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 Fallout

Our world came crashing down on the night I found out I was Covid positive.

Those persistent, disruptive coughing bouts were the most glaring sign. Those moments when I had to take in more air and breathe with little discomfort in my chest were already a takeaway. And those mild fever spells, which immediately disappear when I take paracetamol were the biggest red flag of them all. And yet, I played down my symptoms, believing they were something else.

On the day I arrived at the Weatherman's unoccupied house in Cavite, I started losing my sense of smell, and then my tastebuds also started to fail me the next day. Then the uncontrolled bowel movement soon followed. By Saturday, the day after I learned of my real condition, the list of all the common symptoms was at last, present.

At home, they were frantic about the condition of the Matriarch. She was one of the most exposed, being my close contact. Another close contact was asked to quarantine in our old house in Santa Mesa and this setup leaves the house more vulnerable than it has ever been before. The Brother-in-Law, sensing our state of disarray, had decided to stay over and help look after his children. His presence somehow gave us a sense of relief and order was restored to a house that has never seen a crisis of this magnitude.

Closer to the front, I started contemplating about my fate. The guilt and shame that comes with being the afflicted break you into pieces. You begin to feel anxious about your 74-year old mother; the children at home who were unvaccinated; you look at the Weatherman taking care of you, who just assumed his Covid status since he didn't take the test, and see the mess you have unleashed upon the world. In consolation, the Favorite Aunt, who is also the family doctor, said it was nobody's fault; that it was bound to happen sooner than we all think. Despite this being a lie, I try to keep her thoughts in heart while my mind drifts from one doomsday picture to another. By nightfall of Saturday, on my second night in quarantine, the chest pains were more pronounced, like my lungs were being filled with concrete, that thoughts of being rushed to the hospital became a real possibility. But I had no way of measuring my oxygen saturation so I wouldn't know.

Meanwhile, another aunt who was checking up on me confided that her daughter, a first cousin, were also showing symptoms similar to mine. She would take the test that weekend and would later find out she is Covid positive as well.

That's two in the family in a week, and we have not even seen each other in ages.

Statistics

Tuesday. 

It all started with throat discomfort. It was itchy and somewhat painful, but I paid little attention as it was not that bothersome, to say the least. I was bent on renovating a corner of my mother's old room in our ancestral house in Santa Mesa and my one-track mind meant that it should be done without delay.

That same week, I played Tropico 3 until the early hours of the morning, only to wake up a few hours later to work, prop up my garden, or do some errands at home like going to the market to procure our needed foodstuff. I had also been constantly coated with dust all the time, from piles of scrap paper, dried mouse shit, to moldy clothes that I had to throw away. For two days, I went home exhausted, and then I would take a bath without even resting.

Wednesday.

The throat discomfort developed into a cough. I also had a slight fever that I still paid little attention to. Who would have thought those were already the tell-tale signs. It was only when the coughing became more frequent and more forceful that I knew something isn't right. I was afraid, deep down, but my intention to leave home to isolate myself elsewhere was what I had in mind.

The sibling, having seen colleagues getting afflicted with the virus didn't wait any longer. She had me reported to the Favorite Aunt for being a possible suspect. I woke up with a simple message from her, Thursday morning.

"Magpa-RT PCR Test ka na."

I also received permission to evacuate and quarantine elsewhere.

That same day, the results came in and my world came crashing down.

Thus I was added to the Statistics. A number nobody wanted to become.

The Perversion of Information

Back when the internet was a passing fancy and everyone had to connect to the "worldwide web" through cumbersome means like a dial-up connection, we thought we were seeing the beginning of a revolution; that finally, the free flow of information will allow for equal access to knowledge, and that, ignorance will somehow be contained.

Boy, we were so wrong.

Twenty one years have passed since the threat of the Millennium Bug was proven to be a hoax and here we are, still in need of fact-checking resources. Websites like Snopes and Fake History Hunter are on the constant lookout for viral social media posts as they are likely infecting the internet with inaccurate and often exaggerated historical accounts and disproven urban legends. Theirs is a constant battle, a never-ending warfare to set things straight and weed out tall tales from scholarly-verified facts. And in a time when digital lies and propaganda could shape the outcome of election turnout (like what happened during the last 4 years under Donald Trump), their presence proves more valuable than ever.

If only such gatekeepers could really compete with the spinmasters.

As it stands, Snopes and their associates are bound to lose as it is easier to peddle lies than embrace truths. Inaccurate historical accounts like the one shared on the photo appeal more to human nature as it is sensational, even scandalous. When you apply the sensational and scandalous and weaponize them into perverted knowledge like anti-vaccine, critical race, and flat earth theory, the result is having a group of people whose ignorant and toxic beliefs poison the collective conversation. 

