So last night was another eye opener. A good friend hit me up for a couple of drinks. As always, I couldn't make it in time due to the different work hours at our office jobs. He just flew in from work, all the way from Mindanao. He's a social worker, you see. He's one of those few figures in my life that I look up to.
Anyway, he got back and said he had something from my mother whom he had met numerous times. My mother always tells me how she finds him interesting and how light hearted he is. I get it, he really is like that. My mother also adds that she feels like he's my brother. I also get that, he is like my brother, maybe even more. He said he just bought two authentic handwoven wraparound cloths used by Muslim women. It was a beautiful handwoven piece. I joked about how I wouldn't give it to my mom and just keep it for myself. He let out a snicker and a laugh and mentioned that he also bought one for his mother. I was thankful, I appreciate that kind of a gesture.
As we ordered beer, we got to our usual exchange of "Hey, what's up? How are you holding up? What's new? Really? Wow. Has it been that long?" questions. It was a routine but a heartfelt one. I kind of had the feeling that he was deeply concerned about something. I let some time pass before really digging into what's eating at him. A bottle of Pale Pilsen sounds about just right.
He was concerned that he was having a "midlife crisis" even at a young age. We are around 24-25 years of age during the time of this publication. I told him maybe he was just burnt out at work and that he reserves most of his time for work and not really leaves much for himself. He replied "Yeah, maybe. But I don't really know.. it just feels wrong. I feel like I haven't done enough in my life and work."
He said that he was concerned about where his career is headed and that what good does it do. He also added that he wished he had a craft. Said that he wished he had something like a hobby to keep him busy and entertained the way I shoot with film and write about stuff and so on. I was surprised. You see, I always looked at him as someone who knew what he was doing, what he wanted and what he plans to do. He is that kind of person who is passionate about his work and has a clear cut path in his mind.
I can see that he was lost and struggling with words to describe what he was feeling. He had always been like that. Guarded and refined, I always thought it was an admirable thing about him. It was one of the few things that make him who he is. It's a brand.
I just said that maybe all he needed was time to see himself in the eyes of other people. It's just that sometimes, we get too busy dealing with life and forget to see how much of what we do really mean to other people. It's not being vain, it's just reassessing your progress, your work, your passions and reservations. You can't quantify what you do just by looking at other people's work (he taught me that, he fervently believes in it) and at the same time, you can't really assess how important your efforts are until you've seen them from the perspective of a person who has benefited from it.
Believe me, he is a social worker out to do good. Maybe he just doesn't see it that way. I can't really compress everything I've learned about life in last night's booze session. Maybe it's not yet time to fully make sense about everything. I think I need another bottle of beer.
Showing posts with label encounters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label encounters. Show all posts
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Side Mirror
On the way to work, I saw a portrait of a father and son.
It was on the jeepney and it sat on the the right side mirror. They were sitting on the front passenger seat. At first it was awkward, the way the two sat side by side. The father was scolding the kid, he was sort of angry for things that needed context for me to fully understand and comprehend.
He was being angry for a lot of different things, really. I couldn't hear exactly what it is but the tone of the father's voice was enough to tell me that he took it seriously. He had an expression of wrinkled anger. The lines on his old and sun-burnt skin showed and creased as he continued to scold his kid. The son was about 14. He had a cheap haircut and he looked like he didn't even take a bath just to go with his father. The simple distress in his face was enough to tell anyone that he was sorry and that it was not fun to be scolded at. More so inside a jeepney where more people, strangers can hear it. He had a creased face, too. Not out of old age but from the way his father was scolding him.
The father stopped talking. He looked out into the dusty and pollution-ridden streets of Quezon City up into the Memorial Circle. We were nearing one of the most congested places in the city, also nearing one of the most deadliest highways: Commonwealth. The driver sped past the rushing vehicles and onto the mouth of the highway. Public buses dragged on with a trail of smoke. The father covered his son's nose, only then noticing that he had fallen asleep; his head bobbing to the traffic and the steering of the jeepney.
As the father looked on, it was evident that he didn't mean to be angry at his son. He had that continued crease on his face, on his brows. I am just assuming here but it felt like he was contemplating on what he had said earlier. He took his hand and put it on his kid's head, leaning it on his left shoulder. The father tapped his son's head two times and kept it close to keep it from bobbing around. Ever so lightly, he kissed his sleeping son's head and kept his hand on the side of his face.
