Antipolo Senti Nights

For some reason, the same ridge became a testament to my dreams. I attempted to conquer my fears of driving just to be in that place with the one I will invite to keep me company. The thought of embracing the chilly silence, with only the same distant shimmering lights to bear witness to our moment of connection was the ultimate Emo moment I could imagine.

The Ridge Racer

It was the years before the turn of the new millennium. Dad would come home very late at night after spending the whole day at work. He would park the Toyota FX just outside the house, in a compound with a very narrow driveway.

As a nocturnal young adult, I would prep myself to sneak out. With my dad's driver as my collaborator, I would often make the escape - with Darwin, Christian or Eugene - my college buddies back then, for a short joyride around the neighborhood. So I turn the engine on, rev the gas pedal, and slowly inch my way out of the driveway and into the empty streets of Sampaloc. With no driver's license to show, no blessing from the car owner, and often, no guidance from an adult, it was a very stupid move. 

But back then, there was a sublime purpose for all those late-night practice driving.

"Balak ko lang naman makapagdrive hanggang Antipolo - ng madaling araw - kasama ang tropa at makapag-sentihan* hanggang umaga habang pinagmamasdan ang kapayapaan at katahimikan ng Kamaynilaan sa overlooking."

Of course, fate tells that I would never get to accomplish that goal. While driving an Isuzu Gemini - a car which my dad brought for me, eventually  - I accidentally dented the side of a neighbor's car. Having no proof to show that I was allowed to even start the car engine, I was nearly bought to the police station and because of the trouble I caused, I got a mouthful from my mom. Meanwhile, dad had to pay a huge sum for the damage. 

I vowed never to learn how to sit behind the wheel after that accident.

Until 2 decades later, when it was imminent that learning to drive would mean convenience for my household.

To master the road would mean getting to places, legally and responsibly. And one of those places I have reached was this hilltop restaurant next to Cloud 9 in Antipolo.

In one of those random, take-out early dinners with the Weatherman, he took a photo, while I was inside a Toyota Revo - a car I took custodianship from the Favorite Aunt over 3 years ago. Looking at the picture and remembering all those crazy nights I took my dad's car for a spin, It seems, I made a full circle.

I may not have spent the late nights musing about life and the future with my college buddies, but I get to spend a romantic evening with my lifetime partner in the same place I have dreamed of landing many, many years ago.

"Imagine mo ganyan ang backyard natin," The Weatherman pointed at the glimmering cityscape below. "Tapos napapaligiran tayo ng maraming mga puno habang umiihip ang malamig na hangin galing Sierra Madre."

Some dreams are still to be made.

Taking The Wheel (First Part)

Previously: Driving Lessons

Sometime around the year 2000, my father's driver slowly inched the Toyota FX into the narrow driveway in our cramped compound. It was past 1 in the morning and as I waited for my dad to go to the master's bedroom to retire, me and Darwin, a college friend, would make hasty preparations to sneak out and test drive the car into the near-empty streets of Sampaloc. The driver bestowed his reluctant approval.

Those days, all I wanted was to drive the car to Kelly Heights in Antipolo to watch the city lights blink on the horizon. It was my ultimate senti trip - a long-forgotten tradition of pouring your heart out to another person and unburden yourself before the eventual hardening of emotions come daybreak. But because I was too lazy to get a driver's license, I was reduced to sneaking the car during early mornings, hoping I won't get into trouble. 

But luck ran out one evening.

I was backing the Isuzu Gemini - a car that was given to me by my dad, which I passively declined because of its obsolescence (I was hoping he would gift me a Toyota Corolla '98 instead) - out of the driveway not knowing I was already backing against a neighbor's car that was parked across the street. I did get a mouthful from my mother that day. Not only was I driving without a license, but also it cost my dad 4K to have the damaged car fixed.

My confidence behind the wheel crumbled after that accident. And when you get reminded of that first driving school experience, which you hated so much, might as well abandon learning to drive at all. So in the years after, aside from the occasional refresher courses I took from time to time, I was never really comfortable stepping on the gas, shifting gears, and finding my way into Metro Manila's snarling traffic.

That was until my mother's driver decided to work abroad in 2013. 

Milestone

It was a feast by all accounts.

The Pancit Malabon and the home-made spaghetti laid side by side across the large wooden table. Sticks of grilled pork flanked the two pasta dishes. A plate of roasted chicken was being passed around. Not even its bones did escape the hungry mouths of the youthful revelers. A batch of fried spring rolls was set aside on the food strainer, its coat of vegetable oil still dripping on the warm pot.  There were a lot more where it came from. The macaroni salad in the fridge remained untouched, and so were the cakes, brought by friends who arrived expectedly, even in the absence of invitations. Finally, the Lechon was delivered, paid for by the celebrant's other half who was also celebrating his birthday on that auspicious weekend. I don't recall it getting to the table with its crispy skin still intact.

Later that evening, when the family members have all left, those who stayed behind took turns singing at the karaoke. I remember Kuya Roque, the eldest of the celebrant's students crooned to classic tunes from Frank Sinatra to Procol Harum. It is as if, he had memorized all the celebrant's favorite songs and performed it with much feel. Meanwhile, cases of beer kept the live chatter late into the night, spilling into the driveway, where some of the guests had already begun swooning on their monobloc chairs. Unable to handle the alcohol that had already numbed the senses, some of the female guests were told to stay overnight. It wasn't safe to travel home. I wonder if they still remember that event from years back when they felt so euphoric, they woke up the next morning having a taste of what a wasted adult felt like.

I do, even when I was a mere spectator.