And it is getting worse every year.

They say lies when told over and over eventually become truths and with truths often assaulted these days, it is just a matter of time before the more discerning among us finally succumb to whatever belief a groupthink dictates.

Bite

"But I did try my best to write you based on what I perceived through your writing. My wish is that my bio did give you justice." 

It was one of those easy projects to pluck on Upwork. The job was to write a short bio. It won't even reach 500 words, given today's collective memory retention. She said, she would be using it for her social media accounts, as well as her website's about page. She provided a link to her Instagram and set the deadline for submission.

I will be earning $30 for the writing job.

The client lives in the Middle East. She appears to be a vlogger and a social media influencer. She reaches out to her audience in Arabic. While it was a challenge using Google Translate to convert her thoughts from Arabic to English, I enjoyed reading her Instagram posts. She appears to be well-off, well-read and advocates respectful parenting in a region where disobeying parental commands is taboo. She promotes conscious living, as well as self-care and healing. "An amazing lady," I thought. And so I wrote her introduction like I would write it for a friend, or a person you would look up to. I knew it was perfect.

It took her weeks to reply. There was no feedback or a request for revision for such a commissioned work. Her account was even suspended for reasons Upwork will never tell. And when she got back, her first words were, "I'm sorry, this isn't what I'm looking for." She then terminated my contract and requested that I return the money held in escrow.

But I didn't take her treatment sitting down. I told her it was unfair that she didn't allow me to offer revisions or at least provide an acceptable explanation as to why it wasn't the bio she was looking for. She told me that she requested samples from different freelancers and that some of them just went with creating and some asked for more clarifications and questions to perfect their sample. She apparently picked a freelancer who worked closely with her.

Remember that she wasn't around when I submitted my draft? Worse even, she didn't tell that she had asked several freelancers to do her bio and then, pick one that she thinks would best represent her carefully curated social media image. I didn't even know that it was a long-term project. None of these were mentioned when I sought more information about the work.

She did try to compensate by asking for my Paypal email. She planned to send a token for my efforts and hoped this dispute would get resolved. Knowing what she was up to, I was already in communication with Upwork's friendly customer support. I told them what was happening and that, payment outside of Upwork is considered a violation of their Terms and Conditions.
An email sent to me days later reported that they have taken action against her violation.

"Thank you for this opportunity to write your bio and even though I won't understand your vlog or your Instagram in my local language, please know you're being appreciated."

While I can let go of the $30, I was shaken that I was dropped off, like a hot potato and without a good reason that I can live with. Moreover, I felt deceived that her social media accounts never captured what a jerk she is. I am still not a good judge of character, it seems. I suspect that the price she offered was too steep and that, an Arabic freelancer can do the job better. She just didn't have the face to admit that she made a wrong decision when she accepted my job proposal and that, it was too late to back off.

The dispute was resolved when Upwork decided to return her money, while also paying for the job that I have completed. While there was no denying that I would have preferred that she didn't get any refund, I understood that she's too valuable for Upwork to lose. What mattered is that I stood my ground and bit back when she thought I was a pushover.

Truth is, I didn't walk out unscathed. There was a price to extract for standing up for what you believe is unjust. Apart from the trauma of getting her as a client, I have also noticed that my Job Success Rate went down from 97% to 92%. It appears she left a bad remark that affected my score. A customer service rep assured that this can be corrected by getting more jobs. But after this short stint, I will stick with my 2 contracts and make sure my clients are both satisfied. 

I can earn enough.

Selfie

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bingo.

The torrent of hate came without warning.

 

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

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

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

Days of Disquiet, Nights of Rage

Previously: To Die For Digong

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

Or at least, pass along the message.

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

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

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

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

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.

Noble and Ever Loyal City

Previously: Sueños de Manila

Credit: Manila Nostalgia 

I was born and raised in Manila. This is home. I can look the other way and forget that its streets reek of human excrements, and in some unlit corners, await the riding-in-tandems who will take your purse and phone away. I have no problem accepting that our roads disappear when thunderstorms inundate the city, and no matter how the homeless turn the sidewalks into their open-air-bedrooms at night, or the trash piles when the garbage trucks forget to collect them in the morning, I still see a hidden gem that will forever make this place unique.

Authentic.

Timeless.

