new year, new hair.

It’s New Year time once again. Amid the traditional kickoff of everyone hurrying to write down resolutions and fulfilling (at least trying to) some of them throughout the year – something else has been getting quite more than its fair share of attention lately: my hair.

The billion-something strands on my head, made larger than life with this first 2007 post. And just because I had a haircut two weeks before fireworks season officially climaxed and the clock chimed the noisiest hour anywhere. Days after the revelry when classes resumed, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the moment I strode inside the lecture room for the first time with someone exclaiming, “New hair!”

More or less, “new” is a passable adjective. If I guessed right, everyone around me would have already tired their eyes out with the green, green grass of old, the one I had since I was a tot: short and neatly-clipped, poking straight out like rays of porcupine quills if I failed to get myself a decent trim in the time being. Not to say that the style perfectly stuck it out through the years, what with the slight change of barbers I had been getting recently – but you still get the overall picture. The first barber I had, the old one whom my grandfather faithfully adhered to and who took care of all the boys in our family, has already passed away. Then there was one near our store back home who did the job more than satisfactorily, and now here I am in Manila where I finally learned what I wanted: the term is “ crew cut.” You want crew cut? You get crew cut. Just make sure it’s done well. And better start praying the barber doesn’t chop your ear off by accident while you cooperate at best by staying as motionless as possible on your seat.

I suppose that like any other haircut, having short hair has both its pros and cons. The obvious advantage is that you readily adhere to the law of the land – especially when you’re studying in a school where long, matted hair is an absolute taboo, the necessity all the more heightened when I had my CAT instruction in fourth year. But upon entering college where suaveness takes on a new definition and freedom of expression is hereby advocated, things began to roll differently. Your hair inadvertently reflects your personality and preference.

“It’s time for a new look,” some of my classmates say. And a few do so with matching apologetic expressions as if suggesting the idea that “You could certainly do better.” After all, the billion-something strands on your head spell a big deal. More often than not, it’s the first thing people notice when they meet you, or one of the criteria being considered when they evaluate your grooming and personal appearance. How else could bald fellows with greasy unkempt sideburns become such popular objects of laughing stock?

Indeed, the importance of hair cannot be simply undermined. Even the English language affirms its rightful significance with the common idioms “missed by a hair” (a really frustrating thing to happen) and “let your hair down” (show those lovely tresses and let people know you are relaxed.) Many times over, I have seen it the subject of disputes and disagreements, of desolation and despair. That’s not even counting the limitless, and sometimes wild, measures and risks people are willing to take just to be able to bask in the splendor of having fabulous hair.

Which brings me to a particularly memorable incident that took place during one of those times that I had begun to sprout the porcupine-like growths owing to a supposedly delayed session to the barber. When it comes to matters like these, my mom remains my number one critic. She’s the first to comment on how my mane is already growing way too long for my own good, to be followed by a series of reminders that’d go on one after another, to march down the barber’s and “fix the problem” once and for all. It could’ve been that she has finally grown exasperated from her endless recaps that she just let me in on a piece of the day’s paper – the horoscope page – with Sagittarius (my sign) bearing the words: “Today, your hair is your crowning glory.”

Well, I don’t exactly believe in horoscopes – let alone read them – but that one somehow did the trick. And voila, it proved an effective antidote to finally get me moving on my two legs and have a nice little rendezvous with the immortal comb and scissors.

So I am now sporting a new set of hair. Not much different from the old one but somewhat longer, a more refined and laidback modification. The shooting porcupine sparks of the past have started to fade out, replaced this time by bangs that run forward and spill to the sides. Perhaps that’s just the way I wanted it to be: serving a practical purpose – lest I find myself trapped in a spate of exams with no time to spare and I still wanted to look decent. My answer to the lure of hair dyes and funky looks remains a vehement no – unless along the way I decided to abandon my pursuit in the medical field and pick up a career as a rock star instead. And funnily, they do say the new mop on my head makes me look…younger.

Thinking it over in accordance with the season leads me to believe that having new hair may also come to symbolize a new start, a new leaf. Each snip of hair cut off paves the way for new strands to grow and take their place, much like how we could always mend our crooked ways and change for the better. New Year is resolution time, after all.

the most wonderful time of year.

When September 1 officially made it to the calendar earlier this year, one of my classmates sent me a message bearing the words:

“Merry Christmas!”

At first, this merited a bewildered look: Knowing that the world celebrates Christmas at more or less the same date with the Philippines being of no exception, I surmised that somehow he could have been pushed over the edge by a fit of overexcitement, or has lost track of the time, or both. Little did I know that like him, millions of people have also marked the start of the much-anticipated hype, the great countdown.

One doesn’t easily forget that in a country where the mere mention of “Christmas” generates endless connotations, the celebration starts with the onset of the “-ber” months. And that’s a feat no other special holiday or occasion can ever beat. You hear Christmas carols being played on the radio even before petitions for souls of the departed are requested, and you see shoppers juxtaposing lists of lanterns and decors with Halloween costumes. Even the perennial Scrooges of our times start to show a potential for niceties once the mood turns up on sleigh rides and winter wonderlands. For most people I know, Christmas is a festival of epic proportions, no doubt; and it’s supposed to get bigger and grander every year.

I’ve been observing quite the contrary, though. As much as it is hard to admit, signs of the season have become harder to come by year after year. Slick traces remain of the once ostentatious interplay of lights and trees, and the melody of Christmas carols fail to reach their typical ubiquitous state. Even the so-called materialism, the superficiality moralists and clergy are forever going against, isn’t working out as well as expected. Storeowners groan of aching losses as the lure of brisk December sales loses its usual touch, with shoppers carefully sticking to a tightly-screwed budget. On top of these, one can’t help but contract a portion of the lingering dreariness. Or if feeling gloomy deep down isn’t bad enough, you hear people say, “It’s not like being Christmas”, or “I don’t feel Christmassy at all”.

The year 2006 is hard hit especially. If you have a bunch of super-typhoons perpetually striking various parts of the archipelago (and leaving some areas dreadfully battered) and tragically amplified by a series of volcanic activities and socio-political crises, you also have people persistently harboring misgivings on whether the whole Christmas thing is such a good idea after all. Is 365 days of unwanted misfortune really a valid excuse to keep the Yuletide spirit at the sidelines for a while?

Well here’s the catch: The first Christmas wasn’t perfect either. As our parish priest explained during his homily on Christmas Eve, “the first Noel came at a time when the world was in turmoil, marked by wars and general unrest. It is precisely this imperfection, the presence of a void in people’s hearts that made the arrival of a Savior very timely.” Come to think of it, what need would there be for a Messiah when everything is in place, when the world is so engrossed in its flawlessness?

It is when we realize that something is missing, and duly acknowledge such a fact, that we begin to discover what Christmas is truly about. I have classmates whose homes are right smack in the so-called typhoon hot spots, and though at present electricity continues to be a thing of the not-so-distant past, this didn’t stop them from being part of the most wonderful time of year. I guess far more important than having the physical means to eat, drink and make merry is to possess the right spirit for it.

Which is why I prefer to celebrate Christmas the way it should be – simple and with the ones you love. We had the traditional Noche Buena and gift exchange before attending the highlighted midnight mass, finally capping the night with a short prayer. And it just occurred to me that sometimes, the best way to feel blessed is to believe that right here, right now, in our midst is the most wonderful time of year, no less.

rediscovering mornings.

I never thought I would come to enjoy mornings again.

To think this statement would have to come from someone who was hands down a morning person as a child – strictly made to stick to a bed-by-8-up-by-6 regimen tailor-fit for school. Back then, I worshipped every ritual of the morning kind to a tee: prompt early breakfasts, weekend morning walks in the park and my tanning doses of Vitamin D (Like any credulous youngster, I unwittingly believed that the sun directly gives you your much-needed supply of Vitamin D.) Unfortunately, just as one progresses in age and takes on more responsibilities, academic or otherwise, so the duration of wakefulness inevitably strays farther and farther into the night.

In my case, the load from my studies somehow forces me to become the unintended nocturnal creature that I am now. The compulsive crammer in me suggests wrapping up everything in the dark as an assurance of both quality dozing time thereafter and saving grace the next day. It was an unhealthy habit that made me wince at every mention of the simplistic aphorism “Asleep by 9, awake by 5, and you’ll live to 99” and elicited countless urgings of “Go to bed” from my mom, even rightfully earning me the moniker “night owl” from her. Other than these, however, that’s the way the cookie crumbles. My mind is somehow set to activate its riggings the moment sundown takes place and the world’s flurry diminishes to inactivity.

