in memoriam.

“Here lies his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown,
For Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.”

- Thomas Gray, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

It all started with memory, how our talks
gave way to silence. You are making sense
of letters etched on cold and lonely stone

and of the good earth beneath it, spinning,
unspoken pleas mouthing resurrection
and regret. The afterlife, you mumbled,

when we move on to the next. It is strange
how we fear dark, frail moment of blackness,
sudden light emerging at the height of redemption.

Do you still remember it? The last time
he spoke, the breeze betraying your murmurs,
you had pushed back an answer, attempting

no goodbyes. He replied, flesh and bones –
nothing thereafter. Those words and white noise.
What you really meant, however, was not

"ashes to ashes", or "dust to dust", or
it would have been too easy. Slab of stone,
bunch of flowers, this piece of hallowed ground.

Over the grave we watched over, kept free
from weeds or tidied, even nature knows
its places. The sparrows have alighted

on the branch of some tree, perhaps seeking
deliverance, their wings flapping in time
to the rhythm of prayer. And the candles

are burning, bearing fiery witness, red sparks
and wisps of smoke, melted wax approaching
ruin. They have ways of telling stories,

little wind-secrets to your ear. So listen well:
hear them calling. And pardon the voices
if they whisper loud enough to the grass

at your feet. Maybe the sparrows will hear.
Look, they are now ready to take flight,
half-rising into the sky, perhaps already knowing

how it ended.

ave maria.

It was close to midnight, but the number of people easing their way along the front-row pews is nowhere near dwindling. Each time a row of healed, enlightened parishioners stood up to leave their seats, hastily making signs of the cross as they strode out, another batch – equally eager, equally hopeful – would arrive to take their place, brimming with anticipation for the touch of an elderly woman clad in white, as immaculate as that radiant, glowing image magnificently enthroned on the altar, a halo on her head and cherubs at her feet, her arms outstretched towards the faithful, a contented smile reflecting pure adoration of her children.

A decade before, I had seen myself in a similar scenario: the same pious crowd, the same kindly woman in white but perhaps younger, the same beautiful image overlooking the vast multitude from her place atop the altar. My most vivid memories, however, were composed of figments in the realm of the extraordinary. Clusters of blooming rose petals were wondrously transformed into hosts, some forming religious caricatures as if carved into existence by an invisible hand. A huge container of water poured out fresh oil, and in many instances people suddenly collapsed on the floor, hysterically screaming “Jesus! Jesus!” And of course, there were certain individuals, including my family, who identified themselves with “Our Mother of the Eucharist and Grace.”

In his stirring homily, parish chaplain Fr. Edwin Castillo called it a name above any other name. “No other woman can achieve the same title as Mary, for she is truly Mother of Christ and the source of all Grace.” Such a title, he pointed out, is as intriguing and as mysterious as the woman who rightfully holds it. For someone to be Mother of God and serve as wellspring of Grace at the same time, there had to be an unseen connection bridging faith and understanding, to some extent even defying the most sophisticated tenets of human logic.

Tracing back time sheds a hint of light on this little semantic riddle. On August 15, 1991, an apparition of our Lady appeared to one Puring Fruto in Quezon City, a rosary dangling from her right hand and a scapular on her left. She was dressed in a robe of pristine white, and on her chest was an unmistakable image of the Eucharist and the Sacred Heart of Christ – which she explained symbolized her body as the sole source of Christ’s human nature. Her purpose was clear: She was beseeching humans to pray for the salvation of souls in purgatory, urging people to harness the tremendous power of the rosary as a weapon to achieve world peace.

It was the first of a series of manifestations that eventually came to include the archangel Baraquiel and an additional appeal to pray for the beatification of Mother Ignacia del Espiritu Santo as the first Filipina saint. Armed with conviction, Sister Puring promptly started her mission. There was no stopping the message Mary wanted to propagate, and a core group of staunch devotees was formed. Miracle after miracle took place – some right under the noses of doubting ecclesiastics – and the movement traveled to far-flung places as Cebu, Iloilo, Tacloban and Pangasinan. These, plus the media giving Mary her own share of the limelight – what with the exclusive interviews and extensive news coverage provided by ABS-CBN and similar news channels – had more people flocking to witness our Mother’s saving Grace, some firmly believing, others inspired beyond words, most going home with a newfound sense of hope.

Of course, pomp and circumstance had no measure on my nine year-old self back then. The first time the beloved Mother visited Iloilo City, deigning in our humble home, Sister Puring had asked my little sister and I to close our eyes and state our most fervent request. Then she gently laid her hands on our heads and muttered a little prayer. What took place thereafter was a surreal experience. All at once a light warmth began to envelop my insides, and I was filled with a force steadily pushing me towards a different level of consciousness. After a few seconds, she asked us to open our eyes and out of curiosity, inquired about our wishes.

“Perfect scores in all exams.”

“A third eye!”

It made her smile; clearly amused. Mary intercedes all our heartfelt yearnings to her Son, both the spoken and the unsaid, however childishly ridiculous they may be. But eleven years and much contemplation later, I realized we still had a lot to learn.

One of the things I discovered, incidentally, was how faith can be so immensely phenomenal, standing up against the ravages of time to remain as one of the last few great equalizers of men. Devotion to our Mother is no different. Her heart has found the well-off converging with the poorest of the poor, devout women hobnobbing with the newly baptized, the crippled elderly on wheelchairs alongside feisty toddlers on trams. As I learned years before, “True faith will find a way to survive.” Perhaps it is precisely because of the devotion’s divine nature that it has become what it is today: a genuine faith devoted to a genuine source.