Because in the years after that feast, no longer would the celebrant throw a celebration as grand as the vignette I have written, and instead, simply waited for people to remember (and hopefully show up with food that we can all share). The students who were intoxicated now have their own lives. Rarely do they keep in touch. Kuya Roque, the crooner, has passed away after he didn't wake up one morning, and only the celebrant's friends from her old neighborhood (aside from relatives) never fail to show up, to have a modest birthday party to welcome another year.

But that will change.

She had a difficult time sleeping that night when the idea had finally sunk in. She was even worried that she might have a heart attack after failing to contain all that excitement. For after 15 years, she will have a feast, and she has the liberty to gather all the people who mattered without having to worry about the food or the venue because someone will throw her a party. It will be her 70th birthday, and no matter what the cost, all I yearn for is for her to have an unforgettable evening.

With the downpayment for the food, the cake, and the venue already paid, I still have 40 days to convince special guests to show up, make a video presentation of my mother's colorful life with the help of the Weatherman, convince myself to hire a host, and pray, for the third nephew to stay a little longer inside my sister's womb.

May the universe grant this favor.

Our Edsa Story

The battle for memory is as much about the future as it is about the past.

Milan Kundera

It was at this spot I once stood, leaned my chest against the metal railing to witness the sea of humanity converging below. The Left were on the other side of the intersection, unfurling their large banner demanding the ouster of a corrupt leader. The civic society groups were at the center, cheering, and raising their hands with the Laban sign for every good news coming from the radio stations. In just a matter of hours, the speaker on the makeshift stage would announce the withdrawal of support of the military. They too would show up in that corner, lending their voices calling for a leadership change. 

Just days before, I remember sneaking out of the house at sunrise after hearing some groups converging at the foot of the Blessed Mother. The group they said came all the way from Ateneo, who after seeing the good Senators weeping, and a clown dancing went to Edsa to call for the President to step down. The admin lawmakers had gone too far. The impeachment court had just lost its authority. When they voted against the opening of the second envelope containing evidence that would further press the President, it was time to do another Edsa.

And boy did we succeed.

What we didn't know is that every political force demanding the government to step down would replicate what we did and assemble at Edsa to block all traffic. They would set up camp, and like the ebb and flow of tides would swell later during the evenings. In less than three months after Ms. Gloria took office and Mr. Erap carted away to face his plunder charges, the masses would mount another Edsa. They would be crushed completely when they tried to storm the Palace gates.

We were horrified to learn the truth, that the People Power of the past that was called to restore democracy would be twisted and mangled to serve the interest of the few. It is, for this reason, no other Edsa protest was ever mounted after the third. Gloria knew this too, and for nine years - an equivalent of a single generation - she would bury the memory - in print and in spirit. The revolution that inspired so many nations to turn to Democracy would slowly fade from our national consciousness leaving this hollow notion that the Marcos years weren't bad at all.

As a result, we have kids today who knew nothing of that revolution. Of how People Power guaranteed our freedom to express our aspirations; of how that mass movement restored our right to enact change (through elections and street protest) when our leaders fail; of how, in our coming together, made us a nation of freedom-loving souls. Though I may often find it depressing how some people in authority would try to change what is already history, of how they would try to picture the years after the revolution as nothing but a series of failed promises, I still have faith in the legend. 

For once our rights are suppressed (in social and traditional media); and once we see opposition leaders being dragged in the streets, bloodied and screaming while protesting against an oppressive government, we will once again come together - with beaming pride and overflowing spirit - in that corner that brought us to where we are today.

As We Return The Relics

Out of this desire to write something - anything, just to catch up with my 10 blog entries published every month, I tried recycling works I have penned long before online writing became a calling. I've spent the rest of the night rummaging articles, stored on my computer's magnetic vault, hoping they could be used for my self-preservation. They were written in college, back when I knew nothing about Creative Writing, and all we ever did was to write using journalistic principles learned from our discipline. They were a source of pride, I tell you. Given my scarce vocabulary and infantile style, some of them could stand against the self-scrutiny I often apply in my works today. The problem is, the narratives could be published in connection with the present. Something I'd have to unearth and refurbish to gain some credence. But it's almost daybreak and nothing I could spin would make them relevant. So I thought, maybe, I'd let them linger in oblivion. They have more value than being reduced as a stand-alone throw back post. There too were the cheesy poems inspired by real-time events. Cringe-worthy as they may sound, nothing I could do would make them get past their juvenile musings. Finally, there was this one piece scribbled in my attempt to immortalize a trip down south. Replete with descriptions about the sights and tastes of Davao City, what I find lacking is the sense of journey. Forgivable offense, I thought. After all, the journal existed long before I learned this gift of writing.  

Eventually, I was left with nothing but this hurried post that will appear on my blog before sunrise. If there was something I have picked in that little time travel to my own pre-history, it is the affirmation that I've told stories long ago. One day, I would have to weave a tapestry warping the past and the future, so they may find permanence in cyberspace using the weft I have always carried along.

The Repository

Only once before, did I walk within the cavernous halls of the National Library. It might have been for some petty research work, back, when the state university in Santa Mesa was my stepping stone towards enlightenment. The library at the University of Santo Tomas, while much smaller, packs a lot of rare tomes. I have doubts, this edifice in Kalaw Avenue cradles on its shelves the collection the Dominicans of Espana have, giving the impression in college that this central repository of books has always been of little importance, a destination, only curiousers and hardcore researchers would consider a gem in this obscure corner of the city.

In the age of the web, research can be done in the comforts of one's private quarters, in citing passages in Wikipedia, or maybe Facebook, depending on who's narrative to believe. The library, while I knew in the time of my youth as a happy place, is now nothing more but a shell where people escape the noise drowning a discordant metropolis. It is this thought that made me check the Pambansang Aklatan, not to linger and gain knowledge, but to accomplish some mechanical writing work.