Forebears say this used to be the Pearl of the Orient. This is the city where seven mother churches crammed within the old walls of Intramuros; the place where expats came to conduct business in Spanish and broken English in Escolta; the port where tradesmen from China sold goods and services to the masses in Binondo and San Nicolas. When one needs to be seen, there is the Avenida, lined with fancy theaters showing silent films, or the waterfront promenade at Bagumbayan with its tropical breeze blowing from the sea. Never without a doubt that the sunsets then are as breathtaking as they are today. And at times when I yearn to romanticize the old days; when the calesas and tranvias still ply the routes now taken over by jeepneys and pedicabs; when the ordinary folks still speak in archaic Tagalog; and when it was still possible to hear mass in Latin at the Manila Cathedral, you can't help but feel a great loss for everything that could have made us prouder urbanites was gone forever when bombs start dropping and obliterated our city.

Encounters With A Fundie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad Shot

And so the first blog entry for July was written and published 15 days since the first morning of the month, and whose author had his world shrink because of a busted sim card that needs a quick replacement, and whose raketship needs to be attended double-time, while his clients from the day job howls at his incompetence.

Pending job tasks pile on his imaginary desks, wilting herbs, half of them dead because of neglect, and a workout program that has to be delayed to recuperate from a malady afflicting the body.

He's been down with a flu since Monday night, with a mind thinking nothing but sleep, with a throat choking, and muscles aching, like it was being punched by a million tiny fists. The sad part is, he's been stuck in his own black hole and nobody seems to care. And he would have to devote his day-offs for complete bed rests just so he can get back on his feet and catch up on the things he has been forced to abandon this week.

Pitch Black

The rotten carcass was served in a rusty platter
And I indulged in it.

The putrid aftertaste burns the tongue.

At Puñta (Little Stories Pt. 1)

Every Monday, the team and I are needed in the office for the product consultation with the client. The Skype sessions last less than an hour, after which, we are free to return home to resume work. Tonight would have been one of those random audience with our stateside associate, except that the CEO of the company we render work apparently got disappointed with our shabby customer service. 

We were prepared to state the chronology of events, and if necessary, admit our incompetence. 

To our collective relief, the email was addressed to another department, and that, we are still under the good graces of the big boss. The meeting was adjourned after the run through of this week's list of items to be resolved. But instead of heading home, I invited my junior officer for a drink.

What began as casual talk at Puñta, while gorging on Piel de Pollo, (chewy chicken skin topped with herbs and spices) turned rather somber when my colleague made a disclosure about his future career plans. Before he joined the management two years ago, he used to work in Singapore. He was laid off before his first year and had to return home. Now his ex employer went the extra mile to find him, and get him back. 

Another job offer awaits in the city state.

"Kung hindi lang 20K ang maiipon ko kada buwan, ayaw ko sana umalis." He confessed while downing our second bottle of sub-zero San Miguel Beer. Inside the upscale bar, Latin Samba music layers a merry vibe to sleeve our rather glum talk. 

Understanding his reason, I gave him my blessing and even offered to help compose his resignation letter. He worries, our boss would not accept it.

I promised to intervene.

Keeping my thoughts to myself, though, so as not to weaken his resolve for a better life, I would have said his departure would be a big loss for everyone.

Just A Subconscious Manifestation

Previously on: A Little More Time
                   Finding Neverland

All I remember now is sobbing in front of the nurses' station as reality finally sinks in. She passed away from some untold disease, and I was trying to call the help desk of the agency where I bought her memorial plan ages ago. With the rest of the details, now beyond the efforts of retrieval in the memory banks of my head, there is cold comfort knowing it was just a creation of the subconscious. But I've learned to heed dreams as they sometimes masquerade as omens. Never will I forget that it is in the depths of slumber that events surrounding my grandfather's passing was shown to me by fates.  

Waking up distraught and confused, the plan of leaving the city to unwind had to be scrapped.

Permanently.

Principles Of Neutrality

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

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

Much is owed to her.

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

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

Kowtow

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

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

---

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not, when I have yet to do his bidding. 

Enemy Of The State

Our story tells of a tribe more ancient than all the peoples who call these islands home. They have set their holdings in the south, creating a Thalassocracy extending down to the shores of Java. These locals were bound by one creed, and in the ages to come, no conqueror from the West could bring them down to their knees. Towns get burned and lives, slaughtered. But they return with resolve to stand their ground and protect their God-forsaken homelands.   

The American Imperialists know this, and have left them largely untouched. The Spaniards won, but a strip of land we now call Zamboanga. In the three centuries they evangelized the Indios, never were they able to bring the cross to the Moros. And so Uncle Joe used the art of persuasion, and money to pacify the Maranaos, Badjaos, and eventually the Tausugs, who have paid the price during the butchery at Bud Dajo.