And so when our Lady visited Iloilo the second time around – right smack in the middle of semestral break – I felt that she was drawing me directly into her fold, to be more than a mere spectator of this joyous occasion. During the evenings that followed her long-awaited arrival, I was able to serve as commentator, lector, rosary leader, choir member, distributor and assistant, in no particular order. The night I unwittingly found myself doing a round of Josh Groban’s You Raise Me Up, marveling at the thought of having hit all the high notes in the right places, Tita Myrna had told me: “Sing like you are singing for her alone. Sing like you are singing for no one else.” And I remember telling myself: For my Lady, everything. Because you have already done everything.

In 1994, my formerly hard-drinking father was diagnosed to have liver cirrhosis with esophageal varices, a grave complication of the disease. However, it was two years after when the dreaded event materialized: the varices ruptured and he began to bleed profusely, losing so much blood he had to be airlifted to Manila for emergency management. The prospect was extremely poor, had it not been for a family friend who advised us to visit Sister Puring, where the true healing began. My father recovered in no time and was hailed by doctors as a miracle, though deep inside we knew Mary was the true miracle, the source of all Grace.

The following year, my father started his annual pilgrimage to our Lady’s feast every September, and has never missed it since. In return, she continued to bring us a sheer abundance of Grace, her shining rays of love penetrating every aspect of our multifaceted lives. Both my grandparents met their timely deaths without much suffering, while my aunt was given a second lease on life after being struck with pulmonary embolism. Our family business surmounted many a crisis, and my siblings and I enjoyed a clean academic record. Other families who have experienced being uplifted by the same comforting arms of our Lady thanked Sister Puring for bringing her into their homes. Some even hailed her as a living saint, a label she is quick to refute. “I am just an instrument,” she corrected. All of us are instruments.

How do you explain the old woman who, despite aching knees and brittle legs, managed to hobble to Church for the nightly mass? Or the stores that closed down early on purpose, just so workers could experience our Mother’s healing touch? Or the simple rural folk who left their fields in the sun, trekking miles to reach the parish, unmindful of sweat and dust? We are her children, after all, and a child’s universal instinct is to cry out for its mother.

Thus when time finally came for our Lady to depart, my emotions were decidedly ambivalent. It’s a feeling that stemmed from not having had enough of her presence, at the same time acknowledging the fact that thousands more yearned for her, desperately needing her as much as we do. Amid the throng of devotees singing praise to the highest heavens, kneeling before her in awe, I looked up and saw that her smile was the sweetest one yet. And it somehow occurred to me that this might just be the real essence of devotion – a journey for truth, for salvation, for words hidden beneath those fitted lips, for answers waiting to be unearthed by someone who wanted perfect scores and third eyes and who may have finally found the meaning of Grace, at last.

dust.

Somewhere they assemble, fragments in space
gathering into a mound, dissolved and defying nothingness.

How it’s never noticed: one swirling cloud of matter
eddying to the ground. We only give it names – dust,

dirt, mess, filth – avoided, scorned, evaded, detested,
swept up into the tangles of someone else’s broom

along a sidewalk. What is quickly spurned is barely
seen by the naked eye: transient particles of life,

touched now and then by streams of impeccable sunlight.
So what if this turns up into someone else’s world,

those specks suddenly magnified, figures breathing dust
from our everyday lives? We may never get to know

how the invisible exists, after the sweeping,
after it’s gone. Listen: There are whimpers behind us,

the terribly asthmatic, helplessness mingling
with ways of the unknown, the last remaining pieces

swept away all the same, vague illusions in their place,
perhaps second-guessing, coughing sputum in its wake.

at the core of my being.

(Today is Filipino-Chinese Friendship Day. First celebrated last 2002, the occasion gathers Chinoys from all over the country for an evening of food, camaraderie and superb performances. Incidentally, this year also marks 32 years of diplomatic relations between the Philippines and China - two countries separated by a mere strip of water. The piece below was written for the Fil-Chi digest Tulay Magazine and came out in its special Fil-Chi Friendship Day issue last June 14, 2005.)

If I look back on where I was a year-and-a-half ago, things would have been different: One, I would have been dead set on enrolling in a different school; and two, going to UP would have been the last thing on my mind.

It’s not hard to see why. Just take it from someone who before was not allowed to, who all his life had not been encouraged to, and who naturally, had never thought of becoming a Maroon – but ended up being one anyway. At first, my parents didn't think going to UP was such a good idea. They have frequently droned on about how difficult life in the University would be: from having to contend with eccentric professors to carrying placards in the searing heat by day and lining up in some abandoned basement for a fraternity initiation by night. Patiently enduring the long talks, I do appreciate their concerns; yet somehow these just don’t do the trick anymore.

You see, I’m what many people would call a “Chinoy”. If the word doesn’t ring a bell, think of it as somewhere along the line between Mr. Zhang and Mang Pedro – you get the picture. I’m the modern-day product of a few old Chinese chaps who immigrated to the Philippines sometime in the early 20th century, tried out their luck and eventually got settled. Essentially, I’m made up of two identities – a “Pinoy” one and a Chinese one (thus the term Chinoy.) The “Pinoy” one I can readily see day through day, thanks to some 80 million “kababayans” scattered all over this archipelago. But since only about 1 million of these have so-called Chinese identities, with the number all the more smaller in UP, I half-surmised that my parents feared it would be all too easy for everything to disappear into thin air, for a clueless guy like me to have his Chinese identity peeled off in just a matter of time.

