The Barbie House

 

Previously on L'Heure Bleue: Preserver of Worlds | The Barbie House

"Kuya pakibaba yung dollhouse at yung maleta ko mula sa taas"

It was my sister who sent the message over Facebook Messenger last week. My reaction: Seenzoned. Disinterest had kept me from sending an affirmation.

A few days later, my sister sent another message.

"Yung dollhouse naibaba nyo? Ilang araw na ako kinukulit ni Castro." 

Castro is my sister's third child, which, unfortunately, I wasn't able to introduce in previous entries given my absence in Blogging.

At this point, my answer was "no." I knew the rickety house would collapse in less than a day if you leave it at the mercy of toddlers (the younger siblings) and youngsters (older brothers). Rough hands, clumsiness, and crude playstyle would simply break the remaining brittle links that connect the plastic components together. 

I also had no faith that it can be set up inside my sibling's small room. Lack of space has always been a problem at home and having that pink plasticky house placed on the ground would simply add to our burdens. I spoke these thoughts to my mother, and she supported my arguments. 

My decision was final.

But this wasn't what I told my sister. 

You see, she was supposed to leave for work-related activities in the province. She would be gone for a week and would have to isolate herself elsewhere for another week once she returns. Her distance and absence would mean telling her that I would take out the wretched toy from the overhead cabinet. In reality, no Barbie House would ever be reassembled. I would simply say we couldn't make it stand and it would put the idea to rest.

But Castro was also persistent, and although the 3-year old artistic child wouldn't pester me about the toy, like children of his age would do to their uncles, he would ask my mother about my plans of letting him play with the house.

Then came the news that my sister's work-related travel was canceled because of Covid19. 

Friday came and I had an out-of-town excursion set the next day. Our destination had a poor Globe signal and this would mean being gone without any form of communication to check the folks back home. To keep everyone preoccupied in my absence was at the top of my head. Better to keep them busy rather than finding out who picked fights and who got into trouble upon my return home.

And so I flipped around and asked the Hermit (our household helper) to bring down the Barbie House and just let my sister assemble the structure. It would be a great bonding moment for the kids, and should the house not stand, it would be easy to convince everyone not to bring the toy out - ever again.

Before leaving the house the next day, I took a small carton box out of my cabinet. It's tiny,  human-like replicas I lodged between the educational toys on the top shelf of the children's bookcase outside my room.

The dolls belong to me - a remnant of an age where boys were frowned upon when they chose to play with girls' toys. Those dolls are for my nephew, who wanted to play with the dollhouse - like it was meant to be his toy.

---

As it turned out, the Barbie House was almost never assembled. My sister had to put adhesives just to put the pieces together. She said, it took her 2 hours to make the brittle structure stand and not wobble. She even wanted to adorn it with fairy lights to cap her achievement.

When I checked out Castro when I returned home, he was already playing with the dollhouse along with the Barbies I left behind. Contrary to expectations that he would simply groom the dolls, he was actually hosting a "tea party," with the rest of the figures - from Peppa Pig to Paw Patrol invited for the "housewarming."

And for a brief moment, what I saw was not my nephew but another kid, from another age, who would sneak out and play with the dollhouse in secret. Unbothered by what other kids or adults would say, he would immerse himself in his world, weaving fantasy stories that he still remembers to this day.

The Preserver Of Worlds | The Barbie House

At a time when our helpers were solely preoccupied with looking after my younger sister, and I was left to my own devices, as long as I don't leave the confines of our ancestral house in Santa Mesa, the afternoons were spent sneaking into that tiny room that connects my mother's bedroom to her private bathroom. On some days, I would climb into cabinets and bookcases and reach into my father's stash of adult magazines, undisturbed on the topmost shelf. At grade 5, I have yet to understand that a sexual intercourse leads into baby-making. I just look at the pictures and get fascinated with the couple's lusty facial expressions. But on other days, I would plunk myself next to the same cabinet, where my younger sister's most important toy was assembled by our father. Given to her by our stateside relatives, her Barbie House was my perversion when boys of my age were supposed to play something else.

Little can be said about my play style. There was Barbie and there was Ken. I would sometimes make them love (by simulating the pumping scenes and bent-over positions I've seen in the porn magazines) but most of the time, I stuck with my fantasy role play where Barbie was a goddess who was harassed by evil dolls who wanted the pink and plasticky house for themselves. Eventually, Barbie and Ken did adopt a kid (another action figure) who I called Miko. It would grow from there - becoming sophisticated - until I found myself assembling an "army of light" made up of tiny action figures who would protect Barbie. Ken would turn into a villain, and an angry Guile doll (from Street Fighter, which was a gift from the same relatives abroad) became the reluctant hero.

I would eventually abandon the Barbie House and the dolls after my sister told tales of my exploits to our parents. I don't recall being scolded, but the discovery was enough for me to turn my attention elsewhere.  The fantasy role play would go on for years, with Guile, and a new Barbie Doll, which I bought from my own allowance. She would become the new goddess. 

Miko went missing. I would never find that toy again.

As my sister and I get older, we would find new hobbies leaving the doll house untouched. It would be disassembled, put in a plastic bag, and was among our belongings that were moved when we settled into our new house. The disassembled Barbie House would be kept inside the closet, under the bed, and when there was no more space in my sister's room, it would eventually find itself dusting in the veranda. It was the part of the house that I claimed for my garden plants ages ago. Still, it would take years before the thought of taking out the foldable doll house from its bag and clean it would take place.  

"Kuya sa iyo na itong mga dolls ko." My sister pleaded when she learned that I was boxing all my toys. I was already getting hooked on PC games, and I was fast outgrowing my action figures. Only one doll from her, including Guile and my own Barbie, survived the passing of time.

To restore, what was considered a junk, takes a generosity of patience and a sliver of craftsmanship to accomplish this project. Dirt and grime coated the surface of the Barbie House, while its interiors were barely recognizable because of mold and other traces of plant life. It did not help that the delicately-painted wallpaper sheets were peeling off. To clean the entire thing with soap water and dish scrubber might worsen the damage wrought by neglect.

