Worlds Of Discovery

Previously on Found

It is one of my most pricey acquisition to date: A black cotton T-shirt, I thought of buying on Teespring.

But it was no ordinary piece of clothing. The advertisement said - and this I saw on the NASA Twitter account - that a purchase of the shirt will help fund the research and education initiatives of the SETI - or the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence. The SETI Institute is a research organization founded some 50 years ago, and whose aim is to understand and explain the origins and nature of life in the universe. It hopes, that by listening to radio signals from the stars, it can tell the world that advanced alien life exists on distant planets. When you watch movies that are about alien invasion (and how humans repel these attacks in different ways our storytellers could imagine) the scientists involved in the detection of approaching spaceships belong to this organization. For Hollywood filmmakers and the public-at-large, this is what the Institute was created for.

It has been half a century since the SETI was created, and by now, we should be hearing from these intelligent aliens given the proximity of the nearest stars. So what could have happened? I do not know for sure. Maybe the intergalactic muting was deliberate - like what I do when I dislike the posts of someone I follow on Twitter but could not remove that person from my list. Regardless of its aims, the search for intelligence must go on and I for one believe that we are not alone in the universe. 

And so I bought the shirt, which cost over a thousand pesos when the actual price is converted to local currency. It doesn't include the shipping expense whose charge amount to half of what the apparel cost. Feeling the pinch, I had second thoughts of carrying on with my purchase. The upper garments I used to buy fetch half the price I have to shell just to wear this "Worlds of Discovery" shirt. I can even search for a local T-shirt design maker and have one customized for myself. Then I would wear it in public, with only the nerds understanding what the shirt is all about.

But then, what about the scientific research and the promise to educate the kids about the wonders of Radio Astronomy?

I will have to bleed for it.

Two full months after the official printing commenced in the United States, a month after the actual package journeyed across the world (whose pause in Frankfurt made me envious) and after paying a hefty 500 PHP for the customs tax when the item lingered in the Lawton post office for weeks, the shirt finally reached me. Like the SETI, whose funding is always objected by politicians and scientists alike, this piece of clothing may have cost me a lot of money. 

But knowing it will be for the collective knowledge of the human race, I can live with the price and wear the shirt, beaming with pride.

Postscripts To A Pluto Flyby

I have always been fascinated with space. 

My earliest memory of the heavens was UFO-spotting with my father at the back of our house. Strange as it sounds, but my introduction to Astronomy came in the form of pseudo-science. And while I don't recall finding anything bizarre in the sky, except for a stationary orange object, which I insisted to be a cosmic body, nothing groundbreaking happened to us that night.

Or so it seems.

Then came the Master of Orion. That computer strategy game that lets you run an entire world and send ships to colonize other stars. Of course, there are rivals, artificial intelligence, whose goal is to prevent human players like me from dominating the game. I was in Junior high school then, whose time coincided with my growing addiction to the TV series, Babylon 5. Bring the two together, and the space geek in me finally achieved sentience.

I remember taking my strategy game very seriously - so much - that I was hard-pressed to pick names of real celestial objects already discovered by astronomers. Vega, Lalande, Fomalhaut, just to name a few. I even made sure to name my newly acquired worlds in the order of the nearest star systems to the sun. As to how I got those names and their distance from the Solar system accurate, a pocket-sized encyclopedia takes the credit. It was one of those trinkets I bought with my own school allowance, and one, whose contents still illuminate me to this day.

Among the prominent chapters of the pocket-sized encyclopedia were the illustrated pages of the planets in our Solar System. They were recent photos, taken by the Voyager probes as they glide past those worlds. There was Jupiter, and her Jovian satellites; Saturn and her majestic rings, and then there was Neptune, which, according to the little book appears to have internal sources of heat. That tidbit of knowledge thrilled me, and so I turned the pages, only to get disappointed, when I found how scant the information was about the next featured planet: Pluto.

Pluto was the final frontier, and until last summer, very little was known about the dwarf planet. In the pocket-sized encyclopedia, only a silhouetted dot, together with her blurry satellite, Charon were shown. It was taken by the recently launched Hubble Space Telescope in place of high resolution pictures of other worlds. 

At that time, nobody thought humanity would embark on a journey to study the planet up-close. Not in our lifetime. After all, it takes 6 hours for sunlight to reach its surface. The object was at the fringes of the Solar System, and while the technology is available to send a probe to Pluto, human will can't. It was only after a series of project scrapping, followed by collective outcry that NASA finally decided to fund the project and launch the New Horizon spacecraft in 2006.