Perhaps this is the reason why ever since childhood, our parents saw to it that we grew up knowing this Chinese identity, which I initially had mixed feelings about. On one hand, the trips to Chinese temples and grandiose celebrations of the Lunar New Year and Mid-Autumn Festival brought us much enjoyment. Our imaginations widened as we engrossed ourselves in Chinese stories and myths, munched “siomai” and “chopsuey”, acquired trained eyes for Jackie Chan and Jet Li and relished the soothing melodies of “Yue liang dai biao wo de xin”. Those were the days, I suppose.

On the other hand, we were also made to speak Chinese at home (though among us siblings we mostly don’t) and attend Chinese classes alongside English ones until high school. I could still remember my late grandmother as being the greatest influence when it comes to the language game. Once when we were small, she even instructed one of our house help to learn simple Fukien so we could converse with her in the language! But being young, my mind was filled with a lot of questions, as to why we have to talk in Chinese at home when vernacular seemed to be the most convenient way of communicating, as to why we have to take extra pains and headaches in school learning another language when we could be outside playing and having a good time. Numerous times my parents have tried to explain why everything is so, but my stubborn self turned many a deaf ear and only now did I understand the meaning and significance of it all.

Our nation has been and remains a huge melting pot of cultures, where all around us people with similar “Pinoy” identities but are of different ethnicities and nationalities can be seen hobnobbing each other day after day. As I’ve stated before, Chinoys comprise only a minute fraction of this enormous hodgepodge. It is precisely because of this that I am all the more taught to be aware of who I am and of who I must try to become. By taking care of our Chinese identity, I realized that we gave ourselves a sense of individuality in this vast “Pinoy” sea. Since in our everyday lives we interact with myriad people, some of whom may be worlds different from us, our opinions, ideas and beliefs are greatly influenced, which in turn may also influence who we are and who we perceive ourselves to be. Steadfastly holding on to a true identity does not easily permit that.

But still we are Chinoy, and because of this our parents also wanted us to grow up enjoying our freer, other “Pinoy” side, supplementing our Chinese identity and completing our overall Chinoy identity. We are devout Catholics. My siblings and I enjoy Jollibee as much as we enjoy Chowking. We listen to pop music as much as classical Chinese songs, and tales of Maria Makiling and Juan Tamad are very much present in our lives. This is because my parents, inasmuch as they wanted us to retain this distinct Chinese identity, do not limit us there; rather, they allow us to observe and experience things from a perspective that is truly “Chinoy” – one that encompasses both “Pinoy” and Chinese points of view, one that is uniquely ours and theirs as well. This way, we are able to expand our horizons and enrich our knowledge and culture from both sides of the fence.

Now that I’m in UP, I get to really go through what being a Chinoy brings about, especially since there lies an obviously major difference between the environment of an austere, nearly puritanical Chinese school and that of a much politically inclined state university. Of course, things went on fine with my ”Pinoy” identity primarily taking over. But soon my Chinese one gradually showed up and I have to admit, my first few days in the Oblation grounds were a period of much revelation. Though already expected, I was still nevertheless stunned by the sudden change of atmosphere, seeing students casually enter in shorts, slippers and even nightgowns! Furthermore, my monosyllabic surname would always stand out during a roll call, and you could bet that any mention of a Chinese word would elicit “oohs”, “aahs” or plain confused stares from my classmates.

Yet in spite of all these, I’m grateful that I’m still able to live a relatively normal life in the University. I’m even more grateful to have had the privilege of being born into a society where Chinese assimilation has become one of, if not the most, stable. I am fortunate enough to have been able to learn and speak my ancestral tongue in all my thirteen years of schooling and practice centuries-old customs with nothing to fear or be ashamed about. Most of all, I’m free to raise my head and chin up in simply being Chinoy.

With China already an “awakened dragon”, having sent its first astronaut into space and gearing up for the 2008 Olympics, and with an increasing demand for Mandarin speaking jobs to cater to billions of Chinese around the globe, I am finally able to see my parents’ intentions in a different light, as their words now echo like nuggets of wisdom, convincing me to come to terms with my Chinese identity and polish it with dignity. Whatever I do and wherever I find myself in, I know that I will always be who I am – thanks to what they have instilled in me, one that is forever bound to be at the core of my being.

the ten joys of summer.

Summer has come and gone. The unbearable heat of the noontime sun is gradually giving way to the thick black clouds of the rainy season, and storms – whether we like them or not – are once again looming over the horizon. And here I am, psyching myself up for classes and bracing for the incessant deluge of monsoon (and exam) rains. But if only to look back on the happy, carefree weeks that were, who can deny that summer had been a real blast? Below are ten reasons on why I personally felt my summer had been a swell one, no regrets:

1. Holy Week
As a child, it used to be watching the grandiose candlelit processions of saints that went deep into the night on Good Friday, serving in church and doing the rounds of the Visita Iglesia with my family as I grew older, and most recently taking part in the liturgy of the Word for the second consecutive year. I was up to the challenge: Deliver the Passion as if the congregation were witnessing the actual suffering of Christ, and partake of Easter as a celebration of life itself. Beyond the petty excursions people crave about during this time of year, a simple personal reflection is sometimes all you really need.

2. BusinessOur store was severely undermanned over the summer, resulting in everyone moving and rushing double-time to get things done twice as much, and twice as fast. I wasn’t spared from all the hurly-burly, at times having to attend to different matters all at once. But I learned some new skills, not to mention the understated importance of being an efficient multitasker. And of course, there’s cultivating the work ethic that will prove invaluable in the years to come. Not at all a bad way to keep yourself productive.

