorely miss you, and I know you will miss me, too!

Jobo is the teddy bear of the group. I wonder where all the hair went, but he comes to you in heavy strides without any fear of getting devoured; that's why he's not just a bear, he's a teddy bear! He's my lead for the GlaxoSmithKline Project, and I hope to hear less from him after GXS. Haha! I will sorely miss you, and I know you will miss me, too!

Man2 is teddy bear's cuddly and fashionable toooot! Everytime I pass by Rustan's or Shangri-la, Man-man's image never fails to come dashing before my Giordano eyeglasses! I need to namedrop the brand to be in context with Man-man's predilections!Haha! By the way, her nails are just as colorful as her personality. I will sorely miss you, and I know you will miss me, too!

Joanna Rina is the lady who has many names. She's under ArcelorMittal so she strikes me as a very strong woman; I'm talking about the phonetics in Mittal, dear reader. She loves burgers, french fries and her boyfriend--she talks a lot about him! I will sorely miss you, and I know you will miss me, too!

Jik is the Marsian who doesn't only speak alien but speaks really good english! I believe UFO's come in the night because she comes to the office when the rest of the junior analysts are already on their way home. She's also a sweet lady, that's why she's leading the Mars Project; I'm talking about Mars, the chocolate giant, dear non-GXS reader! I will sorely miss you, and I know you will miss me, too!

Marvin now leads ESPRINET, a fitting assignment since his hair seems to have gotten hold of too much esprinet (Spray Net)--I'm trying to pull a decent joke here, guys! ESPRINET should have been my pilot project but I had to fend it off so it went to him! Peace! I will sorely miss you, and I know you will miss me, too; considering Francesco and Marco of Esprinet will soon haunt you!

And special mention to Jayne whose stories of daily struggle with boredom in the office I got to endure listening to. I will sorely miss you, and I know you will miss me, too!

And to my Michael Foods mentor, Ate Rochelle! You have the kindest heart, and the brightest mind! That's why you are the brightest, shining star! Thank you for putting up with my stupid questions during the horrible Michael Foods days. I will sorely miss you, and I know you will miss me, too!

Charles Dickens had to write It is the best of times. It is the worst of times. Honestly, I had the best and worst of times in GXS; best would be the short time of being with good friends, and worst for saying goodbye, on top of the EMEA shift I had to endure for two weeks, just kidding!

I will sorely miss you, and I know you will miss me, too!

Signing off,

John David T. Dasmarinas

Technical Analyst

Professional Services Organization – SI Map Analysis Team

T: +632-859-5300 F: +632-859-5302

http://www.gxs.com/

Batch 6, 12 Strong

2010-08-05T21:51:00.001-07:00

Going through Elie Wiesel's gothic and expository account of the holocaust in his widely read novel Night gave me chills. Afterall, most of his dreadful personal stories took place during winter in a Nazi concentration camp in Auschwitz. I read this book long way back in college, but I felt the same chill when I was told I am required to attend a bootcamp at work. I know concentration camp and bootcamp are entirely two different things, but I have taken semantic elevation so close to my heart I can only draw gothic,unnecessary associations.

It turned out to be a programming bootcamp, an intensive training program where new hires are taught how to go about the process and logic of doing business in the company. It was technical by nature, save for a crash course in Supply Chain Management which, by the way, was something so IE I could easily complete the instructors sentences. The other topics were all technical and designed for the computer savvy, definetly so not me. But what I initially gathered to be an intimidating training program turned out to be fun. Yes, just fun--I couldn't drop the word euphoric for this one because it would sound overboard.

I'm now bent on giving credit to whom it is due, and this time everybody gets it! I believe every participant of the bootcamp has his/her own share of interesting mannerisms and a whole lot of discriminating opinion to any topic, exam and the ludicrous, unfortunate pronunciation slips of a few good instructors. And before I forget, I think it's worth mentioning that we call ourselves Batch Six--nothing fancy with our batch name until you associate it with a famous TV talent search that used to run by batch.