But these concerns didn't matter. I was bent on cleaning the doll house and reassemble it after being forgotten for more than a decade. So scrub and rinse I did, until my own worries were washed away. Credit to its maker, the house and what remains of its furnishing did look vintage after they have been left to dry. The problem, however, lies in how the structure would stand up. While the beams supporting the roof are still intact, its locks were already broken. The walls, which also serve as the base would not snap. It felt like building a house of cards that would anytime fall apart.

I would have given up and simply put back the house inside its bag if I were not bent on writing about the experience. The Barbie House is still my sister's possession, despite my initial thoughts of giving it away. But it mattered to me more than just a toy. It was my wellspring of creativity and the beginning of my journey toward self-discovery. Many years later, I would still recall the house while playing the Sims on my PC.

The perversion of my childhood is now an accepted adult pastime.

"It has to stand up," I mumbled as I connect the sturdy blocks that would make up the pillars that would carry the weight of the doll house's roofing. To bring back a semblance of my childhood, I brought along some action figures who once revered the dolls. Meanwhile, the pillars worked - briefly - until they became too wobbly to support the structure. The playtime approach has to be modified.

I need to think practical, like my dad.

Using duct tape (which I was supposed to use to patch that hole on my mother's bathtub) the locks were sealed and the beams were bound together. What took hours of realigning and snapping the walls to the roof was done in minutes. The Barbie House finally stood, like it did, the first time I snuck into that tiny room to play with my sister's toys.

"Ang galing naman." my sibling affectionately said when I let her see the reassembled doll house. "Pakita mo kina Lenin ha?" She insisted. "Okay lang sila maglaro diyan." Her remark left a smile on my face. I have bright hopes for my nephews.

Gazing at the Barbie House from a distance, just before I disassemble it again to store it somewhere away from the elements. I didn't see a toy coming back to life. Instead, it was a personal monument rebuilt - albeit for a day - to celebrate the being I have become.

The DOST National Science and Technology Fair

In the early days, before I began reaching out to fellow humans in the four-corners of the classroom, and make friends with some of them, my cherished companions were the encyclopedias and science almanacs in the library. It was easy to form bonds with them. You say goodbye to your teacher after the last subject ends at 3 pm, drop your belongings right at the door of the school library, and for hours, you get to drift between space and time with pictures and letters, undisturbed behind shelves of tomes seldom explored by other kids inside the spacious room. And these books, don't stab you at the back when others make fun of your habits, or abandon you when other kids do things you hardly enjoy - like sports. Book reading was for me, a solitary leisure activity. What I didn't realize is that I would carry on the fascination, and still gasp at the discoveries, halfway towards the finish line of my life.

It is for this reason I found immense joy when the Weatherman invited me to see the DOST Fair at the SMX Convention Center. He, more than anyone else revere science and technology, and a visit at the exhibit hall, with all those never-before-seen innovations done by our scientists rekindled that sense of wonder in me.

In many ways, this was my formal introduction to such event.

First stop was the exhibit showcasing the hybrid buses and tricycles that would one day complement the mass transportation system already in place in the metropolis. These buses, with two interconnecting carriages, run on clean fuel, and could carry around 200 passengers at a time. They are meant to load and unload passengers at designated bus stops, and may even require their own lanes in a busy highway like Edsa. The motorbikes, meanwhile, could replace the mini gas guzzlers that pollute the suburban air. While it would take another administration to make these buses and trikes run in our major roads, what matters is that the technology exists. Maybe when the right leader take his place, and the new cabinet secretaries realize the urgency to mass produce these eco-friendly vehicles, this public demonstration is just the beginning of our shift towards a more environment-conscious society. 

Onward the Weatherman and I moved to another exhibit, this time, the simulations could save lives when disaster strikes. 

A week before the city-wide earthquake drill happened, visitors to the science fair were able to experience how it feels when the ground shakes during a tremor. At the middle of the exhibition hall was a shaking table similar to the ones used by the Japanese to educate the public about earthquakes. Stepping into the small ring, the mechanical floor begins to sway using simple hydraulic systems. I mentioned that it was simple, for the ground shaking doesn't really come close to the real thing (from what I remember) What I got from the experience was a brief dizzy spell, and that experience of riding a mechanical device better featured in amusement parks. 

Among the innovations we have seen at the fair, there were two which stood out at the exhibit hall. One was the improvements made to Project Noah, the foremost flood control and weather forecasting tool of the government, and the other, which is the Diwata, our nation's ambitious program to send the first home-grown satellite to earth orbit. For Project Noah, new improvements include more accurate data that shows the flood-prone areas of Manila. Also featured at the exhibit are the early-warning devices, from state-of-the-art air raid sirens to digital rain gauges that measure the amount of rain falling at any given time. The Diwata program, meanwhile, was a technological grant from Japan. Using one of their satellite designs, the aim is to build one to serve as our communication beacon in space. A full-size mock-up was on display at the fair, and while it hardly made the spotlight at the exhibit, realizing how this compact machine could start our own space program made me look forward to see it being launched in 2017.

There were many other exhibits worth looking at the fair, like the Lego robot almost the height of a toddler, or the heirloom Abaca and Pina fabric making technique preserved by the science agency for future generations. There were also various advancements in agriculture including native livestock bred and returned to their places of origin, and more cost-effective ways to do shellfish farming. There was also an exhibit about nano-wires already being replicated in the country, as well as a contraption that creates miniature tsunami waves to show how it destroys everything in its path. After making rounds at the exhibit hall, and seeing with my own eyes how vibrant our science and technology innovations are, there is no doubt, we are making progress.

Paper Dolls

As kids, we were forbidden to touch playthings, the opposite sex claims as their own, as this might turn us into effeminate boys when we grow older. Such is the rule for most households where gender roles were pronounced and any display of girly behavior was frowned. This was strictly enforced, except in our house, for I sometimes had to spend time with my sister to strengthen the sibling bonds, and maybe, to learn the rudiments of sensitivity so I may never have the impression that females are weaker and different from men.