3. Bank Tellers
I guess my innate charm hit the mark again. An invariable part of doing errands for my mom consisted of trips to BDO-Iznart for updates, deposits and payments. And how can you not resist meeting and befriending the colorful people who kept the place running: Tito Joel (the manager), Ma’am Ruby, Joy, Ann, Conchita, Emily, Cherry Ann and newest addition Nessie. Bills and passbooks exchanged for jokes and pleasantries, my presence readily given away whenever I wore those rubber slippers that noisily clicked as I made my way along the shiny tiled floors.

4. Weekends
Studying in Manila, I had a lot of catching up to do when it came to good old high school classmates. What better way to spend warm weekend nights than meet up for a nice dinner or a movie, followed by a leisurely nighttime stroll along some quiet downtown street, and afterwards a refreshing cup of coffee? Our pockets were limited but the stories were endless and the camaraderie incomparable.

5. Going Places and Playing Host
This included attending my first real fiesta ("Hopping on a Bus, I Reveled in a Fiesta One Weekend in April") at Ralph’s place an hour away from the city. The journey revealed a nice, budding countryside that brought back to mind the words of my Canadian cousin Edrea: “You should get to know your country first.” Fiestas are almost synonymous with good food – which didn’t leave us at all disappointed. We also had a mini Iloilo-Bacolod exchange program with our classmate Trick, and last summer was Level I: the basics. Hopefully next year, we will be able to move on to Level II: the hinterlands.

6. Voting
My sentiments were voiced out in an earlier post (“The First Ballot”) but I thought it worth mentioning again as the first ballot is such an important milestone for every law-abiding, civic-minded citizen of this country. The elections in our place were generally peaceful and clean, yet I can’t help thinking of the far-flung barrios where people voted in silent fear or submission, unable to exercise their right through a simple exertion of will. There were those who sacrificed more – their freedom and even their lives just to uphold a genuine democratic cause.

7. Algebra and Trigonometry
Well, I played mentor to my brother and got my wish, too. I had been missing Math for quite sometime, and was therefore amazed that I still got a satisfactory grip on the principles with a little recall now and then. What students usually learn in the span of one school year, we crammed into just about 3 weeks. And no doubt it was a great mental workout, being both teacher and student at the same time.

8. American Idol
When the dust finally settled, Jordin Sparks was the last performer standing. I was rooting for versatile technician Melinda Doolittle, with Jordin placing a close second on my list. It’s not everyday that you get to see a promising 17 year-old fresh from high school who endears the world with her thousand-watt smile and who can belt out songs to the sky with a voice defying the force of gravity. Ever since I got hooked on the show after watching Fil-Am sensation Jasmine Trias on it, I’m always looking forward to the next season.

9. APO Hiking Society
They were a feisty, middle-aged trio of boundless energy who gave it their all, conquered our hearts and sang like there’s no tomorrow during their packed concert in Iloilo last June 2. An incredible singing prowess peppered with wisecracking remarks and upbeat humor kept us glued to the stage and elicited rales of laughter from the audience. Champions of OPM, the APO is a true testament to Filipinos as first-class entertainers. And they continue to hike their way up the world, still, to bring the Philippine flag to even greater heights.

And the best reason…

10. 8 Hours of Sleep!
‘Nuff said.

the first ballot.

"That's it." I told myself when I finally got up from my seat to submit that delicate piece of paper, running its written contents in my head. Minutes later I emerged into the sunlight with a purple smudge on my right thumb and indelible ink on my right index finger – two telltale signs that I have just perfected my duty as a citizen of this country.

As a classmate put it in her blog, "I was happy. I voted." And perhaps rightly so, especially when you're one giddy first-time voter who has just turned 18 within the last three years, and who hasn't had the previous excitement of seeing his/her name posted on the door of some precinct, foolproof evidence laid out for the whole world to know that you have finally acquired the power to choose the leaders of the land.

The experience was surreal. And strangely real, too. Seated in a secluded spot far from the prying eyes and stretched necks of those who strained through the window panes for a glimpse of democracy (or what comes close to it), since voting is what makes a democracy after all, you suddenly find yourself an unlikely judge shut off from the outside world for a few private minutes by the mere shadow of a secrecy folder, time seemingly at a standstill as you finalize the list you have been attempting to assemble over the course of weeks or months, resolving an internal crisis on whether to fill up that last empty space with some lucky candidate's name or cross it out in haste (and disgust) altogether, making sure you had done yourself justice in writing down what you stood for and believed in.

Because that is what voting is about: standing up for your beliefs. It’s the ultimate hidden power every true-blue citizen wields, ready to be dished out at the call of civic duty. It is also a great equalizer – former presidents getting no more than the same one vote as the poorest of the poor. And not just any “voting” will do – it has to be wise voting, informed voting; the freedom of choice coexisting with the responsibility of knowledge.

Such has been the clamor of all who, in one way or another, have been seeking out every possible means for a holistic picture of each candidate. A common ground is almost always shared in the lack of information, practically leading to a less-than-informed, if not haphazard, choice. People resort to racist and/or religious biases, forgetting the more essential platforms and track records. This may partly explain the observed low turnout of voters, who, dismayed and tired of voting for nothing, have somehow made it their mission to keep some precincts relatively uninhabited. My dad, who is in Manila for health reasons, wasn’t able to exercise his right. But it is the least of his concerns. It’s just one vote, anyway. Many people I know too, who have either failed to register or who simply considered it a waste of time and energy to troop to their assigned precinct, have preferred to do other things more worthwhile. It’s just one vote, anyway.

One vote?

One single, tiny, utterly insignificant vote?