Patty is the sweet lady from Bicol who would switch from Filipino to Bicol in the middle of a conversation. Paolo is the animated guy who is but everything he claims to be--who could forget that I am shy incident? Adet is my college blockmate and former Canon officemate who would religiously update her facebook status with her daily realizations in life about traffic, diet, and arriving an hour early to work. Seated next to her are Jericho and Nelson who love to whisper to each other. Man2 (pronounced Man-Man), on the other hand, is actually a woman. Erika is the genius we won't be surprised if she gets regularized in just a month or two--she loves iced tea and debugging. Patrick is from La Salle I was suprised he's much into jologs stuffs. He usually gets incessant phone calls, perhaps from family, when the weather outside grows ballistic. And there's Jamie, whose lunch-time affairs remain to be top-secret for the batch to uncover. Myron is the Atenista whose juvenile signature gets the most attention. I was glad I learned both his parents are also IE graduates from UP Diliman. And seated next to my left is Hosea who usually arrives in the office with an unwrinkled shirt because he doesn't take the MRT. He's really good at throwing aspersions at anyone, though not coming off offensive but rather funny; he once asked a batchmate if he wrings out his armpits when he noticed the poor guy's wet polo.

Today is our last classroom training day, and that means we will no longer be staying in the same room for the rest of our training program. We will be stationed in our respective departments, and we just cross our fingers we won't succumb to boredom. So long, everyone! See you around!

7 Ways To Detonate A Bum

2010-07-18T05:09:00.000-07:00

As this weekend preempts to finally fold, I am reminded of the weekends in the past 2 months that seemed to be no different from the complementary weekdays. For a bum like me, I did not plan my activities with the ceremonious grip of the days of the week. And while I could discuss to you the relationship between unemployment and inflation, I have realized I could not even remember the term for that economic hullabaloo. So I gather I might as well write about the tides, the flowers, the dews and the clouds and the things that made my almost 2 months of bumming experience as explosive as Boy Abunda's shocking, nonsensical revelations on The Buzz--he looks like a yellow bee, doesn't he?

I'm now rolling out 7 ways how I got through being a bum without breaking a spine, hopes, dreams and my own sanity.

1. Acknowledge you are a bum.

I have told myself long before that I would take a vacation after my bond ends with my first employer. Having this in mind, I had no pride left acknowledging that I was going to join the brood of the unemployed.

2. Spend a great time with family.

Back in college in the dorm, I would cry over a cheesy Globe family-oriented commercial on TV. My grandfather died within my bumming period, and relationships strengthened during this time were enormous in value. Needless to say, staying with my immediate family in our humble house was reminiscent of the many years I spent there mostly as a student. It was also great getting into petty fights with my younger brother; this time though, I could only reign supreme in intellectual bouts--he's grown too much I couldn't even win a pillow fight.

3. Adventure, and be fit.

I am fortunate to have high school classmates who are based in Davao City, and you can't be a hard-core Davaoeno if you haven't explored the wonders of a neighbouring island that bears the fancy name of Island Garden City of Samal. So thanks to all my friends who had me floating in deep sea without a life jacket, only because the boat we rented didn't have enough life jackets for everyone! Also, I don't have a good pair of engineered running shoes but this didn't stop me from running regularly around UP and Quezon City Circle. I will join my first marathon in August.

4. Learn new skills.

I packed not only clothes but also books. Among the books I brought with me was the Speedreading Book by Tony Buzan. It was amazing how I could improve my reading skills a dozen notch faster by learning techniques I wished I learned before. This was helpful when I read broadsheets from front to back, including obituaries. I also took driving lessons in the College of Trades and Industries at USM, and it was interesting to learn that my driving teacher was the former boyfriend of my Earth Science teacher in first year high school.