It gets tiring when you're doing the same repetitive job at home everyday.

In my head, I believed the library was a place that welcomes anyone who needs a quiet space to gain clarity, much like a secluded park. It doesn't matter if the pilgrim simply visits just to look around, study, or in my case, set up my workstation in some long table at the opposite end of the room. Beyond the iron fence, seamen of different ranks waiting for their papers to be processed, wandered about, leaving little question this Bauhaus-inspired architecture is assaulted by the tide of ambulant vendors peddling their wares. What surprises me was how different my imagination was from reality. The National Library, while unheard of among the pedestrians outside, and seldom visited by students is actually getting a face lift.

The place isn't forgotten at all.

The accommodation was Spartan, but the kind librarians of the general reference section still offered me a place to open my laptop and do some snippets. The sounds of construction work downstairs may have been a source of distraction, but it was the elation of reclaiming some lost ground that made me accomplish what needs to be done before my computer's battery ran out.

When the renovation has been completed, in two years, perhaps, the library may offer more space for guests to access their mobile devices in a place with reliable WiFi and lots of power outlets. It would also be a splendid idea as well, to leave a hall for people to express their art through the medium of their choice. (like painting or interpretative dance) While it would take some time for me to return, since the construction work leaves little space for visitors to get around, it is with much appreciation that my visit allowed me to tinker with imagination, and see what lies ahead. In some near future, when the nation's heritage takes the spotlight with the opening of the Museum of Natural History and the Art Gallery nearby; when the restoration of the Metropolitan Theater in Lawton, as well as the reclaiming of some green areas in the tourist belt make some headway, I hope the Pambansang Aklatan returns to prominence, not just for people who need to do scholarly work; but for those who find the allure of books stimulating in conducting their business pursuits.

Perhaps, Not In This Lifetime

Out of boredom, or maybe, curiosity, I asked a girl friend in college to read my fortune written in the lines on the palm of my hands. I still recall, like it was yesterday what my secret crush said about tomorrow.

That I will never find true and everlasting love. 

In return, I will enjoy the rest of my days in prosperity.

Though I am a self-confessed fatalist, (believe when I say that I pay close attention to karma that I make a conscious effort to perform acts of kindness days before the Weatherman and I go out) the thought that I'll never settle with someone hasn't really cross the mind.

Until lately.

When I see myself in the near future; when I search within and question if I'm still capable of feeling beyond the affections with my present obsession, no answer ever come.

Perhaps, it's time to believe in what fate has foretold. After this third book finds its closure, there is lingering doubt if I can still afford to drift close into someone's world.

Principles Of Neutrality

To this day, people would ask why I didn't join any news publication in the university, when I took up Journalism as my major in the College of Arts and Letters. The answer lies in my poor news gathering skills, and because it was never my intention to take up a writing course, believing I was better off probing the depths of the human mind in the realms of Behavioral Science. 

It was for business reasons I was pressed to become a modern-day scribbler - an apprentice groomed to take over a publishing empire created by my father. I'd still recall that fateful afternoon I made the decision, and the blissful two years conjuring words I thought I'd use only for poetic expressions. Wherever Estrelita Cruz is, this lifelong pursuit to master the prose came from her nonchalant blessing.

Much is owed to her.

Now you ask why, despite getting into the program, I still didn't join the school paper. I already mentioned my undeveloped writing skills; also the prissiness of the literati somehow turned me off. More importantly, I recognize the unspoken creed which all Journalists are supposed to be bound to, and to belong to a news organization when I was identified with a student political body besmirches the values we hold dear. The perception of neutrality, no matter how the subterfuges resurface from time to time must be preserved. It is for this reason I always give up my post during the Student Council election campaign period, and the refusal to discuss matters concerning AB politics to my classmates. In our little ways, we were able to put some credibility into our batch, which our esteemed professors, who eventually taught media ethics before we all left the St. Raymund's Building should be proud of.

In light of the obvious media bias against the sitting President, which is paid for by some shady interests to fan the flames of the ongoing Twitter #hashtag wars, I can't help but ask, where did our values go?

Kelly Heights (First Part)

On these great plains,
there are visions of the clouds
turning red at partings,
where the earth sighs
away from the warring skies.


The Last War Party, Ruel De Vera
The Most Careful Of Stars


Previously, Melancholy Heights

Back when I used to be a prominent member of a local student council party in UST, the seniors among us would party the night away after the day-long meet and greet at the college lobby, and end up spending the early mornings in some quiet and relaxing place in the city. 

The socializing, among my party mates holds many memories, for it was during these after-school "overnight meetings" did I first taste the Manila club scene. That, of course, is another story. This entry is about my love affair with Cloud 9 in Antipolo, and how I discovered the place thanks to my political associates.

I was lucky to be part of that group, who decided to hold a meeting on a Saturday for some organizational planning. It was the summer before I turned Senior, and the meeting ended late at night. The cool kids of the Arts and Letters, with their wheels and club gears had no plans of going home. There's always the choice to go to Timog, at Phenomena to dance. 

But that's an option not everyone in the group accepts.   

When another orgmate with a car arrived, the group composed of around 15 girls and boys made their way into the waiting vehicles. There were four cars in the convoy and despite the protests of others, the group made their way to Timog for some night of merrymaking at the dance floor. 

