Move

There was a time when walking from our house in Santa Mesa to my gym in Malate was my warm up, before some heavy and repetitive steel plate lifting tore my muscles apart. And there used to be a time when I could not fathom how some people would refuse to walk for a block or two, and instead preferred to ride a jeep, or cab, or whichever was available. And there used to be a time when people around my age would get exhausted simply by walking around UP Sunken Garden while talking about the mundane stuff, or anything that comes to mind. 

Years after acquiring the Toyota Revo from the Favourite Aunt and completely rejecting all forms of physical activity,  I would finally understand.

There is no doubt that in the past years, I have grown exponentially in body girth and mass. Last time I checked (which was early this year), I was 50 lbs overweight. I am now considered an obese person, whose health precariously hangs in the balance. I would have liked to return to the gym, but like lifelong and nurturing lovers who have parted ways, unexpectedly, the magic isn't there no matter how you try to find it elsewhere.

And the consequences are fast catching up. The heavy and constricting breaths are more apparent now. The sagging layers of skin add more years to my age, and the occassional discomfort in my groin area might be a symptom of a more serious body ailment. However, given this pandemic, a trip to the clinic might not be forthcoming. It is just fortunate that I have turned my back from the vices before they too add to the strain my body is already recieving.

But should I cease posting blog entries, it would likely mean I stopped moving, permanently, or the muses who continue to prop me suddenly walk away, leaving me unable to write a single word that would cascade into a story.

Still, there are attempts to regain some lost ground, like when I bought from Lazada (an online shop) - that was having a sale this month - resistance bands, which I have yet to use, or when I thought of walking from home to Quiapo with a trolley bag in hand to perform my palengke duties. The latter, I was having second thoughts because it has been ages since I walked that far from home and I would be brisk walking under a 9-in-the-morning sun. With Electronic Dance Music ceaselessly pumping uplifting beats directly into my head, I managed to reach my destination with barely a sweat. It was a far cry from my long jog from one end of the Malacanan to the other, but this demonstration would do, should I decide a repeat attempt in the days to come.

Selfie

Twitter has always been the medium to express ones' strong opinions about subjects that netizens might find inappropriate and sensitive on Facebook, where one's blood and real-life relations connect with one another. A slight to one's beliefs can spill over during family reunions and social gatherings resulting in awkward conversations and untoward snide remarks.

Meanwhile, Twitter affords relative anonymity and most people are identified with ideologies and fandom; if not online personas carefully curated to increase one's clout and make-belief popularity. It has been this way ever since the blogs fell out of fashion, and for the most part, Twitter netizens are united when it comes to calling out the pervading social ills or incompetence on the part of the government.

We only cross those who are perceived as trolls and paid hacks, or public online figures who perversely speak out in defense of the regime or help proliferate fake news.

But in the months past, a trend I once paid little attention to has become a source of dread and disappointment. The behavior I once saw as a mere "tea spilling" among individuals and groups, who might have "regrettable histories" has become an everyday phenomenon, that no longer I found Twitter a safe space to speak out my mind. Sure, the shady and witty banters were a source of entertainment, and it was fun dragging strangers who carelessly parade their privilege, entitlement, and unpopular opinions. However, when this collective online stoning happened to a dear friend, (like what Twitter did to @econcepcion), I realize that it's time to become critical of individuals who spend so much time and energy spewing hate, believing such acts are still within one's right to call out another person.

Take for example how the Netizens reacted when it was James' turn to post what he had in mind.

The tweet, which normal individuals would pay little attention to, triggered some sensibilities that he was called out and was asked to change his tone. A tone policing. They said it was preachy, and that, he should mind his own business, rather than pick on tourists who would spend so much time trying to take a perfect selfie instead of appreciating what's in front of them. Worse, someone had to dig James' Instagram to reveal that he too, had some selfies when he traveled abroad.

Bingo.

The torrent of hate came without warning.

 

Personally, I am no fan of selfies and I measure people's need for self-validation by the number of selfies posted on his or her social media accounts. And like James, I would be totally annoyed to see someone taking a selfie instead of appreciating an exhibit or a vista. But I would keep these thoughts to myself knowing that others' sense of appreciation will not conform with mine. 

James might have his reasons, and like Ethel's (@econception) petty take on her dating standards, the vitriol they received from people who know very little about them and their humanity showed how we have turned Twitter into a cesspool of hate; where people on the same side stab one another for likes, and where sorry individuals flex their gift for insult throwing hoping to shame another. What made things uglier is that it was the Generation Z - the post-millennials  - who had a mouthful to say. There was so much disconnect that one with a sane mind could no longer bear the absurdity of the spectacle.  

No wonder, netizens are beginning to reject the wokeness of Twitter and that, there's a growing call to cancel the platform's pervading call-out culture. I wouldn't be surprised when individuals would turn their accounts private one day and that the once vibrant social media space would become a mere echo chamber for "influencers" who still believe that clout makes them royalties of this virtual anthill.