The kid slept throughout the rest of the ride. They happened to get off at the same stop that I did. And into the busy pedestrian streets, they joined the stream of ordinary people, unknown to them that they just told a great story.
That portrait of a father and son is something that digs at me. It didn't have a single frame, it was composed of many shots full of complexity but is simple enough to be understood even without context.
It could easily have been a short film in my head.
It was on the jeepney and it sat on the the right side mirror. They were sitting on the front passenger seat. At first it was awkward, the way the two sat side by side. The father was scolding the kid, he was sort of angry for things that needed context for me to fully understand and comprehend.
He was being angry for a lot of different things, really. I couldn't hear exactly what it is but the tone of the father's voice was enough to tell me that he took it seriously. He had an expression of wrinkled anger. The lines on his old and sun-burnt skin showed and creased as he continued to scold his kid. The son was about 14. He had a cheap haircut and he looked like he didn't even take a bath just to go with his father. The simple distress in his face was enough to tell anyone that he was sorry and that it was not fun to be scolded at. More so inside a jeepney where more people, strangers can hear it. He had a creased face, too. Not out of old age but from the way his father was scolding him.
The father stopped talking. He looked out into the dusty and pollution-ridden streets of Quezon City up into the Memorial Circle. We were nearing one of the most congested places in the city, also nearing one of the most deadliest highways: Commonwealth. The driver sped past the rushing vehicles and onto the mouth of the highway. Public buses dragged on with a trail of smoke. The father covered his son's nose, only then noticing that he had fallen asleep; his head bobbing to the traffic and the steering of the jeepney.
As the father looked on, it was evident that he didn't mean to be angry at his son. He had that continued crease on his face, on his brows. I am just assuming here but it felt like he was contemplating on what he had said earlier. He took his hand and put it on his kid's head, leaning it on his left shoulder. The father tapped his son's head two times and kept it close to keep it from bobbing around. Ever so lightly, he kissed his sleeping son's head and kept his hand on the side of his face.
The kid slept throughout the rest of the ride. They happened to get off at the same stop that I did. And into the busy pedestrian streets, they joined the stream of ordinary people, unknown to them that they just told a great story.
That portrait of a father and son is something that digs at me. It didn't have a single frame, it was composed of many shots full of complexity but is simple enough to be understood even without context.
It could easily have been a short film in my head.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
First and Forever
Araw na naman ng annual Pasiklaban sa U.P. Baguio ngayon. Isa itong tradisyon kung saan nagtitipon ang mga mag-aaral, mga guro at propesor, mga janitors, guards, admin officers, maintenance at ang buong komunidad ng Unibersidad. Para kasi itong malaking Christmas Party kung saan imbitado ang lahat, maging ang mga hindi nag-aral sa U.P. Masaya rin ang mga alumni dahil nagugunita nila ang mga unang araw nila sa Unibersidad, lalo na ang kanilang unang Pasiklaban at ang panahon kung saan wala pang main gates at maayos na mga grounds kung saan pwedeng tumambay.
Masaya raw ang Pasiklaban noong mga unang taon nito. Walang bawal sa kampus, alak, sigarilyo, weeds at kung anu-ano pa. Liberal at wala pang restrictions. Ang kwento ng ibang nakatatanda ay nagbabaklas pa raw sila ng mga lumang bangko para gawing panggatong sa kani-kanilang bonfire. Kontra lamig nga naman dahil sa halos 10 degree na lamig na inaabot nila noon. Balot na balot sila at masayang nag-iinuman habang nakapalibot sa apoy. Maraming "firsts" raw sa mga selebrasyon noon. First and forever.
Noong pumasok naman ako ng U.P., una kong naranasan ang Pasiklaban noong pumasok ako ng Frat. Bagong pasok ako noon at nag-inom kami sa may pond area na kinalaunan ay nalaman kong nirerestore rin ng Frat na pinasukan ko. Masaya, una kong naranasan makapanood ng fireworks display up close and personal. Kasama rin ako sa road trip papuntang Bulacan para bumili ng mga paputok, may mga libre pang kwitis at iba pa dahil sa inabot ng mahigit 20,000 ang binili namin. Masaya, walang tulog at konting kain lang pero masaya. Simple lang kasi, kaunti lang kami noon. Pinapangarap kong makapagsindi rin ng kahon-kahong fireworks, gamit ang sariling lighter at nakasuot ng colors ng Frat. First and forever.