And, oh – the scourge of writing! I definitely write better in the night; it’s when everything else is in deep slumber that gushing waves of ideas find their way in undisturbed. Lying awake in bed, I could whip up a concoction of myriad thoughts and string them together to make a swell story – or an essay – and presto, one finished article for posterity’s sake. The itch could prove way too overpowering to ignore.

Not to say that there are no pitfalls here, of course. The downside is that you wake up the following day slouchy and scowling (that’s why I detest 7am classes), making you disregard the beauty of the whole morning bit. Moreover, life gets to be a bit shorter, sometimes. There are instances when I get horrified at the thought that my mornings have become little more than mere extra time slots to stretch, take a bath and get dressed just in time to see the clock chime the hour of noon. Almost like magic, half the day is gone before you know it. It’s as if someone wound an hourglass and made it accelerate to twice, even thrice, its speed.

Well, until Simbang Gabi season came along and broke this misconception once and for all.

My dad – who completed all nine dawn masses for the first time – is the perfect person to attest to the wonders of being an early bird. “It leaves you feeling fresh,” he says, and that’s something I never thought my insomniac-of-a-father can ever declare, a good number of times at that. Upon finishing mass, he tucks in a few hours’ worth of shut-eye and then leaves for work, but all the same it’s working out wonders for his health and well-being.

The freshness is certainly a far cry from the sticky grogginess of waking up just in time for lunch. It’s a freshness emanating from the innocent tranquility of early morn, a stillness that gradually gives way to the increasing hustle and bustle of day. The cool morning breeze simmers with the rising of the sun into warm daytime puffs of air, as everything comes to life: from the drone of a single motorcycle to the noisy honking of passenger jeeps, the growing number of pedestrians emerging from street corners, and the brisk unlocking of shops opening up for another day. Nature too, awakens and joins the heralding of a new 24-hour epoch, dew-soaked grass all around.

But the best surprise in itself would have to be the fact that time is finally at the palm of your hand. I call it an emancipation from a (day) of haste breeding waste. You can do a lot of things, and you can do them nice and slow at the same time. Returning from dawn mass one time, we made several stopovers on the way and still reached home before 6 am. I fooled around, ate breakfast at a leisurely pace and sang Christmas carols and it wasn’t even 7 am! I joked with my siblings, leafed through some magazines and watched some shows and my watch didn’t even read 8! Plus, I could have a nap if I wanted and it would still be only 9 or 10 am!

Credit this to the disparity of life in the big city and in the smaller, more rustic provincial capital. Bright lights, big city means neon glowing 24/7; in the province, it’s a different story. Dusk translates to evening approaching, and evening translates to closed stores, few people walking down the streets, and everyone shuttling home to retire. Whereas staying up and waking up late in the metropolis would be perfectly fine, my body clock automatically shifts to an earlier routine upon reaching the province leaving me no choice but to comply – else there would be disastrous effects.

Nevertheless, I still enjoy the quiet of the night. Once in a while, I’d sneak down for some quick surfing before hitting the covers, or for some minutes of late night TV, perhaps not too late for my own good. I still despise waking up at the crack of dawn, and if given the choice would rather have a few more zzz’s with sunlight streaming through the windows. But rediscovering the joys of morning – that I cannot deny saying what a superb feeling it truly was.

19.

Breaks aren’t there for nothing.

That’s what exactly entered my mind, being now happily blessed with the time to finally tinker away at my keyboard for another post – something I’ve been longing to do for the past two weeks but haven’t had the time (again, blame the barrage of exams.) After the academic smoke cleared at the end of the week, I moved to focus on something else:

Turning 19.

Tomorrow.

And I don’t feel like it. Which could be attributed, perhaps, to the fact that I wanted to enjoy my 18 year-old self a little bit more, relish writing “18” on data sheets a little bit longer. (Hey, isn’t a year supposed to be enough?) But whatever I do, the truth remains: With the ticking of the clock, it will all be just history in a couple of minutes. And fast forward into the near future, exactly 365 days later, I would then have to say goodbye to the suffix “teen” and enter the age of the dynamic twenties, marking another milestone in my timeline.

So how do I react to all this?

A few months back, I remembered asking a classmate of mine who just celebrated her 19th birthday on how it feels to be another year old. To which she just shrugged her shoulders and quite nonchalantly replied, “Nothing different, I guess.” Perhaps, she may be right. You don’t feel 19 right away, or even 20 for that matter. It takes getting used to, much like sleeping on a new bed or entering a new school year as a student one level higher. Heck, I don’t think I’ll even be surprised if someone casually comes right up to me, asks me how old I am, and throwing caution to the wind, instantly tell them I’m 18 forgetting that I just turned 19!

In many ways, ambivalence is the word. It’s a toss between the childish enthusiasm of burbling “Wow, I’m 19!” versus the midlife despondence of mumbling, “I’m already 19!” Or better yet, just leave it at that and go on with the world, letting time take its natural course with as much ado as listening to a chatterbox-of-a-DJ on the radio. Young people, that’s where I’m supposed to belong; and very well stuck in between, too: Mature enough (and having known better) to impatiently rush the aging process, yet definitely having a lot more to experience in life to lose interest in it so easily.

Birthdays are definitely more than just extra notches on the calendar. Like a tree stump accumulating rings year upon year, everything’s all inside you – happiness and heartache. I may not be an ancient as a Californian sequoia, but at least all the years I’ve lived are in those invisible rings inside of me. At times, I may feel like binging on sweets or throwing a silly tantrum – that’s the four-year-old me resurfacing; other times I’m wont to be overly responsible for the doings of the whole world that I may actually (appear) to age more than I really do.

Still, I believe nothing beats making one’s birthday worthwhile than a quiet contemplation on the previous year, on all the years of one’s life. Many times over, birthday or not, I realized that it always boils down to the one same thing: Living each day to the fullest, not knowing when you will hit a dead end. So it is for this soon-to-be celebrant who shares his special day with renowned physician Dr. Fe del Mundo and the late Senator Benigno Aquino Jr., as well as the feast day of our Lady of the Miraculous Medal: Reflect on all 19 years of my life, relish the memories and embrace the future with open arms.

To 19 and beyond!

the sum of all fears.

Last semester, one of our neuroscience professors threw us a question: “What is man’s greatest fear?” If you hadn’t previously read the self-instructional module she had given earlier, you wouldn’t have easily guessed the answer.

And yet it turned out to be so simple, such that most of us were surprised at our wits’ end.

Celebrating this annual scarefest perhaps brings out the bottom line in each one of us: Whether we admit it or not, we have our own fears. It’s something we just can’t do without since fear is part of our psyche, one of man’s most basic emotions. And while humans generally share the same set of nightmares – seldom do we find someone taking pleasure in meeting ghosts, for example – the trend is said to vary throughout one’s lifetime: Children are more accustomed to develop fantasy fears (monsters, ghouls, etc.) while teens are expectedly more preoccupied with social fears (non-acceptance in a group, etc).

These days, with burgeoning advances in psychology and related fields, the vocabulary has even grown to include all sorts of common and newly-coined -phobia terms ranging from arachnophobia, fear of spiders; to xenophobia, fear of foreigners, each named after a certain thing or object that supposedly triggers the anticipation of doomsday in a person. Think of the most absurd thing to be afraid of, and most probably someone out there is indeed afraid of it.

Something once struck me as an irony, though. Why is it that most of us enjoy watching horror flicks at the expense of screaming at the top of one’s lungs and nonstop hand-covering-the-eyes gestures? Freud’s followers recently discovered the answer for this: We don’t enjoy the fear itself, per se; but it is in the aftershock, the wave of relief we experience after that “fearful” moment where we get to have the genuinely gratifying feeling – both for having gone through the time of dread and for that time of dread itself to be over. It just shows to say that conquering one’s fear is surely a satisfying reward, but where do we actually start?

I read somewhere that the key is to face your fear squarely. It’s all about initially trying to identify the emotion and afterwards dealing head-on with it. The first time you encounter the object of trepidation, you ask yourself: “What is it in that object that scares me?” and then, you try to figure it out introspectively, step by step, addressing each issue with an appropriate action. Upon crossing paths with the same object the next time around, your instincts would then be able to react in a more sensible manner. Over time, you become rational enough to have gotten rid of the fear element.

Back then, I used to have a fear of failure: failure to meet the expectations of people around me and ultimately, those of my own. But throughout the course of time, I eventually discovered that failure may be a good thing in itself, after all. It can make you emerge a better person, teaching you lessons that can be gained via a failed attempt alone. To be honest, sometimes I even remember concepts better when they come out as mistakes in exams (wishing of course that I’m not wont to repeating them over and over again.) It’s the case of standing up if you fall, and of putting in mind not to fall the same way again.