And we go back once more to the story that I believe has been around since the time elections were invented. A lot of historical fallacies have been circulating in the web regarding the astounding power of a single vote, like how some states allegedly became part of the US by virtue of one vote, or how a major political figure was removed or put into power by that same single vote. Though I don't exactly commend these sites for their sheer failure to verify their sources, the message they bring across is loud and clear: Never underestimate the power of your vote. It IS enough. And it IS important. It counts. Assuming you don't become the unwitting victim of some nameless, faceless shenanigan, that is.

I am reminded of the time I registered as a first-time voter in the Comelec last December. The miniature office was already bursting at the seams with the throng of youths shoving and elbowing their way through the narrow gate, prompting a cacophony of mixed yells, cries and shouts of anger, desperation, frustration – sometimes all at once. It didn’t help that the guards deployed to maintain order were in a brazen fit themselves, hurling their own tirade of threats and intimidating anyone who got too stubborn-headed.

But again, the message was clear: The youth are there. And they sincerely WANT to vote. To think people have been too keen to say that the youth are slowly becoming apathetic to the plight of this country. Nevertheless, the situation was so dismal that it merited the attention of no less than the city mayor, who was himself already reeling from the outpouring of complaints from concerned citizens. This would have to be a stern warning to the Comelec to straighten up their act, or they won't be seeing much of new voters in the coming years if the nasty trend continues.

And what of the fancy anomalies digging right into the electoral process itself? One disheartened columnist in a major daily chided the sanctimonious show of glib candidates strutting their showbiz-styled stuff on TV, saying the polls have become a mere competition for those who hold the clout and the means for an assured victory. Sadly, there indeed lies some truth to this statement. Sometime last week, my mom casually asked one of our regular customers in jest, "Any bills yet?" which I initially perceived to be the profitability of business with the upcoming elections. Imagine my shock and great surprise when I found out that she actually referred to the sordid process of vote-buying, and talking about it as if it were the most natural thing in the world!

Why not, I half-concluded after some minutes of self-realization. It's time to wake up to the present, and if you're one of those who find themselves assailed with a daily dose of bad news, sculpted across the front page, what's not to expect? The arithmetic of dagdag-bawas, the superb flying acts, the dead returning from their graves – these will come in their own time, perhaps not with our own eyes, perhaps not with our own ears, perhaps not with anybody else's – but they're there, definitely.

So maybe with that one single vote I cast, I may not make a difference. Well, I suppose not yet – the latest news on TV show the members of the leading pack ahead by a few thousand votes over their closest rivals. Or perhaps, fully unaware of it, I turned out to be that unwitting victim whose ballot has fallen prey to deceitful hands. A thousand possibilities exist, and to accurately predict the fate of my one true ballot would be to say that it hovers somewhere between being safe inside a bonafide Comelec box and being left floating (perhaps already dog-eaten) in the murky waters of an underground estero. But the fact that I was able to vote with a clean conscience is enough to keep me sleeping soundly tonight. My first ballot was cast, and proud to say I cast it with my dignity intact.

blackout sessions.

Lights off.

Only, this isn't a theatrical production, or a simple bulb-switch test for that matter. You know it the instant the electric fan also stops humming, the instant your beloved PC switches off without warning. It's every urban denizen's regular pain in the neck – a blackout.

Or here, what we usually refer to as a "brownout" (Honestly, how did the term come about?), one of two unwanted phenomena we've been getting a lot of lately (the other one is intermittent water shortage.) Last April, we experienced almost weekly blackouts, most of which just struck from out of nowhere. The worst one – lasting almost a hefty 30 hours – put the last straw on the patience of the otherwise mild-mannered Ilonggos, creating such a huge public uproar that the city government, under attack from angry complainants, threatened to slash the budget of the National Power Corporation (Napocor) should the latter fail to put its act together in the nick of time.

Fortunately after that the frequency of blackouts was significantly reduced – until yesterday that is, when we found ourselves enduring not one, not two, but THREE successive sessions in the dark, a pitiless cycle of lights on-lights off and jubilation-frustration episodes that took place arbitrarily in the store, at the dinner table, and in the bedroom, all unexpected and much more unwelcome when you already see yourself drenched in sweat and intensely yearning for that moment of electrical reemergence to show up like an oasis in the desert.

But that was too much of wishful thinking, I guess – not necessarily a good thing lest “wishful” turns to “wistful” in the long run. If there’s a side to blackouts that people don’t readily acknowledge, it’s that it can make you realize that electricity is such a huge necessity, but that we can also do without it – many thanks to emergency lamps, flashlights, and the trustworthy candle whose services to humankind cannot be simply undermined. True enough, as I stole a quick glimpse out the window into the next household, I beheld a lone candle bravely permeating the otherwise bleak monotony of a powerless landscape, its own steady strand of light defying the harsh environment. And again, you realize that contrary to what your own childhood made you believe, the dark isn't so frightening after all.

Blackouts take the edge out of our perfect everyday routines. It can give you the opportunity to make proper use of your time, having the conversations you never had, picking the chance to reflect and pray, taking a leisurely walk around the house, listening to the sounds of nature predominating. And it just struck me how the night could seem so much purer and unspoiled when there are no sounds of technology to clog your ears, when all you hear are crickets and birds, forgive the occasional vehicle passing by.

For almost five redundant hours, we waited eagerly for that ecstatic shout of joy from neighbors proclaiming the good news, which would then be accompanied by the welcome glowing of streetlights in succession, and ultimately, the resumption of life temporarily driven to a slight yet sudden pause with the (non) electrical interference. What irked us even more was that rain suddenly fell, prompting us to close the windows and get deprived of the infrequent summer breeze. When the day is hot, the rain is even more humid; and the raindrops didn't exactly alleviate the situation as they made their way onto the pavement, falling at the height of the sweltering summer heat.