Days of Disquiet, Nights of Rage

Previously: To Die For Digong

My parents are both social change activists, who, in their youth, marched in the streets and had run-ins with authorities. My dad (bless his soul) was imprisoned during Martial Law, and my mom, who is a Sociologist held various posts in Non-Government Organizations after Democracy was restored. In a home where liberal ideas were openly discussed and somehow encouraged, I grew up knowing more than what the average kid did. In my youth, I saw Conrado de Quiros, Cheche Lazaro, Solita Monsod and Randy David as my champions. To say at least, I was informed, and this was amplified by the college program I took at the University. And although I never became a Journalist by profession, in every essay I wrote and in every spur-of-the-moment thought I posted on Twitter, I tried my best to speak the truth. 

Or at least, pass along the message.

I thought this worldview would have escaped me as I sink deeper into matters of domestic concerns. But no. Though I have refrained from writing anything political after the present powers that be took charge of the government, I continued to speak out against the wrongs of this administration. From its decision to allow the Dictator to be buried at the Libingan ng mga Bayani, to the brutality that is the Oplan Tokhang, nothing seems right about how we are governed. Two years and counting and all I can think of is how we are sold to the Chinese, how the TRAIN law will make more people poorer, how the plunderers were set free and are now making a political comeback, and how the media outlets critical of this government are being bullied to submission. With Fake News proliferating on the internet, and friendships broken because of the Dilawan/DDS divide, it seems there is no hope in sight. And the people who I once looked up to in my youth appear to have grown silent as we edge closer to a new kind of dictatorship.

There are times I wish I would just wake up and realize that everything is just a nightmare, and that, the candidates I have chosen have won last elections. But the painful truth spoils your newsfeed with bad news every day, with barely a pause to absorb the impunity and corruption done under this administration. And it seems the struggle will drag on as the worst is yet to come: The idea of "Federalism" is being peddled in the countryside as we speak of a no-election scenario in 2019. Should this become a law, local political families will have more say in the government, allowing them to rule like princelings in their own little fiefdoms. Also, Marcos Jr inches closer to getting the elected Vice-President unseated knowing his family can bend the Supreme Court to their will (Hello Sereno impeachment). Things have now become so ugly that I have started shunning friends who continue to justify this regime. 

I will remember each one of them, and judge them solely for what they stood today.

May this be the last time I would write about how fucked up this country is. While hope remains for a sunnier tomorrow, I am more inclined to believe that the damage done has become so irreparable, it will change everyone once this freak show had seen its final run. 

Encounters With A Fundie

Careless musing, an observer will say. I should have exercised caution when I let my thoughts out in the open, lest I may court opinions completely opposing mine. It all started with a shared image, of a conversation among teenagers asking about the relevance of science. They contend that science disproves the existence of God, thus, should be given a choice, it should be removed from the curriculum. The fetid smell of ignorance in their exchanges didn't escape my senses. I could not help but post it on my Facebook wall to express, not only my indignation but alarm. In all my years in the academe, we were taught to embrace science more than any other subject, and reading posts from these pre-teens invoking God's wisdom over mankind's quest for knowledge defeats the purpose of our existence.

While many friends agree with my observation, a lone dissenter nearly caused me to go ballistic and start a nasty exchange on my own wall. He was a classmate in high school. Someone who was given privilege to study in Diliman, and eventually, migrate abroad to lead a better life. Had he been someone whose accomplishments were less stellar, I would simply brush off his opinion given his intellectual limitation. But this is a UP graduate disagreeing with me, and his defense would have disappointed all those progressive thinkers who continue to draw the line between religion and reason.

"Those young people might have not presented and discussed this matter in an intellectual way but actually they are right. Evolution is wrong and very wrong but the problem is the educational system is still feeding them to our children, and for that reason I'm seriously considering not sending my kids to a public school. All evidences points directly against evolution but many scientists deny it. Why you ask?! Because evolution is the only way some scientists prove that God doesnt exist."

Nganga. That was my initial reaction. I would have said there and then that the Bible doesn't logically narrate how creation started. "God creates heaven and earth in six days." Who would believe such crap? Figuratively, it would hold ground, but if my Creationist acquaintance will assert the literal interpretation of the Holy Book, I might as well unfriend him as I don't want to associate myself with Christian Fundamentalists. I've had enough of their trash talk back when they used to bully people like us in high school.

"I've always questioned the theory of evolution and how we all got here. Hard evidences clearly point to a young Earth (10,000 years) and not billions of years. Plus the Creationism clearly explained how the first people reached the Philippines."

I decided to avoid direct confrontation, and instead, let others talk on my Facebook wall to share their thoughts. But this guy's conviction would never let him stop. He would continue insisting his Intelligent Design view when doing so would make him look silly to those reading his post.

"Actually evolution debunks the existence of God so evolution and creation cannot coexist. It is either one is true and the other is bogus. Evolution states that we became human due to random events while creation states that God created us in His own image."

I'd like to disprove his statement: how could they not coexist when creation precedes evolution? Evolution states that all creation begins from atoms and single-celled organisms, and through natural selection and adaption, only the fittest survives. It might sound like there's an uncaring universe out there, a world view where God apparently doesn't show grace. But the fact that the miracle of creation happened, and life multiplied in ways no scientist still could not explain already debunks his claim that evolution proves a creator doesn't exist.

