Fullmetal Retrieval Project

"Google is putting inactive users on notice. The tech giant says it will soon start deleting accounts that have gone two years or longer without a login or other demonstration of engagement. Stored content on Gmail, Workspace, YouTube, and Photos will all be on the chopping block—along with the associated Google accounts themselves—under the new policy, as outlined in a company blog posted Tuesday."

- Back It Up! Google Will Soon Purge Inactive Accounts, Gizmodo

When I had to abandon my old blog in 2009 to put up a new one, I came to a realization that I can never reveal the slice-of-life stories I had written during my time with Phanks. The ex-boyfriend, upon his research and investigation, learned about its existence a few months after our breakup. So I had to shut it down and leave no footprints behind.  

The disengagement was sudden and without notice, even to the community that had been following my journey. I removed the blog as if I were discarding all the dirty laundry, hoping it would never be found. However, I decided to keep a hidden backup in case I wanted to revisit my past. The blog disappeared from cyberspace, but occasionally I would read the entries and amuse myself with how lost but hopeful it seemed when I led a double life.

Eventually, I moved away from Blogger and continued chronicling my life on other platforms, such as Instagram. However, when I heard about Google's collective purging, I felt an urgent need to act. My first instinct was to retrieve the sign-in details for Fullmetal Dreams. Yet, my digital search yielded no results. So, I made the decision to import the contents of my old blog and merge them with Daybreak Embers. By accessing the present blog through my personal email, it would be protected from purging even if I were to stop writing.

For now, my personal journals remain safe.

However, my relief was short-lived when I discovered that not all entries unfolded properly after uploading the master file. It seems that the Blogger code for entries from 2004 to 2005 is incompatible with the current HTML version. Now, I have to manually publish the old entries—one by one—to complete this desperate migration, a total of 465 posts.

"Might as well do some grammar revisions and read the entries as I go over this work," I told myself while copying and pasting entire posts for re-publishing. 

Though it may not have been my original intention, I will get to be reacquainted with my lost and rebellious 24-year-old self once more.

It's nice to see you again, Proximus.   

The Year Was 2011 (A Love Letter To The Future)

 

Previously

Credit

I hope, the next time I will write this way, Jay, you will find yourself on top of a scenic vista overlooking a breathtaking landscape. Better if you remain alone, as long as you're well-accomplished in ways you have dreamed of.

I hope you will get to finish your master's degree and stay fit. May you never give up the Olympic Bars and Steel plates all because you thought, you had enough of weightlifting.

And I sincerely wish that even though you never get to see your teenage dreams fulfilled, may your sublime aspirations of becoming a teacher, a crusader of the planet, a devoted and supportive partner be realized.

May you succeed in putting your house in order.

Because despite failing miserably in laying down and showing off your earthly feats, I can tell deep down that you have served your Creator well.

PTSD

 

Bella, my sibling's youngest daughter began with a runny nose last week. Unchecked, the sipon progressed into a yellowish mucous blocking her nostrils, which needed to be treated with antibiotics. It would have been a classic case of the seasonal flu, but given our health condition, my panic-stricken sibling believes it is Covid. Our doctor aunt had already reassured her that it wasn't the dreaded virus as I have left the house the day after showing symptoms, and the children had no exposure from me. Besides, my niece started with a runny nose long after I was gone. This didn't convince my sibling, so she sought the opinion of her daughter's pediatrician who prescribed her medicines for a respiratory ailment. 

Like the doctor-aunt, she ruled out Covid.

Two days later, I was told the sipon had progressed into infrequent coughing. This has raised my Covid-obsessed sibling's anxiety beyond the roof, especially since his third son, Castro, exhibits cold-like symptoms as well. Today, even Diego, my sister's second is also said to be having sipon too that she told my mom, "hindi ko na alam ang gagawin ko."

I wouldn't blame my sister for her anxieties, but even the doctor-aunt said that it is not healthy anymore. If it were Covid, the matriarch should have been the first to experience the symptoms (and it is likely to progress swiftly) as she was exposed to me. But all indicators (her body temperature is being checked twice during the first seven days after her exposure) point to a healthy senior. No other person at home (asymptomatic or otherwise) also complains of a malady so it is safe to assume that all is well - except for the sibling who would likely continue to cradle worst-case scenarios inside her head.

Credit

As for me, the lingering effects of Covid would likely persist long after the government considers me a recovered patient. The cold climate of my quarantine house in Cavite and the gloomy weather these past few days somehow aggravate whatever discomfort I feel in my chest. The occasional coughing bouts brought by sticky phlegm and renewed feverish spells worry me, but it is the situation at home that leaves me disconsolate. 

I sometimes wonder when this would all end.

Tomorrow would be my last day of quarantine. If I were in a government isolation facility, the staff would have already asked me to pack my bags so other Covid patients could be accommodated. Technically, I should have already been out of the woods and on my way home. But I have been asked by the doctor-aunt to extend my self-imposed banishment for another week and rather suffer the insanity, indignity, and chilly reception I would likely receive at home - from the sibling - better stay far away for as long as needed. 

I have already caused others enough sleepless nights and disappointments.

The Old House In Santa Mesa (First Part)

People say that when you are about to hit 40,  your priorities change. You begin to think about your holdings, you worry about the kids (in my case, my nephews and niece), and you spend much of your energy trying to put things in order because your gut feels time is no longer by your side. 