While suspicion lingers that I was merely left to do as I please, the liberty allowed me to acquire those colorful dolls sold at some corner store in school. The two-dimensional cut-outs are made from thin sheets of cardboard paper. Its sundry outfits and accessories are separated so that it could be worn by securing the folding tabs over the female figure. I recall dressing the dolls when no one is looking. At a young age, I was certain of getting into trouble when my father finds out I've been playing with girls' stuff.

But still, I pursued such pastime, alone, for reasons I no longer recall.

It was a fleeting fancy, much like the plastic water guns and Styrofoam planes that took out a chunk of my allowance. While the dressing up part didn't transform me into a couture expert or a fashion designer, it is with much appreciation that I cherish this memory while playing Covet Fashion app on my Android phone. 

Olaf Strackynzky Design

Though it might have been a deviation from my character to indulge in such time-waster, (knowing I only played it to impress upon my gay friends my prowess in clothing digital dolls with branded shoes, jewelry and dresses) there is immense joy in knowing that on my twelfth year of gay hood, I was able to connect with that obscure childhood memory, whose juvenile curiosity lead him to venture into the world of fabrics and colors.

And write his story.

The Rockstar

Twenty years had passed since the Most Holy Father came to these shores, and turned the non-believers into his most ardent followers. I was barely a teen then when the country was chosen to host the World Youth Day celebrations. Being the rockstar pope, St. John Paul II was received with ecstatic fervor by a grateful nation. To this day, I still have fond memories of him as the pope mobile paraded in front of me.

I was among the throngs of faithful who waited for his motorcade to pass. He was off to the Malacanan to see the president. It is said that Fidel Ramos broke protocols by personally welcoming the Successor of Peter as he embarks the plane at the Villamor Air Base. The role has always been reserved for the second highest official of the republic. 

The esteemed guest, however, was a special case.

--

We stood for hours near the street junction going to the palace for the Papal entourage to appear. St. John Paul hasn't even left the Apostolic Nunciature and yet, well-wishers have already gathered to greet him. Some had even placed rows of monoblock chairs on the sidewalks for the pious elders to sit on. Transistor radios and portable TV sets were brought as well to keep everyone aware of the motorcade's location. Soon, word flies that his Holiness has already left his residence. The news brought cheers all the way to the crest of Nagtahan Bridge, where one can see the thousands more lining Quirino Avenue to catch even the faintest glimpses of the pope. 

It didn't take long for us to feel the Pontiff's nearing presence. Motorcycle escorts with hazard lights turned on began to converge under the Rotunda, and then, the first of the black SUVs that make up the holy entourage appeared on the horizon. You can see the people in the distance waving their hands, as the spectators behind you surge forward, pushing you within inches of the road. The monoblock chairs, which used to support weary hips earlier, have now become stools for the same elders to stand on. Parents, who brought their children had to piggyback the youngsters as the crowd squeezed whatever space was available. And then the moment came. The locally-made jeep made its way into the crowd, where the red-skinned Pope in his white vest, waived to the faceless, nameless flock, which for a moment, leave them suspended in a rapturous daze.

---

That day, I was able to see St. John Paul II twice, for his motorcade needed to pass the same rotunda for the family gathering at the University of Santo Tomas. The second encounter might have been less crowded, (at least, from where I stood) and eventful, but to catch a glimpse of him once more sealed the memory of a man now venerated by millions around the world.

---

A few hours from now, another rockstar from the Holy See will make pilgrimage to these lands. Church leaders say his purpose is to touch base with the people of Tacloban, who, just a year ago reeled from the most powerful typhoon in recent memory. Preparations got fever pitch a few days ago, with some major roads being blocked to simulate the passing of Francesco's motorcade. Crowds are expected be in millions - and that - is on his day of arrival. There is no doubt the pressure is intense, with Pnoy himself leading the inspections to make sure no detail was overlooked. Meanwhile, local media continues to hype the Pope's coming, with full coverage even of his pastoral visit to Sri Lanka.

I may have been a little less religious these days. I don't even hear the mass anymore. But like most people being caught in the frenzy of the Pope's visit. The historic occasion is an opportunity to bring out a memory, and to see the nation as it really is: festive, jovial, a people who would move heaven and earth to make a guest feel comfortable. This realization made me appreciate all the government is overdoing just to be sure of the Pontiff's security. More than embarrassment in the global community, the mega event production bonanza, with the Showbiz Republic at the helm tells so much about our society.

In ways very few will understand, our flair for the dramatics is a trait I embrace as mine.

So I went to the Quiapo Church on the eve of the Pope's arrival, to pray, for his safe stay in the country. A storm is brewing in the east, while memories of past stampedes continue to hurt as collective wounds. I have not even thought of a possible assassination attempt from extremists who might take advantage of our security situation. May these thoughts remain in the figment of my imagination.

For whatever purpose, the act was done to be one with the faithful.  

Enjoying the view of the Quirino Grandstand at 3 AM

For I too, am still part of the flock. And in my little, solitary ways, this is how I make ready for the Rockstar's coming.

The Grateful Days

It is the time of the year, when guiltless shopping becomes the conscious pursuit; when unplanned phone calls to friends add to the monthly phone bill; and when the credit cards find their best use, because it is more wounding to pay in cash for the acquisitions you will part ways before the holidays end.

And it is the season of reminiscing too; of the times when a kid, now a fully-grown man, used to linger under a Christmas tree, his happy thoughts glued to the presents, some with gift tags bearing his name. The soft tiny lights blink with perfect timing, leaving the boy suspended in that dream-like gaze he would recall with pained longing.

Therefore, with unconditional fidelity to memory, in spite of how time had changed everything; and as an expression of gratitude for the kindred, who always matter, we embrace tradition as it has always been: with child-like thoughts and with a heart unburdened with troubles. And in the days of plenty, when the side jobs provide more than what is required to live in bounty, may this year's grateful days touch more hearts, 

And share the gift of giving to many.

Minsan Lang Ikaw Bata

One day, I walked inside the Toy Kingdom for reasons no longer I can recall. It might have been one of those random visits, whose pretext was to buy a toy for my nephews. I did buy something at the store - a die cast jeep from Hotwheels - which I bought for the kids. But i kept the toy in my room for so long, that i was inching towards owning the die cast myself.

