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.

Some Kind of Life (First Part)

It was a sort of Thanksgiving; an unspoken promise to the Weatherman that once we walk out of the woods together, I will take him to the ridges of Tagaytay and spend a night chasing the clouds. 

And so during my periodic breaks at work last week, I have been checking AirBnB for possible leads. First to be crossed out are the condominium units. While they offer fancy accomodations, the thought of people spending the weekend in droves in Tagaytay would have easily turned me off. 

Next were the cottages and apartments. A few caught my fancy but I was too late to make a move and so my preferred houses were booked first by somebody else. It was only last Friday that I had come to a decision - after realizing that the Weatherman and I have been together for years, living as couples minus the kids; that I wanted this weekend staycation to happen in a place that could exceed our ideal home. And so I looked on and found a room in a house overlooking the fields. Beyond is the Taal Lake with the silhouette of the volcano. 

At first I had my reservations. The place we would rent wasn't just in Tagaytay, it was at the heart of the most exclusive gated club in the city: The Tagaytay Highlands. I had to pay in cash, which I found too steep for my budget. The nightly rent was similar to a three-star hotel, except that you can enjoy some bliss and solitude since the 10 acre guarded community had very few houses and even fewer residents who likely treat their properties like grand vacation houses. 

But what made me decide to book the room was the thought that we have never done this kind of adventure before and in all the days we made pilgrimage to the ridges, never had we set foot in the Highlands. 

We arrived at the meeting place in Crosswinds at past 4 in the afternoon. Showing up way past the agreed time, my first gesture upon meeting the host was to apologize for being late. I couldn't tell that we took our sweet time packing our bags nor we spent some reflection time at the Little Souls Sisters Convent while doing a videocall with my mother, who took her time to pray for everyone she knows. 

The host was kind enough to overlook our disrespect of his time, and instead, quipped at me for not telling that I would be arriving with a male companion. He did merge together the two single beds in our room as I have requested for a comforter to be included. Later, he realized that when I said "partner" during our call, I was referring to a male companion, which he admits he rarely host. After showing us the amenities of our quarters (wifi connection, wall air conditioner, and a water heater whose plug won't fit in the socket), the host turned over the room. It would be the last time we would see him during our stay.

- to be continued - 

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.

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.

---

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.

  

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

Minecraft

 

Post originally published on Instagram

Early this year, I bought my nephew Minecraft after he promised that he will improve his math grades. His turnaround wasn't stellar, but I decided to keep the end of the bargain. After all, I was doing far worse, academically, when I was his age. So I thought, why must we impose expectations when those same set of expectations simply left me upset, disappointed, and resigned with my mediocre quiz scores back when I was still an elementary school student?

These days, he was showing off his creations on that app. The last time, it was a sophisticated house with lots of rooms and even fixtures. Now, it was a zoo with exotic birds and even a panda, pixilated and digitized so it would exist in a sandbox video game. And while he barely got my attention, I was aware of how this will shape his way of thinking and perceiving things. What he is doing, unconsciously, is creating his own imaginary world, and along with it, he is putting his vision to work.

And that makes me so proud.

---

I do not know a lot of gaming apps and how they work on mobile devices, but for a kid, barely 10 years old to engage in world-building and being good at it is something to celebrate.

Because we don't teach creativity these days.

And as someone who had spent much of his childhood playing video games - learning world history from it (Civilization), learning astronomy from it (Master of Orion), learning urban planning and transport management from it (Sim City and Transport Tycoon), and learning storytelling from it (The Sims), I would rather see him getting immersed in his worlds and creating objects as he envisioned them than playing games that promote senseless violence and wanton destruction.

And who knows where his creativity would take him one day.

If only we could imagine.