"I was at the back seat of the second car. Yung driver namin na freshman eh naisipan makipagkarerahan dun sa kasama niya sa unahan. It was on a sidestreet along the Scout area, ang kipot nung kalsada pero nasa 60kph yata yung patakbo ng mga kasama ko. Parang ewan lang. We come out from one main street intersection to another, until dun sa isang kanto, biglang lumusot yung unang car saktong may BMW na paparating. 'As in inches lang ang pagitan', sabi nung Freshman driver nung unang car. Pati yung mga kampanteng pasahero sa loob eh biglang nawala ang antok."

The club was packed and the gatekeepers refused to let new guests in. The still unoccupied Ozone disco, whose infernal remains rest just a few steps away reminded the owners of Phenomena of its tragedy. Since there were no Starbucks along Timog back in 2001, our elders thought of returning to the place where they used to wait for sunrise, high up in the mountains; where the vista of a waking city graces the pilgrims from the plains.

People who have been there, and who have seen the city from such heights call the spot, "The Overlooking." 

-tobecontinued-

Matter Of The Unspoken

In my other life a long time ago, my dad set me up on a "chaperoned date" with this pretty lady. She was about the same age as me, and the daughter of his fraternity brother who used to head our security agency. I was a junior at the university, and despite going out with some girls in class, nothing really prospered out of the platonic engagements.

Now this friendly meet-up, which I thought would gain some traction, since it had the blessings of my father, was different. Never had I been paired in the past, thus the air of permanence permeate the first time we met. We went out for some snacks and as the elders had a little chit chat, I had the chance to talk to this girl, and observe her up close. 

She was a creature of beauty, with her rounded hips, thick eyebrows, pointy nose and a full chest that would always catch others' attention. One might even mistake her for a Spanish-Filipina, if not for her thick accent. And she had this vibe of self-assurance that tells she went out with much more interesting boys in the past. Given my lack of self confidence, it felt awkward bringing up a subject to talk about. I can't even recall if I ever found out what her likes were. Much of the account of the meeting was already forgotten because there was nothing really to remember. After all, our conversation was replete with one-liner, close ended answers. 

We never saw each other again.  

My dad spoke to me after the "date" and he had some words that might be useful - now that I am mortified by my ancient demons once more. 

"Ikaw kasi, masyado mong pinakita na interesado ka." He said in a jest.

"Next time, hinay hinay ka lang. Atat ka masyado. Ayan tuloy, nawalan ng gana sa iyo."

The Jettisoning Of The Epektos

Previous on Porn Story

It was the summer of 2001, on the same overcast midday much like today, when, without thinking much of the consequences, of how that single clandestine acquisition would shape my life for the years to come, I found myself holding a pirated compact disc, a video of two men mating. With their poles erect, and ready to maim the other in the butt, the die was cast, and no longer would I find joy watching porn actors fucking their sluts.

I recall coming from Manila Times for the OJT orientation that summer. It was still early to go home, so an Avenida stroll would preoccupy me for the rest of the afternoon. There, below the Carriedo Station, men stood next to huge cardboard boxes of Marlboro cigarettes, waiting for passersby to stop and make discreet inquiries. At times, they would softly say, "Boss, M2M.." to male shoppers, hoping the code gets deciphered. By instinct, the right people read it, even when M2M used to be that pop duo, whose songs Mirror Mirror and Don't Say You Love Me were the staple of radio stations.

Now back to my story, I was gliding casually, only stopping to check the stands selling bootleg cassette tapes of Freddie Aguilar and Florante, when, one of the sentries approached me to offer his wares.

"Boss, X." A lean guy in his late twenties wheedled, hoping I was the right customer. I feigned ignorance even when I know the sinfully pleasing goods he was selling. I asked what he got, and from nowhere appeared VCD covers of naked, muscled men.

"This guy meant business." I thought.

I would have to admit that memory betrays, when the march of time blurs how the events of the day came to be. Of how, I always thought of the seller as a part-time prostitute, of how he asked me to follow him to a nearby vacant lot where he kept the video discs under stacks of hollow blocks, and of how I was trembling inside when I handed over the 120 pesos for a copy, whose content I have no guarantee of ever working on my desktop computer.

The details of the narrative might have changed, but I always knew it was the beginning.

Six months before my confession on Pinoyexchange, and a year after my first procurement, I already roam the dingy alleys of Hidalgo in Quiapo for my gay porn fix like a pro.

And time has come to once and for all, jettison the gay porn collection and erase hints of their existence on my personal effects.

Cum coated and with surfaces heavily scratched from countless playbacks on Windows Media Player, there is no doubt some of them no longer play at all. The age of Dial Up is long gone, and with the advent of faster internet connection, streaming and downloading of gay porn takes mere minutes to complete. Instant gratification for free.

...Mamimiss ko rin yung mga oras na nagsisilid ako ng gay porn sa pagitan ng mga straight porn na binibili ko sa mga naglalako sa Quiapo. At yung mga pagkakataon na nagsasama ako ng kaibigan sa suki para sila mismo ang makapamili ng porn na bibilhin nila. Nandun rin yung tiyambahan kasi wala namang paraan para i-test yung mga CD na iyong pinamili. At higit sa lahat, hahanap hanapin ko yung isang yugto sa buhay ko kung saan kailangan mong magtago - ng iyong sarili, ng iyong paghahanap ng kalinga ng isang lalaki, at yung thrill sa tuwing makakatagpo ka ng kapwa nagtatago - na higit na straight-acting sa iyo. Sa panahon ng Wechat at Grindr, Xvideos at Lifeout, it's very easy for gay men to get their fix...

More than anything, my nephews are growing up and in the years to come, they might find the door of my room open and in their curiosity, accidentally discover the secret stash of epektos still hidden under my bed. Much as they have the joy of picking their sexual preference at the right age, I would never wish the idea spring from me. Thus, against my sentimentality,

The compact discs I have kept for so long will have to go.