Since the start of the second pandemic year, I have been gradually taking over the custodianship of our ancestral home in Santa Mesa. Nothing fancy. It's more like being the eyes, arms, and legs of my mother (and her sisters) who are the real patrons of the property. I have been a passive player for much of the year - so much that I even went to great lengths to avoid getting involved with tenants' payments. But since last week, I made some big moves that I have never expected myself.

The plan was to put some new electrical outlets and LED lights where my mother's room used to be. It was at the farthest corner of the house and for 20 years, it was largely abandoned. We don't even know if the receptacles out there are still functioning. Last time I checked, the room was a rat-infested bodega with moldy clothes above the aparador, dead roaches on the floor, and scraps of partially gorged paper everywhere. 

A tenant, whose room was flooded downstairs moved in recently to occupy the kitchen outside my mom's quarters. Her arrival somehow dispersed the gloomy vibe pervading in those places. More importantly, her transfer provided a convenient excuse to finally make some big renovations in case we decide to make my mom's room available for rent someday.

Once I was able to make arrangements with the electrician, reclaiming the abandoned areas of the house before nature renders it unfit for habitation immediately commenced.

- to be continued

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.

Monologues On A Rainy Saturday Afternoon

 Previously: Soundtripping On A Sunny Saturday Morning

Working on a beautiful Saturday morning is really bullshit. But since I have adapted already to this working lifestyle, I might as well enjoy it. Tutal, a Saturday work means extra income. Ok na rin to kahit paano.

Working on a Saturday is no biggie at all. You've been used to the hustle - for more than half a decade now. In fact, you even work on weekends. Sometime around your thirties, you realized that your salary will not be able to support your lifestyle - especially now - that you have 4 credit cards to pay, an 18-year old Toyota Revo that demands constant car maintenance, and a house that relies on your constant financial support to keep everyone's needs fulfilled.

One thing I like in the morning shift is that the bosses aren't here... well except for my ever-concerned supervisor who was hired two weeks after we started working on the floor. Having her as our supervisor means that she's more lenient and comfortable to work with compared to my other bosses and besides we share the same wavelength since we came from the same educational environment before we arrived here.

One thing that has changed is you no longer have to follow a fixed schedule. You go online and work as you please. In theory, you are the operations head: A lenient manager who leaves the day-to-day affairs of your colleagues to resolve among themselves. The owner of the company doesn't even check on you anymore. Either he is busy with his business affairs, or he has learned to trust that you won't fuck up on the job. And it doesn't mean that you leave things unattended. Technology has advanced tenfold that you can now observe, check on your colleagues' work, and be in constant communication with them with your smartphone. 

Anyway, as the music from the radio blared again, I've realized that they were still tuned in to Love Radio. My God, I was working straight for 12 hours yesterday and the whole time, it was tuned in to that friggin station. But of course, there's nothing wrong with Love Radio. In fact, it's kinda amusing to listen to novelty songs once in a while... but to listen the whole day, dude, I'm not committing suicide here... hellur!!!

Credits

Take for example yesterday, the Song to Memorize this week was a new song by Regine. Ampota, I heard it yesterday morning, then it was played again at around brunch time, then it was played again at around 2 pm, then again at 5 pm which matching sabay kanta from my colleagues here at work. It was the same with other songs. Anubayun, nauubusan ba sila ng patutugtugin?

Lucky for me, since I am in-jigs with my morning shift supervisor, I can ask her if I could change the station on our radio.

Anyway, since you have been working at home for almost a lifetime now, there is no need to accommodate colleagues who prefer a radio station different from yours. In fact, had you been working in the office, you can simply tell them to use an earphone so as not to disturb your inner peace. Would you believe that Love Radio is still around? They have been on the airwaves long enough that some kids won't even know what "Novelty" songs are. Regine Velasquez is still an icon but she is with the Kapamilya Network now. After building a career with GMA-7, she would sign up with the largest broadcasting network in the country (that is, before the President's lawmakers refused to grant them a franchise last year.)

If I have a choice, I'd switch it to NU-107, but since our happy radio only tunes in to three stations, I have no choice but to choose the two alternatives. I was lucky to find some super-conyo station today. I tuned it to Jam 88.3 and my morning and suddenly, my morning became inspiring.

Sadly, NU-107 is now a legend. Their station had an upsetting reformat a decade ago.

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What I prefer about my music is that it should be alternative/indie - meaning, only a few people know my music and fewer would appreciate it. I prefer light alternative over metal or some other genre that involves shouting and cursing. I like my songs to be melancholic, if not relaxing. I would really love to travel listening to songs that could make me contemplate things.

Years down the road and your genre has never changed. You still switch to Alternative Rock and Indie music because they take you to another place and another time, where you see everything through rose-tinted glasses and relive moments that your heart still remembers. 

Often, I download the songs I liked on KAzAA. That way, I could include it in my collection of MP3s (which I think could already be considered as one of the most diverse among the OUTSIDERs.) In fact, I think the only one who rivals my MP3 collection is James.

If only I could have access to more indie-light alternative music like today, then I'd spend most of my evening downloading songs as I compose an entry in my blog.

And no longer do you settle for bootleg copies. Gone are the music players and MP3s are so 2010. Kazaa is history and while you have remained an avid music playlist curator, your songs these days come from streaming and you listen on platforms like Spotify. You have your handy smartphone to download the app.