It was almost midnight when power was finally restored, but long before that I had already made up my mind to just sleep it off till morning. And far from knowing it, someone next door might still be fully awake, perhaps already rejoicing, that lone candle perhaps already extinguished.

mang nick revisited.

The first time I encountered the story "May Day Eve" written by the indefatigable Nick Joaquin, let's just say I was a little short of being blown away. The enchanting atmosphere permeating the plot, the magic realism employed, the skillful use of language - all contributed to a total feast for the senses. This time around, I gave my own shot at a poetic interpretation of the hard-drinking, no-nonsense writer's most famous magnum opus. I hope I have given it justice.

May Day Eve

“If all goes right, just above your left shoulder will appear the face of the man you will marry."
"And what if all does not go right?”
"Ah, then the Lord have mercy on you…because you may see the Devil!"

A hint of brilliance in the dark, a hand piercing
through the blackness. Candle-wielding fingers,
shedding light into a room that speaks of emptiness
forgotten. Here, a spot by the old mirror where
the moon casts a glow with its ghastly shimmer,
a slight breeze murmurs its phantom whispers.

This indecent hour of night when witches start to
forage for some rumpled mortal flesh, for victims,
the scent of someone courting what’s forbidden.
Somewhere, dogs are howling, shadows on walls
shuddering in fright. They are in another place,
another home – and she shrugs these thoughts off.

Tomorrow, the flowers bloom in their pompous
magnificence, but tonight, her young heart beats
with a love yet uncertain, with a longing finally
freed from its shackles, emerging into the light.
The urgings of the soul giving way to the first word.
And “mirror, mirror show to me him –

whose woman I will be.” She hesitates, her voice
trailing off into muteness, the chant still resounding
within the confines of her head. Farther off, her knees
buckle from the weight of the unfamiliar, skulking
towards her like an unseen spider. But there is no
turning back, and she repeats the incantation

with pleas thrown to the wind, bated breath, half-
heartedly anticipating the final instruction: look, look
closely. And gazing into the mirror, excitement
intensifying with each tread towards the unknown,
towards a shot for true love, the inescapable arrival
to a secret discovery. True enough, it is there:

a face white and pure, unblemished and radiant –
hers. A blink, then a second look, and suddenly
saw an image that could’ve made her scream, a
hair-raising shriek spilling over trees and roofs
and rousing the household from its slumber.
That earsplitting disruption of the stillness

is her option. Only, it is not taken.
For the night remains untarnished, the same
enchanting elegance, punctuated somewhere
by a gasp of sheer terror, a soul perhaps claimed
in the name of love, or in the fires of hell.
Which is which, no one ever knows.

This question remained unanswered, the one
her child keeps on mouthing. The innocence of youth
peering out from two curious eyes, waiting for
salvation. But she was staring past those eyes,
forgetting herself, succumbing to the subconscious
world of the infernal. The present is a blur.

Decades apart, generations in between –
The warning stays. The daunting task for those who dare,
who defy the ancient admonition. Folks quietly stirring
the legend, rekindling it back to life. Far from
oblivion, something thrives in antiquity, the silence
caressing stories that almost become actual

when he closes his eyes and grasps the old summer air,
as if looking for something, someone he once loved.
He opens the windows, takes in the whole setting,
regret overpowering him like the weather.
The vision flickering in his graying mind, of her –
now imagined, now real, now
a tombstone.

southern sunsets.

Sunset over Iloilo harbour. This was taken atop an old porch overlooking the Iloilo part of the Guimaras Strait, the lens aptly capturing that final brilliant dazzle of light just before the sun retreats back to its nightly abode, the grayish clouds of early evening in close pursuit. What more can I say? One picture is enough to tell a thousand words.

urban going rural.

Hopping on a Bus, I Reveled in a Fiesta One Weekend in April

So you have the same old story: city-dwellers yearning
for a taste of the country, shedding concrete skins,
casually yielding to that caprice called adventure.
And so it happened that one Saturday morning,
randomly hopped up a bus, and heeded a whim
called the impulse of youth: the longing of the flesh
for the world around it. Or at least a piece of it.
We took off to an incredible pace, past dirt-lined
roads that shook us to and fro. But the wonder on
our faces would tell you otherwise, anticipation
up close, betraying any trace of the awfully familiar.
How soon do you discover that home contains so much
obscurity? The native finds joy in unraveling secrets,
and we are seeking it: that undisputed, yet undiscovered,
happiness. What we really needed was a sense of
direction: keen, brusque, the gift to distinguish turrets
reaching out into the sky, or of the conspicuous azure
at a corner of the highway. This was neither the
Spanish era nor the turn of the last century;
no rainbow-colored flaglets levitating in the wind,
or bands parading down streets, no veil-clad ladies
waltzing to the tune of a kundiman.
There is only a slice of history, the age-old legend of
how everything began, the honored patron saint,
hidden beneath layers of lively conversations,
the crisp clanging of utensils breaking white noise.
And we are simple witnesses to the geniality of life
unfolding in the doorway: greetings and goodbyes,
enter and exit, the oft-repeated joke, some
unscrupulous candidate adding handshake for ballot.
Around us, walls tingle with the strain of laughter,
an ephemeral gaiety, easily given in to the monotony
of tomorrow. Why does nature allow such revelry,
only to fall back into place? And why does the rustic
sunset glisten, only to plunge back into night?
The road home speaks of unhurried contemplation,
the slowing down to omen, the prelude to profaned
warnings. So we must write of discovery, this awakening
to culture, inevitably leading back to that unseen history
of the urbanite, his union with tradition, his oneness
with himself.