---

The New Horizons probe sailed the depths of the solar system, unnoticed, while the matters of the earth shifted from petty wars to climate change. While the quest to study the heavens, with Curiousity taking selfies on Mars and Dawn snapping pictures of Ceres, went on, with much fanfare, the New Horizons flyby was gearing up to become the most talked about human accomplishment so far. And on July of this year, almost a decade since the spacecraft left the Earth, humanity had its first encounter with Pluto.  

The exploration of the Solar System is at long last, complete.

The collective jubilation was apparent on both the virtual and real life conversations. Memes were created, with focus on the heart-shaped feature prominent on the surface of Pluto. There were also those who lament, that after all these years, what we can afford to send was a probe merely capable of passing a distant planet. And while the issue of the trans-Neptunian object being downgraded to a dwarf world was once more being raised, this breakthrough suddenly became yesterday's news: the terrestrial affairs (and all its domestic concerns) once more became the daily struggles of humankind.

It is as if, sightings of another world is but a stuff of dreams.


---

I would like to think that our flyby to Pluto, no matter how ephemeral, will stir the imagination of children, like it did, when our generation had its first glimpse of the worlds beyond Mars. At a time when talk about scaling down space exploration is being thought out of political accommodation, and when our yearning to go places wanes as we grow more at ease with our lives spent on the internet, there is a tinge of anxiety knowing we might cease searching and just stagnate here, until we all die out.

But I still believe there remains to be accomplished and our aspiration as a species since leaving our cradle in Africa to inhabit the planet still needs to be fulfilled. We may have mapped the solar system, and have begun looking at the stars for worlds similar to ours, but until we set foot on another world, and make it our new home, the dreamers among us will still look at the sky at night, and sigh with vexed yearning at how long before the heavens are within reach.

Return To The Zoo

Previously: Manila Zoo

There is this kind of magic when returning to the place that once made your eyes shimmer with excitement. For a moment, the toils of daily living is replaced by this longing, as memories of past visits fill you with fleeting thoughts - echoes of children screaming with delight upon learning their rickety tour bus is heading towards this forgotten corner; of getting an SMS from a brother after your work, asking if you can accompany him for a leisurely photo shoot; of family visits so obscure, you create scenes, unsure they ever happened. For reasons that need no contemplation, I thought of going back at the Manila Zoo, a kind of kindled visit, so as to remind myself that time flies and the things I used to cherish, may not be there anymore.

It was never my first idea to go there, as what I had in mind was a tour of the National Museum. Sleepless and needing some activity to spice up my rest day, the free entrance at the public exposition was something one should never ignore. I went there, at the building across Intramuros only to find the repository of the nation's artifacts was closed on a Monday. 

Bummer.

Instead of going home to catch some sleep, or having a detour at the gym, like I always do, a plan B comes in handy. I may have to endure the blistering heat and the stench of animal excrement, already wafting outside the walls of this verdant space, but better have this trip now, than return to my bed without any story to tell.

The return expedition is like a "Time Space Warp" to the past, except the sights and sounds look so vintage and yet neglected, and whose soul seems to be in a state of despair that no publicity or promotion can bring back the zoo's old glory days. There is Maali, the 41-year old elephant, who was masticating her late afternoon snack when I came across her pen. She made some headlines some years ago after an online petition for her transfer to an animal sanctuary gathered a lot of digital signatures. Aging and isolated, she is not the only wild beast confined to life imprisonment. There is this hippopotamus, whose wrinkled hide show some moss green lines, a lion with thinning mane having a dip at his tub, and peacocks, with balding feathers trying to call the attention of an unimpressed mate who was nesting in a corner.   

One can't help but wonder, are these animals really getting the care they need?

The lament was deepened by the seemingly cavalier attitude of those who run the place, and the kind of people who visit it. From shack owners who wheedle curiousers to have a photo shoot with their exotic birds (and snakes) for 100 pesos, to adults who encourage children to feed the animals of whatever edible stuff they carry around, I was shaking my head in disappointment, and even wishing Manila Zoo to charge more before visitors can get in. I think there is a need, not just to see healthy animals on display, but to actually learn the value of preserving the environment through on the spot education, and realize, that these creatures belong in the wild, and not inside corralled spaces.

I wouldn't forget seeing plastic containers of bottled water and cups of 7-Eleven Slurpee next to a sleeping tiger. For a moment there, I thought we have reduced ourselves to organisms far lesser than the species whose attention we were trying to get.

The beasts who have thrown those garbage should have hurled themselves instead.