It also helped that I found consolation in an adage that said, “Today is the tomorrow you’ve worried about yesterday.” The saying stuck in my head for a while and I realized, how true. There’s really no point in being overly anxious unless it’s justifiable for a number of reasons. But even then, one can always do something about it, something much more than just crying over spilt milk. Hopefully in the future, through giving the intrapersonal process of fear elimination a good shot, I’ll be able to finally dispose of my fears once and for all.

By the way, what is man’s greatest fear?

Falling down.

twilight zone.

With the sunset around, I think I’ll always have my muse.

There seems to be something
about the way things subside:
a slow and sluggish yielding
of the day into night. And we
struggle with our senses, lest
the spectacle before us disappears
out of sight, a keepsake

of the moment. It almost seemed
so easy to think it would last
forever: a hushed, haunting ritual.
The rustle of trees, the hum of crickets.
The rays seeping shyly
into each lilting leaf, each branch
swaying gently into night, towards night.

We are held speechless, bathed
in golden splendor that was not ours
to keep – some seaside evanescence
detaching us from reality.
But this is not Manila Bay, and we
are not lovers walking straight
into the sunset. If only we could hinder

the decay of dusk into that vanishing point,
the surrender of beauty, the transition of
manifold things into dark. All the while struck
by how order resists meaning: That final and
sententious deluge of light. The day returns
everything, the formless, into place. And there’s
no use wishing how the past could be relived –

I am alone, you are alone,
the pangs of regret unwillingly
rushing back as all before.

the future beckons.

Question #1: What is an antioxidant?

Question #2: How could excessive intake of aspartame a.k.a. Nutrasweet® be harmful?

Question #3: Upon entering a ward, which of the following should you do first: check for breathing, temperature or pulse?

We had a late Moon Festival celebration/dice game cum extended family gathering last Monday evening, and all I expected to do was to have some jolly good old clean fun. Never did I imagine that in the short run of two hours or so I would find myself pelted with all sorts of medical questions ranging from the simple to the bizarre.

I guess things like these always come with the fact that everyone looks up to a medical student – never mind that he is only in his first year – as some sort of budding yet know-it-all doctor-to-be. It’s definitely something to be proud of; yet one cannot also help but feel the pressure mount year after year, as the time left before acquiring the prized M.D. title diminishes faster than you can say “schizophrenia.”

Nothing really beats the exaggerated anticipation you get from people around, prodding you on to study fast and graduate even faster so that they could rush in line to be your first patients (never mind the lack of experience). This is perfectly fine with me; though whenever I’m faced with this kind of situation I’d simply smile and coolly remark, “There’s still a long way to go”. Almost immediately, they’d give a cheerful reply: “But oh no – there’s only four years left to go, see?”

Indeed, their light-hearted optimism may be right. When you’re studying medicine preparing for exams week after week, burning midnight candles and consuming books with indescribable voracity, you just don’t notice the time passing that easily. All you see before you is the insistent need to at least obtain satisfactory grades and get a backstage pass to the next year level. Somehow, it is only during breaks that you are able to get a real foothold of time’s fleeting existence. Half a year from now and I would have to change ‘four remaining years’ to three-and-a-half, then to three, and so on. Each time, I’d wonder in amazement how I managed to survive what others termed as the most drastic of pressures, replete with emotional potholes, mental roadblocks, physical exhaustion – the list just goes longer as one climbs the rungs of the caducean ladder.

It doesn’t end there. In fact, many doctors would tell you that after graduation, you are merely getting yourself started – the beginning of a lifetime of healing and more learning. During a recent get-together with high school classmates I casually joked that should we meet again after a few more years, some would’ve already brought along spouses and babies, swapping stories of the workplace, and I’d still be studying. You don’t master the whole anatomy thing overnight; it takes years of repetitive study to make sure you have firmly grasped the concepts and their practical applications.

Yet if there’s a side to the profession that some people might not readily understand, it’s that you don’t only deal with drugs and diseases, though these of course constitute your primary concentration. You also try establishing rapport with your patients, connecting with them, nurturing their humanness – while at the same time meticulously planning your every move lest one minor error earns you an unwanted malpractice suit. You grapple with finding the best vernacular term that comes closest to “cerebellar ataxia” at the same time running a differential diagnosis inside your head.

So goes the truism that doctors are amazing multi-taskers, and that’s what cuts them off from the rest. You attempt several things at once, and you have to make sure you’re fast. I’ll never forget the first time I witnessed a CPR being performed on a critical patient inside a PGH ward. The moment the red signal went off, doctors and residents in the vicinity dropped whatever they were doing, rushed towards the bed and began performing the necessary lifesaving measures. I was only a spectator, but needless to say I felt an unexplained sense of urgency, and I don’t think there ever was better evidence to the fragility of human life.

I know I won’t be able to carry out everything impeccably on the first try. It’d take years of experience to do that, without getting reasonably demented. For the meantime, I’ll have to content myself with answering simple “aspartame” and “antioxidant” questions, without being too technical. And of course, all the while keeping a healthy love for what I’m doing.

The passion stays.

It’s just a matter of time.

storms of our lives.

(I know this is a little late, but after a long hiatus from blogging and another hiatus from academic stuff, I figured it would perhaps be timely if I break my silence with a recollection of the not-so-distant past – and what more significant event to talk about than the recent ‘millennial’ storm?)

When you’ve just come home after a long exam and you got another one coming up, anticipating a days-long blackout would perhaps be the last thing on your mind. But when it suddenly strikes and you discover that the next best thing to do is to wait, you also realize that it’s not the end of the world, after all.

In a nutshell, the onslaught of super-typhoon Milenyo could be summed up in the words of famed writer Charles Dickens himself: “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.” Sure, many of us, hard hit, were at our worst states physically, emotionally and mentally during what almost came close to the actual apocalyptic event, but needless to say the deluge also brought out the best in us – our ingenuity and resourcefulness, showcasing the best of man at work in his time of dire need.

As for me, I didn’t even have the slightest idea that a typhoon was coming at hand. All that’s racing inside my already spent mind that late rainy afternoon was the grim fact that one night is all that’s standing between me and pages of exam material plus a still-to-be-assembled jigsaw puzzle of research substance. And then a text brigade heralding the good news (“No class”) would just have to come so casually, so abruptly it left me overwhelmingly ambivalent, not knowing that the day after I would be greeted by a stretch of empty darkness and the not-so-pleasant howl of a roaring gale whipping up a tumult outside. The time for vigilance had arrived.

Milenyo’s rampage was also the time to take a break, to reflect on those aspects of life that had long been overshadowed by what I thought were more important matters concerning academics and an eventual career. Over breakfast, lunch and supper by candlelight – and in between as well – I found out that I finally had the spare time to assess things concerning the way I was living my life, my relationships, and most importantly, my spirituality – the crisp shattering of glass and the dull thud of flying iron sheets serving as an uncanny backdrop, making one feel very much at the mercy of God. And then it suddenly dawned on me: In this life, there will be many more Milenyos to zap you back to the world of reality, making you see the essentials when you almost thought there’s nothing else to it than the same old boring routine of everyday.

That’s how I thought things officially went, but even in its aftermath, Milenyo seemed to have left other tricks up its sleeve. While some would agree that having no electricity is somewhat okay, few (if ever any at all) would readily think through the prospect of having no water – an inevitable consequence for most of us who rely day and night on the whirr of the motor to keep our tank constantly filled. Thus when the dreaded day came, I felt like someone thrust into a brand new reality show ala “Survivor” where they nastily get to eliminate your necessities one by one. Fortunately, we had some emergency supply of water - but when are these going to last?

Still, I reckoned even bigger problems lie ahead. The day after the huge outburst, Manila was a deforestation scheme in the making. One can only be amused at the sight of cars playing “patintero” all over the streets, ever so carefully dodging one or another fallen tree or lamppost, precariousness always rolled in between. Nevertheless, pity and regret entered the picture as one beheld the sight of an almost century-old tree, torn from the roots with its branches grotesquely snapped. Here, Joyce Kilmer’s lines sting with the acerbity of a grapefruit: “Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree.” How true – for it would take decades or so before another majestic product of nature can be seen standing proud once again. One more message hard earned: Enjoy the things while they’re still there.

But the trees that they are, I believe they stood for something much larger than themselves. Passing rows of felled robust trees now only good enough to stoke fire, it was almost unbelievable to see the smaller and less mighty ones still standing, most especially the fabled coconut which appeared to be relatively unaffected by the atmospheric surge, a true testament to the supposed pliancy and resiliency of the “tree for all seasons.” It struck me that sometimes, playing low-key’s the key. It is better for one to be flexible, to stoop down and harmlessly go with the tides rather than to uselessly battle it out with a stubborn foe.