  

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Before, when I was often in the party crowd, I'd choose House Music over Hip Hop. Nun nga, I was engrossing myself with Diva House when my gangsta cousin from the US, influenced me to make space for Hip Hop in my genre. After our unforgettable party at Temple, where a nice lady made passes on me, I started adopting that genre - buying pirated Hip Hop CDs at University Mall if time allowed.

And house music? Well, ever since I dropped out of Malate, I've realized that its time has already ended. We would wait perhaps another year, before another mutation of club sounds appears on our disco bars.

Sad for toinks and arrjae eh? ganun talaga eh.

A lot of things have changed since you published this blog. You have never really found Hiphop and Rap music to your liking, Diva House lost its appeal sometime in 2010, the University Mall has likely become a derelict building after face-to-face classes were prohibited last year when the pandemic began. The Malate generation has likely outgrown their taste for clubbing and electronic dance music, and Arrjae, your dear friend has passed away a few months ago. 

Someday, we hope to tell his story one last time.

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For as long as I could remember, music has always been one of my best way of relaxation/find relaxation - From the enchanting voice of Enya and happy-go-lucky songs of Eraserheads during 2nd-year highschool; to the angsty, jaded songs of Green Day, Paula Cole and Alanis Morissette during 4th-year h.s.;

From Smashing Pumpkins, Cranberries, and a dozen of alternative bands during College and Trance, house, chill out when I started partying after graduation -

I think I've always been a sound tripper.

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But some things will always stay, and likely you will carry on until the end of your days. Music for relaxation is no longer about sound tripping to fall asleep or do repetitive tasks at work (you would likely find yourself updating your Spotify playlists instead). It is more about turning your car's stereo on full volume to relax your mind as you cruise along the Skyway. Green Day, Eraserheads, Paula Cole, and Alanis Morissette would likely leave you nostalgic these days instead of actually singing along the most gut-wrenching lines of your favorite songs. For what it's worth, we look back on a rainy Saturday afternoon just to amuse ourselves at how surreal life has changed. Because should you be blessed enough to have enough breaths for another 17 years, maybe, we would find the time to write back and tell us what your life has become.

Post Sinovac Imbroglio (Last Part)

Previously on Post Sinovac Imbroglio (First Part)

So I was prepared to pursue the path of self-isolation if that would spare my loved ones from the virus. I was completely sold to the idea that I caught it sometime before the jab and the vaccine simply triggered the infection. The Weatherman was suggesting that I should see a doctor - his doctors - just to be sure. But I told him that in doing so, I would have to tell where we have been and the activities we did. I might put a lot of people in an inconvenient position.

Eventually, we warmed to the idea of consulting the Favorite Aunt first. She is a doctor, after all, and all the medical emergencies in the family had to go through her. So I called her on the third night and told her all about my symptoms - from the mild fever, to the red spots appearing all over my body, to the thin layer of pus already forming over the part of my skin that I scratched and scraped aggressively the past few days. She asked if I was experiencing something else. I assured her that I had no cough, nor sore throat, nor had difficulty breathing. Based on my account, she said that my Psoriasis might have been infected, so she prescribed antibiotics and antihistamines just to keep me from mutilating my skin.

She was right.

Two days later, the fever was gone and the red spots I have been seeing would ripe into purple rashes that leave a stinging sensation when the skin is triggered. The Dermatologist I consulted explained that it might be directly linked to the vaccine as there were documented cases of people experiencing the very same side effects days after taking the jab. She prescribed that I double the dose of the Levocetirizine that I was already taking.

When Sinovac was introduced in the country last summer, I was one of those who spoke strongly against getting it. I even said that why should I get the vaccine from the country where the Pandemic started. I was called out for that statement, of course. But my sibling, in her desperation, volunteered herself to be one of the first to be inoculated. So was the Favorite Aunt who took the jab ahead of everyone.

Their side effects were very minimal.

A month later, my mom received her complete dose and aside from falling out of the bed (because she was too sleepy to see where the pillows were), her side effects were inconsequential. Sure, there were doubts about the efficacy of their vaccine, but the other doctor friends on social media were insisting that the best vaccine is the one that is available.

Soon after, I was telling friends and loved ones to take Sinovac. Even the Weatherman had completed his two shots.

So when I took it months later, my faith was unshakeable. I even brought my brother-in-law and the kasambahay with me to the vaccination site so they can have their first dose too. They experienced no adverse reaction, unlike me, whose case was different. There was even a point where the Favorite Aunt and I were having second thoughts of getting the final dose as its effects on my body might be worse. On the fifth day after the first symptoms appeared, however, the rashes began to disappear. My limbs also no longer feel like it was hacked into pieces every time I had to limp all the way to the bathroom to pee. And while the body still reeled every time the nerves flare up and the stinging and itching sensation force me to run to the nearest scratch post (which is usually the corner of the wardrobe), there was no denial about my recovery. 

The end is in sight.

Barely a few days before my second week of inoculation and I was completely healed. We still do not have any explanation as to why my immune system had gone berserk upon receiving the inactivated virus (it was my first time to experience such adverse side effects from a vaccine) but the Favorite Aunt was confident that Sinovac was effective. Even the doctors she had to consult herself said the bodily reaction was within the threshold that I was allowed to take the second dose...

...a decision that has now become a life or death matter given the arrival of a much more potent variant from India.