Discreetly and without a trace. 

The Artwork

Previously on Phobos and Deimos

"Hi Ai," 

I began tapping the keys of my laptop to send a message on Facebook. It was for my college buddy's wife. 

"Pakitanong naman kay Darrell kung naging prof namin si Galan nung third year college kami."

A few minutes later, she sent a reply from her husband telling me that Ralph Galan was indeed a teacher in one of our subjects that year.

Solving the question with my buddy's assistance was a relief. After all, the inquiry stems from the utter lack of memory of the teacher, save for an oil pastel drawing I did for his Humanities class. 

The topic came up because I took out the paperboard from my wardrobe. It was pinned there for decoration. Its colors have faded, and the exposure of its surface to the elements made it look old and worn out.

Someone might even suggest that I should throw it away.

But with extra cash comes the chance to breathe new life into the oil drawing - to keep it preserved for the years to come. With the Gundam Pilot as my companion, I followed my mother's suggestion and brought the trinket at Central Market. There, an artisan wanted to frame the board in plastic, but I refused her offer. 

I told her to frame it in wood. 

"Mahal na po magpa-frame ngayon sa kahoy." She said. Her caution fell on deaf ears.

"Magkano ba?"

"500 po para sa wooden frame at glass."

"Kasama na ang labor?" I asked. Still, I was ready to go. I would indulge my sentimentality and spend for posterity.  

She nodded.

To this day, I only have vague thoughts of the floral drawing, of its creation and even the grade I was given for that piece of work. What urged me to put it in a wooden frame - aside from having those seasonal Brini Maxwell episodes, is that for all the written works under my name,

I've got only a single oil pastel portrait to call my own.

.    

The Copy and Paste Generation

A book report, the students were asked to write, in order to pass my mother's Philippine Literature class. They were to choose between two novels - Bata, Bata Paano Ka Ginawa, penned by Lualhati Bautista, or Luha ng Buwaya by Amado V. Hernandez.

Both works were written at a time when the country was experiencing a social upheaval. Set before and during Martial Law, one speaks about changing gender roles and Feminist ideals. The other, a Leftist manifesto praising the qualities of a Maoist's utopia.

The students were expected to read the book, and write what they thought of the stories. Their papers will be graded according to how they scratch the surface, and spin their own thoughts. In this exercise, description of characters bear no points, and dicing of the narrative to bite-sized paragraphs count little. The latter is drawn from the student's tendency to copy the summary from other digital sources.

This is how book reports have been written, as far as the untaught rule book goes. And since my mom had asked me to grade the papers for her to beat the deadline of the grades submission, she gave me the liberty to do as I please and apply my own standards. 

However, I am limited by the fact that I have not read the two novels. Both works are divided into tens of chapters, and there is no way I could finish reading even one in two days. There were close to fifty students, whose papers average three pages. My mom assured me that I could figure the plot just by reading a handful of students' works, a claim I refute, since the idea i'd get will be inadequate. Given that I already committed my time, and there are resources on the Internet I could use as guide, the first thing I did was to look for a summary of every chapter of the novels, and from there, condense my own opinion.

To my astonishment, very few resources exist on the web, and if I was able to find one - in the case of Bata, Bata, Paano ka Ginawa, the summary was written on a long dead website, cached to be accessed only by those who sift through the un-crawled links on Wikipedia. With Luha ng Buhaya, I wasn't able to find any. In the end, I resigned to reading a superior study, from someone who made the novel her dissertation. To supplement my knowledge, I read a chapter lifted from the book itself. 

To expose myself and get familiarized with Amado Hernandez' writing style should there be any, among my mom's students whose well-thought work touch on the subject.

But this is not how the checking of the book reports turned out to be.

I was set to read the pages, word for word, in hopes of finding a grain of wisdom from the students' body of work. These are freshmen kids from the College of Engineering, the cream of the crop of a state university I used to belong. But my enthusiasm turned to dismay as I soon discovered that the kids plagiarized not only the summary part of the book review, but every word they put on paper. 

And it was easy to spot the idiocy.

I put on Google search field a sentence sampled from a students' submitted paper. From there, the deception is revealed. The process is repeated again and again, and the copy-pasted habit reared its ugly head. The contents were copied from the blogs. Other portions, from Scribd and Wattpad. The cause of my alarm - no - what drove me to muted rage was the fact that even the supposed to be insightful parts of the work was lifted from someone's web portal. It's like stealing the mind of the blog author, when a student can easily form his own thoughts on the subject. 

I was tempted to give a failing grade that had I not nudged myself that it was my mom's students and not mine, half of the class might have to repeat the subject. I also tried to make light of their action since these are Engineering students. Not men and women of letters:

"Maybe they were not instructed on how to write a book review in high school," I thought.

"Maybe because they paid more attention to the really difficult subjects like Advanced Calculus. And that, Philippine Literature is just a mere sideshow for them."

"Perhaps my mother disclosed that she doesn't know how to use the computer, and that the students thought they could get away by grazing what they could find on the Internet."

"Antatanga talaga amputa." I thought, while writing in big and readable numerals the grades of the students.

"3.0"

To be fair, I used to lift entire passages from books at the library during my days in the academe. But the time spent looking for several sources and reading them merit a respectable grade for the effort. Besides, it was difficult to prove then, that a work has been plagiarized. I also cite my sources. Unlike today, when safeguards exist to dissuade kids from performing such acts, some continue to steal ideas believing they could get away with it.

Apparently, they paid little attention when my mom warned she would find out if her students copied from the internet.

But then, how would she know if I didn't step forward to serve as her dedicated eyes?