It would have been a waste of time to argue my beliefs and counter his claims of Science being anti-god, but if Hollywood has a better explanation of why the Bible version of creation and Science's evolution theory complement each other, this short clip tells all.

Parliament Of The Streets

I walked with these people to stop the Vice President from running for higher office for the following reasons:

• Corruption. It's in the news long before Jojo announced his candidacy for the presidency. From his unexplained wealth when he was still the mayor of Makati, to his acres of land in Batangas, which was never declared in his Statement of Assets, Liabilities, and Net Worth, to the overpriced construction of a parking lot building next to the city hall. He goes around the country telling locals that he is being persecuted without ever answering the accusations thrown at him and his family.
• Traditional Politics. When Jojo becomes the president, everything will return to the way it was. Politicians preening as if their constituents owe them the social services they receive; Politicians attaching their name next to government projects and freebies. Politicians, whose sense of entitlement keeps things from getting done. The first family, whose children are already in various elected posts will only turn the entire country into their personal fiefdom, like in GMA's time.
• Media Spin. After floating the idea of Grace Poe becoming Jojo's veep, which the esteemed Senator respectfully declined, the veep's political party responded by accusing the latter of being a foundling, whose citizenship should be questioned in court. This press release, backfired, and a few days later, Jojo claims he too, was adopted. Recently, the first daughter made comparisons between a family of doctors and politicians in defense of dynasties. She questions the logic behind preventing generations of political families from holding offices when professionals freely pass their knowledge from elders to children. Refutations came quick, and a doctor even wrote an open letter challenging the Senator's impaired logic. 
• Promotion of Mediocrity. Anyone who supports a Binay presidency after all the scandals and corruption allegations came out is either from Makati, who enjoyed freebies and social services offered by the local government, or countryside folks who are used to the culture of mendicancy being practiced throughout generations. A Jojo Binay victory would mean the triumph of a leadership with no long-term vision except for the enrichment of his family (and friends) and the perpetuation of his power.
• Term Limit and Foreign Policy Changes. Jojo would definitely want to stay in power for as long as he breathes and to live this aspiration, he would have to change the constitution to a four-year presidency, with a choice to get re-elected once again. He would also work with China to resolve the West Philippine Sea issue since they have the resources to develop the area, virtually giving away chunks of territory to Beijing, which the second Aquino government tried to protect at all cost.
• Collective Action. I have always believed that should Jojo wins this election, sooner or later, someone will mount another People Power at Edsa. I have already committed myself to the cause, and the first step is to seek like-minded individuals who would stand for what is right and good for the nation. Like what I've said to Leah Navarro during the short walk, forces aligned with the Vice President are slowly making their presence in social media. It is up to reformers like us to shake people's indifference and show what is at stake if a person with a dubious character reign over the land.

             

Doomsday Prepper | Act 2

Previously: Doomsday Prepper | Act 1

Knowing what might happen in the event of a magnitude 7.2 earthquake, whose epicenter straddles the towns east of Manila is just half the battle for disaster readiness. With a generation who has never felt the ground quiver like the one that happened more than a decade ago, the government's decision to hold an entire day of Earthquake drills is a wise move. The masterstroke lies in the fact that they set it during the school season, and between two important dates no one should ever forget - August 2 and July 16, terrible days when temblors not only caused the earth to crack open, the violent ground shaking took so many lives as well. My sincere wish is that there is enough time to teach everyone the importance of doing real-life preparations.

For we would never stand a chance.

The government can do so much to educate and prepare its citizens to face this kind of natural disaster. But no one can truly foresee the kind of devastation once buildings collapse and city-wide infrastructure come crashing in the earthquake's immediate aftermath. With this kind of thinking, the heart and soul of every doomsday preparation lies at home, with loved ones who will benefit such foresight. With eight lives at stake, I have made strides to ready my family in the event such calamity happens. There is no guarantee how things would turn out.

What I know is its urgency.

It is my belief that the first five days after the tremor are the most critical to one's personal survival. These are the days when those caught flat-footed would find themselves with no water, money, and even food to keep them sustained, while everyone competes for what resources remain. Keeping this scenario as the foundation for my disaster plan, the provisions I set are supposed to last for over a week. By then, I'm hoping government agencies have already got back to its feet and basic services are delivered to the survivors of the earthquake.

The availability of clean drinking water is the cornerstone of every disaster plan. Realizing that in a catastrophic event such as earthquakes, next to go out of service after electricity and communications is the water supply. The strongest of typhoons serve as reminder of how the elements can disrupt these basic services. With little space available at home, I selected these heavy-duty plastic containers, often used by informal settlers' water storage as our lifeline. They cost only Php 150 in Divisoria and with additional two water jugs scheduled for procurement next month, our water needs - in case Maynilad fails - will be the least of my worries.

Fighting over relief goods when others would risk life and limb for meager supplies has always been in my thoughts every time I do grocery shopping. The sardines, while being staple for many Filipino families hardly get consumed at home. So does the elbow macaroni, which, for some reasons seldom appears on our dinner table these days. The fact that they get little attention make these ready-to-eat meals the best candidate for food stocking. To drive home the government's message of post-disaster resiliency, additional 10 cans of sardines, and 2 bags of elbow macaroni will be added to the stocks we already possess. 