5. Watch and compare films from accross the globe.

I cannot help but blame Charo Santos or Mother Lily for the grossly pathetic films they have been showing at our local theaters. I've watched more than a dozen films during my bumming days-- German, Latin, Asian, Arabic, American--and they all displayed greatness in story and technicality. I won't believe money was an object because I've seen Palestinian films that are just as relevant as the events that surround their territory. I do not want to generalize, but I can't help it.

6. Be a cultured, educated bum.

I would like to sound just as cultured and educated for this segment.

It was with the highest regard of intellect and the deepest respect for the culture and the arts that I took utmost preponderance in immersing into intellectual discourse among my highly intellectual housemates--you know who you are, and you know how hilariously pretentious the entire household can become, and into paying a visit to Imelda's Cultural Center of the Philippines to watch never-before-staged plays with Bembol Roco surprisingly stealing all the accolades in a play about chicken gall bladder and gizzards.

After reading that previous paragraph, you may already have the idea that it was such a stretch it could have been pushed, and was an outright ostentatious display of wit one can rightfully call a hubbub.

7. Be thankful you are a bum.

I am thankful to the Lord for this great experience. It was an experience I may not ever have the chance to exeperience again until my bones turn brittle in retirement. I asked for it, and He has given it to me just when I needed it. Surely, there were days when I was hoping it would end soon because I was already running out of funds, but He ended it in a manner that it was packaged in a birthday gift I won't ever forget. I started with my new job last July 12, the same day I turned 25.

You may ask why 7? Of course, I can give you more! But in the rich tradition of 7nish, I will leave it just that.

One more--and I wont count this as 8th--be sure to make a commitment to end your days of being a bum. You do not want to see yourself explode, or rot, or ferment and turn sour.

The Sonata of Good Men

2010-06-17T05:17:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this while carefully holding back my tears.

While the full interest in German history rests on the dark side of the Holocaust, I have, in few instances, come across in my studies of Economics the infamous hyperinflation of the German currency when the borders that divide the East from the West finally toppled down. My take on this political event had been purely academic until I watched the film The Lives of Others.

I do not have the faculty to at least write a simple summary of this brilliant film for the simple reason that it was so complex I may not give justice to its genius. However, I would like to try with a simple digest so I can, at the very least, pay tribute to it. The movie follows the investigation of a group of artists--playwrights, poets, actors--in socialist East Germany. As expected, socialist rule prohibits free speech among intellectuals trying to question and threaten the revered rule. And while utmost secrecy is required among the rebel artists, the authorities can only employ the highest and most cunning shenanigans to infiltrate any form of revolution in incubation.

Georg Dreyman is an esteemed playwright who, badly devastated by the suicide of a great director friend who was banned by the Stasis from pursuing his career, committed to write an article exposing suicide incidents unaccounted for in the East. To get this printed in the West, a highly exclusive network had to get it past the borders. What seemed to be an unmonitored rebellious exercise was, unknown to Dreyman's group, fully monitored by Wiesler who bugged Dreyman's apartment. However, a stream of domestic drama and humanistic bouts with reality provoked Wiesler to flirt with his own share of existentialism that would soon turn the entire investigation into a complete symbol of the monumental triumph of the ever truthful human conscience.

It was with great expectations that I watched this film. Afterall, it won the Academy's Best Foreign Language Film for Germany in 2007. To have tears welling up in the corners of my eyes towards the movie's ending made me realize that self-worth may be discovered at a cost of a great sacrifice, but it was, all the while, worth it as soon as you find out that the highest form of gratitude has been accorded to it.

Germans can be as stoic and hard as their language, but this movie is full of heart intelligently presented amidst the seemingly evil German air, unfortunate relic of what might have been an unfair Hitler legacy.

The Best Vampire Movie

2010-06-15T09:01:00.000-07:00

Oskar is a 12-year old boy who gets bullied a lot at school. His helpless demeanor found him a reassuring company in Eli, a neighbor who just recently moved in. Eli is a charming and intelligent girl who happens to be just as mysterious as the freezing town that would soon turn out to be the venue of a series of bloody murders.