Three days from today, I am set to receive the last dose of the China-made vaccine. Though the side effects are still unknown, I am somehow relieved that I have learned enough not to panic like what had happened during my first ordeal. 

Post Sinovac Imbroglio (First Part)

At first, there was the well-documented heaving of the arm - the part, at least - where the needle had pierced the skin. Forced out from the syringe was a vial's worth of re-engineered proteins, proteins that form a part of the viral molecule that has been turning our world upside down for almost two years now. I would have believed that it was the first step in achieving immunity and we were, for our part, have announced that I have taken the jab to the collective joy of everyone. But it was just the beginning. The agony would happen a day after the lull of the body had finally put the mind at ease.

On the third night, my body felt like collapsing unto itself. Muscle aches and soreness kept me from getting out of the bed and the cold hands and feet have succeeded in generating enough body heat that I had a mild fever before I've gone to bed. 

The next morning, the symptoms have disappeared, except for the sudden flaking of the skin where psoriasis has gnawed steadily into my left leg. I even had enough strength to go out of the house and had the car's registration renewed. But all those struggles to walk to the nearest ATM booth a few blocks away from the LTO office might have taken a toll. It didn't help that instead of going home to recuperate, we drove to Farmers Cubao to buy some flowers for the Weatherman's sister. She was celebrating her birthday that day.

So I limped all the home from the parking lot with a body pulped and shivering from the cold. Before going to bed, I took a Paracetamol in anticipation of the onset of fever. That evening, my temperature shot beyond 39.0 degrees celsius. 

By then, all symptoms point to the dreaded Covid virus. My chest was heaving. I had difficulty breathing. To make sure I was within the threshold, I held my breath for at least 15 seconds before pushing the air out my lungs. Lower than that count would mean I was running out of oxygen. To protect my family and to put to rest their suspicion, I just step out of the room for bathroom breaks and meals. Only the Weatherman stayed with me throughout my ordeal.

The next day, my skin began turning crimson red and it was very difficult to get out of bed. I moaned in pain every time I tried to get up. My left limb felt it was hacked in two, and all those aggressive and often violent skin scratching had infected my psoriasis. I had to drag my left leg across the hallway and into the master's bedroom toilet to pee.

On the third day, anxiety began to cloud my judgment. The only thing missing from the list was a bad cough or a mild sore throat. Had the symptoms of Covid continue to present themselves, the plan was to gather enough strength, make the most daring and outrageous drive to the Weatherman's house in General Trias in Cavite to isolate and keep my condition a secret, except to my mom. 

Who would have thought such a bold plan to protect me, and my loved ones backfire spectacularly right before my eyes?

- to be continued -

Antipolo Senti Nights

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

The Ridge Racer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some dreams are still to be made.

Still Here

In the age of microblogging - no - spur-of-the-moment thought vomit sustained by social media platforms like Twitter, long-form writing has become obsolete. Ancient even. All evidence points to journal keeping becoming a niche pastime.

But still, this blog exists, and from time to time, a longing of the past and yearning to close old stories with here-and-now revelations let me drift into these forgotten shores. I might be geriatric when it comes to digital technology, but I try to use some current tools, like the Blogger app to find my way back and briefly reclaim this space. 

(It won't be too long before I drift out again)

And if you're wondering how vastly different the past half-decade was in comparison to the present, may this photo, which I conveniently pulled out from my phone's memory serve as a lesson to the great mistake of 2016. Photo aside, we've come a long way from encoding Java instructions so we can put uploaded photos from cloud platforms like Pictogram to Blogger. 

The Techno Revolution, Unnoticed

"It has always been a custom to duplicate every bit and part of me in a medium other than the hard disk. In a time when floppy drives were used to store data, I had three crates of diskettes whose sole purpose was to serve as repositories for DOS Games I copied from the computer shops in Recto."

- Stirrings of a Techno Revolution

Ten years ago, I wrote about this need to back up my files in a redundant fashion after a system error almost wiped out the digital contents of my desktop's hard drive. 

It was a different time. I still use dial-up for my internet connection. I play alternative rock and dance songs on cheap mp3 players. I still get my music from Limewire, or sometimes, from pirated CDs purchased in Greenhills or some other places in the city. 

In those early years, having a laptop - after giving away my first one to my ex - was still a distant dream and having an external hard drive was merely wishful thinking. 

It was insanely expensive and I could not afford such luxuries.

But in the fullness of time, I was able to subscribe to a broadband connection. I waited, patiently, for Skycable to be available in the neighborhood and when their service was finally offered, I was among their first subscribers. At around the same year, the desktop computer was replaced by a laptop, which I was able to buy with my savings.

A few years later, the broadband connection was upgraded to WiFi. Wireless connection finally found its way and after having to endure living in antiquity for ages, our house became at par with homes connected to a wireless network. 

However, the mp3s in my compact discs and hard drives were made obsolete after subscribing to Spotify. The app allowed me to stream every song I have in my music library. The service also lets me listen to virtually any artist from genres I barely heard before. For the first time, I was able to discover and listen to artists I barely know; my musical knowledge has expanded beyond my imagination.

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Technology has immensely changed everything and looking back from where we started, the sea change afforded us barely enough time to see the value, of the unimaginable leaps we made to get to this point - where we spend each day trying to make better use of Netflix, or how not to forget to turn off Globe's data internet when the broadband's connection works fine, or just like today, take appreciation knowing that I was able to buy an external hard drive four years ago. I still use it for storing the films and TV series I dug on PirateBay.