Balik ako sa umpisa ng kwento ko. Pasiklaban noon, umiiyak ako at muntik kong mapunasan ng uhog ko ang mga kahon-kahon ng fireworks na binili namin para sa gabing iyon. Pangatlong Pasiklaban ko na iyon, medyo matagal na rin ako sa Frat at bago sa prospect ng pagkakaroon ng anak. Todo ang iyakan. Tapik sa balikat at himas sa likod ang ginawa ng mga Brods ko at ang mga salita ng paalala. Bago pala kami umamin sa pamilya ng nobya ko ay Brod ko ang naghatid sa akin sa meeting place. Sya rin ang nagtabi ng tatlong hikaw ko dahil baka nga mawala pag nalasog ang katawan ko sa bugbog. Hindi ako nabugbog pero nawala ang mga hikaw. Tinatawanan nalang namin ang panahong yun dahil nasa lalamunan ko na ang betlog ko sa takot. First and forever.
Pangatlong selebrasyon ko na pero hindi pa rin ako nagsasawa noon. Ngayon, sana makahabol ako. Isinusulat ko to habang nasa trabaho at naghihintay ng "go signal" para makaalis na at mabisita ang anak ko. Manonood kami ng mga performances sa Pasiklaban, tatakbo sya uli sa grounds at magpapakilig sa mga chicks sa school. Kukurutin na naman ang pisngi nyang mala-mansanas sa pula at magsusungit sya. Mana sa ama. Ako naman ay mangungumusta sa mga dati kong naging propser at guro. Magtatawanan kami at magpapalitan ng kwento. Papansinin nila sigurado ang gupit ko at ang mga bilbil ko sa tyan at leeg. Medyo maooffend ako pero matutuwa dahil napansin nila ang pagtaba ko. First and forever.
Ang isa sa mga pinakaaabangan ko tuwing taon ang panahong ito dahil kahit magastos ang pagpapa-fireworks, masaya pa rin. Mukhang magkakaroon na ng huling yugto ang fireworks display tradition namin dahil sa iba't-ibang dahilan, lalo na ang environmental concerns at ang pag-funnel ng funds into "more socially significant events." Bullshit ang tawag ko doon. Simula kasi ng maging mag-aaral ako sa Unibersidad ay namulat na ko sa fireworks display. Hindi kumpleto ang Pasiklaban kung wala nito, tulad na rin ng pag nawala ang bonfire sa likod ni Oble at maging ang mga performances ng mga guro mula sa iba't-ibang departamento at kolehiyo. Kulang ang Pasiklaban kung hindi lumiliwanag ang madilim na langit kahit na mayroong mga lanterns at mga Christmas lights sa palibot ng kampus. Kulang ang Pasiklaban kung hindi mangangawit ang leeg mo sa kakatitig sa mga nagpuputukang bituin at dyamante sa langit. Kulang ang Pasiklaban kung walang mga "woooow" at "Ang ganda, Daddy/Mommy!" ng mga batang dinadala ng mga magulang sa grounds ng U.P. Baguio. Kulang ang Pasiklaban kung hindi mo maaamoy ang sariwang pulbura pagkatapos nito. First and Forever ito para sa maraming tao. At makikita mo ito mula sa ibang lugar ng maliit at nagsisiksikang siyudad ng Baguio.
Oo nga, maraming pwedeng gawing proyekto sa 20,000 mahigit na mga paputok. Pero ang saya ng alaala ng mga taong nakakapanood nito ay higit sa isang malaking "socially significant" na proyekto na kahit ang mga pulitiko ng bayan ay madalang nagagawa. Para sa mga aattend pa lang ng Pasiklaban, welcome and let's get hammered. Sa mga bumabalik-balik sa U.P. Baguio sa ganitong panahon bawat taon, ipagpatuloy nyo yan. At sa mga makakapunta mamaya sa grounds, takits na lang. Please alukin nyo ko ng alak kung meron. Manipis lang ang jacket na dala ko. Sana'y marami pa tayong First and forever moments sa U.P. Baguio.
Sana makaabot ako sa fireworks display. Hindi man ako magsisindi ngayong taon dahil alumnus na ako ay masaya pa ring panoorin ang mga mukha ng mga taong nakatutok sa bawat pagsabog ng liwanag sa gabi. Shet, poetic. Di nga, excited ako, first time ko to bilang isa sa mga maraming nagtapos sa Unibersidad. First and forever ulit.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
On being thoughtful.