The first idea to make preparations for the "Big One" came after an earthquake struck the islands of Samar and Leyte in 2012. While these violent ground shaking produced little damage in comparison to the Bohol temblor a few years later, realizing that no first aid kit exists at home has transformed me to the Prepper I am today. Unfortunately, a lot of the medical supplies are nearing their expiration dates, and the few useful ones are set to be donated soon. Having this little white box with a cross emblazoned on its surface has its usefulness beyond calamities. What is needed, urgently, is to set the funds for a full replenishment. 

The items most needed for the first aid box are listed here.

What little use is money when ATMs don't dispense cash without electricity? In matters of procuring the basic of necessities, like food and medicine (in case riots and queues need not to happen) how will we ever pay for them? This concern has been haunting me ever since writing the Doomsday scenario for my previous blog entry. The savings cylinder I have in my room, while intended for reasons of compassion, now serves a new purpose. Filled with coins for easy trading, only after its twin repository brims with pennies will I give away the money for charity.

   

Even the best laid plans can still go awry, and no matter how elaborate this disaster preparation is, the items, which I believe are essential, may be useless in the event of a calamity. Still, a lot of things need to be done, and most of the items that would enable us to endure the harshest of post-tremor scenarios lay scattered around the house, disorganized, without anyone aside from me knowing where they could be found: A battery-operated transistor radio is in the master's bedroom, being used by my mother. The high-powered torch lights are kept in my room, the wax candles lay hidden somewhere in the kitchen. Only the helpers know where they are. We still have no matches, no purifying tablets, no means to open the sardine cans, or even turn the macaroni shells into edible pasta. The very bookcase / study table where I write this post has yet to be screwed against the wall, a huge portrait of my late father leans against a high wall, some light shaking and it will fall to the ground.

Finally, I was told to have a "Grab" bag like every Japanese family have. A little knapsack one could easily snatch in case there is a need to relocate to safer grounds. And until this requirement has been met; until there is certainty my loved ones can endure whatever nature throws our path, the doomsday prepper in me will remain awake and obsessed,

For times have changed, and no one is safe from the elements.

The Marikina West Valley Fault Doomsday Scenario

Project Tremors

It has always been the government's worst nightmare: of the West Valley Fault system finally bursting forth, sending ripples of seismic waves across all directions. The resulting earthquake shakes, even the most structurally sound office and residential towers to its engineering limits. The occupants, mostly uninstructed on how the ground quivers, would easily capitulate to panic spells. Given their inexperience with the last great temblor, which happened on July 16, 1990, many would get hurt trying to escape to safer grounds. 

Word yet has to come from the hundreds of thousands of souls who live in substandard housing and apartment complexes; in shoddily constructed commercial buildings and factories that make up the urban sprawl. Had the ceilings above their heads get spared from collapsing, it is the following pandemonium brought by the nearby tectonic rupture they have to cope with. 

I could just imagine how difficult the rude awakening is.

The news is out, and an updated map detailing where the geographic fault line bisects the metropolis is now readily available on the internet. While knowledge is crucial for people living above and around the rift, (hoping they would settle elsewhere) it is in my opinion that thoughts have never been spared as to what happens after a 7.2 magnitude earthquake, whose epicenter lies a few steps away from the Medical City strikes the capital. Should those who find this blog get to see another day, what heartbreaking scenes might await them?    

Let me share my worst-case scenario thoughts:

• First to go is electricity. As the ground shakes, and the Napocor finds it too dangerous to operate while a major seismic activity is taking place, they will cut off power distribution across the city. Depending on how extensive the damage is, (downed electric poles and collapsed pylons, with wires dangling after being hit by falling debris) complete electrical restoration might take weeks. First to receive electricity are government nerve centers and hospitals. Last are the barangays, and what's left of the ruined communities.
• No electricity means money dispensing machines won't operate. Gasoline stations, which might run on diesel-powered generators would obviously have limited operating hours. And since broadband cables have been ruptured, expect no internet and social media to connect with. And did I mention that since Globe and Smart need electricity to run their transmission systems, we could expect a total breakdown in communications during the first few hours after the earthquake?  

The spot where the Ruby Towers, which collapsed  on August 2, 1968 once stood

• The absence of potable water. Busted main pipes connecting various sectors of the city; pumping stations that won't run because there is no electricity; broken septic tanks whose sewage get into the water distribution system; bring these into the fray, and what we have is a man-made disaster. For sure, water trucks would be dispatched to address this basic need, but with queues of people stretching forever, and sneaky misfits cutting lines just to get ahead with everyone, riots are never far from happening.
• Queues everywhere. There are lines for charging cellphones, lines for gasoline and cooking oil distribution, lines for ATMs, lines for relief goods, lines for the dead identification (with the stench of putrefied flesh suspended in mid-air) and yes, lines for water replenishment. Add these queues together and maybe, thoughts of leaving the city to find refuge elsewhere might sound more practical.

