i never really read newspapers until now

Bureau Chief's office, c2010

Philippine Daily Inquirer Northern Luzon Bureau

This photo was taken about 3 years ago. I was doing my journalism internship at that time. I barely scraped by if not for the help and guidance of the magely editors at PDI Northern Luzon Bureau. This was the look of our Bureau Chief's (BC) office. I bet it still look like this and I really hope that it still does. His book collection, to say the least solicits awe along with the martial law memorabilia, including a newspaper snippet of his picture being the alleged assassin of Ninoy Aquino (still hadn't asked him about the authenticity of that snip of paper, I dare not ask the wizard.)

I specifically remember reaching out for a copy of Chernobyl Diaries out of the crammed shelves. It was like picking off at a wall of great pieces, it felt transient and lasting at the same time. I also remember a story from the book, the wife was telling the story about his husband who worked at the Chernobyl nuclear plant, he was greatly exposed to radiation. She carefully narrated the way she cut her fingernails down to the nub, slowly hiding the edges of her nails. The beauty was in the details, the housewife turned full time nurse for her husband told the story on how her fingertips bled. It was an effort to keep herself from hurting her husband. She told of how she once flayed the soft skin on her husband's arm. Her nails were too long and sharp.

It was a chilling reminder on the effects of that blow up. And how it still affects the citizens of ghost town Chernobyl. It also was a good example of how good writing can take people to places they can only imagine and are too afraid to even plan a visit. Reading some of the stories in that book added to my own wall of simple dreams and aspirations, I wanted to be a writer. But I easily acknowledged that I couldn't keep up with the dailies, I will never be a print journalist. It was true.

Our BC was also a professor at the University. He gave me a fitting grade for my performance: 2.75. I barely scraped by but I loved being in his class. It was a glimpse at the old school experience of working on a press room. The experience felt like it was a photo with  coffee colored sepia effects.

That is all.

The 26th

My personal marker. Serves as a reminder. Sorry, Ma.
"Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt."
~ Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut

It is nearly the 26th of the month. It'll be the first death anniversary of Tita Mila's passing. It feels passe to say 'How fast. It's been a year already?' She wouldn't want that. She would want to see us enjoying at McDonald's with all the fast food amenities and saturated fat. She was nice like that.

I remember reading a story on the Philippine Daily Inquirer. It was from a column and I've forgotten all too well, the details of the story, the author, the name of the column and when I had read it. The gist was actually a question: "Why do we celebrate deaths and failures?" It was a baffling question for me at that point in my life, having lost no one.. YET. Well, no one important.

I remember the point of the article and it goes something like this: we celebrate deaths and failures so we remember a somewhat silver lining, we remember the Fall of Bataan to remind ourselves of the good that it has brought to us as a people, we remember the deaths of loved ones to remind us how happy we have been to have had them touch our lives, we remember tragedies to remind us that everything we touch in this life is but transient in material space but immortal in a dimension that we all share and pass on to the next seeds of our generations. Well, something like that. 

For many, this time of year, they count the days until Christmas. I do, too. I just wish that wherever Tita spends her time now, they have Christmas there, too. So she may recieve my greetings and gifts. I hope that Vonnegut was right that when we pass, we never really die but only pass on to a different dimension. A dimension where the physical senses are not enough to make us believe that we exist, we just know that we do.

Merry Christmas, Tita. And happy anniversary on your arrival at your own personal and non- physical dimension. 

Manamit

Ang view mula sa lugar kung saan ako
sumipat ng mga happenings nang halos limang taon

Sabi ko noon, pag hindi ako pumasa sa school na gusto ko pasukan eh magta-tricycle driver nalang ako. Tinawanan ako ng mga kaibigan ko at na-shut up ng aking mga magulang. Bakit? E ano naman bang masama sa pagiging tricycle driver? Marangal naman, malinis ang pinagkakakitaan, isa sa mga backbone ng local transportation services.. ang isa namang choice ko e maging gun smuggler o drug runner pero naisip ko mabilis ang buhay ko dun. Baka hindi ako umabot ng 30 years old, mga 20 palang eh inuuod na ang bangkay ko. 

Side dish, nakapagdrive na ako ng tricycle, at sinasabi ko sainyo, hindi madali magdrive nun. Lalo na yung 170cc na Kawasaki Barako then add the difficulties of a moon trekker on the surface of Mars (only Mars, in reference here was Earth and the surface was ridden by potholes the size of manhole covers, yeah. Thanks local officials for doing us a favor by shaking our brains to a slush.) Another thing, ginawa ko yun nang nakainom.

Pero hindi dahil dun ang post ko. Awa ng Panginoong Maykapal, nakapasa ako sa ekswelahang inaplayan ko. Ilang taon na rin ba? Lima plus plus? Ang nakakatawa pa, bago ako magsettle sa campus na yun ay sinubukan ko sa iba, sa kabilang dako ng mapa, sa bandang timog katagalugan: ang lugar ng buko pie at mga natural hot springs. Pero hindi ako nakapasok, one week na palang tapos ang enrollment ng mga humahabol para sa admission. Malas. May instant friend pa naman sana ako dun, at magaling na manunulat siya; ayaw lang umamin.