Being expressive in words can be very advantageous. You can tell people what you mean, what you think and what you really want to say. That’s if, those words are spoken. Writing a letter is very different from speaking up and telling it to the person’s face. Of that, I am sure. I have words but not a voice to back it up.
I’m somehow good at words but only in the written format. And it is not a good thing. Well, only for papers and press releases that I’m working on. But my words escape me when it comes to personal interaction. Those fleeting moments that could have been better with just a few words or a whole paragraph to explain feelings, emotions, sides and point of view.
How many times have we not told the people that matter to us the many things that are going inside our heads? What for? Fear of rejection, insecurity, anxiety, lack of confidence. And then, after that, there’s a gnawing feeling for a time. It lingers and grows on you. For fear of things to change after an exchange of words or confessions, we sometimes risk everything to lay by and be forgotten just so we can avoid uncomfortable moments. Spiral of silence. We communicate to shed our guilt. When we don’t, we are too cozy in our comfort zones.
When was the last time you told your special someone how beautiful she is? How you like her hair falling on her face effortlessly to make you feel like her face was a natural work of art. When was the last time you hugged your mum just for the sake of holding her and imprinting the feeling in your busy head? When was the last time you had a drink or a smoke with your old man to share with him the nuances of growing up as a man? When did you last have a chat with your sister to ask her about everything you can since you are “too busy” at work? Have you ever stroked your man’s brow to whisk away his sweat from all the plumbing work he’s doing at home and told him “Thanks, hun.”
Yea, that got a little out of hand. Speak more. Talk more. Relate more. Silence is a sickness in a point in our lives when we should be dealing with people that will last in our calendars and planners. Looking at people on the public transpo or on the streets talking to people in their lives is sorta disturbing. Yea, it really is. Only because you never use your phone to contact people you care about anymore. You just use it to play Angry Birds when you’re bored and refresh Tweets when you’re being “social.”
We have broken lines that can be reconnected with just words. It’s cool and all, being men and women with few words just as long as those words matter. You don’t have a postpaid plan for nothing. We are on mobile connections all the time. We do Facetime and upload photos on Instagram but we never truly connect. Dig? You can write that shit all you want and dream of a scenario where everything is as good as you can imagine. It’s a shame you can’t share it in a time when all that you need to do to share is press or click a button.
Broken lines, son.
I’m somehow good at words but only in the written format. And it is not a good thing. Well, only for papers and press releases that I’m working on. But my words escape me when it comes to personal interaction. Those fleeting moments that could have been better with just a few words or a whole paragraph to explain feelings, emotions, sides and point of view.
How many times have we not told the people that matter to us the many things that are going inside our heads? What for? Fear of rejection, insecurity, anxiety, lack of confidence. And then, after that, there’s a gnawing feeling for a time. It lingers and grows on you. For fear of things to change after an exchange of words or confessions, we sometimes risk everything to lay by and be forgotten just so we can avoid uncomfortable moments. Spiral of silence. We communicate to shed our guilt. When we don’t, we are too cozy in our comfort zones.
When was the last time you told your special someone how beautiful she is? How you like her hair falling on her face effortlessly to make you feel like her face was a natural work of art. When was the last time you hugged your mum just for the sake of holding her and imprinting the feeling in your busy head? When was the last time you had a drink or a smoke with your old man to share with him the nuances of growing up as a man? When did you last have a chat with your sister to ask her about everything you can since you are “too busy” at work? Have you ever stroked your man’s brow to whisk away his sweat from all the plumbing work he’s doing at home and told him “Thanks, hun.”
Yea, that got a little out of hand. Speak more. Talk more. Relate more. Silence is a sickness in a point in our lives when we should be dealing with people that will last in our calendars and planners. Looking at people on the public transpo or on the streets talking to people in their lives is sorta disturbing. Yea, it really is. Only because you never use your phone to contact people you care about anymore. You just use it to play Angry Birds when you’re bored and refresh Tweets when you’re being “social.”
We have broken lines that can be reconnected with just words. It’s cool and all, being men and women with few words just as long as those words matter. You don’t have a postpaid plan for nothing. We are on mobile connections all the time. We do Facetime and upload photos on Instagram but we never truly connect. Dig? You can write that shit all you want and dream of a scenario where everything is as good as you can imagine. It’s a shame you can’t share it in a time when all that you need to do to share is press or click a button.