Faultline marker at the Barangka Elementary School West Building in Marikina

• The rise of the tent cities and field hospitals. I once told Ran that if the earth shakes and casualties number in their tens of thousands, we would see portions of Taft Avenue being converted into an extension of the Philippine General Hospital. And what about Luneta and the rest of the open spaces in Manila? Because an earthquake is never a one-time event, (the aftershocks can be as strong as the first tremor) people living in condominiums, and those who have lost their homes, who are probably dazed and shaken by the first wobble, will be forced to stay outdoors. They have nowhere else to go but in public parks where thousands more will be camping out during the first days after the earthquake. Universities, would be forced to open their gates to students and faculty members who need a place to stay. Never in our nations' history would there be so many people dwelling in the streets, competing for resources that should have been a-plenty, and wishing that had they foreseen how worse this natural disaster could be, they would make individual preparations that could have made their lives and their loved ones better.

These individual preparations, and what I have accomplished so far, will be taken up in the next installment of this blog entry.

-tobecontinued-

Designed To Unlove

To move on and seek another person to spoil my affection could have proceeded without delay, had my life been as conventional like everyone else. But my days are designed to follow strict routines, to accommodate work that has become more demanding since a colleague passed away late last month. It is as if the noose just got tighter with the confirmation of a co-worker's resignation. He will just stay with the company until next week. Without him to look after the accounts when I am unavailable, managing the day-to-day business operations would become unbearable. 

I'm losing sleep because of it. 

I'm losing faith in my ability to run a show on my own.

I have already given up my weekends for recreation. And on weekdays where I'm supposed to get some rest, client emails (which are coursed through my smart phone), as well as subordinates waiting for my decision on assortment of issues, never really detach me from duties. There is also the Raketship to attend to, and while I haven't failed yet with my deliveries, time no longer affords relaxed working habits. Only the fitness activities have remained consistent - a commitment that has to be followed given the choking lifestyle I chose to lead. 

With time, fast slipping away from my hold, and boys I disappoint with my non-interest to meet for movies, dinners, or even lays, so begins the mechanical transformation. 

Beyond the Weatherman, no longer do I see myself in a romantic pursuit.   

Kowtow

I have an ex-colleague, who lost his eyesight because of cancer. One of his corneas had to be removed because of tumor. I have no idea if his other eye can be spared, or if the T-Cells have not yet spread to other parts of his body. The tomography scan alone, which cost a fortune is enough for him to give up the treatment and leave his fate in the wind.  

With no job, and perhaps, even savings, it is yet unknown how he would recover from the disease.

---

An aunt, who lives abroad was diagnosed with Stage 4 Liver Cancer. Relatives on my side of the family say the hepatocytes are more aggressive, and more terminal than other forms of carcinoma. While the treatment is already ongoing, her oncologists still have to see if the cells cease multiplying. Unlike the friend who doesn't know where to get the money, my uncle is among the wealthiest in the family.

His wife can expect to receive the best health care the First World has to offer.

---

Making light of their situation preoccupies the mind these days. The aunt asks only for prayers. It is the friend who needs cash. While I can only suggest places where help might be given, there is no certainty of a financial package. He can simply give up, and live the remainder of his life with grace and compassion. Or fight it out like the rest, and breath his last still longing another shot at living. 

I pen this entry, not only for their sake, but for mine, who keep thinking what if such trial befalls my loved ones. Would our combined wealth be enough for the most difficult of treatments? Would we ever find comfort knowing we have given love in the days when the stricken used to be well? In contemplation, the answers elude me. And the distress continues to cast a long, lonely shadow as there is this growing fear I have lost favor with time.

"We have nothing but memories and goodwill to leave behind," I was supposed to tell my mom as a consolation when she broke the news to me about the aunt. I was referring to the photos of my uncle and his wife on a cruise ship in exotic destinations I saw on their Facebook page. Walking out of the door heavy with thoughts about mortality, I resumed working on the Raketship unsure of my chosen resolution.

"This." I pressed the enter key. The snippet I just sent to the client's portal adds to the bucks I accumulate every week.

"And perhaps a sprinkle of good vibes on the side." I thought, as I recall some people I know, who have hatred and spite to give.

I don't want asking the Almighty some favors in the future.

Not, when I have yet to do his bidding. 

Pariah

Fiction

The day after the massacre, Amir, who resides in a middle-class neighborhood in Bordeux woke up feeling rather strange. In his apartment where two other Berber immigrant families live, the children, whose squeals disrupt his sleep, didn't wake him. Not even his next door neighbor, whose Unia and Khansa Batma songs add to the noise wasn't played that morning. A coincidence, perhaps, since he used to bang the wall next to his bed to tell the teen to put down his speakers' volume.  

Leaving his bedroom to reach the doorway, he walked past shards of broken glass from the window. He was too tired the night before that he didn't hear it crash when some no-good doers thought it was fun to hurl some pebbles into his room's direction. After taking a leak, he dragged on to the front door to pick the newspaper he reads before breakfast. 

It was never delivered. 

So was the daily milk ration he use for his porridge. 

This has never happened. 

He was about to walk back when he spotted a neighbor, a surly guy holding a copy of the latest issue of Le Figaro. He didn't mind the front page picture of the hatchback used by the terrorists, what he found bothersome was his stare.   

"Nique ta mere." The Frenchman said, almost inaudibly.