She would have been duped.

Of the 43 students who submitted their book report, I was only able to give a flat one (95%) to only one. A girl, I had to search the web to make sure her prolific work fits her character. Less then 10 got a grade of 85% and the rest, the "Iskolar ng Bayan" their parents lauded; the very reason lawmakers like Tito Sotto get away when they copy and paste from sources other than their own got a mere passing grade.

A token of appreciation for complying with the requirement.

Ndoto Blue 002

"Ma... I want to seek your permission." 

"What is it?" She asked.

"I'll be getting a new phone." I stood next to her bed that early morning. "But I hesitate buying the one I like because the phone is expensive."

"Get it." She orders. "Baka hindi mo na ma-afford makabili ng mamahaling cellphone next time." 

Her advise got me thinking.

If there is one thing I have never outgrown, it is to consult my mom every time I make a personal purchase. Especially, if it will carve deep into my pockets, and the acquisition is more of a luxury than a practical move. 

Part of the reason was my upbringing. I was raised to discern the value of my possessions. When I was a kid and wanted to buy a new die cast toy car or an Ultraman action figure, my mom pressed me with benevolent persuasion. It was meant to weigh my purchasing decision.

"Practical ba yan?" She would ask.

"Hindi ba puwedeng next time na lang natin bilhin iyan?"

The habit was carried over to adulthood.

So even when I had the money, I hardly spend on bling. I don't have tablets or expensive phones, like my friends. All my earnings go first to savings. The mobile phones I owned were either freebies from my post-paid phone subscription, or hand-me-downs. In fact, the first phone ever given to me was an Ericsson GF788. I was in college at that time and Nokia 3210 was the status symbol. My dad could afford it and yet, I was sending and receiving SMS on a handset, whose tiny LCD screen made long texts difficult to read.

It was his old phone and it doesn't matter. I was into desktop computers to bother myself with the latest trends.

Before I'd step out of the university, he would pass over to me a Nokia 3310.


Returning to the present, the decision to get a new phone only took a day. It was a Saturday, I remember, and instead of working at home, I was in Megamall to get my first-ever, paid hand-held device. Sure, there are bills to pay, a Christmas season approaching and unseen spending that may come my way. But because I already had my mom's approval; the go-signal from the only person I would trust with my money, indulgence was no longer a source of guilt.

Switching on my Samsung Galaxy Mini for the last time, a few press of the button and it crashed before I can even access the applications.

"Hopeless." I shook my head.

Ndoto Blue on Samsung Galaxy Mini

"A new phone has indeed become a necessary expense."


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The Newsstand

Around this time many years ago, I would be at the Port Area to oversee the dispatching of our newspaper. We had a small cubicle, in an old building occupied by another tenant during the day. It was next to other publishing houses whose headlines fed the masses' curiosity. 

We were spinners of information.

The people working at the Port Area knew no elements. Even when typhoons smashed into the city, we were there to deliver the news. At this very hour, one would find me standing near the entrance, watching, as suppliers drop unsold copies and hauling tens of fresh prints of tomorrow's stories. Sometimes an aide would introduce me to some of the agents. They say, "this portly lady came all the way from Baguio." I would nod at her to acknowledge her presence. "Other provincial suppliers leave before midnight." 

Back then I didn't pay much attention. I was there pretending to work. I didn't speak much, neither did I bother asking suggestions on how to improve the paper's content. The dispatchers and cashiers knew the drill. They have experienced managers to report to. The numbers would simply fly to my desk the next morning and so life begins, with me wiggling at the center.

Looking back, I thought I knew everything. For Christ's sake, this was what my formal education taught me. Hubris is in the air, and looking at how we sold our products, things will get better. 

That's what my dad always said.

Only now, when I get to stand next to a newsstand and spot the paper whose pages I never bothered to read makes those nights different. I may not have the tools of trade to turn those early mornings to my advantage, but talking to the groundsmen would help.

That's how we learn.

"Look how old the banners are." I said to Butchok this afternoon. I sent him a picture of tabloids laid down on a newsstand.

"Sumuko na si Napoles kagabi pa."

"If it were me and my dad running the paper," I continued. "The banner story would read: "Yaya ni Napoles handang kumanta: 10M PABUYA SA PORK BARREL QUEEN."

Driving Lessons

Previously: Man-Machine Meld

It has always been my dad's aspiration for me to learn to drive. He thought that by doing so, I could shuttle him to work one day. Or perhaps, it has always been a father's dream to see their sons take the wheel.

Whatever his reasons, he told me to look up for a driving school and sign up.

He will pay for it.

So I did his bidding and took a short, hands-on course at Socialites. It was the nearest driving school from Morayta, where I am taking a public speaking class that summer. 

The lesson plan was spontaneous and organic. No orientation was done. Not even the traffic rules were explained to me.

I was already behind the wheel the first day - learning to shift gears by stepping on the clutch. I remember throwing it on reverse. The Hyundai Charade inched backwards. Very slowly. I don't know how long it took for me to clear the parking lot, but the instructor was getting impatient.

We have not reached the road, and yet, he already showed what to expect in his class.

"Pag sinabi kong apakan mo ang break, apakan mo!" he hissed

"Talagang ibabangga mo tayo ha!?"

The account may have now meshed into the collective memory. But I still remember the smell of rubber (because he was stepping on the break while I hit the gas), his order to switch the hazard lights so he could insult me at a shoulder, and the uneasiness I felt after. The instructor had took all the fun away from driving.

Disinterest had set in that I dreaded attending the driving lessons. The instructor went with his intimidation tactics that the next two sessions no longer mattered. Kumbaga, I just had to get on with it. Sayang ang pera. I won't drive anyway, so the next option is to make my dad happy.