Lenin complained of a sudden headache a few nights ago and it was immediately followed by a surge in body heat. 39.0 when we took his temperature. As he wasn't displaying the usual symptoms - cough, sore throat, or runny nose, we asked if he had trouble breathing. He said no, but instead, he complained of a tummyache. Having a fever and stomach discomfort these days is already a cause of alarm. Children are no longer spared from the Covid 19 Delta variant. Some are even dying from it. And so the next day, his grandparents from the father side traveled all the way from the highlands of Cavite with a MedTech to get his bloodwork done, and to also perform an Antigen test. That same day, the results came in. He had no infection whatsoever and his White Blood Cell count is normal. We would just have to wait for the Antigen results. 

Lenin still had a high fever that night.

We are supposed to be used to our kids getting sick. Diego had lots of hospital confinement and even Den had one. But this time, things are different. All the hospitals in Metro Manila and the surrounding provinces are swamped with Covid patients. Some people now even die in parking lots. So it is very difficult to imagine should one of us needs to be rushed to the hospital. We might not even get accommodated. 

It was a sleepless second night as we watched over Lenin while waiting for his results to come out the next day. I worked, I played Stellaris, I even went to Quiapo Church at daybreak just to seek another favor and ask the Nazareno for an intercession. The results got delayed for a few hours and so was my bedtime. 

At the back of my head, I would like to believe it wasn't Covid. The Favorite Aunt and I made sure everyone's already vaccinated just before the Delta Variant became widespread. I took that sliver of hope into my sleep hoping that when I wake up, things will get back to normal.

And it did.

The Antigen result showed that it wasn't Covid19. Lenin's condition has also improved significantly. While another round of bloodwork is still needed to make sure it isn't Dengue, we are hoping that we are out of the woods and that Lenin is now set on a path of recovery. 

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.

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.

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.

Playroom

Consider this a "mema" entry; a flexing of the mind while contemplating the narratives to publish. Unplanned, but written with thoughtful consideration, I am left grappling for words to collect the contents of my head while Diego, now a seven-year-old boy, decides to bring his wooden bricks into my quarters and make it his temporary playroom for this evening. 

Of the four kids we are now raising, he would persistently make attempts to extend his zone of control into my room. In fact, earlier today, he was knocking at the door and calling for the Weatherman's name hoping he would be let it. I didn't pay attention, and instead, trailed my gaze on the petty fights and wokeness hell that is happening on Twitter. 

This evening, he succeeded. Maybe, I was just too unbothered while he made those incoherent play sounds, such as "woooooahhhhh ahhh ahhh," or "tshhhh, tsshhhh," while tapping the wooden cabinet beside him to make louder noises. On normal days, I would just tell him to play elsewhere, but I don't know why there's a sudden relaxing of the rules this time.

All I know is that I was meant to write about another story, but here I am writing about the most mundane stuff while admiring my nephew's gift to recreate scenes only he could appreciate.

And as I lay down on my bed while trying to shun the garbled words and the incessant "shhhsss... shhhhhsss..." out of my head, Diego continues with his bricks play. I then come to a realization that this sudden decision to let him take his toys and play with very little restrictions (he cannot put his wooden bricks on my bed), must be drawn out from a very early memory, when it was I, doing those silly sounds and recreating my imaginary worlds in someone else's room. 

There's comfort in remembering. 

I have the entire night to toil for money, and anytime soon, another distraction (or dinner call) will put this child's play to rest. This pause, however, while purely accidental, is much deserved.

Time Space Warp

Consider this, not a homecoming, but an attempt to make use of the L'Heure Bleue. While the desire to pursue long-form writing died ages ago, it appears, faint glimmers of expression found its way on medium other than this blog. It may have been distilled in form and rushed to publication, but there exists, remnants of the old voice trying to resurface and be heard. That voice deserves recognition. So until nostalgia catches up or the desire to abandon social media becomes so powerful, that I will make my absence felt, this blog will serve as a repository of musings I penned elsewhere. Temporal in purpose and candid in style, I claim this space once more and make stories run full circle.

/Rant

Perhaps, that recollection was not meant to be written. And I will keep it that way, knowing I made an attempt to tell my side of the story.

An entire blog entry, ready to be published, erased completely by Grammarly.