Some things never change.

I would have let this rumination come to pass if not for the urgent need to back up the files of my second laptop. Not only is the machine ripe for a reformat, but I also thought of upgrading to SSD drive so that the Weatherman and I can play Cities Skylines without crashing the game.

In The Red

Last year, my contract with the second job has been terminated only with short notice. It was for the company's reorganization, they explained, and while they have provided a generous separation package, the loss of the second job resulted in the complete wipeout of my savings. There were so many unforeseen expenses - from house pest treatment to emergency car repairs.

I wasn't able to find a replacement racket to cover the loss.

So we start the new decade being technically in the red. And with credit card debts on the verge of going into default, having savings will now just be an afterthought. Though the Favorite Aunt's emergency fund is still under my control, I am no longer in the position to respond financially should there be a need to immediately shell out money for personal conveniences.

Taking The Wheel (Last Part)

Previously: Taking The Wheel (First Part)

Cruising the SCTEx at 100 kph, motion slows down in one's perception while speed remains unchanged. While I do not understand the physics behind the phenomenon, it happens, especially on an empty highway with little road features to get your mind distracted. But the nippy breeze coming down from the mountains was a welcome relief. The Caraballo flanks the right side of the road when you're going to Subic, with the very pillars of the expressway, planted along the foothills. Being close to the uplands, the wind carries the scent of the mountains, of undisturbed forests and razed fields, tended and watched over by the Aetas who have lived off the land for generations. Across the metal barrier to the left is the lowlands of Pampanga. The plains are a sight to behold and while visible signs of civilization point to an ever-changing landscape, the sight of Arayat shrouded in clouds, reminds you that some things will never change. 

Getting there was a journey in itself and I have a lot to be grateful. It has been two years since the Favorite Aunt thought of giving away her Toyota Revo so that my mom would have a car to use. I returned to the driving school to sign up for a refresher course. While I have always known how to drive a car, histories and the lack of confidence on the road kept me from taking the wheel. It didn't help that I have always found joy in commuting and Manila, the city that I've always known, is walkable, especially when cars are non-moving. But I could not stand having to chase taxi cabs during rush hours only to be declined to get a ride when I am with my aging mother. The indignity was unbearable, and the inconsideration of taxi drivers, even when you're with a senior woman with a disability makes your faith grow less in humanity. It didn't help that car-sharing apps like Grab could not be relied on so there were times I had to push my mom's wheelchair long distances just to find a ride home.

In the beginning, I would have wanted the Favorite Aunt's other car - the Toyota Altis. It was compact and in my head, thought, it was far easier to maneuver than a cumbersome AUV. While I have driven something bigger - like my dad's FX - I have always wondered how I would steer those family-sized automobiles with motorcycles cutting you from blind spots. And so, I let my thoughts ran across, even telling my aunt that I'd be happy to buy her Altis. But my mother's sister had other plans and looking at hindsight, wisdom sprung from her decision.

For the household had multiplied since Baby Diego was born. He was followed by Baby Castro and just last year, Baby Bella became my sister's fourth child. A five-seater car would not fit a family of 10 and this became evident last Christmas when I had to bring home four kids and four adults from my Favorite Aunt's place.

Baby steps. That was how the first days were when I finally mustered the courage to take the wheel. When my mother had to stay at my aunt's place for a week, I did my first solo practice driving and ended up at a nearby church. It was a milestone, followed by a long drive from Santa Mesa to Bicutan the next day. My aunt's driver guided me as I cruise the Skyway. 

They say that in driving school, you only get familiarized with the machine and learn the traffic signs you find along the road. Real learning comes while stepping on the gas, crossing intersections with fast-moving cars and getting to destinations on your own. And so I did, despite the setbacks of the past and in spite of the near misses that I still carelessly commit. I have been to places I would never get on foot - to Mt. Purro in Antipolo, to take the Weatherman to his retreat, to my mother's social engagements whether with friends or family, to the Manila Doctors Hospital, when Baby Bella was about to be pushed out of my sister's womb.

I have been to destinations, too many to even mention. And in every place I step my foot on after parking the car, I always carry the thought that the journeys I have been were once-upon-a-time aspirations. Whether it be that late-night cruise, days after the NLEX Connector Road was opened to the public, or that trip to Santa Clara one early morning while I did my practice driving, all I know is that there's a time and place for everything and 19 years after sneaking out my father's Toyota FX while he slept soundly in the master's bedroom, I've finally arrived at my destination.

Weeks before the first drive to Subic, I often check Google Maps to chart the next possible destination just outside the city. I was cautioned not to venture too far for I am driving a 17-year-old car. But the Weatherman had to attend a wedding and while he was fine commuting to the venue and just staying at a hotel somewhere in Olongapo - with me, I have always seen out of town trips as a chance to create those rare and memorable bondings. The Weatherman and I both enjoy road trips and him being the navigator, I knew this wedding road trip is something we do not want to miss. And so after getting permission from the Favorite Aunt herself, I brought the Revo for a last-minute checkup. Getting the green light from the mechanic, we left the city at 5 in the morning on a balmy Saturday, the first week of April. 