360 degrees.

When I finally caught the blog bug (or should I just say “blug”?) exactly a year ago, I knew it was going to be the start of a new, albeit different twist in the sphere of the printed word. Online, anything goes – the risk and the freedom existing side by side. You are free to write anything in as much as people are free to view and comment on what you have written, and heaven forbid – even steal your ideas. But soon I discovered that the intention, and perhaps more so the passion, overpowered the fear, and in a while had me putting up this blog, trying to keep in mind the fact that you get as much responsibility as freedom for your posts. This writer envisioned the mind as a dynamic machine on wheels, loaded with tons of ideas waiting to be refined, processed and eventually shipped out. “My Mind Has Wheels” was born.

And so you have a newbie, fresh from his first post, smug and overly satisfied for having officially marked his presence in the big blog world. As I mentioned in that historic first post, the lure of having at least a piece of personal space comes at a time when say, “you’re inside the shower staring at the bathroom walls and suddenly a barrage of ideas comes knocking at your mind’s door.” What better topic to talk about than this newfound joy? Enlisting the aid of a funny Archie episode, I dwelt on that most elusive thing called happiness ("The Real Breakthrough to be Happy") and even attempted to enumerate some of the finer things in life that would’ve been cause for nirvana, only to find out that the list unbelievably goes back to what one already has. The bottom line: happiness = contentment.

I moved on to my love of books ("I, Bibliophile"), and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Right smack into Holy Week, I juggled Sidney Sheldon, Jane Austen and The Bible into an amazing bibliophilic escapade. There was a trivial issue on the use of the word “passion” ("A Passion for Lent") and I had my fair share of amusement – not to mention insight – from it. Vacation mode kicked in and I found myself unveiling grand plans ("Summer Bummers and Carpe Diem") that I vowed to accomplish during the two-month long respite from academic toil. But if only to set the record straight, you know the real story behind those fancy goals and New Year resolutions. Unusual dedication is needed if you’re bent on making it past the halfway mark.

Memory lane urged me to write of the tutoring experience I had with public school children during my summer as a university freshman ("Bringing Out the Tutor in Me"). I was fortunate to have had received a few positive comments, two of which came from no less than respected columnists Manolo Quezon III and Susan “Toots” Ople (My heartfelt thanks.) Sometimes, simple things like these are enough to fuel a writer to reach the top. My blog being a relatively obscure, hard-to-find one, I was surprised people were still able to dig it up (Again, online, anything goes.) I followed it up with a post on luck ("Luck is a Four-Lobed Clover Leaf") – a good post is definitely good luck!

Add to this the rare fortune of getting published in the Youngblood section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer. Sometime in May, I decided to try my hand for a column in one of, if not the country’s biggest daily, an account of two-left-foot me ("Dancing") and my tribulations on the dance floor. I must say that not since winning the Palanca and seeing another article appear on the pages of Tulay Magazine have I felt such highs from writing. At first, the weeks merely came and went and almost left me to conclude that my entry must have proven too lame and too trite for the country’s top editors, and must have already ended up rotting in someone else’s email trash. Just imagine my sheer delight when I was proven wrong after a month’s short wait.

I was writing from home, a place I am away from several straight months at a time. I only deemed it fitting to write of Iloilo City ("An Inkling of Iloilo") and how it has changed through the years – from small, quaint town to big, bustling city yet retaining its old world, historic charm. And just like any keen-eyed, adventure-loving resident, I always try to make it a point of discovering the magic at every turn of this tiny stretch of space called home. Now, no matter what, I think I’ll always be one proud Ilonggo. But who knows, the wanderlust in me may perhaps opt to travel far and wide, bringing back to mind the time we sojourned to the mystic Mt. Banahaw ("Banahaw and Rizal's Legacy") as a field trip for our Rizal course. It was a day spent not only on meaningful communion with nature, but also with open-minded talks on the significance of faith and religion.

Having written in prose for the greater part of my writing days, I tried going back to my roots as a writer with the rediscovery of poems ("From Poetry and Back") since poetry, after all, has always fascinated me with its distinctive style and approach to readers. But while my younger days insisted on a total rhyme scheme, I wanted a fresh take on writing poems – not so much on form as the emotion and the mood. I wrote on a variety of topics ranging from R-18 ratings to sunsets ("Contemplating Sunset"), and largely on the weather (I wonder why?) with the three-part “Weather Talk” series.

Speaking of the weather, 2006 left a huge impact with the onset of super-typhoon “Milenyo” ("Storms of our Lives") which was probably one of the worst natural phenomena I’ve ever witnessed in my entire life. Three straight days of making do with the basics and of fearful, faithful, contemplation on the unpredictable really brings you back to reality only a super-typhoon can. Hovering over you scythe-armed and menacing, struggling with fear can be a fearsome job in itself ("The Sum of All Fears"), but sometimes all it really takes is a bit of self-psychology to do the trick. I was greatly flattered at the request of Mr. Darryl Gudmundson to write a review for their new show "Sleeper Cell: American Terrorism", unfortunately being outside the United States, I wasn’t granted access to the show online, let alone get to see it on TV (My sincerest apologies.)