From the initial thrill, I ended the course disillusioned and disinterested to pursue the road. I didn't even submit an application for a non-professional driver's license for I feel that I've not learned. I would remember the instructor for a long time, and lament how time was wasted.

On the day my lesson was about to end, I even spoke to another instructor - a perky one - and thought how fun it would have been had he been assigned to me. 

I was 16 when I first held a steering wheel, and for several years, I believed that I have forgotten everything: stepping on the clutch while changing gears, releasing the hand break for the vehicle to move, and moving in reverse to exit the driveway. But then one day, in a video game arcade at a department store, a college buddy challenged me to a race.

"Karera tayo," he dropped the tokens into the slot.

"Manual transmission dare!" I accepted his challenge.

I was not able to outrun my buddy so I lost the race. But in defeat, I realized that not everything was lost. Inside the cockpit. As I stepped on the clutch while shifting gears, I was applying the lessons I've learned from driving school.   

For all the times I thought it was forgotten. There I was, at long last, driving. 

Between Exes

Yet you still value the things you've lost the most. Because the things you've lost are still perfect in your head. They never rusted. They never broke. They are made of the memories you once had, which only grow rosier and brighter, day by day. They are made of the dreams of how wonderful things could have been and must never suffer the indignity of actually still existing. Of being real. Of having flaws. Of breaking and deteriorating.

Round and round I strode around the dining room, while the host laid down the place mats on the table. She was gorgeous and charming - like the last time we met. Sniffy the Terrier barked under the heirloom table. Still unused to my yearly presence, he sees me more of an intruder than an old friend.

There on the table was a Banana Cake. It crowned a ceramic plate. Golden brown and smooth as a cushion, the host boasted spending an entire afternoon baking the cake. Also on the table was a creamy pasta inside a Tupperware container. Probably a leftover from lunch. Despite the temptations of food and stories, my eyes trailed the sunlit portal leading to the balcony.

Shunned behind iron grills and glass sliding doors, the last rays of the crimson orb bathed the garden plants with natural light. I walked closer. Slower. As memory as old as a lifetime slowly blurred the line between now and before. 

I remember. I stood there in that same balcony, while the much younger host laid food on the table. The overcast heavens still heaved of rain as the passing cloudburst left the ground soaked, and the leaves moist with mountain-kissed teardrops. On the horizon was the sun, retreating behind the clouds, and into the evening. It allowed time a moment to recall. A small frog leaped behind pots of bleeding Caladiums, while stems of Mayanas swayed after being nudged by the playful breeze.

Soon, I heard my name called. It was time for snacks.

Now many years have passed, and the scenery outside had broken my orbit around the dining table. Without even asking permission, I took out the padlock binding the iron grills to the wall. With all my strength, I forced the door open. I even lifted the glass sliding door, whose wheels were derailed. Remembrance blinds the vision. I have to step foot outside. For in the garden - despite nearly forgotten - sums the blissful days I had spent with the host.

My ex-girlfriend.

Each careful step towards the balcony is like turning a page of our story. From the time I accompanied her when her boyfriend didn't show up, to our late night phone calls that lasted until daybreak. In-between were the movie dates, the showing-up-in-class late, with the wicked grin on our faces, the leadership training in Cavite, the confrontation at the beach, the ultimatum and the intervention of the best friend, to the silver bracelet I gave as a Christmas gift. There was the untold slipping to the rainbow side, the Christmas party where I hugged her tight, the break up by SMS and the revelation that I am...

Now leaning against the common side of the fence, we would talk about boys and heart matters like we were never once, a couple.

But I recall.

Looking around the garden, the pots of bloodied Caladium, whose heart-shaped leaves turn sideways against the sun. The Mayanas, once moist and lushful appeared wilting. Dried leaves were everywhere, the steel chairs unmoved. Beyond the balcony and the perimeter fence, the once rolling hills of West Fairview are now blocked by newly-constructed homes.

There's no more sight of farmlands.

We may never embrace the life we had - the ex and I - but with every hug, laughter and visit I do every Christmas - every time there is time - strengthens the bond we now have. The romantic ties maybe long gone, sometimes, even laughed at, but in its place thrives a deeper companionship that blooms, slowly, with age.

Only the things you no longer have will always be perfect.

The Efficiency and Perfection of the Lost

I Wrote This For You

Trusteeship

At nineteen, I took over the family business as my dad and his business partner decides to spend the summer in Europe.

For two weeks, I stayed at my dad's rat-infested office to look after the company's 24-hour operations. I had to make tough choices - decisions that ran against the ideals infused in our heads in school. There were brief moments of euphoria too: road trips at 3 in the morning to drop my aunt at her place in Navotas, the matriarch cruising the city in a brand-new Kia Carnival my dad used as his wheels; friends dropping by to see how I was doing in the big company; late-night phone calls to the girl who will become my significant half when the school year opened a month later.

The recollections of those two weeks were handwritten in a torn-up sheet of paper. And as my boss prepares to fly to Singapore for a business trip today, the narratives of the old days serve as a fitting reminder that a very long time ago, such take-over took place, and my job at that time was far difficult than what I will be facing in a few hours.

May 9, 2001

Opisyal na nagsimula ang pansamantalang pag-take over ko sa Publishing House at sa Security Agency. Kahit paano'y alam na ng mga tao na ako ang mamumuno sa kanila. Para sa akin, ito'y isang patikim sa maaring mangyari pag ako'y nakatapos na, pero sabagay, mabuting matikman ko na ito kaysa mangapa ako pag nandun na.