I mourn for the precious time wasted.

Mga Gabay Sa Gabi Ng Hilahil

And should you find yourself asking, if, everything you will be doing would make a difference, keep this in heart and remember, this might be the design all along.

Hindi man kita mabigyan ng
material na bagay tulad ng
hinahangad ng mga tao sa social media

Gusto kong malaman mo na
masayang-masaya ako na
nakilala kita.

Masaya na nakakasama kita
sa gitna ng pagsubok.


- February 14, 12:00 MN

In Her State of Delirium (Second Part)

"Punasan mo lang ng punasan ang extremeties niya," my sister tells me. "Isama mo ang braso, pati na ang kili-kili." 

"Huwag ka lang mag concentrate sa noo." 

You can sense in her voice the grave concern as she gives the order to me. While she is a pro when it comes to taking care of sick toddlers, being away from home and from our mother who is at the moment burning up with a 40-degree fever makes it difficult for her. My lack of experience nursing people back to health doesn't help, and so is the absence of knowledge as to what my mother's cause of infection is.  

The maid returns with a basin full of cold water. Rinsing off the towel before pressing it against my mother's arm made her whimper. It has been almost an hour after she took a paracetamol and barely her condition improved. With her eyes shut tight, and her lips mumbling incoherent words, I asked the maid to get her blood pressure once again while pressing the emergency number on my mobile to ask our family doctor for the next step. 

"Hindi ba yan Dehydrated?" My Favorite Aunt inquired. The matriarch's blood pressure is below 100.

Her temperature dips slightly to 39.

"Pinainom ko po ulit ng tubig. Uminom naman siya ng kaunti" In truth, I was merely waiting for her to make the decision: to rush my mom to the emergency room so that doctors and nurses can actually attend to her needs. Aside from the reminder to have my mom drink her antibiotics, (which the Favorite Aunt prescribed without identifying the cause of the infection) and constant interrogation about the meds she was taking to keep her blood pressure in check, no decision to call Lifeline Rescue for ambulance transportation came.

In many ways, I was relieved.

I returned to applying cold compresses on my mother's sweltering skin until her sleeveless night dress was soaking from her sweat.

---

Throughout the entire ordeal, the feeling of hopelessness and resignation never really sunk in. I was surrounded by people who hardly rested while the matriarch did her best to recuperate. There was the maid who took her temperature and blood pressure and wrote down the figures on a notebook so we can compare notes. She was also the one who changed my mom's dress, (while I lifted her while she was sleeping) replaced the bag of ice cubes which she puts on her head, watched her during the day while I go to bed, and made sure she ate the food on her plate despite the lack of appetite.

Kuya O did much of the legwork - buying her medicines, bringing the urine sample to a laboratory not far from home, procuring everything that was needed because I could not leave home. Even the Weatherman, who for some reasons decided to stay over that Saturday, lent me the strength to carry on. He prayed over my mom when she was delirious before retreating to my room to resume building his town on Cities Skylines.

I have no complaints.

The Favorite Aunt dropped by every day to make sure she sees her sister. The clarity she provided, the blanket assurance that an emergency trip was not needed, and the mere fact she is there made the difference. We are indeed lucky to have a doctor in the family.  I would not speak of my place in the two sleepless nights she had her bouts of chills, fever, and stomach pain. But suffice to say, it scared me a little when she would tell me at 3 in the morning that she had no memory after the cold spells set in.

---

We still have no idea what caused her infection.

Sunday came and I was prepared for the worst. But instead of the recurring chills, a check of her temperature give away a slight fever. With the heaviness of her tummy eased by a pill, the matriarch slept without any discomfort that night.

The antibiotics might have already taken effect.

-tobecontinued-

In Her State of Delirium (First Part)

It all began with the sudden chills. 