Despite the heartbreaks, there too, are light moments worth sharing to cap my return: the almost instinctive "meowing" when trying to call the attention of the felines, particularly that civet cat sleeping inside her cage; to that inter-species enclosure where rabbits and guinea pigs share living spaces and appearing in harmony; to talking to a pen maintenance worker who told me that many of the turtles there were donated by pet owners who can no longer take care of the overgrown reptiles.

"Minsan dinadala na lang nila dito," he was sweeping the little pond while the slow-moving Testudines rush towards the other side of the pen, in a manner similar to a stampede. You can hear the clacking sounds as their shells collide.

"So anong pinapakain niyo sa kanila?" I further probed.

"Hayun, dilis, kaya malansa dito."

Despite my hatred for enclosed spaces, and animals that seem to being displayed with wanton abandon, there is a need to return to the zoo, not to glorify this false mastery over lesser creatures, but to see the sights before each of the animals who have known this place as home pass into oblivion. The last time I stepped foot on this ground, there was this orangutan taking up residence in one of the cages. She died of old age last 2010, never to be replaced again as the entire species may become extinct a few generations from now. Many of the larger pens have been left empty, with local funds apparently being funneled towards personal pockets instead of adding stocks of wild animals for people to see. And with trends turning against all forms of animal cruelty, (including putting them in places, like zoos) there would come a time when the Manila Zoo will just be, an ordinary public space.

A park, whose history comes alive in pictures and stories, like the one I am writing today.

Found

Previously on: Outpost

It has been more than half a century since we began searching the heavens for intelligence, and we continue still. The truth is, they will never be found. Not because they don't want to, but because of our beastly nature.

I have always said that they - the visitors - are watching. The conspiracy theorist in me asserts that they have been here since our beginnings. But given our penchant for domination, of alienating the different among us, maybe, they found wisdom in leaving us in peace.

We are not ready for the universe.

"We could find alien life." Seth Shostak of the SETI Institute was quoted in a recent interview. "But politicians don't have the will."

So long as we - as a species - continue to destroy the planet, and as long as we cast extraterrestrials as invaders and manipulators of humanity in movies, the cosmos will remain silent, indifferent, and uncaring

- perhaps until the end of our time.

Outpost

Previously:

The Space Man
Custodian of Heaven

In the age of reality shows, and wars between nations, and selfies posted on Facebook, seeking affirmation from souls one will never get to meet, there is an outpost halfway between this earth and the moon barely noticed by humans, whose affairs dwell not in the past - nor the future - but in the milliseconds of their every breath.

I too would have forgotten. That once, I used to look up to the heavens to catch a glimpse of this outpost as it trails across the vesper sky. Google still sends me alerts announcing its arrival. I would mark the date and time, only to be hindered by the pressing needs that keep me alive. On some days, the memory resurfaces, when pictures of this outpost - breathtaking and inspiring - are beamed back to the planet, on my Twitter account. My being will be filled with joy, of course, and sadness, because humanity has been reduced to seeing views of the atmospheres instead of pressing on, to sail yonder.

There are times I envy the past. When humanity teetered on the brink of mutual assured destruction, and the idea they have of leaving footprints to mark their time was to send machines - mechanical envoys - to tell their story. Nowadays, our species have become inward-looking. Cocooned and somehow content of our own mortality.

Of our limitations.

I see this picture and imagine floating next to the International Space Station, looking at the heavens with longing eyes gazing at eternity. And in the countless lives I might still live, while burdened by collective memory of lifetimes searching for reasons to exist, the picture distills what the heart yearns to speak. That vision of a watcher looking at the open ocean, while waiting, and hoping everyday, for something god-like to appear in the distance.

Searching the cosmos for otherworldly delights, and sentience, we carry on, and wait.

Dandelion Fluff

Previously: The Martha Stewart In Me

The aerial garden has been confined to my side of the window for the longest time. Herbs have spread out. Some turned crisp and crackling, and have been replaced by new saplings; the vines have even occupied hanging pots belonging to other plants. I have given up on fertilizers; put species, whose leaves absorb more sunshine in ledges facing the sky; and gave up replanting those that die, naturally, after several blooms. With all the lessons, carefully acquired, never did I make a move to export my pastime in the other sunward corners of the house. The balcony next to the master's bedroom has thrice the space to indulge my passion. But with lukewarm support received from the matriarch, and with severed stems repeatedly dying a few days after replanting them, I gave up on the idea.

Only to resurrect it late last month, after my mother's visit to the doctor.

Like a mantra chanted, I tell myself repeatedly that "life begets life." It is for this reason I started gardening a year and a half ago. And as I let the days roll by engaging in my new hobby, I realize that no longer do I sink into the pits of melancholia. There are herbs thriving outside the window, and for all the comfort it brings, there is a part of me rejuvenated at the sight.