When the Americans left, very little would be heard of this tribe, except that they are to be feared. Restive and weary of outsiders, only one leader had the madness to recruit their warriors to be trained, and used against Sabah. They were to occupy the state in behalf of the Sultanate, and when this didn't go well with the trainees, they too were slaughtered in what is now known as the Jabidah Massacre. 

The First insurrection took place soon after, with the torching of Jolo setting the fires of a larger armed struggle. Entire generations caught in the crossfire would hardly know of peace. To this day, the Moro Homelands remain a patchwork of local feifdoms propped by the Malacanan, and towns under control of the rebels.

The idea of a sovereign republic exists only in parchment.

I tell of this tragedy, for its connection to the recent carnage in Mamasapano, Maguindanao. Forty four police officers died in the hands of the MILF after the failed arrest of a foreign terrorist left them at the mercy of bandits and rebels. Three days have already passed and only scant reports trickle down the media. Whispers tell of mutilations: of the dead being paraded in the streets like skinned trophies, of the outsiders being mounted on spikes to serve as warning to those who would cross the line. There was even a video clip going rounds on social media showing the fallen with their heads cracked open, bodies peppered with bullets, and missing body parts scattered on the ground.

Such is the handiwork of the beasts.

Much as I would like to lend my voice for the end of the Bangsamoro peace process, and blame the MILF for the mass slaughter, history is a painful memory of how time and again, we refuse to listen to their story. I recall some years past, I came across a sari-sari store at the edge of the Pasig River. Its storekeeper telling not to venture into neighborhoods where Muslims dwell. I heeded the warning without asking the consequence of my transgression and I returned home unharmed. The MILF said they were never given advisory that a police operation will take place near their camp; that over 300 men armed with rifles will hunt down a fugitive wanted by the same masters who were responsible for the genocide at Bud Dajo.

And so before pointing the blame to people and demanding their blood, try to imagine spending a lifetime with a gun as companion. Put yourself in the shoes of someone, whose mind is constantly fucked up by the everlasting prospects of war.

Then realize that some armed band showed up one night, violating the very land your ancestors fought so you can lay claim to it.

How would you respond - even punish the trespassers who had the gall to shoot bullets when you thought peace was at hand?

Ask, should this happen to your tattered home.

Would you show no mercy?

Pariah

Fiction

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

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

It was never delivered. 

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

This has never happened. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mosques Attacked in France Following Charlie Hebdo AttackTime

When Life Gives A Reason To Fuck

Previously:

Something That Is Real




"Pre"

"San ka?"

It was a Viber message from an unknown number.

"Office Why?"

"Kala ko naman nasa inyo ka."

He was referring to the street where we both live. The truth was, my colleagues and I were wrapping our meeting in the office. We will take our work home.

"Haha bakit?"

"Lam mo na."

I get it.

"Long time ah!" 

I replied, grinning.

"Hahahaha"

"Ngaun lang d naging busy."

"Bukas pa uwi mo?"

"Yup."

"Ay sayang."

"Awtz."

Ending the conversation there, I was certain not to make a move for any encounter to happen.

Barely a week after the break-up and there they are, making a nasty comeback. It's like life's taunting my resolve, and saying it straight to my face that I am meant to be a slut. The guy was one of those random encounters; the last among the nameless faces I met on Planet Romeo for a "quick fun." Had he not mentioned the street of my residence during our correspondence, I would not recall our history. 

He was out of my life long before summer has begun. 

I recall our time, and how we did it at the bathroom of his dormitory. He would make contact before midnight, sneak me into the compound and into the toilet area, and there, while pretending to take a dump, he would suck my dick as he pleasured himself. He had a weenie, by the way. Unimpressive, given my high standard. It was one of the reasons I never asked for his name. But more importantly, after the deed was over, he would tell me to leave the dorm after he exits the scene. No talks. Not even goodbyes.

Like he never slobbered my face in the heat of our quickie. 

Despite these cycles, he would re-emerge from time to time, asking if I am game for some "alam mo na," moments. For a manly guy who says he has a "girlfriend," his invitation is a source of astonishment. Why look for me when he has other choices in our neighborhood? Why keep asking, if I keep declining? I felt my crotch when I arrived home that night, and choosing between a cold, and recycled encounter, and a lock-down inside my hollow quarters, I resigned to the thought that some job-related tasks await - besides getting cock-sucked and wet-kissed by a stranger who I will never recognize, and never see, as part of my life.

Hell On Earth

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

Syria

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

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

Shocking photo: Child of ISIS fighter holds decapitated head

Rappler

Gaza

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

Some start to be more aggressive."

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

The Guardian

Liberia

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

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

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

The Telegraph

Iraq

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

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

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

Christian Post

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

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