Subic Bay and Morong were the farthest destinations we've reached so far, farther than I've ever imagined in the one and a half years I've been driving. A record was broken. There's no longer any limit to where I can take the car.

Taking The Wheel (First Part)

Previously: Driving Lessons

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

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

But luck ran out one evening.

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

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

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

Sa Muli

That I am writing to myself, and the future, hoping that in the ripeness of time, I will be found.

Trinity
February 25, 2014

If this loss of internet connection resulting in the temporary cessation of work meant having the time to write a blog entry, then so be it. Nothing could be accomplished anyway and this long-delayed submission of essay needs to be done, as I'm no longer certain when I would find the leisure to do some long-form catharsis in the near future.

The silence to the invitation has served its purpose. While I was eager to join the call, I preferred to remain uncommitted. Work demanded much of my time, that even when I drove my mother around the city, it's essential that I bring my laptop with me.

Driving a car, as it turned out, was a deeply mental and spiritual exercise. I think it's the gridlock during the rush hours. (mother dear, prefers going home early in the evening, whether we visit her favorite holy ground in Quezon City, or lately, her old happy haunt at Dapitan Crafts Market) One thing is for sure, I go straight to bed once we arrive home.

Also last week, I have been summoned by fellow truth-seekers in Timog for an evening of protest in defense of Rappler. The online news portal has been under siege by this regime lately. Supporters of the government say the company has violated the constitution, but when you ask exactly what was being violated, nobody gives a clear answer. Maybe because understanding Rappler's corporate arrangement might be too complicated for ordinary folks. Maybe there's so much propaganda being rolled out, that nobody bothers to explain anymore how the Philippine Depositary Receipt (PDR) actually works. But truth be told, I too, find it difficult to understand how that news organization gets its funding from foreign investors. It is just a matter of faith, and reliance to some of the luminaries in the Journalism field that I cast my lot with them, and while the facts Rappler newswomen write may be disputable to some, the Freedom of the Press is being attacked by the state, and so, I lent my presence and stood alongside the Leftists and the Journalists that chilly Friday evening.

Never in my 14 years of blogging have I been so invested in issues affecting the nation than I am today. I have been transformed from just being an anonymous online persona whose search for affirmation and sense of purpose preoccupied much of his everyday life, into something whose presence on social media has attracted a lot of attention from both sides of the political divide. (A senator called me "Gago" last New Year and it was in the news for almost a week.) It's like blogging all over again, except the contents of my digital personhood is being transmitted faster into the world wide web than when I was in this portal. And it sometimes makes me overwhelmed that I want to recall the old days and revisit the journey.

When I was merely a Planetship aimlessly drifting in this gay space.

Still...

Like an old, familiar confidant, I would like to commit to writing what had happened during these years of silence; of how the Encantos went their separate ways after being together for more than half a decade; of how I found acceptance at home, with my mother and my sister; of how I turned my back to clubbing after 10 years of reigning on the dance floor; of how these two years of union with the Weatherman rewarded both of us, not only of love and kinship but growth in our own intertwined lives; and of how this desire to give back and recognize this connection to our Maker drives me to grasp the truth and everything that is just and good. Sure, there were things that I have had to give up. But at a hindsight, it seems, I've simply begun looking outward, now that I no longer feel lost. 

L'Heure Bleue would still be around and I will try to come and visit once in a while. But now that the internet is back, I would have to go back to Desk and later, on Upwork, as this is how I've now learned to live.

Paying The Price

Previously: The Slave Driver

Friday begins like any other day: He wakes up, checks his phone for Facebook messages from his partner, checks out Slack for messages from his "other" job, and if he still has the time, signs in on Gmail to check for corrections given by clients in his "official" job. Gmail browsing is just an option today as it is his official "rest day." While others are gearing up for the work-free weekend, life goes on for him. It's been years since he last had a real rest day that he has learned not to entertain thoughts of burn out. He doesn't even ask for Vacation Leaves anymore. 

Half a year ago, his department at the Snippet Writing job was dissolved. It was swift, with over 50 souls suddenly finding themselves looking for a new job a week after the retrenchment was announced. While the department's demise was expected, (blame it on automation) and that the General Manager graciously provided a lump sum to keep everyone afloat for a month, not everyone found work as easy as he had. Barely two weeks after he was axed, he found employment in another company that moderates human-generated product reviews. 

Lucky for him, isn't it?

And so, despite the toils of having to manage two full-time jobs, he has accepted his lot without any reservations. He needs money - more than anything - as he realizes that one job could never support the demands of home. Now, he has to bring his laptop all the time, rely on his phone's mobile network to connect to the Internet, and squeeze work anywhere he goes. He has to give up his social life, (as his remaining free time is divided between his family and his lover) leaving all catching up with friends, and all invitations for coffee meetups, indefinitely postponed. 

It is the same reason he has stopped going to the gym for over a year now, cease long-form writing, which he used to have time to do - religiously, tend to his herb garden, which is experiencing a slow death, refrain from getting lost in the simulated worlds of his PC Games, even though he could afford new DLCs or expansions on Steam anytime. 