Nauna akong pumasok kay Pa. Minabuti ko ito para kahit paano, magkaroon na ako ng mind-set sa mga gagawin ko sa mga susunod na araw. Nalaman ko na rin kahit paano ang mga kailangan kong gawin at paano ang buhay dito sa opisina.

Nakapanlalambot malaman na hindi lang overseer ang gagawin ko kundi pati rin mga articles ni papa. (ang column niya!) Ang pasok ko ay mula 11:00 ng umaga hanggang 1:00 ng sumunod na araw. Alam ko, napakahirap na trabaho ito, na kung minsan, parang trip ko atrasan. Ako lang ang magdedesisyon. Wala ng iba.

Maraming bilib sa gagawin ko. Pero sa akin, ito'y isang napakalaking responsibilidad. Hanggang sa ngayon, takot at pagdududa sa aking kakayahan ang naghahari. Bata pa rin pala ako. Gusto kong umatras pero ayoko maging duwag.

Bukas na ang alis ni pa. Pero hanggang sa ngayon, namumulot pa rin ako ng lakas ng loob. Kailangan kong maging matigas. Kailangan ko ng linaw ng pag-iisip. Kailangan kong magtiwala at magpaka-pinuno kahit di ko ito nagawa sa paaralan. Bahala na. Oras na lang ang magpapasiya.

Salsal

News is when a man bites a dog and not the other way around.

For this reason, we were taught in Journalism how to discern news over what is mere press release. With this mindset, we begin to learn why good news seldom make it to the headlines, unless the society has become too corrupt that immorality has become the norm or a sense of optimism whiffs in the air.

We were also taught how to make salsal a story when news is scarce or information is unavailable. While frowned upon and strictly unspoken, such technique had helped us cope with the dry days when I used to run a tabloid newspaper.

Salsal is when an ordinary crime-related story is peppered with details when none exists. It aims to generate a response whether it be repulsion, fear, anger or even amusement. When done regularly - even when other newspapers carry a single headline, the salsal news becomes tasteless. People start to complain and the tabloid suffers a loss of readership.

I was reminded of the word and how we smirked when Isabel De Leon segued to the topic. I may not recall her examples, but whenever I encounter cheeky passages from news articles such as these:

"The women demanded he also have sex with them, and the old man resisted at first. But then gave in to his wives' desires.

Uroko stopped breathing when the fifth woman was riding on top of him. “Suddenly, my husband stopped breathing, and they all ran out, still laughing," the youngest wife told reporters, "but when they saw that I could not resuscitate him, they all ran into the forest."

I cannot help but think of the perfect banner. 

TNB has already blogged about the news, but if given a spin - Pinoy style, I would wholeheartedly recommend this front-page headline.

Pumupulandit pa ang katas: Mister, dedo matapos kangkangin ng limang asawa.

Literary Bedrock

Just before bedtime, I would ask my mom to read me a book. The story and the characters play no importance. As long as the narrative can take me to another realm and another time, any children's literature would do.

With my head resting on her thin legs, and with my droopy eyes half-closed, mom would summon fairies and dwarves, and even mystical herons to send me off to dreamland. She would begin her tale with "once upon a time" with conflicts that sometimes don't end with "happily ever after." 

Like the Steadfast Tin Soldier in Hans Andersen's fairy tale, stories with resolute partings stay remembered for life. One may call this a trauma; a rude and unsaid introduction to real life. But these premature awakenings only endeared me to the protagonist of the story.

The nightly habit would go on, until I was told I'm too old for fairy tales and that, I should start reading books on my own. It is in this crossroad that I learned how I was betrayed by fiction, so instead of reading short stories, I began stuffing my mind with easily digestible facts that are readily available at the school library.

And read I did. 

I remember the days I would find myself lodged between the pastel-colored bookshelves, turning a page or two to learn about the dinosaurs. Sometimes I would skip lunch (or make haste gobbling my home-made baon) so I could squeeze more time during noon breaks tracing with my small fingers the maze of streets criss-crossing a choked metropolis.

I recall those late afternoons, where instead of getting inside the school bus to go home, I would entrench myself in the same library. There, I would make acquaintance with the Philippines' midnight creatures and tribal folktales before heading off to a hidden park at the back of the campus. Since I was into gardening, I would consider it a lucky day when I spot the shelf where the school librarian kept the only copy of the ornamental plants catalog. With its rich pictures and vivid descriptions, the plants I pulled out with its roots intact - to plant them on a pot at home would finally get its name. 

It is only when I took a short leap to high school, in a different place of learning that I stopped having daily trips to the library. The inadequacy of its book shelves and the ambivalence of its librarian forced me to seek other pursuits. Years would go by. I would give up my solitary escapades for other distractions. I would find joys watching anime, playing video games, listening to alternative music, and letting my image-altering pretentiousness mask my low self-esteem. 

Together with friends, I would hang out at the biggest shopping mall in the city, do road trips at the break of dawn, and proclaim my female crushes only to get my heart broken. I have lived a life many teenagers did, and in all the rare chances I could tell someone how books shaped the way I perceive life, only a soft whisper would come out of my reluctant mouth. 

The official line would always remain, "I seldom read books."

Deliberate maybe the revisionist mouthpiece, but the truth has its way of catching up. It resurfaces from time to time. Unperturbed. No matter how often I fail to make the cut when the school papers call for the submission of articles.

Robbed of recognition, words would quietly assert themselves when I passionately write test essays on history, or in the poems I have written to leave a footprint in the university. I may laugh at the disfigured sentences and nauseating allusions when I read aloud the poems today. But at a hindsight, the rudimentary compositions would grow into prose, which I now weave every time I blog.

And the geek side of me awakens

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