There was no time to call my name, and only the maid, who happened to pass by her room and found her in a fetal position at the edge of the bed offered the much-needed blanket. As a precaution, I phoned the Favorite Aunt to report the developing situation. She is the family doctor. The Favorite Aunt assured me there was little to worry. It was already sundown and geriatrics like my mother experience the chills especially during this time of the year.

And so I thought.

Thirty minutes after the phone call, while I was with the Weatherman looking for a printing shop in Recto, my sister told me that my mother's temperature surged to almost 40. Another SMS message: she purged all she had eaten the entire day. I instructed the sibling to have someone check our matriarch's blood pressure before heading home without saying a word. 

When I got into her room, my mother was delirious.

Unable to speak a complete sentence or even recognize her surroundings, I was ready to dial 911 so I could rush her to the nearest hospital. Her blood pressure did shoot way above the average, but it was not as alarming as the last time it hit 200.  She complained of headaches and would have preferred to be left alone to sleep. But with the favorite aunt grilling me about the medicines she was supposed to take and with me unable to provide a concrete response, the mumbling of my lips hint of ignorance. If not for my sister who told me to calm down, I would have made rushed decisions out of fear and panic.  

Eventually, the fever had dissipated after hours of applying cold compresses to her head.  She was back in shape, without any memory of the events that night. So casual things had become that I even allowed my sister to go with her in-laws. Her family was supposed to spend the weekend in Tagaytay.  The next day, we assumed the worst was over and that the chills and the high fever were caused by indigestion. She was seen eating a cup of Taho before her guts expelled them in one nasty purge. 

It was the evening of the next day when my mother had once again complained of the chills. It was almost 10 pm on a Saturday night, and without my sister to tell me what to do, my mother's fever leap past 40. 

By then, we all knew it was an infection.

-tobecontinued-

Milestone

It was a feast by all accounts.

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

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

I do, even when I was a mere spectator.

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

But that will change.

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

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

May the universe grant this favor.

A Love Offering

Previously on: A McDonald's Date

"Tumawag pala si Tita Heart mo noong isang araw." My mother said in passing while me and Kuya O, her trusted assistant were carrying her monoblock armchair down the stairs. 

We were going to the hospital for her checkup.

"Contestant daw sa art contest sa school nila si Vito." Vito is my aunt's grandson. He is the effeminate kid they'd expect to turn into a unicorn when he finally comes of age.

The news was met with the usual shrug. Why should I bother paying attention to their trivial affairs when the brief anecdote leads elsewhere? Not since February this year when I last saw the grandchildren after me and Tita Heart sent them to school. It wasn't a rosy encounter. I recall telling my mom how bratty they were, especially the elder.

"Pabili ng pabili ng kung ano-ano yung panganay eh nasa ospital na nga yung tatay nila." I was fuming when I arrived home.

"Tapos ang ingay pa at ayaw makinig sa lola."

The news of my cousin's bunso joining an art contest is nothing but a subtle attempt to remind my mother of the duties she took upon herself after my dad passed away over a decade ago. Every month, a portion of our earnings go to my aunt's family as my disabled cousin cannot find a job. His preening wife, meanwhile, would rather hang out with friends than do some back-breaking work. I do not know if things have changed after he had a stroke early this year. Last she hinted she'd leave my cousin if things don't get any better. While I was generous with my financial support then, domestic duties at home can no longer afford me to offer cash assistance.

They have to make it on their own.

I don't know if my mother was hinting if I could shoulder a portion of the money she's planning to send to my dad's younger sister. But sensing the apparent message, I flatly rejected her suggestion by saying that I don't work 7 days a week only to part my money with people who refuses to improve their lot.

I don't like leeches.

Besides, I still recall having to pay the courier after Tita Heart cornered me the last time, and asked if I could send my uncle's international driver's license to France. I learned a few weeks later that the document was already expired and I wasted a fortune for an enterprise that I thought would finally lessen our burden.

I was terribly disappointed. She and her husband never told me what happened.

"Noong isang taon ko pa sinasabi na maghanap sila ng pagkakakitaan dahil kaya ko pa silang pondohan." I was terribly annoyed.