Toy cars.

I had plenty when i was a little boy. I used to simulate traffic jams on the floor complete with cardboard boxes in place of buildings. I had so many die cast toy cars and so many of them got lost and broken. I have managed to save a few. They now make up the cache of trinkets and mementos that occupy the upper shelves of my dresser.

To this day, they remain hidden from our little boys. The thought of turning them over still terrifies to no end.

Returning to the die cast toy jeep i have subconsciously possessed, the act, which slowly manifest every time i find some painted metal object with wheels lying around the house reawaken the kid within. Maybe it was the collector in me who springs into action, it might even be the hoarder taking over.

As far as i know - and it happened to me many times over -  when a die cast toy car gets into the shelves, it's time to invoke the conscience and remind myself.

"Minsan lang ikaw bata."

---

"Bigyan mo din ako ng ganyan sa birthday ko ha?" Lenin pointed at the miniature Chrysler jeep inside the loot bag. Its contents are among the first presents I would give away this Christmas.

"O sige next time." I was supposed to say. The toy was actually meant for his younger brother, who like him, has fascination with die cast vehicles.

"Wait"

"Kunin mo na yung toy." He then slid his hand to claim, that object he's been eyeing since last month.

"Happy Birthday..." I said, as he walked away to show his mom his on-the-spot present. 

Written for the Round Table Challenge

The Motorcity

I asked Lenin to bring his toys in, since I can't lend him the radio-controlled race car given to me by the Favorite Aunt. My nephew obliged, and he tossed the plastic interchangeable tracks on the carpet so a road layout for his die-cast toy cars could be laid. What took me by surprise was the way my plan backfired. You see, Lenin was in my room because my mom went to school. She asked me to look after my nephew while the maid assisted her to the car. I was writing for the raket at that time and could not be bothered. To comply with the matriarch's instruction, I flung open the door, and told the tyke to stay with me.

And now, he wants me to assemble a highway.

If there are objects you should never let me get my hands on, they are the track pieces and building blocks, which by instinct, draw me to create symmetrical, imaginary neighborhoods. And like solving a 3-dimensional puzzle, I began connecting the road pieces while my nephew looked across, studying, how I attempted to make inclined road sections to my dismay. There were missing pieces, but it didn't stop me from creating a circuit. I told my nephew to bring more cars so he could simulate a traffic jam when his highway is completed.

He left the room just when my activity stirred a dormant memory.

A long time ago, a relative from abroad bought me a Matchbox Motorcity road set. The playstuff had tracks I can interchange to create different road layouts. It was a prized possession when I was a kid. To this day, I kept it, and not a single tiny piece had gone missing since assembling the set for the first time.

There are times I wonder if I would let my nephews get hold of my toys. Will they take good care of them? Will they still be in good condition when my grandchildren are born? No matter how tempted I am to bequeath my possessions - so the boys at home can enjoy them while they are still young, I feel my toys won't get appreciated the way I did. In fact, not a year would pass and they would most likely be broken.

For I was already in Grade Three when I finally learned to take care of my stuff. I arranged my toy cars in a box, kept the accessories in a corner, and played, without ever making my die casts go on collision like the ones I saw on television. I had a good two years exhausting my imagination before another pursuit took my attention. When I've outgrown my Matchboxes, they were tucked deep within my room.

Where not even my nephews could reach them.

"There is still time." I insist, when get confronted by these guilt-laden questions. "My nephews will receive many more die cast cars - many of them, they will hardly remember when the time comes to dream of leaving home."

In the meantime, I have completed Lenin's highway shortly before he returned.

Pre-School With Lenin

(L-R: Flags of the Powerful Nations - See USSR, Educational Toys, Clay Diorama)

To this day, I still have her name. Miss Lolita Ramos. The plumpy lady with small chinky eyes, and reserved smile used to be my pre-school teacher some twenty-five years ago. 

It is all I have left. For despite my attempts to sift through the most cherished of memories, I was too young to remember, and only the postcard images of kindergarten stays in my head.

Kindergarten, of course, was a different time. A cherished moment when nuns taking up residence in secluded rooms a floor above our classrooms open their pantry and serve us macaroni soup. In those days, playtime occupies the rest of the afternoon. The other kids bring their flashy toys to class, while I was left envious because I had nothing to show.

My mom won't let me bring my action figures. She said, the other kids might just break them.

Fridays, I recall, were spent in swings and see-saws at the playground. The playground was at the grounds next to the school house, and to this day, I get to see the play area when I pass along E. Rodriguez Avenue. The street where St. Joseph's College is located. If my guardian wishes to look for me, she would spot me at the slide, or the at the sandbox. Those were the only places where heights (and the fear of falling) never cross my thoughts. Sometimes, I'd pick up the spindle leaves of pine trees thinking they were dead worms. As to what I did after, I have no idea.

All I know is that many, many years later, my thumb can bring dying plants to life.

Four hours into a school day and the time to go home approaches. The teacher would then ask everyone to return the plastic beads and wooden boxes to their rightful cabinets. When these have been done, the imitation fruits and vegetables go into their boxes. The kids - including me - then walk out of the classroom and form a line. With the teacher herding the young tykes at the column, she ushers us back to the school gate, where our attendants are waiting.

There are days when I would leave the queue and sneak into the college building. My mom used to hold Sociology classes there, and to show the big star stamped on my hand, I would barge into her class disrupting her lecture.

Sleepy Boy

These flashbacks trickle in while waiting for Lenin' two-hour summer class to finish. His brother Diego recovers at the hospital, with his parents by his side. And since there's no one to accompany my older nephew at the nursery, I volunteered to look after him as he gets to experience attending school for the first time in his life.

The Payback

Previously on Full Metal Dreams

The moment I laid eyes on en.wikipedia.org, I feel like all I need to know about almost everything there is to know about humanity can be found there.