It was supposed to be some kind of a blood compact ceremony to seal their juvenile love affair. Oskar brought Eli to a room then started cutting his palm and asked Eli to do just the same. When blood started to trickle down Oskar's arm, Eli could not help but throw herself towards the floor and bask at the freshness of Oskar's blood.

Eli is a vampire, and Oskar took it without care. Afterall, it was Eli who inspired him to pull himself together and take revenge at those school cutthroats. With a full string of community bloodbaths in the background, Eli and Oskar followed a trail discovering the ripeness of infatuation that bordered through a growing social conundrum.

Let the Right One In is a Swedish vampire film. Scenes were visually light yet heavy with the impending doom of the unraveling storyline. Unlike in mainstream vampire films, there were no hormone-raging subplots that get the story blown in a thousand directions. Instead, it was handled with charm, wit, and sincerity of characters that were built up in a manner that renders it impervious to careless filmmaking.

But I ended up so loving this film for the simple reason that I find the love story very cute and kilig; not to mention the last time I got this scared was when I watched Aiza Seguerra and Manilyn Reynes in Aswang.

A Wonderful Time with Justice Isagani A. Cruz

2010-06-13T08:25:00.000-07:00

There are two reasons why I prefer The Philippine Daily Inquirer over the other broadsheets: its excellent layout and its pool of sensible columnists, my favorite among them is the esteemed Retired Justice Isagani A. Cruz.

I have been following Justice Cruz' Separate Opinion since 2002. Among PDI's columnists, I guess he's the easiest to read. His syntax is perfect the fluidity of his thoughts just breathes blithely through the mental utterance of his written words. His columns traversed from topics touching on the most mundane to the highly royal language of the legal community's mostly controversial issues. His opinion on the most pressing political topics was rightly based on his judgment firmly rooted on his untainted, rich experience in the judiciary. However, my favorites were columns that explored and revealed his character as a doting grandfather; his account of his long lost lovers; and columns on ordinary life that turned into perfect, rare pieces of literature when written in his pen.

I didn't see this day coming so soon. My favorite columnist has just printed his last column on PDI, and needless to say, I am really sad. I'm just as sad as the day when Max Soliven died in Japan, putting an end to his highly syndicated column in The Philippine Star. I remember reading Soliven's retelling of his thousand travels, most of the time name-dropping ambassadors and social elites. The braggadocio in Soliven's writings didn't come offensive at all, probably because it was tempered by his natural charm; something that rarely transmits through print, much in the same likeness to Cruz's congenial personality radiating from his sacred space on PDI's Opinion Page.

So this leaves me a huge dilemma. Which broadsheet do I pick up next Sunday? For sure, I will go aghast over Manila Bulletin's Editorial on senseless matters like The Mooncake Festival Day I chanced upon before -- imagine an editorial for a whaaat? lunar festival, of all things! Also, Alex Magno's column in The Philippine Star does not seem to interest me a bit; maybe it has something to do with his stern-looking picture. I read some of his columns in the past though, and they all carry a similar feel -- heavy topics in heavy narratives. It's going to be a long stand in the newsstand next week!

Justice Cruz ended his Column with this: "It was truly a wonderful time, and I'm sorry it had to end with my failing health."

There is no account as to how serious Justice Cruz' health condition has gone, but I pray that he may be comforted in these trying times. This may seem selfish, but I wish he can still manage to write occassional columns in the days ahead.

Sir Isagani A. Cruz, it has been, indeed, A WONDERFUL TIME!

ci-tech and I

2010-04-27T20:38:00.000-07:00

I am writing this because I was recently reminded by my roommate that writing is inherently self-serving.