Halfway through my blog-year, I turned 19 ("19") and mulled over the matter with some ambivalence. As I write this moment, many of my classmates have already graduated from the teen age, having hit the big 2-0, and I myself am also poised to do so a few more months away. More than worrying about one's age or the unmistakable fact that time is indeed fleeting, it made me feel even more grateful for the gift of life, for the chance to live every day the best way I could. The season to be jolly arrived, and it was Simbang Gabi time once more ("Rediscovering Mornings"), the Yuletide spirit keeping us rooted in the hope of sailing smoothly though the waters of 2006 did come across as a little too turbulent ("The Most Wonderful Time of Year")

New Year ushered in the usual plethora of resolutions and promises, and I got something else – new hair! ("New Year, New Hair") Okay, so I didn't exactly go about sporting a patchy Mohawk top; but the change was there, and I welcomed it rather heartily. A couple of months to go before my Year Level 3 stint concludes, and I was somehow prompted to reflect on my status quo as a medical student ("The Future Beckons"), four years remaining in the countdown till graduation. February beckoned me to come home with the 95th founding anniversary of my Alma Mater, but alas I had to be contented with taking part in the merriment 300 miles away ("Nostalgia from Afar") When school finally ended, we emerged more enlightened persons with a talk on death and dying ("Thanatopsis") - something we didn't really expect but which underscored the importance of a holistic healing touch to our patients in the future.

One year, 360 degrees. In the same way that birthdays and anniversaries are celebrated, this mini-review of the year that was is a solid testament to the unique world of writing, that it can truly be a blast of a journey with a bit of imagination and experience, anytime, anywhere. When I wrote my article on books, my last line was a confident declaration that “if it be a lifetime of reading, let the reading go on.” In much the same way, I guess, “if it be a lifetime of writing, let the writing go on.”

My mind has wheels. May they keep on turning.

thanatopsis.

A famous anecdote of Alexander the Great tells of the great hero once finding a scholar meticulously studying two sets of bones. Out of sheer curiosity he asked the latter what he was looking for. To which the scholar replied, “That which I cannot see: the difference between your father’s bones and those of his slaves.”

Take note that this took place during a time when kings were literally worshipped, where palaces kept trains of servants and slavery was still the norm. And I am reminded of the oft-spoken ode to death, the all-powerful equalizer: “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” We begin from nothing, and to nothing we shall end. Whatever we have here on earth, we leave to our loved ones and to those whom we will.

We had a pretty much similar experience last week during class. It was supposed to be just another ordinary lecture on death and the dying process, but what took place thereafter was beyond a medical student’s usual expectations for we did not only tackle biological matters but had heart-to-heart group discussions on how it would’ve felt to die, on how one expected to die.

Suffice to say the activity elicited a variety of reactions – surprise, discomfort, nonchalance, fear – a few even regarded it as fun. One of my classmates joked, “Why, of course I’m afraid of death! I don’t even get to have grandchildren!” The truth is we were all caught unawares. It’s not as if we go around thinking about the day we die every minute of our lives, otherwise it completely erases the essence of living. Death is a subject long regarded as culturally taboo, but which is now being laid out so openly for us to dissect and relate with.

Surely everyone wants to die a good, and if possible, painless death. What, therefore, constitutes a “good” death? Then rose another interesting debate on how death is to be considered “timely”. How do you characterize a “good” and “timely” death?

Semantics can sometimes exert a formidable influence, as there lies a great deal of difference between “good” and “timely”. Take for instance martyrs who fought for a country’s freedom – what kind of death did they die? Good, because it was a death transcending a far higher purpose; at the same time, untimely because most, if not all, died at the prime of their lives.

In a way, I am led to think that somehow, having a concept of death enables us to have a concept of life. Eternal existence without meaning is pointless; it is only when we realize that our days are numbered (more so with not knowing where this numbering will end) that we truly wake up to our feet and attempt to accomplish a myriad things while the day is not yet done. Thus we have a cliché I personally keep and repeat over and over to myself: “Carpe diem”, seizing the day, the way to live life to the fullest.

Yet however hard you try to stretch each day to the very last second, time will not always be enough. And this goes without saying that no one is ever really prepared for death. Like lightning, it may strike at a time when we least expect it, or during a moment when we thought leaving this world is the last thing on our mind.

Medically speaking, managing a dying person essentially devolves into two aspects of the healing process which must go hand in hand: curative and palliative. The first has something to do with treatment of disease and preventing its complications; the second focuses on improving or at least maintaining the quality of life. What seems to be the point here? For one, we have always been so preoccupied with the curative aspect. And this is easily demonstrated in situations where families and doctors try to utilize every method and resource possible just to prolong life, oftentimes not minding the fact that the patient himself is actually ready to die. But enter the palliative aspect where empowerment of the dying and preservation of their dignity is the main concern – and you have the touching picture of patients dying with a smile on their lips.

As it was explained during the one-hour talk, it is not so much the fear of death per se, but more with the process leading to death: an overwhelming feeling of weakness, noisy and rattled breathing, breathlessness, difficulty swallowing. One of the lecturers shared her ordeal with Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma – a malignancy of the lymph nodes – and she remarked that going through and eventually triumphing over the ordeal made her understand and empathize with dying patients more.

We were also told of a certain tribe in Indonesia that actually celebrates death! As with birth, marriage or any other celebrated occasion, death is seen as a milestone where one is shipped off into another new dimension. How plausible this may sound can only be deduced if we try to look at death as some sort of transition: In the same way that the fetus transits from the relatively quiescent environment of the mother’s womb to the outside world, so do individuals make the same journey to the great beyond.

And perhaps history does celebrate this journey just as much as life itself. What with the age-old mysteries of mummification, of Egyptian artwork portraying Pharaoh’s death as a grandiose journey on a magnificent ship, of Hades and his boatman Charon ferrying across the sinister rivers of the netherworld. Myth has its basis. After all, as the Egyptians once believed, death is only the beginning.

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.