Chain
June 15, 2005

In my job as an Internet Researcher some ten years back, precious hours were wasted pretending I was doing work. It was the middle of November. There were deadlines to beat, and quotas to meet. But instead of doing more items for production, I was browsing Wikipedia and reading articles not relevant to my research. I would defend my low output by saying to my superior that I was searching for leads. It was an excuse, she readily bought, given that I was the only one who knew how to use the search engines. But, when no one is looking; when everyone in the room disappears behind the pile of paper works needed to finish before the end of the day, my own pool of knowledge swelled with every page loaded onto my desktop's screen.

My work station becomes a place of learning.

Old days they were, when Web 2.0 was new. When Facebook has yet to make a hit, and smartphones used to be a bling. Wikipedia already was in the web, albeit, competing with Groliers and Britannica. Compendiums of knowledge from a past age, relics whose days were numbered.

They challenged the wiki to show authority. To produce well-written works showing no bias. Claiming that collaboration results in poor fact checking, these encyclopedias brushed off Wikipedia as nothing but an overview of knowledge. When citations were needed, the hard bounds still had authority.

But times are changing.

I remember, Five years before the rise of the Internet, I used to rent desktop computers, not to browse the web. But to borrow discs of Groliers and spend the next hour reading articles of information, and watching video clips that sometimes come with the entries. Multimedia, as we know today, the medium was a step ahead from the still pictures that endeared us to the tomes of encyclopedias at the library. I have always been a scavenger of knowledge, and no matter what form I come across, I would pass judgement based from experience.

Thus, Wikipedia appealed to me.

Now years have passed. The encyclopedias are no more. And information is free when you search it on Google. Everyone consults the wiki, and in turn, even the masses learn. At a time when the web is replete with facts, truth can be distorted. When authority of the source is in question, sometimes it is best to let the Wikipedia serve as the arbiter.

Britannica would roll over its grave.

For ten years, my favorite online portal sought donations for its operations. To make it free and untouched by advertisements. And for ten years, I let others pay for the leisure I enjoyed for free. Such a freeloader that I was.

Now that I have the means and some cash; to celebrate the nerd within; and to make amends for the lost production because I was foraging for knowledge enriching only me,

It's time for payback.

With a click of a mouse button confirming my transaction on Paypal, the second time I parted a gift to keep the rest of humanity informed, I made a donation to Wikipedia and felt good.

Always And Forever, Donna Lewis

Every time Donna Lewis, the musician, comes to mind, I remember our driver's confession many years ago while getting absorbed with her music.

"Ang payapa nung kanta." He told me.

He was listening to her hit single, "I Love You Always Forever," repeatedly. I was already a fan of Lewis, and to my relief, it seems that my favorite artist connects with people who barely understood her song's lyrics.

With serene melodies that seem to conjure images of desolate places, comfort lies in her soft, breathy vocals. I knew this for a fact, as I have bought her first two albums with my own allowance: Now In A Minute and Blue Planet. I still have them for keepsakes, hoping one day to play once more the entire album to my ears' delight.

Because at a time when musicasettes were the medium to really get intimate with the artist, the acquisition of her albums guaranteed that she will be remembered long after her fame disappears.

I do remember her, fondly, like she never walked away from memory.

Aside from her hit single, the songs Without Love, I Could Be The One, and Fool's Paradise used to be my favorites. I even played Agenais on loop while building my cities on Sim City 2000. And for all the confusion with musical genres, Donna Lewis' songs may be classified as pop, but the singles I have on my library form the backbone of my Light Alternative collection.

Timeless, her songs are for many, but the artist of my generation did fade from the mainstream music scene. The album after Blue Planet hardly received radio airplay, and even on YouTube, a lot of Lewis' singles were never uploaded. It is why when an online acquaintance shared an EDM, whose vocals were supplied by the Welsh artist herself, it is, as if, she returned with all the memories I have of her.

"She will be loved, always and forever," the Antifornicator replied when I made reference to the artist on my Twitter timeline. I posted on my social media account how happy I was to learn that she is still very much in the industry. And like with her other songs, Donna Lewis' You and I goes on playback on YouTube since my discovery last week.  

Dama de Noche

Christmas Eve, 2013.

On this very evening a long, long time ago, I remember us staying at home. There was no panicky mother doing gift wrapping in bed, nor activities hinting of our hasty exodus from our old house in Santa Mesa. The urgency to pack our clothes and set aside our Christmas dresses never bothered the adults. We were there with nothing to do but look at the stars and sleep.

For it was the year when my mom stood her ground, and decided not to show up and join the yearly reunion with our kin. What started the stand off is already lost to memory. All I know is that she and the Favorite Aunt had an argument that day. My guess is that someone wants to do things on her own (go solo with her Christmas celebration) and when the Alpha female refused the arrangement, mom went through with her idea despite the threats.

It infuriated the aunt.

And as if, by way of providence, a mediator appeared on our doorstep. It was already late. Maybe an hour before Noche Buena. My mother's youngest sister showed up together with her husband. For we are being whisked off to spend the holy night with the Favorite Aunt. It no longer concerns me how they made amends. As an afterthought, it was our houses' first get-together that I remember. 

The flurry of movements soon followed. I was led to the bathroom to be washed, while my mom readied our provisions. We will be spending the night in another house. For all my attempts to put the plot into this vignette, the truth is, the narrative was reconstructed from vague memory. Nothing can be done to accentuate the story.

What is cherished in the heart is the uneasiness of waiting; of being outside the house, together with the neighbors' children; of mounting someone's cart with a long pole in hand; the overpowering scent of Dama de Noche as it wafted under our noses. The cart where the kids and I stayed was next to the evergreen shrub. Its blooms, often associated with funerals and lamentation for others, will always conjure thoughts of Christmas and reconciliation for me.

We arrived at the Favorite Aunt's place past midnight, and I remember her wordlessly embracing my mom when she welcomed us at her home. Years will pass, way into our teenage years and into the ripeness of adulthood, but the tradition of spending the birth of the Child as one big family has never been broken. 

The Favorite Aunt still hosts the Christmas and New Years' celebration to this day.