For Milenyo had no preconceptions when it struck: It was unmindful of who we are, of where we stand, of how we will deal with the consequences. We had electricity three days after the storm, but my aunt’s driver already had power in his abode that very same stormy night. So it goes with saying that while some remote, relatively shabby parts of the metropolis rejoiced over the quick restoration of a normal, functional life, many areas in plush Makati and Ortigas continued to pass the time with fingers anxiously crossed.

Things like these will make you wonder how fate intriguingly tips the scales from time to time, as if giving evidence to the whole story of life as a wheel. But whatever the case may be, I’m quite sure Milenyo will forever leave me feeling a lot more fortunate than before. I’m pretty thankful that a humongous billboard or Ministop sign didn’t crash right smack into our car, and that rainwater didn’t flood into our dwelling, and that we were spared the extra agony of an extended vacation in the dark with a depleted water supply. Bereft of petty material indulgences, it taught me to concentrate on prioritizing and conserving the things I really need. For citizens of the alleged SMS capital of the world, this surely entails down-cutting measures in texting especially when one has nowhere left to recharge one’s phone.

Almost a month after having our nerves tested with one of nature’s powerful elements, we continue to read in the papers stories of the extraordinary kind, stories of faith, hope, courage and bravery; of heroism and of mankind’s intense will to survive whatever the odds; stories that will continue to inspire each and every one of us, a seeming reaffirmation that wherever destiny brings us, there still remain in this life things worth living for.

Which leads me to ponder that perhaps, sometimes, all we’ll ever need is a storm.

weather talk (part II)

Weather-Weather Lang ‘Yan

Perhaps there exists some truth
to this adage they call
a phrase too commonplace:
rushing into conclusion,
a communion of mouths
and words all muttered in haste.
Yet it’s a fact we must face –

in ephemeral silence; dismissed
like the drunkard who loiters
in wait for the second round
of swigs, eyes swollen and red.
(They say he’s here now and then –
perhaps today, perhaps tonight)
toasting beer glasses. Does this

remind you then, once, of things
that got away? When what spilled out
of our senses was nothing else
but a phrase – tearing down walls of
expectation. That was your share
of consolation. We know we’ve
had enough of the proverbial Erap joke

growing trite with each encounter,
much like fate impinging on fortune
that was almost ours. So perhaps now
we understand why there’s scarcely
cause for punctuation, a dilution of our
foibles rolled into whispers

of peripheral contention - lest we succumb
once again to fondness, reminiscence,
whichever. Or should memory cough up
figments of our erstwhile consternation
hardly salved by what they tell us: a phrase
we half-believed was meant for smooth
transitions, strokes of simple reason

we’ll try to comprehend in time. For now
it is a question we will dodge, clueless,
another time, another try. As we make
sense of things falling into place,
we think: They could be anything.
No use insisting on something, an intention
not even so much as a silhouette

suggesting symptoms of
return. Or perhaps imparting
cycles, breeding weathers from a phrase
that has never found completion.

that's not how we do it.

Can a children’s animated film like “Pocahontas” really contribute to such a hefty concept as world peace? More specifically, can it actually help lessen racial discrimination as a major step to achieve this goal?

It all started when we were made to watch the flick as a Social Science class requirement. In the movie, Pocahontas was an Indian princess caught in the crossfire between her people and the Englishmen, which arose from overzealous suspicion of differences. The copper-skinned natives didn’t trust the white invaders and vice versa, the ethnic tension mounting in a tight-locked race for supremacy. One particular stanza from the theme song “Colors of the Wind” effectively echoed such strained sentiments:

You think the only people who are people
Are the people who look and think like you
But if you walk the footsteps of a stranger
You’ll learn things you never knew, you never knew

Memories inevitably rushed back like meteors. I remembered a female classmate in grade school who was offensively dubbed an “aborigine” because of her ebony-dark complexion. I am also reminded of a teacher from China who was the object of taunts in the classroom as she failed to correctly pronounce words in the vernacular. Hindu passersby were frequently shunned by people in the street, and a former Korean schoolmate was regularly laughed at because he had unconventional ideals and wore his clothes differently. It’s always the same case each time. Members of the mockery bandwagon thought, “That’s not how it is. That’s not how we do it.” Or that perhaps, the only people who are truly “people” are those who “look and think” like us – isn’t this ethnocentricity in a nutshell?

The altruist in me opted to look at things differently. “That’s not how we do it”, indeed; but “if you walk the footsteps of a stranger, you’ll learn things you never knew, you never knew.” Three years ago, I walked the footsteps of many strangers and learned back many things in return, when I was chosen as a national delegate to a Root-Seeking Camp in China participated in by Southeast Asian youngsters. Sure, we all had one thing in common – our Sino ancestry – but save for this we were as disparate as a bunch of farm animals. There I was, one of four Filipino faces amid a sea of Thais, Burmese, Laotians, Cambodians, Malaysians and Indonesians. While we were brought up and exposed to diverse cultures, there were no biases and prejudices against one another because we set aside our differences and learned to get to know each other first; we merely listened.

People call it the easiest and hardest task at the same time. You need not do anything except give the speaker your full concentration (No wonder we were taught that the listener is the most important element of communication.) But the words of my professor add something more: “Listen, but listen with an open mind.” To free oneself from any preconceived notions that might be the source of false interpretations, she said, is the true liberty of listening, and only then can you achieve genuine understanding. Understanding in turn, gives rise to empathy as we assess the other person’s situation, placing ourselves in their shoes should the tables turn and others tell us, “That’s not how we do it.”

Once I stumbled across a beautiful line that said, “The greatest gift you can give to a human person is to see him as he really is – a human being.” It had such a profound impact on me since I know that we really can’t reconcile all our differences at once, but at least we’re similar in that we belong to the one same human race, born to live and die under the one same sky.

It’s this very idea of human equality that I will try to uphold as I study on to become a doctor in the near future – a profession I consider as an epitome of non-discrimination since a doctor’s job is to heal everyone, regardless of race, skin color or social status and not just the ones who look and think like himself. Somehow it occurred to me that doctors are capable of healing more than just the physical aspect; they can also reach out to help remedy the social cancer that is racial discrimination by sending out ripples of awareness to every person in this world: No matter who you are or where you come from, you are entitled to the gift of life and good health.

But I guess you don’t exactly need an M.D. to do your part. What’s more significant is that you live out the message of Michael Jackson’s hit single “Man in the Mirror”, where he urged all of us to start our humanitarian quest with the “man in the mirror” and make a change with ourselves first. For how else can we get the peace wheel to start rolling if we personally don’t give it the initial push? How else can we assuage the brunt of bigotry except by selflessly planting the first seeds of tolerance?

Certainly, we can only move on towards establishing harmony among races and nations if we stop giving too much weight on “That’s not how we do it” and take the phrase with a grain of salt instead. We can only realize our dream of a “brotherhood of man” (as the immortal John Lennon put it) if we brush off the fixed impression that every Muslim is a terrorist, or that every Palestinian is a potential suicide bomber, or that every Chinese is a die-hard communist freak. The difference lies in four simple words.

Listen. Understand. Empathize. Heal.

Start with your own “man in the mirror”, and just like Pocahontas, walk the footsteps of many more strangers. You’ll definitely learn loads of things “you never knew, you never knew.”

weather talk.

Overcast

Dark skies tell us something else
of unspoken warnings: a threat
to impede our sunny disposition.

Along with it, perhaps, our peace of mind.

What looms above our heads isn’t
exactly picturesque: Circling shades
of gray, retreating to a stretch of

burgeoning blackness. That’s rain at a distance
anytime soon. The weatherman says
it’s another monsoon. Puff upon puff,

clandestine clouds make their way
to a rendezvous – celestial convicts
on the loose, ready to strike with the first

drop of rain. Will it be just a slight drizzle,
or perhaps a thundering torrent?

We do not know.

The impending darkness blurs our thoughts
and turns off the sun, downing rays
one by one. They disappear

into the void. The air around us quivers
in the infinite silence, only to be shattered
by reluctant raindrops. We’re a little beyond the present

here. But then, all we really need
is a little intuition to predict what’s near.
I hurry to close windows, just in case.

You prefer to keep still, a glum expression
on your face. Your mood is overcast
just like the sky.

Rain begins to fall.

from poetry and back.