"Tu peux répéter s'il te plait?" The neighbor responded by spitting on the pavement while still looking at him. Being used to this treatment, he walks back to his apartment only to step on a Koran smeared with human feces.

"Humanité." He sighed, before picking the holy book to wipe off the fecal matter, and put it back at the mosque, which later that day, would be torched to cinders.

Several French mosques were attacked following the killing of 12 people at the office of the French satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo on Wednesday, according to reports.

Around 8pm local time on Wednesday, shots were fired in the direction of a Muslim prayer hall in Port-la-Nouvelle in southern France. Meanwhile Ouest-France reports that several percussion grenades were thrown into the courtyard of a mosque in Le Mans, west of Paris. 

Mosques Attacked in France Following Charlie Hebdo AttackTime

Lead Us Astray

A fake news portal wrote, "let there be darkness for six days."

And the world believed. 

It took just mere three paragraphs of sloppy storytelling for the space agency to release a statement refuting the "news." 

But the world merely shrugged off the truth. 

Seven days had already passed and the article is still being shared on social media. After all, it was a subject matter that catches everyone's fancy, besides political and celebrity scandals. Humanity's fascination with the absurd - and the people who believe them will never run out.

This is our bane as a species.

Thus, it would not come as a surprise if some people really did stock up on supplies. Meanwhile, the pious had probably repented and gave away their belongings like the last time - when some televangelist said the Rapture will take place on a specific date. Woe to those who looked forward to the end times. The world didn't turn into cinders and the deceivers went on peddling their lies.

What is even stranger, however, is that no matter how many times these "news articles" and "forwarded texts" lead us astray, we keep on embracing anything and everything that would put a break to our mundane and monotonous lives. 

To the point of doubting the information gatekeepers, whose names they always put on the line.

"I think it's a hoax but I'm still distressed." A friend said to me on Twitter.

"Tell me the source and I can tell you if it's true." I said, assuring him of my strong connections with the gatekeepers.

The friend then sent the news link.

"Just by looking at the word "hospitol" and I knew it was absolutely fake." I told him. He promised never to share the link to his followers.

For all intents and purposes, the case is closed between us and our audience.

But in some isolated corners of the social web, where mindless panic edges over scholarly discernment, one click of the mouse button: a retweet, a share, and the world will come tumbling down, forcing authorities to release statements debunking the terrifying things written on the article.




  

Invested

For months now, I have already thought the future of L'Heure Bleue. What point there is to blogging when I can always dilute my thoughts into 140 characters, and post it on a microblog. These days, when I can no longer afford the time for reflection and that habit of repetitive reading of a recent post to perform some thought refinement, the instant gratification offered by Twitter has become a workable replacement.

The need for aesthetics is gone, the wordsmith in me is dead.

But ten years is a long time to simply abandon this project and leave this space. I have been consistently writing - with or without an audience to read my life for ages. To break that time-honored bond, and simply walk away without breathing a word about my disappearance, is a slap to the blogger I once was. Should my absence become more evident, I can say with certainty that the future can never be written in these pages.

So even when I have to do other things, like blurb writing, laying in bed to sleep, or even simulating a life on Sims 3, I chose to reconnect with this portal and try once more to enjoy having that leisurely stroll inside my head. 

For when inaction becomes my direction once more, never will I go back to blogging. 

This journal keeping will end with silence as my witness.

Hell On Earth

When I get to read the news these days, particularly reports trickling in from the Middle East and Africa, I cannot help but wonder, could the very idea of hell exist not in the afterlife but here on Earth? 

Syria

"It reportedly shows Sharrouf's seven-year-old, Sydney-raised son dressed like any other young boy in blue checked trousers, a blue shirt and baseball cap, struggling to hold up the severed head of a slain Syrian soldier by his hair.

It was captioned with the words 'That's my boy'."

Shocking photo: Child of ISIS fighter holds decapitated head

Rappler

Gaza

In the aftermath of that war, Hasan Zeyada, a psychologist with the GCMHP, told the Guardian: "The majority of children suffer many psychological and social consequences. Insecurity and feelings of helplessness and powerlessness are overwhelming. We observed children becoming more anxious – sleep disturbances, nightmares, night terror, regressive behaviour such as clinging to parents, bed wetting, becoming more restless and hyperactive, refusal to sleep alone, all the time wanting to be with their parents, overwhelmed by fears and worries. 

Some start to be more aggressive."

Gaza's children: 'Israel is creating a new generation of enemies'

The Guardian

Liberia

"Nema Red, a resident of Clara Town, said the two men who lay dead in the street for days had shown symptoms of Ebola such as bleeding and vomiting.

'They started seeking help from the community to take them to the hospital, but community members ran for their lives ... they both gave up and dropped dead on the ground in the streets.'

Ebola outbreak: Bodies 'dumped in the street’ as Liberia faces panic over virus

The Telegraph

Iraq

"They are systematically beheading children, and mothers and fathers. The world hasn't seen an evil like this for a generation. There's actually a park in Mosul that they've actually beheaded children and put their heads on a stick," Arabo told CNN's Jonathan Mann last week.