Broken lines, son.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Thank you, more please.
Tried a new joint at the local mall earlier. It's a Filipino restaurant that's celebrating the most (probably) Filipino food of all: adobo. The food was good. No, better. It was fulfilling. What made it fulfilling is not just the flavor alone, although it reminds me of home since we are fond of eating adobo with just the right amount of glistening oil and liver. The crew was very hospitable.
I'm sure that it's part of their job to be so but it's a feeling that very few people can fake. The generous servings of steamed rice, it's all-you-can eat btw, and the smiles make a good combo. I know, I'm a rude bastard at times but I always make it a fact to say 'thanks' whenever someone is serving me something to eat.
Kahit sa carinderia, sa turo-turo, sa pwesto ng mga fishball o betamax. Lagi kang magpapasalamat. Kahit banas ka na sa haba ng pila sa MRT at parang wala nang marunong magsabi ng isang salitang dapat ipinupukpok sa sub-conscious at lalo na sa conscious self natin.
What better way to repay their kindness (by not spitting at your food) than a resounding "salamat" to top it off.
That's the least they deserve for doing their jobs and doing it well. It's fun to see people do the same to crew members even if the service is crappy or needs a little tweak for improvement. Did I mention that they have amazing fried garlic toppings on their adobo?
That moment reminded me of a movie I watched. It was a suggestion from a very special friend. Happy tummy. Somewhat happy soul.
Monday, December 10, 2012
pity, pacquiao and pablo
Pacquiao does not owe anything to people saying squat about his KO yesterday.
He was faced with a top-tier fighter like himself.
He got hit by 'Il Dinamita' square in the face.
Most people would probably wake up a week later if they were hit as hard like that.
Congrats, Congressman Pacquiao. You showed how much of a classy fighter and figure that you truly are.
But just so you know, you can lay low with the Lordy-Lordy thing. Your mom is not a bit happy with it.
Anyhow, let's not forget the many different people who tuned in to the fight. They are really hoping and betting on Pacman for the win. Not to mention, many of these people are also recovering from the devastation that Typhoon Pablo recently brought to people in the south. An estimated 600+ are never to see Manny's next fight on pay-per-view or national tv. Even more are missing and probably have not seen the fight from where they are. Mind you, they might still be alive under the colossal weight of fresh earth and angry rocks swept by the floods from Compostela Valley and CDO. Others might be drifting in the ocean as they sailed to win money from angrier seas and tides.
It is funny how our people can see the silver lining even just for a little while when it comes to tragedy. If I were at Comp Valley when the typhoon hit, I'd probably be dead by now.
We are a tragedy prone people. We lose lives over floods and slides and rain and shit. Hurricane Sandy was a tragedy all the same but Pablo or Bopha did something worse. I think we have a problem with that, the world has seen more images and news about Sandy than Bopha. Even typhoons have supremacy issues. As long as it is the center of "human civilization" (just like in those alien and catastrophe movies) and more English-named cities and buildings, they'd have more coverage. Let's just hope and pray that something like Bopha does not happen to 'Merica.
Sana lumaban pa ang mga kababayan nating nasalanta. Bangon tayo, tulad ni Manny. Mas mahirap lang kalaban ang mga illegal loggers at si Inang Kalikasan.
He was faced with a top-tier fighter like himself.
He got hit by 'Il Dinamita' square in the face.
Most people would probably wake up a week later if they were hit as hard like that.
Congrats, Congressman Pacquiao. You showed how much of a classy fighter and figure that you truly are.
But just so you know, you can lay low with the Lordy-Lordy thing. Your mom is not a bit happy with it.
Anyhow, let's not forget the many different people who tuned in to the fight. They are really hoping and betting on Pacman for the win. Not to mention, many of these people are also recovering from the devastation that Typhoon Pablo recently brought to people in the south. An estimated 600+ are never to see Manny's next fight on pay-per-view or national tv. Even more are missing and probably have not seen the fight from where they are. Mind you, they might still be alive under the colossal weight of fresh earth and angry rocks swept by the floods from Compostela Valley and CDO. Others might be drifting in the ocean as they sailed to win money from angrier seas and tides.
It is funny how our people can see the silver lining even just for a little while when it comes to tragedy. If I were at Comp Valley when the typhoon hit, I'd probably be dead by now.