Back to my mom's hospital visit, doctor's prognosis needs her to take more pills and tablets; Maintenance medicines to check the cholesterol and sugar in her blood. Her lack of body movement, at home, add to my worries, and if this is not enough, she gets flu very often. And while the antibiotics let her recover after a week, its side-effects poison the body. 

This downward spiral has to slow down. 

The exodus began with two infant formula milk cans, some Basil and Mint stem cuttings, and soil mix made from dried rice husks. There is the attempt to grow the herbs at the balcony once again, only this time, turning back is no longer an option.

For summer is approaching, and my mom will have to spend the days confined to her bed, in her room full of dust-coated tomes. The humid air makes the heat unbearable, and as dust floats in the air, so is the futility of not holding a job.

Only the sight of herbs might take her mind off troubles and grant her peace. 

So the occupation went through, with two herbs from my windows, whose chances of growing their own roots remain uncertain. I was telling the house help last week that should at least one of them is able to sprout new leaves, I will spend my idle days nurturing an ecosystem.

Because in my head, I would like to see my mother getting out of bed. Dragging her atrophied legs across the room and into the balcony with the aid of the crutches, her face blank and her thoughts, empty. One fine day. One quiet daybreak. With the gentle breeze brushing the evergreen leaves of the lavenders and rosemaries, a faint smile creases on her face, and as the bushes fill the air with aromatic scents, there and then I would know, the expedition has succeeded. 

Not only have I breathed life into a forgotten corner of the house, the expansion will let a soul find solace in the presence of organic things.   

A Culture of Death

Male chicks are worthless to the egg industry, so every year millions of them are tossed into trash bags to suffocate, or are thrown into high-speed grinders called “macerators” while they are still alive.

PETA
The Egg Industry

DAGUPAN CITY—Environmentalists and church groups have petitioned the government to stop the “slaughter” of 1,829 trees that were marked for cutting or earthballing in five towns and a city in Pangasinan province to make way for the expansion of the MacArthur Highway, a major link to northern Luzon.

Philippine Daily Inquirer
1829 Trees to be killed for a road plan

I read the news and shook my head. When a celebrity scandal broke out last week, the entire nation's public discourse revolved around speculations and timeline of events surrounding Vhong Navarro's unfortunate affair. When temperatures dropped at record levels, not one soul spoke alarm at the extreme weather and thought of scorching summers ahead. In my head, I thought of humanity and its misplaced aspirations. Swirling, the voices of self-preservation and collective goodness are drowned with noises of novelty and self-serving desires.

Sure there is a need to cut those trees for a road widening project. Infrastructure improvements like these are a sure sign of progress. But did the people behind the idea ever thought that those irreplaceable centuries-old canopies give off oxygen and cool the entire stretch of the highway? Not far from the old road, a new expressway will link the metropolis with the summer capital. What sense then, is the cutting of trees when road usage is expected to drop? As for the male chicks dumped into grinders, have they ever thought of giving them away or selling them at a lower price, to be raised for food and could feed so many? 

I know these are merely thoughts churned and regurgitated by my dreamy self. But when some idiot politician actually proposes to construct parking lots and vending stalls over the esteros slithering around Binondo, you know the entire human race is doomed.

I would not be surprised when the next natural calamity strikes, death and destruction follow its wake.

The Road That Stretches Forever

Last day of December.

Never in a decade did the Favorite Aunt drop by our house to pick us for the get together. My sister and her family will welcome the New Year with the in-laws. While the driver was unavailable as he was spending the day with his estranged father. Meanwhile, tradition follows that we spend the first day of the year as a tribe, and so as for the old ways to remain, the host took the task to bring me and my mother to her abode.

The sun was still up when we arrived at her place. A breath of fresh air, if I may add, since we often race against time before the fireworks block our path. The last time we saw daybreak, I was still a boy, eager to get my hands on my cousin's video game console, to try to beat the big boss and see the ending of Super Mario Brothers, Sonic the Hedgehog and Civilization I. 

Now older, and yet, still very much a kid at heart, I bought with me my laptop. I have recently installed the newest expansion of Civilization V. The strategy game is taking much of my attention lately, but I don't mind. I was thinking of spending hours playing it. To pass the time as my mother and her sisters catch up with their lives.

And I have other plans in mind.

Seeing my mother settled down, and the Favorite Aunt setting the food for the Media Noche later, I drew from my backpack a small paper bag. It is a gift to my god-child I have not seen last Christmas. The idea is to make a pass at that scenic spot next to the lake. My place of destination is in Taguig, and it's been three years since I discovered that empty stretch of highway on foot.