But at times when he could afford to think and ruminate his situation, he still wonders if it's all worth it, to accumulate this wealth in exchange for giving up everything that he once was:

...But today was a not-so-ordinary day. In preparation for a very big wedding he will attend tomorrow, he spent the whole afternoon getting a haircut and pedicure at GC, tried new specs at Executive Optical, bought new leather shoes, a pair of slacks, a new long sleeves, a ready-to-wear necktie, and a pair of socks which he will wear at the event. He was able to pay his house's mortgage tax, eat lunch at Bonchon, and bring home a Shrimp sandwich from Wendy's for his mom, without ever feeling a pinch on his savings. (But of course, most of these were paid through Mastercard) 

But still...

It is the price he has to pay - and will continue to pay until he can keep his two jobs because times have changed, and much as he wishes for an easier life, the choice is between liberty (with empty pockets) or a little sense of security (while never really experiencing the joys of living). By now, the choice is clear: he has to endure this all. 

He has two more hours to toil for his other job before he can get some sleep. After which, he has to start another work day soon after the wedding reception is over.

Nostalgia In Blogosphere

"Where have all the fireflies gone.

Come out, come out, dear bloggers.

Spread your wings, cast your light.

Let us all fly home one more time."

- Closet Geek

  January 4, 2018

---

"Use whatever format you want: essay, short story, 

poetry, photo essay, whatever.

We are a diverse community. We always have been. 

Go at it however you want.

Let's all publish our entries on January 20.

Then send me a link to your posts after you have published them.

I'll update my entry and add links to your post.

See you all in the blogosphere.

- Jap Nishiguchi

  January 4, 2018.

There is nothing here but memories, of exciting times when voices echo through this chamber. Slice-of-life narratives abound, and so were erotic vignettes that titillated the senses. There were confessions of dreams, pronouncements of grand schemes, and whispers of accomplishments celebrated in distilled stories. Some found closure as they laid down their burdens for eager voyeurs to read, while others learned that life could imitate art in-between cryptic paragraphs. 

A community flourished in this place, publishing blog entries, day in and day out.  It didn't matter what you write. After all, the strength of your words came from personal truths. And although the style set one blogger from another, in the end, one thing has always been certain: everyone was welcome to tell their stories.  

In this tight-knit space, where one is connected to another, real-life friendships burst forth and multiplied. Anecdotal evidence now scatters the social media pages of ex-bloggers engaged in some form of collective merriment. There were romantic unions too that bloomed here, and while others have withered through time's passing, a few endures to this day.  There is no denying that we have carved divergent paths after we have outgrown this fancy and all that is left is a hollowed shell replete with draft narratives and words left unsaid.

How I wish we could bring back the old times.

Cocooned in the cradle of microblogging, (with 280 words now, to tweet your thoughts in exchange for swift catharses) a return to long-form writing is nothing but a pipe dream. It is something that I have begrudgingly accepted now that penning this blurb meant giving up precious hours before slaving again for my two jobs. But there is a wish to rekindle old ties; to bring together kindred souls back, and I for one wouldn't miss this chance to again say hello to old companions and read their lives after blogging. So I return ahead of everyone, to tell some of my stories, in hopes that this collective call to write "One More Time" would be answered by the rest.

Once more, this is Mugen, and here's to writing.

Those Little Things That Run Inside Your Head

"No, you will not walk away from your word this time,"

I told myself while trying to make a draft post while inside a moving van. I'm on my way south, to visit my very significant half. "You have allowed yourself to speak your mind on social media when you should be writing a blog." I paused, to commune with myself before writing my next words. "To indulge yourself a little longer with all the political banter, and bask at the approval you get from your community, will drain the last of your energies for this renewed enterprise."

You see, February has always been the spring of my long-form writing project. Even when I don't blog anymore, I see to it that I return, and maybe, renew my bonds with that kid who used to reside in these pages. He has grown old and has learned to keep things to himself. Adulting forces a person to pick fights and tell tactical victories wisely. It makes you appear in control, at least on the surface.

While last year's blog anniversary celebrated my return to this form of medium, (only to disappear after a month because I'm nothing but a lazy blogger) this year's belated remembrance speaks of that drive, that all-consuming passion that empowers writers to leave their footprints on the web. Is it possible to pursue journal publishing without being read? Can we emulate what the artists of the past age did by simply leaving their diary hidden - only to be discovered after they have passed on?

We'll see.

I guess the challenge - for me - is that I used to have a community on Blogger. We read each others' lives and found comfort knowing we don't have a monopoly on both triumphs and struggles of living. We learned from each other. Now that silence nearly pervades in these halls - and that there is a packed room next door where you can tell everything in seconds - and get noticed by 3,000 souls is something that is more engaging.

It is actually addictive.

Kebs if your tweet is about that Igorot hottie at the Panagbenga who's scandal appeared a day after his six packs had gone viral.

What I'm pointing at is that it is hard to practice long-form writing when you have two home-based jobs, a larger responsibility at home because you can be a daddy na, and a medium that you're still debating whether to expose in public or not. Kasi you don't want your audience to catch you staring at your navel like others do. Add to that that you've never had a niche market, you're domesticated and has purged the dramas of living a secret life, and you like to post tweets about the fuck-ups of this government and nothing more.

So are there things still worth writing? The answer is yes. The problem is time.

But this doesn't mean goodbye, and unlike the bands who come and go after their gigs are over, I would like to think that there's more to discover and be shared to everyone. I'd like to breathe nostalgia now that I'm more than a decade old in blogging. As to how much could be written, should be left for another day.  I'm about to disembark now and would you believe it took me less than an hour to write this personal reflection?