"Huwag nila akong asahan ngayon."

My mom could only lament how Tita Heart lost me because of a single mistake. Truth is, the list of errors were adding up. I was already seeing the veneer of deception conveniently wedged into a recycled narrative. We used to be very close - so close that I overlooked the details that would make me question how they run things at home. Besides, the last time we spoke, she tearfully told me that I was the son she never had. I now doubt if everything she said was authentic or merely a lip service so she could win my sympathy. It doesn't matter now. I am numb. Meanwhile, my mom appears to be wallowing in guilt. When asked as to when she can send the grocery bag to Tita Heart, she would only say she'd have to raise some funds first.

"Hindi nun kailangan ang grocery." I shook my head in frustration. Mom tried to explain to me the real situation.

"Pera ang inaasahan noon." 

While we are no longer on speaking terms, I've never really cut my ties with my relatives on my father's side of the family. The matriarch makes it a point to tell me of their never-ending destitution (they seem to lap at their misfortune) given my financial capacity to render aid if the situation demands for it. While the obvious screams right in my face, the feeble attempts to ignore them puts me in the quandary. This isn't how I was raised by my parents. I am pretty sure the Favorite Aunt (who belongs to the mother's side of the family) would show a little more compassion than I ever will if I were to follow my nature.

Hence, in spite of the condescending private comments, and the dismissive attitude whenever Tita Heart suddenly makes her presence felt through once-in-a-month phone calls and SMS messages, I'd still find myself getting a bag of Bear Brand milk powder or cans of sardines whenever my mom would ask me to do the rounds at Puregold. A few days before the start of classes last month, I was at the Merriam-Webster bookstore in Avenida to buy some educational supplies I sent to my niece and nephew. And shortly after telling everyone within earshot (while looking at my father's portrait leaning precariously above the altar) that the only thing that can reverse my refusal to own the responsibility is for my dad to visit me in my sleep, it appears the visit is no longer necessary.

The conscience has already prevailed.

I once vowed to set aside some money for charity should I get retained at the Raketship when talk of lay-off was the order of the day. Keeping my word, I tucked a 500-peso bill inside the "Love Offering" envelope used by my Favorite Aunt when she sends over my uncle's (her brother) monthly stipend. 

It has found a renewed purpose and Tita Heart, after receiving relief, can resume her life living a tragedy she can always end.

Much Diminished

I used to write everyday on these pages.

---

The hanging herb garden outside my window used to be a source of pride and a reason to journey around the metropolis for Basil and Lavender saplings. I would then attempt to grow them despite the rampage of city birds.

---

I used to walk from home to my gym in Mabini, often, at dusk, when the sun was about to set. I used to have a time for contemplation as I gaze into the open sea: The days afforded me a moment to forge those unfulfilled dreams and cast away the regrets accumulated in years.

---

I used to brag to inferior men that I worked out three times a week.

But now, everything seems like a distant memory. Even putting into words the life I choose to lead is a struggle, a pain that keeps catching up whenever I am being reminded of the person I used to be.

Times have changed and in so many ways, so am I.

To Die For Digong

You need to understand. Mayor is our heart and soul. He protected us. He is not a dictator and he listens to us. That's why we are emotional. He is like our father, he will do anything to make his children safe from any harm, he provides what we want and he understand what we need.

Please excuse us if we are too affected and emotional.

Again you will never understand cause you are not from Davao and you haven't been there.

Takawka

Let me tell you a story of a boy who grew up in a city in the south. This city has known peace since the time he blossomed into manhood. He feels safe when he walks down the streets even at past midnight. Local businesses are booming despite the conflicts in the restive regions of the island, and social institutions, like hospitals and schools actually serve the needs of the public. Even the jails for women are clean and well-maintained. There is a stand-by response team for fires and other emergencies. While issues of poverty or petty crimes still persist, there is a pervading sense of order. Mayor makes sure everyone follows the law. He doesn't steal. He lives a frugal life. He drives a taxi from time to time to hear personally what the people need. Impressive feat, in a country where most politicians feel entitled as they go on with the business of governing.