To see the bend leading to Road C6, and the overlooking, unobstructed view of the Laguna de Bay remains a breathtaking experience.

So this is how the year ends - the way it began. Solitary. Contemplative. Looking at the distance with blissful eyes and a weary heart. There is no denial I am terrified of the uncertainty. It permeates the skin, leaving me curling at the thought of fate and forked paths in the coming year.

The post-revelry chill gets a little more intense as the years go by.

And yet, in my lonesome, I find ways to get by; to see life like its my first breath, to stay curious like a cat, when I positioned my camera phone in front of her. Without much thought, I still perform random acts of kindness (like helping a mother pull her child's wheelchair up the overpass), or feel that empty space after a special friend gives a passionate hug. There is beauty in the world in spite of how horrid many of us believe it is. I still have faith in humanity, despite the hateful vibe reverberating every day.

Climbing a pile of rocks a few steps from my destination, I turned Ndoto around towards the sunward direction. The Hagonoy Pumping Station is just a cartwheel away and before the sun sets, the last sunset of the year of our Maker, 2013, I took a panoramic picture not only of the highway I covered, but of the sun and the lake on which I rest my joys and hopes that chilly afternoon.  

Happy New Year, Everyone.

Because Tomorrow Is Just A Memory

"These plants belong to me. Take me with them if you must!!"

"Are good things supposed to end?" 

I mused before dropping my stuff on the sidewalk. It's late in the afternoon and there's an everything-must-go sale nearby. An entire ecosystem will be shut down all in the name of progress. House plants of all shapes and sizes; delectable flowers in full bloom and bursting with colors are sold at drop down prices. I came to say goodbye to the place, and partake at discounts never would the shop owners give had the closing event didn't take place.

A few minutes before embarking on a home-bound trip, a cat sleeping under the shade was stirred out of curiosity. I was about to take pictures of the little fellow when she approached me and rubbed her head against the back of my hand. Not satisfied with the minimal attention I've given, she grazed her entire body around my leg, prompting me to stroke her fur to show appreciation. She then laid next to the plastic bags of garden implements I bought. An onlooker chuckled at the comic relief.

"Mukhang gusto sumama sa iyo ah." I gave a faint smile.

"Pusa niyo po ito?" The old man nodded.

For some reasons, I saw everything differently.

In the face of uncertainty and sea change, is it normal for creatures to cling to vestiges of familiarity? Knowing home will be gone soon, did the feline try to tell us she belongs to that garden, and that, she is aware it is being dismantled?

Riverine

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

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

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

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

How lovely it is to live in such time.

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

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

Baseco Compound, Tondo

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

"Okay lang po ba mag-ikot ikot?" 

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

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

Everything That Could Be Done

The whole planet is watching on CNN, BBC, every major channel, the passage of the fastest typhoon in history, leaving jet streams behind and the world will see how our government handles an unimaginable catastrophe, already CNN has admitted that our government has done all that a government can do. If loss of life is minimal and post-passage relief is quick and vast, this is the legacy that has eluded PNoy, two years before he leaves.

We cannot choose the time and place when we are vindicated but this looks like it for him. 

Great job so far.

- Teddy Locsin Jr.

That is a combination of images from Japanese and European weather satellites, also on Nov. 7, 2013, at 13:00 UTC, around local midnight. These satellites are in geostationary orbits, 36,000 km (22,000 miles) above the Earth’s surface, and provide a much broader view. You can see Haiyan to the right, the city lights of the Philippines almost underneath it. Lights from China, Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia and India are to the west, and Australia is far to the south. The brassy glow on the left is sunset over the Arabian Sea and the east coast of Africa, Oman, and Yemen. 

Knowledge Is Power

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or was it her science teacher?

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



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

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

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

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

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

Learning somehow diminished the fear I felt within.


   

Soyuz

Credit

breathe
in the oxygen sac
of my pressurized womb.
for in the fullness of time,
you will crawl across the stars
you carbon-made,
genetically imperfect
offspring
of the cosmos.

The Day They Become Ordinary

Tuesday morning and I woke up late. My shift was supposed to start at six in the morning and it was already six thirty when I got out of the bed.

The rains never ceased pounding the rooftop as ribbons of ice water cascaded down from the ceiling. The carpet was soaked and so was my closet. Without thinking about the looming disaster in my room, I went down the stairs to call the office. My teammate was already there, an old lady who braved the floods just to get to work.