"And they have them in the park. This is crimes against humanity. The whole world should come together. This is much broader than a community or faith. This is crimes against humanity and they are doing the most horrendous, the most heartbreaking things you can think of," he explained.

ISIS 'Systematically Beheading Children' in Iraq; They Are 'Killing Every Christian They See,' Says Chaldean Leader

Christian Post

There is much suffering. So many innocent lives forcefully taken away all in the name of fear - and distorted faith. What is most terrifying, are not the pictures, and not the ghastly stories that fill the landing pages of our online newspapers. Distilling the essence of all these violence, one can't help but think that maybe, humanity is wired this way - that we are meant to be destructive and destitute creatures.  

Looking at the pictures and knowing too well the carnage will go on, there is no way but to embrace the truth, that given the so many problems facing the world today, the rest no longer care whatever happens on the other side of the globe.

Because Numbers Don't Lie

The boss showed to me some figures, neatly arranged in columns on the Excel spreadsheet. They reveal a lot about our business standing, and the earnings we get from our services. They were for my eyes only, and no one in the office has to know about these revelations. And as much as it hurts to swallow the truth (because misery loves company) - that some of us might need to take a bow in the coming months - we thought of draining our sorrows with a glass of beer - at Shakey's - on a Friday morning.

A memory that will always be watermarked by icy rain.

Evidence

Previously on MH-370


From the Moscow-backed Ukrainian separatists in Donetsk:

Summaries of the shooting of Igor
17.07.2014 17:50 (MSK) Message from the militia.

"In the area Torrez just downed plane Antonov-26, lying somewhere in the mine" Progress. "
Also warned - do not fly in "our sky."
And here is the confirmation of the next video "ptichkopada."
Bird fell for waste heap, the residential sector is not caught. Civilians are not injured.

And also have information about the second downed aircraft, like the Sukhoi. "

Hard Choices

Bentusi, my new surrogate mother and former editor used to tell me not to accept mechanical writing jobs like those that require search engine optimized article writing. In her words, she said that I am not trained for word crunching tasks that are repetitive in nature, and whose pay demeans what I am capable of as a storyteller. I did take her warning lightly, assured that I won't accept gigs that would drain whatever remains of my artistry. But then, an income opportunity came and when I passed the evaluation, the warning was ditched in favor of earning extra cash.

Two months into the job and I am beginning to feel the strain of my work.

For the uninstructed, search engine optimization is a technique of inserting unique and appropriate words that make an article easy to find on search engines like Google. The tricky part is placing "fresh keywords" within sentences that Google actually "reads." As far as I know, SEO experts guess these words placements as Google has this habit of changing their system algorithms from time to time. Web traffic affects as well as the pages where the articles are placed should have very high credibility. It means the website needs to have an active readership, has no malicious ads, and has been in existence for at least a year. These are the rudiments of an industry that I have successfully evaded.

But now, it is eating so much of my time that I have lost interest in other pursuits.

Like blogging.

Given that I am bound by a non-disclosure agreement, what I can tell about my other job is that I am required to write short blurbs, around two sentences, summarizing what the service user does as a profession. The work itself is easy at first glance, but when you begin writing descriptions that have similar offerings, the activity becomes tedious that I have to stop frequently, or suffer the risk of having headaches should I press on. There is a required number of blurbs to be written in a week, and if this is not enough, keywords should be hooked in the summaries so they would appear on search engines' page rankings.

I was paid handsomely for the sideline - the biggest so far - since I started doing freelancing jobs under Bentusi. But it also tears me from within, that sometimes the emptiness makes me question the essence of this soulless pursuit. I tempted fate last week by deciding not to hit the required number of blurbs to be written, and as a result, I was asked to write an explanation for my defiance.

Defending my action to my superiors is easy, what I find challenging is drawing motivation: The reason to go on beyond the monetary gains, which when I ponder deeply, don't fulfill my yearning for sublime accomplishments.  

The present arrangement at the raket could afford me a little more time to do other activities - like paying close attention to my real work, and spending time doing my routines. But when the new manager announced this morning an increase in the number of blurbs to be submitted after the end of the week, I am tempted to send a copy of my resignation letter to express my disapproval.

I'll give myself a single try, and should it fail, I'd rather walk the path of poverty (and freedom) than stick to an activity I find no joy anymore.

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.

MH-370

Wait, we will
to the end of time.
until our beloved find
their way home.


News:

The Finn Confessions: Hornet

"Papakels, I have a confession to make." I told Santi at the Casa. It was already past 2 in the morning. Papa Tagay had already left, and Markus was busy checking out his Grindr account. Laid on our table were empty bottles of San Miguel Beer and leftover pulutan.

"Mukhang nang one-way ako ng ka-eyeball." I said softly.

"Hindi ko talaga sinasadya and I feel bad." Santi smiled and patiently listened intently as I went on to tell my story.

A flashback.

Hindi pa natatapos ang isang araw mula ng mag lie-low ako sa Twitter nang maisipan ko i-reactivate ang account ko sa Hornet. Gaya ng Planet Romeo at Grindr, ang Hornet ay isang gay dating site. Doon ang puntahan ng mga lalaking naghahanap ng karelasyon sa kapwa lalaki, ngunit ang totoo, booking ang kanilang sadya. Doon ko din nakilala si kid na tinutukoy ko sa entry na Lip Service.