This boy, by stroke of luck, had to relocate. In the imperial capital where everything is a mess. Road gridlock makes commuting a daily pain. Trains break down all the time. His phone gets snatched, his wallet, stolen. Hospitals and schools operate beyond capacity. Corruption is rampant, the elite feels they own everything. The government protects its interest, unlike in the south where he feels the city serves its citizens. He had thoughts of giving up, to return to his homeland if not for the good pay. Then one day, the Mayor decides to run for President. The boy knew him well, like how he knew his own father: Imperfect, but effective. Reasonable, but applies discipline when needed. Protective to the point of using measures, outsiders will frown upon. 

Overnight, he dons his colors to campaign for the man. This is our Mayor, and change is coming.

Unfortunately, I am not the boy and in my eyes, I will never see what the Mayor has done for his city. Perhaps, his accomplishments are possible given its small population. Maybe, they knew him, like an old patriarch who they must follow like obedient children. I do not know. And often I do not care. Except that from time to time, I remind myself to spare his city when portraying the Mayor as the candidate who shouldn't be the next president.

He doesn't represent me. That, I posted on my Twitter account.

And for a number of reasons.

For one, he kills drug peddlers. This is all over the news. Even the Human Rights Watch has confirmed this. What if his death squad mistakes an innocent teen from a drug pusher? Who will account for the life that had been lost? Then he curses and treats women like sex objects. One that should be seen as conquests, and not partners in progress. He also doesn't mind engaging diplomats in verbal spats. Remember what he said to the Australian and the United States ambassadors after the rape joke? The Mayor doesn't even have the social niceties when describing countries and their local problems. I won't be surprised of the diplomatic snubs should he becomes the next leader. Whispers also tell of his allegiance with the Communists, his alliance with Beijing, and his plans of giving up the islands in the West Philippine Sea in exchange for a railway system in Mindanao. There is so much to tell that would make me a hater, but nothing compares to the brutality of his supporters - some personal acquaintances - who have marked me as the enemy because I speak against the Mayor.

Only a few nights ago, a friend of a friend suggested that I should consult a doctor implying that I was mad. He had the gall to block me, then speak my name when I can't read it on his Twitter feed. Fortunately, word had reached me through a concerned friend. Screen-capping his comment, I posted the update on my Twitter account for his barkada to find out. There was also another friend, of a friend, who told me through a sub tweet that I was an animal who had no achievements. This was after I told his bet that he's "yawa" for duping his supporters. When confronted about his remarks, he didn't reply to my direct message, letting his friends instead to speak on his behalf.  

Rabid dogs without balls.

If there is one thing I've learned this election, it is that politics is personal. What you say against a person who speak out against your chosen will stay after the ballots have been counted. No doubt, I will remember what they said, not because of the Mayor and his forgettable antics. But because of how I was treated by boys whose choice of candidate I never judged. So much for helping me appreciate who their Mayor is.

Fortunately, there are people who are patient enough to reach out - not to win my vote - but to see their mayor, Rodrigo Duterte, in a better light. They are the ones who shaped this entry, and by extension, my personal assessment of their candidate. It helps too, that my favorite Aunt is for the Mayor. It is because of her that I was able to distinguish the trolls from genuine supporters. She may hate the candidate I am supporting, but it doesn't change my fondness for her.

So is my willingness to recognize her leader.

If surveys are indication of who the next leader is, Digong will be the next President of the Republic. It will upset the rest, while vindicating those who stood with him, including the fictional boy in this entry who yearns nothing but a better Philippines. Being the outsider who is suspicious of those I don't know, and for the trolls who have hurt so many instead of trying to create bridges of understanding, the Mayor will not get my vote. But deep down, my sincere wish is to one day send a message to the men who overlooked my hatred and tell them I was wrong and they are right.

That beneath the facade, their Mayor has nothing but love for this nation.