"Sir, hindi na passable sa Kalentong." She said. "Baha na rin po ang Pureza." I went out to check the intersection. My colleague not only spoke the truth, the boulevard was no longer passable to small vehicles. 

I had no choice but to work home. Sent word to the boss that I'd go online from my house.

But then, I was beset by guilt. Had I terminated my shut-eye at 5am, I can still reach the office without getting stuck in the floods. How can I let my subordinates leave their homes while I stayed in my room, when I'm supposed to lead? Picking my towel, I walked inside the bathroom to get ready for work. It will be a long day, and might as well be where the action is.

Kissing my mother goodbye, I left the house to go to the office.

Calm In The Home Front

The ground where the rows of apartments sits is prone to flooding. Fortunately for our unit, the brackinsh waters have not reached the driveway yet, unlike last year.

Pureza Watersports Complex

However, scenes were different a few blocks away. Say hello to the Pureza Watersports Complex.

It is highly improbable to find a jeepney driver mad enough to pass through that knee-deep floods. And should I choose to go with his insanity trip, I would have to turn around and pass through a narrow alley. I would then have to climb the overpass to get to the opposite side of the boulevard. 

But I decided to wade through the flood waters and walk until I reach the train station. If a tsunami (caused by passing trucks) breaches the rim of my rubber boots, the attempt would be put to rest and I would have to work from home as originally planned. 

Tiptoing my way to the LRT Station, I was able to reach it without so much hassle.

Home Station, Pureza

It was past seven in the morning, and the clouds have not heaved. Zero visibility renders the cityscape unseen. As for me, I had reasons for taking the train. 

Valid ones. 

San Juan River, Quezon City - San Juan Border

For I know that when the jeep rolls past the Lourdes Hospital in Santa Mesa, the San Juan River had already swelled beyond its banks taking back the floodplain and the homes built over it. 

Kalentong and Shaw Boulevard disappears under chest-deep waters.

Aurora Boulevard, San Juan

So I stepped out of the train at J. Ruiz Station and found it dry. Parts of San Juan was spared from the floods because of its hilly terrain. From there, a short and breezy cab ride would take me across the narrow streets of N. Domingo, P. Guevarra and Wilson. The odd-looking building where my office perched is on high ground, so even when a deluge shuts down the metropolis, never had we experienced work stoppage.

It was a good call that I decided to brave the rains and show up at the floor. For the boss and I would face various operation problems throughout the day. There were power outages issues. Agents who can't come to work as their homes and streets were at the mercy of the torrents. Even our salaries were delayed because the bank was closed since Monday. I would tell myself later on, that for all the complacency I show, my real job turned out to be a troubleshooter. I was there to get things done, and maybe, prepare myself for more troubles to come.

What people don't know were the other, less-heroic reasons for coming to the workplace. I needed a reliable bandwidth connection to finish my writing side-project. On top of that, a hazard pay is in the works. Rather than seek a fresh round of loan to pay for all my expenses, seeking ways to earn and replenish my dwindling savings seem to be a better choice.

I left the office at five in hopes of hitting the gym before I return to completing my tasks. But then, I learned that the gym was closed when I arrived there. A short walk back to the office to leave last minute instructions and then my day was over.

It was time to go home.

Bagumbayan Street, Floods Ahead

"Sanay na kami sa baha," a resident who refused to be evacuated was interviewed in the evening news. Another affected resident in a different disaster area disagrees: 

"Ngayon lang po kami binaha ng ganito."

In retrospect, it's been less than five years since Ondoy left a scar in people's memory. A year after the same deluge sunk Manila underwater, leaving scores swimming for their lives. Just by looking at my broken ceiling, with flaps of rain-worn wood planks gaping in mid-air, soon it will come crashing down to the floor, and I have to spend my days knowing another Habagat will breach my home and interrupt the lives we carefully live.

"Masaya po kami pag may baha." A gleeful resident of a nearby creek said in another news interview.

"Talaga lang ha?" I mused, as I curled under the blanket. Soon I will be asleep.

But before I closed my eyes, and take some rest, my thoughts fly to some worrisome truth only few get to muse these days: I wonder, how long before fear sets in when the destructive fits of nature becomes random and ordinary?

A Time For Replanting

Not too long ago, one could never part the curtains without leaving sullen reference to the windows. Criss-crossed by iron grills, its apple-green paint hides the decrepit apartment facing the room. Uninhabited since I first took refuge, the blight that greets me as the sun casts its first light is a reminder of how despair still looms - over this part of the city.

So I began putting house plants to make use of the available space. I had my reasons. Practical ones that sell even to the dubious of skeptics. Said plants filter dust from the busy highway just a block away. They nodded in approval. They also sprinkle life to a stale room that has become my sanctum.