Wala pang isang oras simula ng pagka set-up ng aking profile ay may nakapukaw na ng aking mga mata. Ang isa ay bata, around 10 years my junior. Ang isa naman ay mas bata sa akin ng 3 years. Si kid ay madali kong na-friendzone. Kasi naman, ang choosy ko rin minsan. Si Kuya naman, na half-Chinese at mas mature ang looks sa akin ay binalak ko sana ayain mag hang-out. 

There's something about him that caught my fancy.

Kaso mo, nang hindi ko binigay ang Facebook account ko, hindi na rin ito nagreply sa akin sa Viber.

I had to move on.

The next day, masaya at makulit pa rin kung makipag-chat sa akin si Friendzoned kid. We share a lot of things in common, kaya hindi naman nakakasuya mag reply sa chat. Ngunit lingid sa kanyang kaalaman, abala ako sa pakikipagpalitan ng messages sa Hornet. Marami ang nagsend ng request para makita ang mga private pictures ko gawa ng aking display profile. Mangilan-ngilan rin ang kusa na lang hindi nakipag-usap. It's part of the game. It takes time nga lang tanggapin na it's all about who's looking better.

There were near misses. Yung mga nagyayaya ng threesomes, at mga nagtatanong kung may place ba ako. Tamad ko lang talaga makipagtagpo, at mag-engage sa activities na papawi sa tawag ng laman. Pero kung ako ang tatanungin, tunay naman ang nadarama kong libog sa mga nakakausap. 

Mahirap nga lang magtiwala. Nakakatakot, ang basta-basta makipag sex sa mga taong di mo tunay na kakilala.

Pagkagat ng dilim ay patuloy pa rin ang pakikipagusap ko sa mga nasa dating app. Animo'y para akong tanga na nag-iintay ng mag memessage sa akin. Andun ang pag asang makahanap ng kaulayaw. Yung top na may angas. Nagtawag ng inuman si Tagay. Nagpasyang sumama si Santi at Markus, pero sa tuwing dinadaanan kami ng anghel, ang mga mata ko'y nakadikit sa phone screen ni Ndoto. 

Hanggang dumating ang aking inaabangan.

Isang kanto lang daw ang layo ng kausap. Mag isa ito't naghahanap ng matutulugan. Basa ko naman ang ibig niyang sabihin, at who knows, maaring puwede ko siya i-sneak in sa kuwarto. 

O puwede rin naman i-motel.

Pagkakuha ng bill, nagpasabi akong mag-intay ng sampung minuto. Mag-aabang daw siya sa isang bangko kung saan malapit ang Casa.

Five minutes matapos ang huling send ng message sa Hornet, lumiban ako sa table para mag-withdraw. Pinuntahan ko ang bangko kung saan niya ako iniintay.

At hindi malayo sa kinalalagyan ng ATM, isang lalaki ang aking na-spot. Balingkinitan ito, moreno at upong prinsesa. Walang duda na ito ang aking katagpo.

Ngunit.

Bakit iba yata ang picture ng taong kausap sa Hornet sa taong lalapitan ko?

Sadya bang malabo ang mga mata ko? O tunay akong haharap sa isang poser?

Ang katotohanan, sa kasamaang palad, ay hindi ko na malalaman.

Sapagkat sa halip na lapitan ang lalaki, dumiretso ako sa ATM para magwithdraw. At nang madiskubre na nabawasan ako ng pera nang hindi ko naman nakuha, kaagad akong tumawag sa bangko. Ang lalaking katagpo ay bigla kong nalimot. Pinabayaan.

Na one-way.

Bumalik ako sa aming tagpuan matapos ang pakikipag-usap sa customer service agent. Subalit ang lalaki ay wala na. Ilang beses ko itong ni-message at sinabing hinahanap ko siya ngunit hindi ito kaagad sumagot. 

Pinilit kong magpaliwanag.

"You flaked out!!" ang sabi niya.

"I'm in West Avenue meeting someone else." Reply niya kinalaunan. Seryoso, sa sobrang guilty, gusto ko siyang puntahan saan man siya naroon.

"You enjoy." Ang nasabi ko na lang.

"Ang sama ko," I told Santi after. "Those places really bring out the worse in you."

Santi, Marcus and I parted ways soon after. I forgot Santi's advice because I was already tipsy. However, there was no denial that I was still restless despite the botched meet up.

It so happened that while confessing my sin, to a friend, who had his own episodes in the wilderness exactly a year ago, I gave my word to delete my Hornet account when I wake up in the afternoon.

"Minsan, gusto mo lang talaga makaramdam ng init ng iba." I said while looking at my phone, whose battery power is almost gone. 

"Excuse na lang ang libog." 

True to my word, I walked away from the Hornet's nest 51 hours after creating my account. I didn't get laid. Not even a chance to cuddle someone. And as if the cosmic joke's on me, I would learn a few hours after deleting the app that a chance to sneak someone will come up.

I'll be left alone as my house companions have to go somewhere.

But then, I made up my mind and stick with my decision not to return to the dating sites. It's enough that I lost my balls in that one cruel moment.