LR: The Noche Buena, The Family Christmas Tree full of presents, Santa Claus is back.

Sharing the gift of lovingkindness from my family to yours. Merry Christmas!

Ang Munting Perberto

I was twelve years old, and still very much attached to my action figures. I had to keep it a secret though, for everyone was telling me to look for another hobby. When no one was around or when everyone's asleep, I would draw my toys out of their hiding places. I would take the role of a producer, creating sets and directing action scenes for a play whose audience is no one but me.

Often, I would move my action figures with my thumb and index fingers. Improvise wooden dialogues I have come up with my juvenile mind, and create fantasy worlds I can manipulate at whim. There, lords and princesses assemble inside the closet; while minions and guardians wrest control of the room in their flying fortresses and fortified citadels. Both pieces came from discarded carton boxes and plastic packaging materials rummaged from piles of trash at home. 

The plot thickens and soon, I've introduced evil bosses and sprightly goddesses into my play as well. 

The goddesses were my sister's Barbie dolls, I "borrow" when she's out of the house. At times, they become cohorts of the evil bosses as they trash the "good guys" around. However, there were occasions when impulse rules, and curiosities turn the harmless play into something different. 

They say, what you see on television has a way of manifesting on your playtime activities. 

And as I recall, now that I'm able to grasp the things I did in my youth, it appears that my idea of sex bordered on the absurd and perverse. As to how I can still write the account in detail, like the playtime only happened yesterday is a question that still bothers the mind.

"Batman is one of the most powerful of the evil bosses. Undefeated, even by the combined forces of the guardians, his strength comes from draining the life source of his victims - the goddesses that his minions offer as tribute. Bound and unable to move, Batman acts on his prey by fondling the two humps in front of her chest. She moans, louder and louder as Batman squeezes her bosom with his prickly hands. Unable to contain his excitement, he shoves down the goddess' head against his groin, humping, as the poor victim is powerless to resist his roughness. He then strips down the goddess, force her to bend over, and mount her like a beast in a rush to unleash his seeds. The sexual organs stay within the confines of the imagination, but Batman's pole stuns the victim into submission. And as the goddess is being milked dry - a prey being ravaged for someone's consumption, she passes out, twisting and turning in delight."

Riverine

Walk I did a few weeks ago. Before the super storm made landfall in the Visayas, and my feet were still eager to see sights that evade me. From the walled enclave of Intramuros to the choke full of trailers below the Del Pan bridge, all I did was walk; walk towards the mouth of the river that flows not far from home.  

You may consider me a riverine. A kid raised next to the river. My earliest memories of my dad include crossing the Nagtahan bridge on foot with him. I still recall that sense of wonder, as huge barges pass beneath the bridge; creating ripples that slosh along the banks, parting water lilies in their procession towards the sea. I remember holding my dad's hand, as tugboats pull the behemoths toward their destination. I would get drowned in my imagination, as I see myself boarding the same boats as we chug our way towards parts unknown.  

When I turned older, I would sit on a floating terminal while the Metro Ferry boat unloads passengers heading to PUP. The swirl in my head, as waves stir the pontoon used to force me to flee to the banks. Soon, I would look forward to these fluxes as they have become a well-spring of excitement. In moments of stillness, I would spot bubbles on the water's surface. Little movements that lead to solid evidence of life. It seems, and I was told, by the birds circling above my head that the river is still alive. Dying, yet giving life to creatures hardened by the ebbs and tides. 

There is no denial that the river is stinky. Sometimes, dead animals float along the water's edge. Its surroundings have turned lifeless, its waters a vial of death. But the river remains a romantic retreat. In high school and college, part of my urban stroll is to ride the ferry going upstream, where city lights and skyscrapers change the backdrop of my beloved metropolis. And there are days still, when I cross the historic bridges or sit in crumbling walls of the Santiago fort, I would imagine a time when people used to wine and dine near the river's edge; when children take a dip in its sparkling waters, or when the superstitious still warn of mermaids dwelling at the belly of the watercourse.

How lovely it is to live in such time.

In all the years I have stood next to the river and daydreamed of times when it used to be teeming with life, the very place where it drains has been a mystery. Part of the elusiveness is the inaccessibility, of the perils and dangers found where the Pasig meets the bay. And one day, while remembering the guy who once told me his dream of setting foot at the confluence, I thought of embarking a solitary trip in honor of his memory. 

So walk I did, pass the trucks waiting their turn to enter the port terminal, pass the gates where container vans are stacked, and pass the homes and hovels that make up the bustling urban landscape at the rim of a reclaimed land. There, I found what I've been searching; a longing my eyes delight in indulging; the river's edge, a few steps away from the sea:  

Baseco Compound, Tondo

"Nakarating ka ng Baseco ng hindi mo alam?" A store vendor at a sari-sari store told me with incredulity. I didn't answer her question.

"Okay lang po ba mag-ikot ikot?" 

"Okay lang naman, basta huwag ka pupunta dun sa may dulo. Magulo dun." She warned.

A sea of trash it may be. But the river mouth remains a poignant discovery to me. 

Knowledge Is Power

The earth twerked at past 8 in the morning sending two southern provinces in a state of shock. 

The tectonic bang was so violent that flimsy houses tumbled, centuries-old churches crumbled, and scores of souls were forcefully taken to the afterlife after being squished, like pancakes by collapsed buildings. It was a magnitude 7.1 earthquake; the strongest the country has felt in more than a decade, and being a survivor of the July 1990 temblor, I offer my sympathies to those rendered sleepless by this unannounced jolt.

I look back a day later at the ground shaking sleeved with cold consolation. Though it was only felt in the Visayas and parts of Mindanao, catastrophe was averted because the country was observing the Id-ul-Adha feast. Being an important Muslim festival, the government declared a national holiday. The event also happened early in the morning, and most of the people were still asleep. Had it been on a Sunday afternoon, the collapse of the churches and the resulting stampedes alone would have injured thousands.