You Should Be A Poet

You craft words well, in creative and unexpected ways. And you have a great talent for evoking beautiful imagery... Or describing the most intense heartbreak ever. You're already naturally a poet, even if you've never written a poem.

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

I confess I was a little taken aback when I read the results of this test (I seem to be having this thing for Blogthings lately) not because poetry never crossed my mind, but because it triggered an instant nostalgic feel – almost like returning to my writing roots, actually. My very first entry into the literary sphere, armed only with a keen interest, was indeed through writing poems, mostly on nature, banking on grand hopes of eventually having these land on the pages of the school paper (luckily they did, three of them on one issue alone). That was way back to an eight or nine-year old me, and being raised on cassettefuls of nursery rhymes, I insisted on the typical, classic rhyme scheme; free verse was a total no-no.

Funny that almost a decade after, it was the complete opposite: I began experimenting with what was previously my childhood taboo and found out much to my delight that the name said it all – it made me “free” and allowed me to better explore the more distant horizons of poetry. This time around I wanted to cast my poems on vessels of thought and interaction, to somehow provide an audible voice to our hearts’ rumblings. It surprised me that topics just naturally drifted out of my head one by one – from the pains of writing an excruciating hand-written report to a faked bomb threat in school, from a next-door fire days ago to my personal chagrin at the R-18 label of the “Da Vinci Code” (unfair for prodigy minors like my younger brother). More to come, I guess, for flexing my poetic fingers that have finally broken the surface.

As for the test results, here’s what I really think: I believe everyone’s “naturally a poet”, even if one has never written a poem. You just need to write from the heart.

The Businessman

Who says making business is all bed of roses?

Nowhere was this a simple matter
to reckon with, not just mere counting
coins or bills that flow in and out.
It was a game of chance not even
you or I could keep up with, unless
acumen and alacrity pulls
us to our catch. So let’s see how things
work in this dog-eat-dog match

to rake profits. Here there’s no room
for error, nor is there space for
second chances. A single wrong move
can earn you pity glances. Therefore
it’s a must that you keep this in mind:
That before you raise prices, or fix up
the sale that would draw in more faces,
think of what lies beyond these surprises.

You are, after all, engaged in a trade
where there’s no knowing what comes
of the deal that you’ve made. As you stare
at the sheets that await your approval,
so too do you wonder if you’ll
strike gold, or find things plunging
down tenfold. Your signature is all
that spells the difference. Still it’s

business as usual, and everyday lies
in the palm of your hand, an option
to gamble those shares or not. If
the die is cast, there’s no turning
back to the step that had witnessed self-
contemplation; straddling the fence
between claiming your prize, and paying
the price, in this dog-eat-dog bout –
counting coins and bills that flow in and out.

R-18

The MTRCB has stamped an R-18 label on “The Da Vinci Code”, claiming that the movie is bound to shatter the faith of young Catholics. But I say otherwise, in behalf of those children whose faith and thinking are resolved enough to be easily shaken by just another supposed thriller.

It was clear from the start: They were
equivocal, blinded, blinkered,

lopsided. No philosophy
explains this, a question unasked –

though I’d say it was no more than just
a privilege of age; a secret

attempt to curb the hungry mind.
In between pleas and discourses

they never sought to know what you
had long known; except for the fact that

you’re not yet eighteen (or at least
that’s what they think), and because few

ever read the silent story,
they’ll settle for a label both

you and I detest with a firm
conviction. Sadly, no one bothers

to shake this hostile proposition.
As hoary adults saunter their

way to cushioned seats, we are never
content with our invasive sneaks – through

eyes that startle, divulging the lie
that could have easily earned us our

ultimate chance for a moment
of rapture. But now we must contend

with this corporal fixture: A face
barely lined, and hardly weather-beaten –

that if one of us dared touch and
caress it in earnest, the query

of time would erase itself and sink
beneath a sweaty forehead. Who cares,

by the way? Age was never an
absolution, except perhaps

a token for admission, an
issue of second thoughts that would’ve

otherwise led to a truce, an
agreement. But no, it was always

a cause for some infringement, a bone
of contention. While lawmakers dwell

on the pending criterion, we
linger at a loss and seek mutual

emotion. Though eyes and lips sealed and
muted in convention, our minds spin

wildly with the promise of a vision:
Should we get past those guards and hurdle

the gates with tickets clutched tightly,
we’ll find ourselves seated on rows

and seats, swapping bottoms too many.
The movie starts rolling, and all that

has been, is a somewhat blurred envy
of those not yet eighteen.

Next-Door Fire

Around early afternoon of May 25, 2006, the storage fan of our adjacent establishment caught fire and spread a cloud of smoke over the neighboring stores, generating public panic. The flames were fortunately halted a while later and there were no serious damages done to property.

At someone’s first mention of the
dreaded word, nothing was at a
standstill. One blurt was enough to buzz
in people’s ears, echo in their minds
and confirm fiery fears; symptoms of
a monotony unwillingly

broken. What we thought we hear only
of heroes and firefighters, we see
before us, tumbling from fire trucks that blare
with sirens decibels too alarming.
So starts another round of hormone-pumped
motions, adrenaline implosions,

a drastic plea for action. Though high-pitched
voices consume us faster than the flames,
we know there’s more than just smoke billowing
from across the next-door building. Nothing
here is certain: Since it’s almost well-known
that this zone’s fire prone. Perhaps even walls

may fail to do the job here, wooden as
they are. Otherwise we’re left with something
better than regret: The last reckless race
for a roundabout rescue. Yet suppose
it were all just déjà vu? A tinge of
news items safely tucked within our heads –

crossing the familiar: Smoldering homes,
fleeing families, tentative shanties –
going down in smoke. This time it’s for real.
We may have seen similar scenes, or felt
the same misgivings; an unforgotten
remembrance, somewhere in our histories.

Each time is always different, almost
another deterrent – extinguishers
dousing fire. Everyone’s eager to know
the story of what has sparked the first spark,
while time remained sleeping; afternoon naps
taking over full stomachs. Who hinted

the combustion sprouting minutes after?
A thousand possibilities conspire
for an answer, concealed out of sight in
the sweltering wake – mere wisps and whispers –
fires telling their own stories, constructing
theories, leaving behind embers in
someone else’s memory.

strumming the strings of life.

You look real serious. Try to relax.”

My instructor’s words instantly brought me back to earth. I had no idea how grim I looked, only that I was too focused on getting those chords right to notice anything else. Intense concentration almost made me forget that I was practicing my guitar, not studying for an exam. Unlike the latter, there are no failing marks; only words of encouragement.

Accordingly I loosened up and took a deep breath. I tried again.

With nearly everyone bitten by the acoustic bug, I knew I just had to learn to play the guitar when some of my classmates began showing off their jamming skills one after another. “It’s easy,” they remarked. “You try it.”

Hooked on the idea, I was convinced that I’d breeze through my lessons without much difficulty. A wave of excitement gripped me at the prospect of my first foray into musical instruments since age four, during which I almost left my piano teacher incapacitated by banging down the piano cover during my very first session.

Luckily there were no more pianos to destroy this time. After watching my instructor pertly move his fingers with the gait of a master, producing rich tones in the process, I expected I could easily do the same. Do-re-mi is supposed to be child’s play.

How wrong.

My initial attempts were a little more than total disasters. Upon giving it my first strum, a dull twang vibrated off the guitar and filled the air. Strike one.

“No, don’t place your fingers directly on the frets. Allow for around 1 mm of space.”

My hopes for a faultless start were immediately dashed. Still, I heeded my instructor’s advice and proceeded to try again. A slightly different sound emerged, but nevertheless just as lame. Strike two.

“Press harder. Look, your middle finger is barely pushing the string down,” he pointed out.

I hesitated, and then pressed as forcefully as I could until I felt a cutting pain as the nylon strings dug into my skin. I realized that my wobbly, inexperienced fingers were no match for what appeared to be effortless, uncomplicated actions that in fact required much skill and deftness. I strummed once more and listened.

Being too preoccupied with my left fingers, I was unaware that my right thumb was plucking a different string. I only discovered my blunder the instant “do” came off as “mi”. Strike three.

So went a vicious cycle of frustrations and repetitions. Before long, I was staging my own comedy of errors, my pathetic hand-eye coordination earning me the lion’s share of embarrassment. Deep inside, my patience was running out and my self-worth deteriorated with each silly mistake. I wondered if learning to play this instrument was such a good idea after all.

Vestiges of my first session manifested themselves in deep red marks on my left fingers and a sore right thumb. My thoughts didn’t help much, either. Here I am at step one. Success lies at step infinity.