Of course, it doesn't include the revisions, which I hope, won't consume my return trip back home. I'm still hoping to write about Edsa and how dystopian our lives have become.

The Preserver Of Worlds | The Remains Of His Being

Previously: Matters Of National Security

When he was still in his prime, my dad would always tell that he doesn't expect that I will fight for him. That I won't get back at the people who have wronged him in business or had thrown insults as a result of his brash character. Given this perception of ambivalence, he might have thought that I would completely erase his memory. For I was the insolent son who turned his back when he needed my help to run his businesses.

The last time I saw him alive was when he was being hauled out of an ambulance. He was on a stretcher, unconscious but still breathing. EMT's were relentlessly pumping oxygen into his body. Next came out was his sister. Her words cracking, she first said to me, "patawarin mo na ang papa mo." There were no words to say. I was looking at the brown-skinned lady, slender and in her mid-twenties, cradling her son. She was sobbing in the corner while her fingers moved as she felt the beads of the rosary. Ignoring my aunt's plea and refusing to show some compassion to the lady, I went to comfort my own mother. Had my father's sister known the depth of my savagery, I wouldn't show up at the Manila Doctor's emergency room without the blessing of my mother's sister. I was even having second thoughts of telling my mom that her husband had a major stroke.

---

Twelve years into the future and that hospital scene linger as a reminder of the choices I made. The other side of the story - the reason for the fallout - is irrelevant now. The essence lies in the gestures of the present.

I do not know if it's mere social niceties, filial piety, or some subconscious guilt that pushes me to return to his final resting place. Never in my recollection did I miss bringing flowers on the day of his earthly departure. My younger sibling who was closer to him in all those years I was giving him an icy treatment last paid a visit a few days before her elder was born. Her firstborn is now six years old. My mom, in her advanced age (and without someone to bring her all the way to Navotas), has been a no-show since 2013, when our family driver secured work abroad.  While I deliberately avoid the aunt and her dysfunctional family, who by the way, lives a few blocks from the cemetery, the presence of mums and anthuriums on his grave marker - fresh and well-arranged - tells that in spite of my father's personal tragedies, his footprints still leave a mark to at least one person, who had known the triumphs and downfalls of his life.

A double pair of thick-rimmed glasses; a Press ID issued by the publishing company that gave him a break in the newspaper industry; an organizer, with list of contacts and set appointments, some, scheduled days after his passing; certificates recognizing his contributions to the National Press Club, a Nokia 7650 phone, perhaps, the last prized possession he was clutching before his blood vessels ruptured, and brought him squirming in pain. It might be a strange coincidence or a timely providence, but these personal effects were rediscovered on the day of my dad's twelfth passing. Sifting them out of the piles of disused items inside a dusty cabinet that was cast out to rot at the veranda, I wonder what my father's thoughts were when for the first time, he had to borrow money from me when I was working for another company; or when I politely declined his offer to get me a second-hand scooter smuggled into the country? Did he feel dejected when I gave him a cold embrace the last time he showed up at the door to pay us a visit? Did he harbor ill feelings when he had to spend his last Christmas meal in a makeshift eatery, with his sister, because his children had asked him not to show up at my aunt's house where our family reunion would be taking place? 

Perhaps, the reason I keep coming back to his grave is because there were words left unsaid; that deep down, I am terrified of committing the same ruthlessness to the people I tried to scratch out from my life. Putting back these artifacts in a sturdy plastic box, I realize that as long as I walk this earth, I will carry his memory, and put it in a safe place where time could never devour it.

And within me, in that little corner of my chest that is still capable of recalling, celebrating his life, including his sins and redemptions, will be my atonement.

It Always Comes Back To Call Us

Against the dying trend of long-form writing, there is a reason we never left.

We have been writing for as long as we remember. From that dream journal we had back in Grade Six, way before we learned how to properly pen in cursive letters, to that last entry we published about the matriarch's major bout of infection last year before her grand birthday party attended by so many family members and friends, we knew we can never stop. One way or the other, we will create a medium or simply resurrect this blog, to paint our thoughts like we used to when blogging was still an artform.

While coming back feels a little premature, (Twitter, with its 140 character limit already suits our needs) the events of the last two years are piling up. We were telling Sloane, a blogger friend, a few days ago that all the milestones we promised to put into this personal journal, in a creatively narrative fashion when Twitter has yet to exist, have already taken place. We still hope to connect them to past entries and write them the way we see fit. But in essence, setting our foot again to publish stories was a way of keeping a promise. A thought, or maybe a gentle nudge, while a love one's life might be in dire straights.

In case you wonder, how is life treating us lately? 

We have never been comfortable with the religious folks (with their self-righteousness and holier than though haughtiness towards non-believers) but we learned, from personal experience, that the Creator grants freebies, when you do deeds out of selfless love; A dictator was given a resting place at the Heroes Cemetery, precipitating unrest among elder street fighters and the millennials; for the first time, the next generation hosted the Noche Buena last Christmas. So begins the passing on of a tradition in the family; A lighting of candles at the start of the year cemented a vow to become a light bringer; finally, a very special person suffered so much from a serious malady. The process of recovery has just started. 

These, among other snippets of life, are what we yearn to publish, and we hope that with divine inspiration, may we never lose our thoughts in the cacophony of noises. This is Mugen, and with his inner voices in one with this undertaking, we have returned to reclaim our space and write our stories.