As government relief efforts go into full swing, and the Cebuanos and Bol-anons cope with the ceaseless aftershocks, a tweet reply to a news organization posted by a 12-year old girl from Cebu left me unsettled and on the verge of disbelief:

I won't deny the malicious intent of the re-tweet. That I was stirring a hailstorm of reactions from those who follow my Twitter account. So tempted was I to join the cyber bullying that my follow-up tweet would have sounded like "aral-aral rin hija kapag may time." for I was really incensed. Ignorance to natural calamities should never be allowed in these corners, and to find a person making a joke out of it deserves the strongest of comeuppance.

But then, was it the pre-teen's fault that she knew nothing about earthquakes? Or worse, made fun of it?

Or was it her science teacher?

The first time I experienced an earthquake was when I was in Grade I. I had just arrived home from school and was about to feed my pet dog. Suddenly, there was ground shaking and the house began swaying. I was scared - yes - because the natural phenomenon was new to me. It was a good thing my dad was nearby, and was calm all the time. Though I no longer recall what he said as the ground shaking went on, the seismic waves caused by the rupture in Earth's fault triggered my interest to exhume any knowledge I could find about quakes.



According to Japanese folklore, earthquakes were caused by a giant catfish whose name was Namazu. The bottom-feeder lives in the mud beneath the earth, and is guarded by the god Kashima. He restrains the fish with a heavy stone, and when the god lets his guard fall, Namazu wiggles causing the ground to shake.

Modern science, however, tells of a different story. That the earth's interior is made up of plates, similar to pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, whose edges we call fault lines. Beneath these plates is magma - that free-flowing stuff that get spewed out of volcanoes. I won't go into details of how earthquakes occur. But when two fault lines get jammed because of magma, the rupture caused by the sudden slip releases seismic energy causing the earth to move violently. In retrospect, people die not really because of the tremors. It is because of the structures they built, but could not withstand the jolt.

I do not know the number of science teachers who include this topic in their lecture. I don't even know if the current generation of teachers in Elementary and High School could still describe the terror caused by a temblor. One thing is certain, and should be implemented at once: If we are to survive the next big one striking Manila, preparation must not only focus on the first responders. Civilians - especially students have to be informed and take part, when drills happen.

Because the truth is, I didn't get the facts from my Science teachers. Not even after the July 1990 earthquake sent me running towards the school's quadrangle. They were self-learned from a single coffee-table book I found at home when reading still consumed a huge chunk of my free time. I learned not only the legends, the cities reduced by past earthquakes and ways how to withstand one - and predict it - if possible.

Out of my strongest desire to understand - the thing that would haunt me for the rest of my life, I taught myself to learn why the ground shakes.

Learning somehow diminished the fear I felt within.


   

The Mousey Incident

In our ancestral home in Santa Mesa, there used to be a shallow, open canal separating our house from that of our neighbor. This murky passage holds memories, including kids falling into the pit, (and getting scabies as a result) to cats (pushed off the ledge upstream) jumping out of the pit, to complains of  floating feces flushed out from someone's toilet. 

One incident that got stuck in my head is that of a mouse, caught by one of the pre-teens being dropped into the canal. The poor rodent was supposed to drown, or get carried away by the current but since a yarn tied to its hind legs prevents the critter from running away, it gets dunked and dunked into the corrosive waters until it was too weak to wiggle.

Now the hell-spawned boys won't just leave the mouse alone. I don't recall how they were able to bait it to a passing cat, but the street-born feline just ate it. Whole. Now you think it was the end of the story but then, the canal-soaked rodent was too much for the cat's digestive track. After being regurgitated, the cat propelled the remains of the mouse from its stomach and into the neighbor's doorstep. The mouse's carcass resembled like freshly ground meat being sold in the market. The juvenile slayers were happy with the outcome and one by one they left - to spread the story. Meanwhile, I remained standing there to absorb what I just saw. The neighbor's house was unoccupied so imagine the maggots crawling out of the carcass a few days later.

This distasteful but comical account would be told on the table - like it was some traumatic episode I never knew it was - at a time when I was having a sumptuous meal of Lumpiang Shanghai. Not far from where I was sitting, mice squeaked under the cupboards. They got stuck on a fly paper laid out to break their trail. As the subject of mice went on, one of the maids confessed their method of taking the life out of the pest. They skewer them using a barbecue stick - sometimes right into their heads - before tossing the remains into the bin.

Looking at my half-eaten Spring Roll, I put liberal amounts of tomato ketchup over it before it was able to slid down my throat. I never leave leftovers on my plate. 

I don't know what just happened. But the next day, I would cringe at the sight of Pork Sinigang that the maid was about to serve as lunch. At work, I would pick vegetables over meat. It would be the beginnings of the Meatless Mondays campaign that still takes place every week. And when I am forced to grab a meal at a fast food, It's either fish or sometimes, a chicken fillet sandwich. 

Burgers, including pasta ceased to be a staple. 

Sometimes I would claim that the mice left a curse. For as they squeaked for dear life while their ashened furs lay on the adhesive, a revolt took place within my tummy. It would be the last time I would touch spring rolls - or any other pork or beef dishes. And if not for chicken, which I am forced to eat from time to time, 

I would have turned Vegan.    

  

Perya

"Oww... shoot!!"

The one peso missed its mark by a few centimeters. The silver coin should have landed on the small circle on the game board's checkered surface.

I should have won 10 pesos.

"Try ulit."

Garppp and Rocco were on the opposite corner of the deck, hurling their own coins and trying to land it on a square box with an assigned prize. Meanwhile, I squeezed the last coin in my hand before aiming it at a new target.

This time, the piso barrelled across the blank squares and disappeared behind the patch of potato chips and soft drinks. So much for being a gambler. I've had enough.



My friends and I were at the UP Fair to watch some local bands perform on Valentines Day. But we ended up checking the game tables, food kiosks and rides on the other side of the fair grounds.

The fair, with all its modern features had the trappings of the perya. The neighborhood fair that lasts for a week or a month, depending on who gives permission to operate it.

The game tables where we throw coins to win a prize were there, and so was the shooting galley where a player needs to hit a number of plastic birds (or stacked cans) before receiving a prize from the game master's sundry merchandise.