It was more or less a similar scenario back home. Doing the suggested hour’s worth of daily practice only rubbed more salt to an already bleeding ego. For several minutes I remained stuck in a quandary, trying to make sense of the myriad noises I was unconsciously producing, poring over pages of notes and staffs in vain.

I just couldn’t understand. Music was supposed to be some form of relaxation, a temporary breather from life’s stresses. What then am I doing with a guitar that gave me more headaches than happy thoughts?

After what seemed to be an eternity of alternately plucking and groaning, I could stand it no longer. My pent-up frustrations found release in the form of a scream that echoed throughout the whole house. I was ready to smash the instrument into pieces.
My mom came down and promptly gave me a telling-off.

“That’s the problem with you. Always in a hurry. Remember, there are no shortcuts here. Go ahead and practice some more.”

Her words rang like alarm bells. It was true that many times in my life I had played hide-and-seek with the success game which fortunately had cheeky detours. It looked as if my smart-guy-of-a-guitar doesn’t want to be outdone, too.

Frowning, I reluctantly picked up the instrument and practiced again. No luck. The notes bounced off like a six-year old blowing his New Year’s trumpet. Not to be discouraged, I checked my fingers, firmly placing them where they should be, and strummed. Better. Prodding myself on with each tiny bit of improvement, an hour passed and before I knew it, I was coolly producing C-majors and A-minors and getting the hang of it. Sighs turned into chuckles, and there were no more agonizing screams. Suddenly, learning to play the guitar was such a good idea after all.

From then on, it was a promise of patience and optimism that I kept to heart every time I drew out my guitar and practiced. Less grumbling and swearing, more persevering and stretching of my patience for as long as I can hold it. I still commit mistakes and my fingers would hurt after every sitting, but I have come to accept them as part and parcel of the learning process.

As I stare at the set of notes before me and position the guitar on my lap, I had a heartening insight: Whatever step you’re in, step “patience” will always be there to lead you to step infinity.

I began to strum.

banahaw and rizal's legacy.

(Around this time last year, we trekked to Mt. Banahaw and interacted with members of a Rizalist group, learning all about their ways of living and their idea of religion. I must say it was truly an enlightening experience.)

The road leading to Mt. Banahaw is not exactly an appetizing one. After a butt-scraping two hour bus ride from the metropolis, you alight at Dolores town in Quezon and board a jeepney plying the thirty-minute uphill route for a nonstop spectacle of dust, dirt and disconcerting bumps. You instinctively whip out your hanky as the vehicle chugs and teeters along the narrow potholed lane, and finally when you get off relieved and visibly shaken, don’t forget that you still have to endure the walking part – certainly not for the weak-kneed and faint-hearted. But all this becomes nil when you see it before you: the real thing, the mystical marvel.

That’s what they often say, that Banahaw is a mystical mountain, and they’re not saying it for nothing. If this were so, how then can the feelings of awe and wonder be explained as one slowly beholds the sight of this peak towering up into the clouds? How else can one not reach its summit, not even set foot on its slopes yet still become very much inspired and captivated by its grandeur from a distance?

It's one of the holiest and most revered places in the country. Holy in the sense due to the mountain’s aura of sanctity and stillness, making it a favorite site of pilgrimages from all over; yet holier still if one sets aside communing with nature and admiring the scenery per se for a sneak peek into the beliefs and traditions of a people who have made Banahaw the core of their being, whose ways of living have given rise to a striking and perhaps subtler definition of the word “holy”.

Enter the Iglesia Ciudad Mystica de Dios, a millenarian movement centered on the area. From the name itself (“Mystica”) it might sound a passable inference at first, though greatly unsupported, to say why the movement was based around Banahaw, and conversely, why Banahaw until now remained largely mystical. With tenets primarily ascribing to nativistic Christianity, what’s conspicuous about them is that they emphasized the heroism and invaluable contributions of Dr. Jose Rizal, considered the Filipino epitome and who appeared to have taken over Christ’s place in 19th century Philippines preaching and promoting goodwill among his compatriots. A sprinkling of other heroes follow suit, a select few reckoned to really stand out and were termed the “12 Lights of the Philippines.” It might be interesting to note that as I perused the pictures of the 12 Lights in their chapel, erstwhile president and revolutionary general Emilio Aguinaldo was obviously absent, as the movement did not consider him a true hero for being the master brains behind the treacherous murder of Katipunan Supremo Andres Bonifacio and his brother.

The group was founded during the American period by a woman named Maria Bernarda Balitaan, believed to be sent by no less than the Lord Jesus himself to the world in preparation for his second coming. She lived during a time when the Philippines witnessed Rizal’s martyrdom and suffered successive foreign hegemony, her lasting words an assurance of religious salvation: “That a white dove shall descend from above and land at several chosen places to sow the seeds of change; that one day, a piece of bamboo would suddenly shoot up from the top of Banahaw from which a golden Philippine flag shall emerge, and from which a New Jerusalem similar to that of St. John’s vision would be formed.” To the ordinary bystander who knew not an inkling of this prophecy, it seemed grand enough; and I was only able to gain a satisfactory foothold, fortunately, when someone from their lot patiently explained the course of things.

The bamboo symbolized the concept of genuine brotherhood, which essentially revolved around natural worship and heartfelt prayer; while the golden flag represented the act of reaching out to the populace about this true concept of religion. True religion, we were told, is founded on a spirit of selflessness and wholehearted dedication to God, since it was pointed out that the pre-Hispanic native religions didn’t exactly base a large chunk of their worship on fiestas and processions, and on religious ornaments and images of saints (except the wood carvings of anitos, perhaps?) Ironically, this brings to mind the memory of what I had seen earlier that day, somewhere back along the heart-stopping stone steps leading to the Sta. Lucia River where a statue of the saint stood surrounded by numerous floral offerings and myriad candles burning in the wind.

But whether or not to tolerate images of saints, I guess that’s a thing best left to experts. More than that, I learned about the group’s principle of doing good works on earth by merit of conscience and pure intentions and not out of fear or sheer force. Most of Ciudad’s funding relied heavily on its members who felt it their duty to shell out some of their blessings and share it with the community. They also believe that man only does what he is meant to do, i.e. merely work out things on his own and has neither the right nor the responsibility to judge others. It is God who punishes; He alone can see one’s true intentions deep inside. So whenever they feel that a certain member has not been aptly performing his duties, they leave it all up to Him to carry out the necessary retributions.

Although the Ciudad Mystica de Dios is still a form of Christianity, this does not mean that they wholly and blindly accept the present Bible as it is, what with the centuries-long revision, restatement and deletion of items in the original version which were deemed offensive and detrimental to the growth and progress of the Church. (I'm getting shades of Dead Sea Scrolls cum Gospel of Judas here). This is one aspect of modern-day Christianity which the movement hopes to rectify. They have attempted to modify the Bible in such a way that its deviation from original sources is more or less minimized, which together with the teachings of Rizal and the other heroes, serve as the group’s collated ideology and guidelines for living.

While this ideology serves as the group’s cornerstone and furthermore keeps them aiming for a “reform” in religion from a materialistic and concrete perspective to one that is more spiritual and abstract, its mosaic nature does not necessarily make it intact. On my part, it would be hugely unthinkable for one to successfully reconciliate the doctrines of Rizal and most of our national heroes who were liberal freemasons with that of the Church which adheres to its strict, unbending and conservative doctrines. Add to this lack of coherence the fact that a realistic movement would endeavor to “seek a major and rapid change in society”, but the Ciudad does not – for the change that it seeks is rooted passively, one that it believes must come from every individual and shall reach its crowning zenith at the given period stated in the prophecy.

Indeed, everything was all about change. And for this particular experience, it was especially a change of heart – change of heart towards one’s outlook in religion, towards discovering once again the significance of true worship in its simplest, least elaborate form. Just like the people of Ciudad Mystica de Dios, I know that Banahaw will continue to leave me pensive, with its trademark imprint of mystery and sacredness. I might not have raced to its summit before sunrise just to drink in the breathtaking view from a decidedly vantage point, or even just stepped on its hallowed slopes for posterity, but then, I was there. I had succeeded in deciphering the silent yet all-encompassing message which it brings to humankind.

Rizal couldn’t be any happier in his grave.

a word on egalitarianism.

“If I were in doubt as to the wisdom of one of my actions, I should not consult Flaubert or Dostoevsky. The opinion of Balzac or Dickens would carry little weight with me; were Stendhal to rebuke me, it would only convince me that I had done right; even in the judgment of Tolstoy I should not put complete confidence. But I should be seriously upset…I should worry for weeks and weeks, if I incurred the disapproval of Jane Austen.”