I recently resigned from my job. I have waited two years to legally get myself out of a ryhtmic pattern of going to the office, doing the same things most of the time. I maintained an incessant longing for my last day in the office when i would imagine the air in Eastwood City to smell a personal scent of relief, far from the convoluted revolution of fragrances in the Perfume Section of Shangri-la Mall. Unfortunately, when i stepped out of the office for the last time in April 23, Eastwood City didn't smell any different.

I felt a sense of numbness that I considered probing into my intentions. Perhaps, the swell of emotion that stemmed from my dear grandfather's unexpected passing preceded what should have been a euphoric day of freedom from a routinary quality assurance work. I still position my nose to unimaginable angles in an attempt to inhale that distinct air up to this day.

I will be leaving for Mindanao this coming Friday. The air that will greet me there would entirely smell different, definitely. And i hope I would not be positioning my nose to unimaginable angles then; lest I fail in positioning my heart to discern all the blessings I received during my two years of stay in ci-tech.

I will begin this last paragraph with another 'I'. I am writing this because I was reminded by my roommate that writing is, afterall, inherently self-serving.

An entry with lots of 'library' in it

2010-01-24T05:20:00.000-08:00

The 'compromised ray of sunlight' --to borrow from my favorite line in The Hours by Michael Cunningham--that managed to peek through the dusty,huge, open windows in the Main Library assaulted me with a wave of nostalgia. It conjured up a gymnastics of blissful, yet horrible, memories of preparing for impossible exams i had to take before in the mighty UP College of Engineering. The Main Library always appealed to me more despite having a full-blast airconditioning system in the Engineering Library - yes, the Main Library in UP Diliman maintains an atmosphere just natural for the naturally, albeit poor, intellectual.

Yesterday afternoon, i decided to study for my Microeconomics midterms in the Main Library. I realized our apartment offered too much comfort that i might not be able to resist the inviting promise of my bed. I found myself later in the Social Science section poring over Nicholson's unfriendly discussion of the the better effects of taxing income rather than taxing goods and services. Leafing through my notes, i felt a disturbing presence - that stubborn itch to divert my attention to gaze at the imposing cabinets of books that stood witness to my struggles during my undergrad years; wander at the well-polished narra tables and seats perfectly ergonomic to relieve a breaking spine; and listen to the delicate rustling of bamboo leaves that seemed to gossip over the carefree lovers dating in mossy benches along the pathway.

Barely two chapters in my reading, i heard an incessant clanking of a bell - a commanding sound to alarm us that the library was closing. Walking past the usual inspection of bags and books by familiar librarians and Ilonggo security guards, i left the library with a load of convoluted emotions only later appeased by the realization that it was indeed, really nice to be back - for today, I will study again at McDonald's.

Wanderings

2010-01-05T06:39:00.000-08:00

It is an unfortunate fact that taking a Jeepney to get to your destination brings with the sentimental journey a package of lingering realizations;too many, in fact, that a semicolon was necessary to add to this already long sentence a bulletin to usher you to my second paragraph.

Save for Thursday nights when i take a cab to get to my class in UP, I usually join the mob of sweating laborers and struggling yuppies commute to lowly Cubao from Eastwood City. The setting is interestingly egalitarian: the educated and the tired construction worker seated next to each other, indifferent to a wave of exhausted breathing. But I find it rather unusual that it is during this time of discomfort that i manage to pause and contemplate on the day's events. I feel contained in a moving piece of metal that absorbs not only the exhumed heat of the earth but also the string of unwanted incidents that transpired in the office. I go through the process of recalling them from memory and then rationalizing each mistake or misjudgment along the glorious thumping of the speaker box under my seat---the jolt in my butt signaling to end my exaggerated wanderings.

I have been working in Eastwood City for a Research and Development Facility of a Japanese company for almost two years now. The excitement grows as the days crawl to my second year in the office; the day i plan to resign. Unfortunately, i did not like my job in this Company, and i cannot be more honest than that. However, i cannot discount the many lessons i learned that merit sincere gratefulness from my part.