For a moment, I was brought back in time; back in the days when I would sneak out of the house at night and scurry towards the peryahan a few streets away.

There, among the company of gamblers, and kids who were allured to the sights and sounds of the clandestine casino, I would spend the spare change from my school baon hoping for that one chance to bring home something I could show off to my mom.

I would have made thoughtful reference to the amusement rides often seen in the perya. But sadly, I had no memory to speak of. Not when I was forbidden to ride those mechanical throwaways - those cheap thrills with their grease covered joints and pre-war hydraulics.

They are not for the faint-hearted like me.  

Instead, I would fondly remember the booth, (or hovel, depending on how you see the perya during the day) where colored light bulbs run across a large table and a spinning wheel horizontally placed next to the game master decides the prize.

One time, I placed my bet on a glassware and to my surprise, the flashing light bulbs stopped where I laid down my 10 pesos. Racing towards home with an amber-colored dining plate pressed against my chest, I gave the spoil to my mom to her amazement.

Never will I win a prize again.

The neighborhood fair lasted for a week or two, returning only a year after to attract more people to spend their cash on their gaming attractions. I didn't know how much money I lost, neither did the money I win. It is safe to say that I went home empty handed one evening and decided then and there that I won't be coming back.

Only now did I realize that somehow, the place taught me the basics of gambling.

But at the UP Fair Grounds, where a much older and stingy me walked past gaming boards and rode - for the first time - the Octopus, I felt a sense of loss, knowing too well that the sights and sounds of today's perya, is but a near-extinct novelty for the kids who found themselves there.

For those of us in the 90's, who had very few distractions, (apart from street games that we play at dusk and the Tokusatsu TV series we watch on weekends) the perya - with all its hidden vices and freak shows; its joy rides and occasional fist fights, affords us a night of spectacles and surprises to forget the troubles of tomorrow.

Traffic Jam Moment

I was doing some gift wrapping in the living room this morning when my nephew appeared in front of me. In his hands were toy vehicles he took out from the toy box. 

My nephew carefully arranged the toys on the coffee table to simulate a rush hour traffic. A truck and a bus, longer than his arm lead the queue while plastic cars smaller than his fist line behind. The other half of the table is occupied by my gift boxes and wrappers so the toddler had little space to move his mini-traffic jam. 

"Laro tayo," I said while putting away my stuff. Baby Lenin looked at my direction to let me know that it's okay to play with him.

December, 2012

We ended up putting the vehicles on the floor, where there was enough space to move around. There, I was making engine and honking sounds as my nephew wordlessly tugged his cars. I could have spent an hour keeping him company. But a child's play - experts say - move at a quicker pace. I wasn't done yet with his toys when he thought of doing something else.

I could have let the moment pass by without any reference to my own childhood. But just when we were about to put the cars on the ground, a flashback turned the child's play into a moment of reminiscing. I remembered a picture my mom kept in one of my photo albums.

Circa 1983

A long time ago, a kid used to play what my nephew does today when thoughts of traffic jam excites his imagination.

For The Future

Previously: Literary Bedrock 

The trend is to lay claim to the overhead cabinets, before they too fall victim to the hoarders looking for space to dump their keepsakes. These wooden storage boxes, while already being used as repository of useless things, don't make the most of the available space. Given proper attention, the old stuff they hold can be thrown away, allowing the essentials littering the ground and at the mercy of the elements to be kept instead. 

For this urgency, I volunteered to occupy the overhead cabinet opposite my room. It has never been used since it was put there, and the handful of bags and other small items it holds could be passed on to new owners who might have better use for them.

My idea was to squeeze in the comforters my mother bought when chill weather used to pay a visit. It's been ages since they were taken out of their dust-coated plastic bags, and their old spot not only blocks the passage along the narrow corridor, their ugly presence tell that we don't have a place to keep them. 

Using a borrowed ladder, the ledges of the overhead box were wiped clean. The material excesses, including the motorcycle helmet which I never used when I had a bike - were carted away. After turning the cabinet into an empty shell, I shoved the comforters in, but only my sister's sheet could fit. I still have to find a place for my comforter, or I might sneak the over-sized blanket out of the house and give it to someone who needs it.

But as I descend the steps of the ladder, I chanced upon a stack of carton boxes that are also blocking the path. And then I remembered the man-sized book case that used to occupy half the space of the corridor before it was towed away to the master's bedroom. The encyclopedias and information tomes were hastily put inside the carton boxes before they were abandoned.

Meanwhile, I craned my head up to where the overhead cabinet was and thought of a better use for the space.

The fate of those books and my plans to share the knowledge before their hard-bound sources become obsolete has always been a thorny issue between me and the matriarch. 

My mom insists that we should keep them "for the children." But I would counter that my nephews would be using tablets once they step foot in grade school. Mother would brush off my vision, while I secretly grumbled in protest. But between sowing discord and embracing world peace, I never dared touch those tomes out of fear that I might fall into temptation

And give away those books without her permission.

But as I take out the volumes of Collier's Encyclopedia, and the non-fiction sagas out of the carton boxes, I cannot help but recognize the matriarch's line of thinking. Those books not only nourished me, they were part of my growing up years along with Nintendo, Voltron and Bioman.

Those precious gems of knowledge may have lost their charm in today's world. Nevertheless they have played a role I can never deny. Letting the less fortunate gain from these books is the most prudent move. But what about our own children - our bundles of joy, whose minds are now beginning to search for answers about their world? And what about the memory? Would I drop my sentimental leanings knowing there's a path to remembrance?

The stuff I tried to fit in were suddenly seen flying out of the storage cabinet. When the ledges were cleared, the atlases, almanacs and children's fairy tales were carefully arranged so that they could fit together and leave a gentle afterthought that they were put there on purpose.

I may not know what the future holds, but following my mom's ardent faith that books are timeless pieces, I may have unknowingly passed on the wisdom I have gathered, like fireflies, to lead the way for those who will one day follow our footsteps.

"For the future," I said, before closing the sliding door. In my head, I could almost hear the squeaky voices of my slightly older nephews asking to be read a book.