In short: Expect nothing but the best from the great Jane Austen.

There could not have been a better introduction, and a staggering one at that, to Pride and Prejudice than the words of Lord David Cecil in his Leslie Stephen Lecture at Cambridge University, when he paid homage to the English writer and esteemed her beyond the ranks of peers and fellow word masters in his stirring speech. Another article I’ve read years back described the author’s prowess as “needing no Spell check; every word is perfectly formulated and the syntax is impeccable.”

Thanks to endorsements like these, I already have a hunch as to what to expect even before encountering the novel’s initial line, another candidly mind-blowing sentence: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”

The unbelievable frankness of this woman leaves me simply stunned.

Now that I have reached the opposite pole and concluded the final chapter, I must say Lord Cecil’s words cannot come any closer to being wrong than do saints approach the fires of hell. When all else is said and done, my opinion stands as finding the novel every inch intriguing and just as flawless in its exposition.

Strange thing is, upon first acquainting yourself with a summary of its 61 chapters, the concept of “pride and prejudice” just wouldn’t be the first to enter your mind. The plot is a swirling cycle of life’s upbeats and downbeats revolving around four main romances, and perhaps you might wonder whether what you are about to read is indeed the renowned magnum opus or merely another piece of romantic fodder.

It has often been said that the ability of a novelist can be measured in the way he/she is able to maintain the central idea without fail while conjuring up various caricatures at the same time. In this test of literary multitasking, Jane Austen earns herself flying colors. It struck me how she effectively made the whole idea of “pride and prejudice” echo throughout every nook and cranny of the book, well-hidden within descriptions of characters and settings, skillfully inserted within witty dialogues, always leaving behind a discomforting feel of the predominance of its evil.

Though she was clearly talking of 18th-19th century Great Britain, one can’t help believing she created her masterpiece as a reminder for humanity for as long as society exists. In this world, in this time, there will always be clamor for equality.

Some of the most common ones we see today are aptly addressed: favoritism among children, preference for the high and mighty, falsely construed interpretations and one-sided judgments. Her staunch belief in egalitarianism should ring well into the depths of a world where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, where those with power and connections reserve the right to do magic tricks and where organisms with ultra-inflated egos thrive on the edge of reason.

Fortunately the heroine overcomes all adversities with her wit and charm, and as expected, gets her well-deserved happy ending. I hate to be so corny; but yes, love moves mountains. It tugs harder at the heartstrings than do pride and prejudice.

It conquers all.

dancing.

(This piece appeared in the Youngblood section, Opinion Page of the Philippine Daily Inquirer last June 17, 2006. No greater joy is there for a writer than to see his own work get published, albeit in one of the nation’s biggest newspapers.)

It is a fact well-settled that some guys just can’t dance.

Unfortunately, I belong to this group of poor old chaps who could only sit by a corner, helplessly staring at the more gifted ones prancing away with prize partners in tow, wishing all the while that the phenomenon of switching shoes (and abilities) were possible. You’d probably think it way too ambitious for someone who hasn’t even tried and tested the grooves yet, but trust me when I say that I’ve tried just about as much and as hard as anybody else. The last time I publicly showed off my dancing talents onstage was during my junior year, and it ended up with one student approaching me afterwards to say in hushed, stiff tones that I resembled a bewildered robot skidding off course. Hands down, it was a bad enough experience; that’s when I finally decided it’s about time I give my clumsy old awkward self a well-deserved break from causing more humiliating fiascos, at least for the meantime.

However lousy I could get with steps and strides, I wasn’t exactly born having two left feet. You see, the art of dancing somehow goes well and good in the family: My parents could throw in a step or two, my siblings could also carry on with the beat, and as for one of my aunts – well, dancing IS her life. My precocious childhood even had its own share of the jiggling and the wiggling, carefully preserved in indelible photo frames and providing evidence to the whole story lest my current inflexible rod-of-a-body suggested otherwise. There I was at the forefront during kindergarten days, grinning and eagerly leading the class in mixed song-and-dance numbers. I suppose I can still do the singing part just as fine; but the dancing aspect seemed to have vanished altogether. What had happened in between?

Perhaps it would have something to do with how I prioritized things as I moved on to grade school. At that time, stakes were high for skills in speaking, singing, the visual arts and academics. Being the insufferable perfectionist that I was (and sometimes still am), I wasted no time in vigorously pursuing each of these disciplines, even attempting to excel in all of them. Dancing would be sometimes present but on fairly rare occasions, and since I didn’t see it as much of a necessity, it was shoved further and further out of the checklist as the years rolled by.

With the onset of high school, focus was thrust again on studies and on joining school organizations; and this meant even less of cha-chas and cartwheels. Only after some time did I realize that I was no longer the one performing – instead was reduced to the lowly spectator in the audience whenever shake-your-thing numbers entered the scene. I was headed for a typical non-dancing future.

Fast forward to college. Just when I thought nothing out of the blue was going to take place, along came first semester of second year that landed me in a social dancing PE class. Distraught and dreading the prospect of possibly flunking my first course (embarrassingly a presumed no-sweat one at that), you can readily bet that I was one of those who initially objected to the sheer idea of strutting your stuff for a grade – in vain. My only recourse left was to convince myself that it would be fun, that things wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Optimists often credit half of the learning process to a positive attitude. In much the same way, sufficient warm-up provides athletes with maximum power for a stellar performance. Though I am utterly sure I never did dance exquisitely enough to be considered “stellar”, what really fueled me and kept me striving to master the cha-cha, gain control over the slippery steps of the boogie and sway along with the swing was simply enjoying myself in what I am doing – part of internalizing the dance and harmonizing it with my emotions, or so our instructor said.

It didn’t take me long to see what she meant. Unexpected epiphanies helped me rediscover long lost delight on the dance floor. The more I progressed, the more I understood the parallelism of life and dance. It occurred to me that life itself constitutes some form of dance: You live it according to your own rhythm and require proper breathing, grace, flexibility, balance and focus in order to succeed. Moreover, you get a plus factor in communicating with your partner sans the burden of words. It is a pleasant feeling to know you are able to connect with someone else.

The funny thing right now is that months after reluctantly doing a bit of center stage stuff, I have been entertaining thoughts of finally qualifying to hit the ballroom, armed as I am with my newfound skill. However I believe the legacy of dancing goes more than just that. It’s about revisiting a world I had far left behind; of rekindling a thrill deep within, of looking at life face-to-face through a miniature model. Although I can claim to be (ahem) relatively adept at going through the basic routine, I confess I still can’t execute the more complex moves expertly and elegantly, much less effortlessly. Heck, I’m bound to end up worse than a robot; and at the moment can only content myself to sighing and having this envious admiration for the lucky guys who can do so.

Such green-eyed respect will sometimes drive a person to reach for the stars no matter what. Recently while channel-surfing, the idiot box showed a pair of Latino terpsichorean virtuosos giving it their all onscreen. It was an exhilarating sight, no doubt, and it made me realize that there’s certainly much to go before I catch up with the likes of these fabulous superstars. But I guess after all this ruckus of not knowing how to dance and eventually taking classes in it, what really matters is not how well you shake your bootie, but how well you make the most of whatever you can do with your bootie. What little dancing genes I have left, I’ll do away with splendidly. Which means I’ll be awaiting life’s greatest dance yet.

an inkling of iloilo.

There’s more to it than just meets the eye. This true-blue Ilonggo tries imparting the indulgence with a modest introduction.

At first glance, Iloilo strikes you as an urban enigma – humdrum yet delightful, unassuming yet elegant. It has neither the frenetic hassle of the metropolis nor the rustic charm of a mountain village but somewhat borders in between, a seamless intermingling of both worlds. Even for a seasoned Ilonggo who has practically spent all his life in the city, exactly how to classify it or maybe just comprehend a few of its elusive mysteries would prove to be a challenge.

But there are no intricate complexities, surprisingly. Take a casual stroll down any of its time-honored streets and you’re sure to hear omnipresent tones of renowned Hiligaynon, ever melodic and languid as if bearing testament to the unhurried pace of living in this city and the gentle character of its people. You’ll find that literally speaking, buildings have stood their ground for quite sometime, and to further preserve this historical significance the city government has recently enacted a law declaring any edifice over fifty years of age to be a cultural heritage site.

And why not? History has always been the city’s claim to fame, taking precedence over anything else. It’s the reason for the crowds of tourists annually flocking to its grandiose churches credited with their own unique styles, to the vintage mansions and enthralling plazas that number a dime a dozen, to its spirited festivals, and to Museo Iloilo, a foremost historical and archaeological haven in the region. We’re talking here of the second oldest city in the country (after Cebu) and to this Iloilo boasts of almost five hundred years of peaceful existence, becoming evident once one discovers that some structures – Tigbauan Church for instance – indeed attest to having been around that long, most of them juxtaposed in differing and oftentimes contrasting shades of baroque Spanish, definitive American and native Filipino tastes.