Saving Grace

I might have thought this was an exaggeration if I had not caught that report by Aladdin Bacolodan in the news. Bacolodan had gone to the place where FPJ spent his last moments on earth, the studio where he gasped his last while hosting a party. In a corner of the studio was a huge pile of goods that FPJ had been collecting, which reportedly cost him a pretty penny and which he meant to distribute to the typhoon victims. None of the goods carried a label, least of all FPJ's name, on them. The cartons were unmarked completely. Based on his interviews with people close to FPJ, Bacolodan reported that FPJ was like that: he refused to advertise himself when he gave.

A Touch of Class

Conrado de Quiros

The ties that bind are strong.

Once, in the brashness of my youth, I did invoke her father's name when I thought of a headline that perfectly fits the breaking news. It was on the day he announced his presidential bid. Elated to know that there is someone who stood against the oppressive incumbent, I asked for my dad's approval (the publisher) when I put in bold and capital letters "The King For President" on the front page of our newspaper. I knew I would break a cardinal rule in Journalism, and even sought the wisdom of a teacher in my university for assurance. With hesitation, I was able to secure his blessing, and from the day we openly supported him through a thinly-veiled banner story, we were the only tabloid to be welcomed with open arms by FPJ in his campaign sorties. 

He lost that election and died while repacking relief goods for the disaster-stricken a few years later. But it didn't stop his adopted daughter in following his footsteps when she ran for senator nearly a decade after his passing. With her father's defeat in the hands of a cheating president still fresh in the nation's collective memory, the daughter gained the highest number of votes in the last election.

The father was at long last, vindicated.

The daughter did quite well as a legislator. She was calm and collected and lead a number of Senate hearings that improved her standing among political observers. There was no doubt the future is bright for the King's daughter, and this was reflected in the surveys a year before the coming election. 

The president even stepped up to broker a power deal that would groom her to become the next leader of the country - in 2022. 

The problem, however, is the unchecked ambition. It blinds people. It makes you believe that your anointment (from certain groups with vested interests or ambivalent gods who have nothing to do with the daily lives of men, whichever comes first in your head) is self-evident that you tend to overlook your limitations that make you undeserving of a promotion. In her case, this promotion is to lead a nation of over 100 million people. A task that may require a lifetime of experience, or a vision that springs from the depths of one's soul.

Personally, I don't find either.

And in spite of her lacking accomplishments, or of years of residence required to become a legitimate President, or of a strong party that will support her candidacy, Grace Poe, decided to repeat what her father did believing that time is ripe to claim what has been theirs all along. It would have been a fitting narrative in a political drama that is the Philippine elections, except that her personal storyline - believable or not - may never have a happy ending once the business of running the government drags her family name down the drain. 

I have heard of her campaign platform - mostly improvements in the programs that are already being applied by the government. Except for the passing of the freedom of information bill, a creation of a separate cabinet for Information and Communications Technology, and acquisition of more trains for a metropolis with serious infrastructure problems, all I heard were motherhood statements: Populist blabber that is good to hear, but lacking substance on paper. So far, I have yet to digest some attainable ideas on job creation, protection of overseas Filipino workers' rights, or even steps to defend our islands in the West Philippine Sea. She has yet to say something on climate change, the promotion of the agricultural sector, or even how to improve the quality of education in the country.

Silly as it may sound but his father was even worse. Not a single chance he graced the media for an interview. He turned down the national debates, and instead appeared on makeshift stages to charm the folks who knew him as the Panday. And even in the absence of experience or ideas on how to govern a nation, He would still have my vote if I had the privilege to cast it in 2004.

Because I knew he would bring decency and honor back in the government.

Given this revelation, and the occasional rage on social media every time I read Grace fumbling in the face of newsmakers, I still keep a soft spot when I look at the lady and recall her good father. Ms. Poe may not have my vote this time, but I can live under her leadership, certain that she would never step over my rights, or hear opponents disappearing into the dead of the night.