My heart felt assured.

What I didn't tell even to the closest of confidants is that it filled the void I sensed within. As the Other quietly drifts away, something has to be done to keep my troubled thoughts from getting out and being known.

It was a splendid idea that was months in the making, but was done without any insight to how plants are grown. All I knew is that I looked forward to a breath of fresh air. Something, the herbs give off as their foliage block the sun.

Overnight, the Manila Seedling Bank at the corner of Quezon Avenue and Edsa became my haunting ground. I became acquainted with the different varieties of Mint and Basil, and a handful of other plants whose leaves put the soul at peace.

In the grandest of dreams, I had hoped to cover not only my part of the window, but the untouched veranda at the back of the master's bedroom. I was ready to give time and money for such undertaking, until setbacks came rushing like a torrent of flood held back by crumbling earth dikes.

Hubris has its way of breaking the spirit, and my serving came in steady painful succession. I have gone through the horrors of break-up. Withstood the onslaught of birds, as they found the delectable leaves of Basil more appetizing than after-meal refuse. Mints bloom only to wither without reason and if that's not enough, pestilence gnawed at the stems and roots of some of the first plants I raised on the iron grills.

There are times I would have abandoned the passion, especially when its very purpose disappeared when dissolution leaned towards self-destruction. But I held my ground, knowing that genocide will erase all the hard work I've put into nurturing my hanging garden. I will lose the remnants of my green thumb, and for all the lofty words and hearty promises of not repeating the same cycle, the surviving plants have to live on, bloom, and keep my part of the house verdant no matter the price.

Where there is pocketful of sunshine, leaves churn light into nutrients and tap water lifts sagging stems making them sprightly once more. Entire pots, whose previous tenants have turned dry and brittle were replaced by saplings. And when bird seeds and scarecrows failed to persuade the winged beasts from leaving the shoots unharmed, pointed sticks rose from the ground to deny them a place to land their feet.

Still, much has to be done and while entire plants wither and die, the spirit of creation lives on - every time thoughts of the seedling bank stream into consciousness, or when I pass by some saplings spreading on the ground. Their soundless whispers take me back to a time when I used to pull roots and plant them closer to home.

The Great Caladium Expansion

Thus, life goes on with barren pots being dug up for new plants to occupy, and pruning becomes a discipline whose rewards can only be seen when the sun glistens in droplets edging over the leaves' tips. I may no longer be as driven like when I started gardening, but with humble certainty and grace of wisdom, no longer will an empty, glum space feature prominently every time the curtains parted.

Genocide

It was a marvel of nature; an opus of engineering unmatched by all humanity. It was otherworldly. Something that could have been laid and dug out by a sentient, hive-mind species. For ages, we see ant mounds as nuisance to our creation; this habit of turning our surroundings, exploiting it according to our wants. Older, less threatening societies conjure tales that are paranormal in essence - to keep our fits of destruction away from these subterranean ecumenopolises. Mostly hidden from the naked eye, we see only the passages that lead to these worlds. And for this reason, we seldom see their true value. We destroy what we deem crude and backward to our sensibilities.    

The last time I came across an ant colony, the pot of soil where they took residence was soaked in hot water. The Basil, whose roots intertwined with their tunnels have become their feeding grounds. The plant wilted, its leaves crumpled. The method didn't solve the ant problem as they have founded settlements elsewhere. But taking out their eggs ceased the colony to exist.

Such protracted, one-sided assault by mankind happens everyday, repeated million times over to assert our supremacy. It so happened that the ants number in trillions and they multiply rapidly. This is the reason they have not cowered yet. But if by some divine reversal or evolutionary leap these creatures grew in size to half our own, we would be overrun as the dominant animal on the planet in less than a generation.

This suspicion, this dormant uneasiness was magnified after watching a clip on YouTube. The video, lifted from some old documentary tells of a scientist who pumped tons of cement into an ant mound. His study aims to uncover the extent and design of the ants' structure. He wants to learn the ecosystem within as these colonies sink underground.

The result was staggering.

However, curiosity turned into horror as I realize the cruelty behind such experiment. At the price of learning, the scientist wiped out the colony and the singularity behind it. I could just imagine the millions of innocent ants - workers, soldiers, eggs and its queen permanently encased in concrete for our own amusement. The structures we now see - the tunnels and pods, the lifeless inhabitants - will forever remind us that we are, and have always been agents of death.

I watched the video clip once more, and as the camera pans out to show - in human scale - the massiveness of the ant world, I tell myself over and over.