Not that all of this has gone unnoticed though. One such Christian pantheon, the Miag-ao Church with its ornate limestone carvings, has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site; and similarly presenting themselves as one of their kind are the sister cathedrals of Molo and Jaro that lord over their respective well-known districts, the former a repository of all-female saints, the latter strictly of male ones and serving as the seat of the Archdiocese as well.

It’s sights like these that await you as you alight from your plane at the Mandurriao airfield (soon to be replaced by another of international standards), after you spot the gigantic billboards that dot many a corner in the horizon, SM’s humongous welcome sign, and the spires of St. Anne’s Church solemnly looming at a distance. But then again in this city, there’s no such thing as “distance” as everything comes into view for at most 20 minutes, and to speak of one hour would mean taking you far off deep into the hinterlands, provided there’s no traffic – one of the growing plagues the city pays as a price for progress.

True enough, progress it is for this thriving regional center that lately grabbed the distinction of being one of the model cities in the country. Undergoing a dramatic facelift over the years, I am a personal witness to how acres of swampy farmland were cleared into malls and plush subdivisions and dirt roads paved into concrete highways. Add in the increasingly energetic nightlife and favorable business potential and you have a city continually wooing the call of advancement, attracting curious investors with the alacrity of a preppie. From the row of painted balustrades lining Muelle Loney to the brand new bridge spanning Iloilo River, hip Smallville and the shiny, gleaming Provincial Capitol, there’s always room for pleasant surprises. All the more for one who is now pursuing further studies in the big city and who never fails to come home seeing and experiencing something new.

Nevertheless as with any other city, you’ll agree that the pride of Iloilo perhaps rests on its greatest assets: its people. Blessed with a genial countenance, amiable mien and traditional southern hospitality, its denizens possess remarkable frugality and an unusual love for industry that has catapulted the city to where it is now: sizzling, vibrant and always on the move.

A visit to any obscure neighborhood will eventually prove this. Amid the flurry of piña and sinamay weaving in Arevalo and of creating gastronomical concoctions in the form of the famous La Paz Batchoy, Pancit Molo, top of the range seafood and the all-time favorite treats of Biscocho Haus that have marked the city as a gustatory paradise, its four hundred thousand inhabitants still manage to retain their relatively busy yet stress-free lifestyle, most preferring to hie off after school or work to the cool interiors of the many malls sprouting one by one, or to the numerous clubs and coffee shops that have arisen in sync to the tune of modernization. A decade before when these things practically sounded alien to Ilonggo ears, it would mean an escape to the tranquil recesses of Fort San Pedro and nearby Rotary Park (which sadly is now on the verge of ruin) and to the endless stretch of beaches that line just about any seaside town, offering hopes of an alternative respite to any jaded, worn-out city bum fed up with the crowded sands of Boracay.

But to talk of Boracay, that’s explicitly another story. Guimaras, visible downtown and just a five-minute boat ride away, would also need another spotlight of its own. Still it’s no meager feat to say you’ve breathed enough of the Iloilo air to have had truly gotten the whole picture. Most probably, it’s just another mere glimpse into the daily workings of the former Queen City of the South, fast gaining ground with everyone doing everything possible to snatch the title back. And I daresay there’s no doubting it will. After all, it has produced great patriots like Martin Delgado who initiated the first anti-Spanish resistance in the Visayas, able politicians in the form of the late Vice President Fernando Lopez and Senate President Franklin Drilon, and world-class performers like violinist Gil Lopez Kabayao. It’s a city that will forever leave its taste in your mouth, long after you have washed it down with a glass of water and gone on to other journeys, a familiar sensation almost akin to déjà vu.

You won’t know it then. Well, at least not after you step out of your cozy alcove and drink in the warm afternoon sun, passing hordes of flourishing textile and hardware establishments, noting the easygoing demeanor of the people and occasionally rubbing elbows with some, in between bites of a tasty Ilonggo homemade delicacy, your ears abuzz with the incessant drone of passing jeepneys and motorcycles. At any point in your life some fond reminiscence of Ilonggo origin might randomly occur to you inside your mind, and you’d readily acknowledge that once you had been there, and that somehow you’ll gradually find your way back again.

Trust me – it won’t be long.

luck is a four-lobed clover leaf.

I think I may have found what I just needed.

No, it’s not a four-lobed clover leaf (as evidenced by this title) or any other kind of leaf for that matter, but I simply chose to designate today’s entry as such because I believe it’s about time I address the long baffling issue regarding that most elusive thing we call luck.

The idea of four-leaved clovers as indicators of good fortune can be traced back to the European Middle Ages, when this botanical peculiarity, by way of an extra leaf, raised many an observant eyebrow. Not long after, people resorted to stuffing a few of these extraordinary biological creations in their pockets, just in case they really do work.

As time passes, so we gradually pitch in yellow butterflies, falling stars, and multi-seven digits, and the “lucky” cast is almost complete. You name it, the world has it.

I know this may all sound like a fanciful old wives’ tale, and indeed it is for there’s no sufficient scientific proof to sensibly support the claim of these objects’ being capable of turning poor old unlucky you into a brand new lucky someone. Then again, they say it’s all in the state of mind: I can only wonder in amazement how serendipitously finding such items can throw the supposedly lucky person into a fabulous floundering fit, even make him/her readily offer heaps upon heaps of praises to God.

Inasmuch as I would have liked to consider myself a rational person, I have to admit being fairly exposed to the wealth of zany beliefs and superstitions on the luck element surrounding me as I grew up. Like many children my age I too had my share of the wishing and the praying that one day or another these things would come my way, especially when the need arose for a lucky me (Nope, it’s not the noodles.) As I discerned more and shifted my mindset from fantasy to reality, it was only logical to gradually dismiss them as sheer inanity, except for one: RED SHIRTS. At present, I have quite a collection of these; and so to speak they have not failed to do the job during competitions and examinations. This summer, I have added something new for a change: a white shirt with the Chinese character for luck (“hok”) imprinted on it.

You might ask why wonder of wonders, I had to choose something so simple as a shirt, not even a red one, as a purportedly lucky symbol when all it can boast of is just that: the luck symbol displayed on its front. Opening our yearbook one time, it intrigued me to discover that one classmate’s slogan is “It is not enough for one to have the luck of talent; one must also have a talent for luck.” –Hair-raising declarations that at length caused me to examine myself for being possibly in want of a talent for luck. Perhaps if I really am, would the huge luck character on my shirt somehow rush to the rescue and get to duly drive away any negative vibes?

Quite a number of serious-minded people I know believe there is no such thing as luck, though. They brush it aside as a mere figment of the imagination, a byproduct of dawdling and daydreaming in the sun too hard and too often. We see how this is clearly concretized in the Filipinos’ time-honored “bahala na” of a fatalism as a rallying banner to eke one’s days out, and on that indolent Chinese farmer in the fable sleeping under a tree waiting for some lame rabbit to bump its head for an instant meal. Thing is, what if “bahala na” somehow lost its efficacy? What if that soon-to-be-dead-meat rabbit you’ve been waiting for all along never came?

The sages cite ample industry and right timing to compensate for, even attempt to explain, the workings of a convincing godsend. With proper faith, however, it would actually be a godsend; and more or less you have in your hands the straightforward formula for success. I know it because this is what my parents and some saner person around me would implant in my head whenever I peeved them with another exasperating episode on why I consider myself plain ill-fated. Almost in tart retaliation, their responses in the form of phrases like “You’re not giving it your all” or “You should strengthen your faith” would constantly zap me back to solid ground with the unfailing effect of a pail of ice-cold water.

Some days I still get the urge to hurl my usual endless tirade of lucklessness at no one in particular whenever I just had gone through a bad day. Heck, in moments like these the sight of the “I’m Feeling Lucky” button on the Google home page is even enough to make me cringe in derision. But I guess the sages were right. There’s no sense in catching yellow butterflies or looking for four-lobed clovers when they’re just not meant to be found, and similarly there’s no telling when joining the queue at the lotto or sitting it out in bingo games would earn you big bucks either. Still, we can always opt to choose alternatives more worthy of our time and energy. After all, it's a case of a half-empty glass or a half-full one - but I'm not wasting any more time on such trifling debates. If I can't get myself a bottle of Felix Felicis, I can always count on a little faith and a little effort to do the trick.

Wish me luck!