I'm writing this because tonight i did not ride a jeepney on my way home. What i wrote in the previous paragraph was constructed in my memory while i was comfortably sitting inside a taxi. I feel contained in a moving piece of metal that absorbs not only the exhumed heat of my body but also the string of unwanted incidents that transpired in the office in the last two years. I go through the process of recalling them from memory and then rationalizing each mistake or misjudgment along the glorious thumping of the poorly upholstered seat--the jolt in my butt signaling to end my exaggerated and redundant wanderings.

Back

2009-12-06T05:47:00.001-08:00

I hope to be updating this blog more regularly now.

Jairus

2007-07-09T03:52:00.000-07:00

My brother, Jaja, deboned a bangus in a most interesting manner. I do not want to tell you how he did it because his esophagus still hurts.

I come from a clan that constantly wears the smell of the flavored smoke of a thousand unconfessed slaughters. When rain poured hard and waiting for it to drizzle was impossible, an afternoon visit in Lola Tering’s Bonifacio house would usually extend to an exciting and freezing sleep-over. Waking up, rays of sunlight seemed dispersed and heavy with smoke as I looked outside through the old house’s wooden panels. The heavy and concentrated smoke would soon summon my dizziness with the strength of an orchestra of aroma that traces back to my Lola’s kitchen.

Ascribing to the Statistical Central Limit Theorem, I assert that almost every palate in our humble town of Kabacan had already been treated to a scrumptious meal in La Samariña. La Samariña has been known in our town to be the name not only recognized by the famished but also by the bloated. People from our town would refer to it as a restaurant. Actually, it barely compares to what is legitimately called a restaurant since its ambiance is not something that Erap would order or pay for; however, to call it a turo-turo would awaken Lola’s wrath that is unfurtively Waray.

It runs in the family. I believe in Genetics so I gather my mother’s siblings, all eight of them, inherited a portion of Lola’s unforgiving taste buds. I wish to further my belief in Genetics by hoping that the imperial line of taste buds reaches my generation. Fortunately, it sure did; but I did not get it. My brother, Jaja, might have lacked the talents I abundantly enjoy that the heavens, in sheer pity, adorned him with a talent he can only now claim his own: cooking. Now, take a pause and embrace the fact that I am also capable of sourgraping. Just kidding.

I had been cooking for my housemates in the past few weeks. School work was still light so I delightedly took the responsibility of preparing dinner for them. Realizing that I have many talents but cooking (here I go again, haha!), I always made sure that my phone never ran out of load so I could text Jaja for recipes to which he gladly replied. My housemates are a group of men well raised by their parents, and their parents are successful in teaching them table manners. Every time we sat down for dinner, they had the decency of not suddenly dialing 8-MCDO for delivery but instead regaled me with the kindest words of compliment. But most of the time, I did not believe them. The dishes I prepared were the same dishes Jaja would prepare for me every time I come home during breaks, and the disparity between the tastes was enough to wage a biological warfare between North and South Korea.

Jaja never learned to debone a bangus. In fact, he never learned to eat one. It was a summer break in 2004 when he enthusiastically prepared his own version of rellenong bangus upon learning that I was arriving. Growing up with him, I remember the days when he would keep aside a serving of our viand for a family member who was expected to come late. Also, when our parents were out, he was the one attending to our gastronomic needs. So on that fateful day of my arrival, I was glad to devour everything that my brother prepared for a brother he missed so dearly. But in my revelry, Jaja swiftly headed to the sink and tried to expel the thing that just clung hard enough to his juvenile tonsils, or throat whatever. When the tension subsided, I huddled back to my sit and finished off what was left of my brother’s rellenong bangus.