Ayun na nga, doon ako sa norte nag-aral. Malamig sa campus pero maraming nakatsinelas at short shorts na pwedeng pumasang summer wear sa hotspots ng Pinas. Masaya sa campus dahil maraming bagong experience. Naks, experience, parang totoo lang.

Hindi ako nagsising nakapasok ako sa campus. Hindi rin ako nagsisi na hindi ako lumipat dahil nagkaroon ako ng tahanan at pamilya sa kampus.

Ni isang beses ay di ko inisip na dito ako papasok ng kapatiran; na dito ko makikilala ang mga taong huhubog sa akin sa lebel ng ideyolohiya, prinsipyo at paninidigan. Hindi ko rin naisip na makakatagpo ako ng mga gurong dibdiban(nakakatawang isipin dahil sa ilang imaheng nakita ko na sa nakaraang mga taon) ang dedikasyon sa pagtuturo, na makikilala ko ang mga taong kulang na lang ay umampon sakin para paiyakin lamang ako sa klase; pero may hot coco naman yun at donuts (meron ding pamasahe papuntang bangko na P500, "Pang-inom mo na yang sukli.") At lalong hindi ko inisip na dito ko makikilala ang magiging nanay ng aking anak. Hindi roller coaster ride e, parang Salt Race Flats drag race, blurred lang lahat sa bilis pero masaya balikan ang ika nga e 'ride.'

Pero, inisip ko rin ang magiging buhay ko sana sa katimugan. Malapit lang sa bahay, malapit sa dalawang ancestral homes (isang angkop ang laki para sa malaking pamilya at isa namang bunggalo kung saan pilit pinagkasya ang isang malaki ring pamilya), malapit sa mga resort, malapit sa mga kamag-anak.

Sa malaking campus kung saan masarap maglakad, doon rin kasi nagtapos ang isang  pinsan ko na tinitingala ko noong bata pa lamang ako (tinangkaran ko sya pero ganoon parin ang pagtingala ko sa kanya.) Inisip ko, masarap siguro magbasa ng libro doon, parang imahe ng Ivy League ang pumasok sa isip ko menos ang falling leaves at ang mga scarves at blazers at ang preppy khakis na bagay na bagay sa autumn season. Matututo kako siguro akong magsulat, makialam sa mga bagay-bagay ng lipunan at iba pang kaalaman sa isang state u. 

'Namit' siguro. At balita ko, masarap din daw ang pagkain, mura pa!

Paligoy-ligoy lang ang isip ko sa bagay na 'to. Hindi naman nakakasisi pero masarap din sanang maranasan. Ang sarap bumalik sa pag-aaral. Ipon lang at babalik din ako sa school, kaso itatago ko na ang student number ko. Sana wala akong maging teacher na kabatch ko.

Milagros

People sometimes wait for dates to remember certain things. The passions of summer love, the rebirth into new beliefs and outlooks, trying times triumphed over thru faith. Then there are times of commemorating the falls of life and people. Normally, we wait for a certain time of the year, cradling candles, flowers and different forms of tributes.

To the lost people in our lives, we have all somehow clinked our glasses in their memories. Their passing have stuck knives in us all, some more painful while some are more numbing. It is the numbing that is worse and to remember them by their deaths somehow defeats the purpose of their lives.

Rude Boys : Uncovered Files

lifted from 420chan.org

Writer's note: This article has been written for a previous class during my college days. I have taken the liberty of uploading this on this blog in hopes of reviewing my writing style and etcetera. Enjoy your bashing.

Jamaican culture is not so different with the Philippines’: densely populated, poverty-stricken, corrupt systems and not to mention highly thriving cultures of crime. Just recently, the nation was struck by a string of minor-related incidents of crime, not only having minors being the perpetrators but being the targets of crime themselves. Who can pass by the compounding news of disappearing children, mostly girls who are nowhere to be found? Some who surface are sometimes heard of being found in ravines, stuffed in chute sacks and inserted in between craggy overpass ceilings. These are but tales of horror that most people would only prefer to have heard from movie reviews, not on primetime news programs. Violence and crime is not endemic in the metro, both have grown like infestations; plaguing the streets and the minds of the common citizens. By all means, the government and the authorities of all sorts push for the eradication or control of the situation but it will be a long way to reach the end of the rope for this problem.

Black & White

Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke | c1967

Nothing is ever original as people say. No amount of research or breakthrough creative storms can brew something out of pure originality. Striking gold with new ideas is like chipping off what is left of the big mined out mountain top.

Everything old has a natural patina to them. Old watches that still tick (hello Submariner), old boots that still kick (hello favorites) and old knives that still cut (Mark I and KA-BAR) are a few things that make the olden days seem much more alive today. 

I don't believe that nothing is original anymore, it's just that people seem to think of originality as somewhat a glimmering "fuck" that no one else apparently gives nowadays. There are things that we have to accept and a few of those is that people live way long before us and the originality that we claim it to be is as banal as the coffee making ritual many of us do every morning. We can still achieve originality in different ways. Some do more than others and some just really scrape the barrel.