To reach the stars and land on inhabited planets will only be, but just a foolish quest.

Agua De Abril

Out in the driveway I stood
and raised my arms into the red sky.
A day after sensing its arrival
the first droplets of rain has fallen.

Temperatures in the Philippine capital continued to rise Thursday afternoon, with the mercury registering at 36.2 degrees celsius, the hottest in Metro Manila so far this year.

The Philippine Atmospheric, Geophysical and Astronomical Services Administration (Pagasa) recorded the temperature at 3 p.m. but an observation officer said it might still go up in the next hour.

Three days ago, the temperature climbed to 36.1 C, then the hottest for the year. Thursday's maximum temperature is close to breaching last year's record of 36.6 C.

Interaksyon

The Wilting Of The Flesh

Overwatered

You threw caution to the wind, and followed your stubborn heart. "I will give my all." You said, while rivulets of water are forced out of the spray bottle. At daybreak, artificial rain falls down your window soaking the Basils and Mints - the herbs you fear would wilt after basking under the late morning sun. The evening before, they too had their soil moist. You watered them after coming home from work.

The tell-tale sign was showing, but you thought it would be wise to ignore it. New leaf growth dried quicker than the old ones; even the healthy foliage began to wilt. The twice-a-day hydration went on for days until you came home this afternoon to find the plants stripped off their leaves. Birds were singing in the distance, you know it was their doing.

The absence of leaves expose the rotten stems. Entire stalks are decaying, the herbs are slowly dying. Realizing your fault, you left the parched soil baking.

Better to postpone the water giving the next day.

"So much for love," your empty stares failed to hide your resignation. It is as if something within crumbled into dust.

Bird Assault

"Too much and they die."   

Custodian of Heaven

The earth is the cradle of humankind, but one cannot live in the cradle forever.

Konstantin Tsiolkovsky, Russian Rocket Scientist, 1895 

Ascent it goes into the night sky, as dozens of distant white orbs still visible to the naked eye envy its passing.

More luminous than the morning star, and closer to Terra Firma than the silvery Luna, the International Space Station glides quietly, as the rest of humanity remains unaware of its swift and sudden transit.

Word came out around mid-afternoon. I was about to cross the street when the message alert was sent to my Gmail. Early this year, I signed up to a service that tells when the orbiting laboratory will be over one's head. 

I thought it was a fluke. 

But on that day the Spot the Station did wonders. The outpost in the sky will make a dazzling flyby. Rising from the sea and into the moonrise direction, the space station, with half a dozen souls taking up temporary residence will dash across the city at quarter past daybreak.

I raced towards open grounds to witness the spectacle. The waterfront was my direction as the open waters allow for an unobstructed view. But time was against me, and my luck was running out. With night time fast approaching, I was left with a nearer choice from the train station: 

Luneta.

I arrived at the park with just minutes to spare. Putting on my eye glasses, I craned my head upwards in search for the celestial apparition. Venus blinked twice, along with Jupiter and the Pleiades. In the northern sky, close to the horizon was a faint red dot. 

Mars appeared on the hunt. 

Into the makeshift stage I walked, and then lied on my back upon reaching its surface. It was at the middle of a clearing, just behind the dancing water fountains. The spot was densely packed with people. Below the stage were a couple of lovers dating. Not far were friends relaxing. It would have been amazing to see them scouting the sky.

But their lives are bound by earthly pursuits.

Between flipping my phone and looking up to scan the heavens, I invoked the genius of the science gods with a thought prayer.

"May their calculations never prove incorrect, and the satellite's trajectory put it where it should be." I searched the sky for signs.

"I didn't go all this way to see nothing." 

And then, as it was written in the electronic mail; and as described in Wikipedia, a bright, slow moving object appeared where the sun had earlier set. It crossed directly overhead like a lone angel watching over the mundane lives of a busy planet.

International Space Station (Center)

Not even a kid asking for solicitation could disrupt my moment. My thoughts were with the man-made object as it flew overhead. Mistaken as an airplane, it moved without a sound. Its luminescence said to be the third brightest comes from the sun, as its rays bounce off from the orbiter's solar panels.

As the ISS graced the sky, my thoughts go back to a time when the machine was still being conceived. Science fiction or science fact, dreamy friends spoke of tomorrow, like our lives dwell high above the earth plane.

"Eternity lies in the heavens." I whispered as the International Space Station disappeared from my sight.

And as time - my own time aligned with the present, and the voices of old friends faded into memory, I left the stage slightly stunned and buoyant.

Somewhere over the mantle of darkness, my eyes had seen what lies beyond the cradle.