Julia Child was my dream acquaintance. After her sad death, I settled down for Wolfgang Puck. In the unfortunate event that Puck dies before I meet him, I will have to aim for Emeril Lagasse, or Nobu! When they all die before I get the chance of blurting out to them "yes, chef" in their own kitchen, then, I will have to finally go for Rachel Ray. And the list goes on. Since the day it dawned on me that I was never born with hands for cooking, I started to recant the idea that I will never learn how to do it. I will have to acquire it. So do not be surprised when ten years from now, after earning my MBA from Wharton, and after five more years after becoming a respectable executive, you will see me wearing a toque in Paris. It will be in a culinary school across Notre Dame. It will be snowing outside the Institute when you will bump into me. I will immediately recognize that you’re Pinoy because you will utter aray in a way that is crunchier than my fried churros. In disbelief, you will recognize my face and I twill try to brave the cold trying to remember your name. I will soon invite you to my flat located adjacent to the Louis Vuitton shop. We will have dinner of medium rare steak partnered with a 1976 Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon.

But I shall have to learn how to debone a bangus first. Then I will have Jaja taste it in all confidence that it’s entirely free from pointed, ichthyic skeletons.

And I have to learn that cooking is not to impress, but to serve good food with the earnest motive to share an experience, an adventure, a fantasy and a story just like this. Chow!

Juancho

2007-07-02T07:37:00.000-07:00

Everything happened along with the despicable but somewhat natural, rushing, rural wind. Elena was the barrio sweetheart whose charm and boyish grin put her in the center of countless conversations among the local men. She was too charming the dirty pink piglets in her family’s backyard behaved like English gentlemen every time she fed and bathed them. Men from known and unknown places groomed and fattened legions of carabaos, cows, horses, goats and even domesticated monkeys to ask her hand for marriage. But she only loved Juancho. Juancho only noticed her after all his dearly loved chickens died of a lethal strain of avian flue, and they eventually got married. On the day of the wedding, they had every representative of the animal kingdom butchered but none from the line of the flying chickens.

What I have just written was a bastardized retelling of what I have read in grade 5. I painstakingly finished the novel so I could as well brag that I was able to finally read a novel, cover-to-cover. I felt elevated to an exclusive brood of literati students who intellectually bullied classmates who could only read cliché proverbs plastered on classroom walls. That novel I was referring to was entitled something like this: Kailan Iibig si Juancho?

I started reading late, and I innocently read the unglamorous ones. I only got to read english novels when as a high school freshman, I noticed a pretty but anorexic classmate named Dianne write and speak impressive english. I later learned that she had a collection of english novels. What my pretty but anorexic classmate lacked in protein she compensated for with her generosity by lending me her books; the first one I read I can hardly remember the title, but there were cute, yellow ducks on the cover. I soon ventured into Sheldon’s fast-paced storytelling of men and women who slept with other men and women, killed other men and women, found their way to the top toppling other men and women, and a woman who shared multiple identities with other women! Wheww! When I got to UP, a genius roommate named Ralph who was taking up English Studies displayed horror over my immature reading list. He introduced me to Albert Camus, Garcia Marquez, Kazuo Ishiguro, John Steinbeck etc. Ralph’s erudition on the subject of Literature was evidently displayed in his own writings. Our other roommate Hathem, who majored in Creative Writing, never missed in transporting me into his own stories. His prose was so powerful the entire dormitory room seemed to fold like a carton box.

I was a writer of the school paper back in high school. I even competed and fortunately won in some of the competitions. However, I refrained from writing in college. I thought writing was only for those who can catapult readers to Antarctica in a commanding trajectory of words and letters. I stopped. Soon realizing that it’s not yet too late to write again, I ventured into poetry. But my poems were so dull and at dearth of imagery and full of pitiful wordplay. I write them on tissue papers but I thought they were to set off where tissue papers are usually headed.

Last week, my roommate Pido wrote his first blog entry. Ralph, who still happens to hop in our room every so often, gave Pido a remark so impelling I started contemplating on this entry: “Continue writing Pido, you’re doing yourself a favor!”

I’m doing myself now a favor.

My FIRST!

2007-07-01T04:11:00.000-07:00

This is my first blog entry.