We are a tragedy prone people. We lose lives over floods and slides and rain and shit. Hurricane Sandy was a tragedy all the same but Pablo or Bopha did something worse. I think we have a problem with that, the world has seen more images and news about Sandy than Bopha. Even typhoons have supremacy issues. As long as it is the center of "human civilization" (just like in those alien and catastrophe movies) and more English-named cities and buildings, they'd have more coverage. Let's just hope and pray that something like Bopha does not happen to 'Merica.
Sana lumaban pa ang mga kababayan nating nasalanta. Bangon tayo, tulad ni Manny. Mas mahirap lang kalaban ang mga illegal loggers at si Inang Kalikasan.
smoky weekend
It's a Monday. Another Monday in an endless and vicious cycle of weeks and months and years. Hopefully, I'd get to take my money home for last month's worth of work.
Anyhow, there are a few things that are worth writing about today. Well, all of them happened during the weekend. I was lazing around during last Saturday. It was sticky and humid. Another sleepy weekend. I got a call from a friend, he was asking me what I was up to. I sheepishly answered 'Not much. Just trying to get some more sleep." He told me to come over, I did, and so did other friends. We were gathered to hear news. He told me on the phone that he'd rather tell the story personally.
I was first on the scene, he was grilling some homemade burgers. They were delicious. As other friends arrived (most of us came from the same high school but we never really got to hang out in the same group of friends.) He popped the news. He was already a dad. It didn't come out as a surprise to most of us, the surprise was he was a father for almost three months. The kid was beautiful. Congratulatory remarks came after and so did the story behind it. He himself told us that it felt like it came from a comedy script. I'll write more about that later on.
We enjoyed drinks and snacks and helluva lotta laughter. We remembered different tales from the not so distant past. But it felt like it was a decade ago. Come to think of it, we're half past due on those stories. We got acquainted with each other's current dilemmas and idiosyncrasies about being on the post-college phase.
Fatherhood has different faces. For my dear friend, and for me, as I put it all up in my idea board of a mind: his story was that of irony and quirkiness. His daddy face is somewhat of a guy reading a magazine or a book or an online article on a hot afternoon. He is a fellow writer, and a god damn good one at that. Straight fucking A of a writer and he's now a dad. His story will be unfolding and it feels script worthy. I know it is. I feel it is. We just have to think of ways to write it.
I don't know how he'll react to this. I know he'll be reading this post and I didn't get the chance to fully congratulate him. Good job. You'll be a great father and friend to your son. He'll grow up to be a weird but brilliant hipster just like his old man and sweet mom.
Another noteworthy thing is a friend having the same feelings about work and making it big and happy in the fucking world. "Tara. Game ako dyan. Tapos magreresign ako, magbibisyo at magsusulat. Maganda pa t-shirt ko" like minded shit from a brilliant mind. I just put my friends in such high regard and they deserve every bit of it.
We kinda hooked it up on making my project work. It'll be more than a collaboration, more of a partnership. With his help, I know we can make something good with our god-given talents and ill skillz. I love that dude, no homo.
Quit our jobs. Do our shit. Write the hell out of every emotion, injustice, unfortunate event and other shit. Do more shit. Feed our vices and do more shit. And as icing to the cake, we get to have cool threads. How fucking good is that? And we'd get tatted up like we own our bodies. Sorry moms.
Head strong, boiiieee.
Anyhow, there are a few things that are worth writing about today. Well, all of them happened during the weekend. I was lazing around during last Saturday. It was sticky and humid. Another sleepy weekend. I got a call from a friend, he was asking me what I was up to. I sheepishly answered 'Not much. Just trying to get some more sleep." He told me to come over, I did, and so did other friends. We were gathered to hear news. He told me on the phone that he'd rather tell the story personally.
I was first on the scene, he was grilling some homemade burgers. They were delicious. As other friends arrived (most of us came from the same high school but we never really got to hang out in the same group of friends.) He popped the news. He was already a dad. It didn't come out as a surprise to most of us, the surprise was he was a father for almost three months. The kid was beautiful. Congratulatory remarks came after and so did the story behind it. He himself told us that it felt like it came from a comedy script. I'll write more about that later on.
We enjoyed drinks and snacks and helluva lotta laughter. We remembered different tales from the not so distant past. But it felt like it was a decade ago. Come to think of it, we're half past due on those stories. We got acquainted with each other's current dilemmas and idiosyncrasies about being on the post-college phase.
 |
| Sharing a paunch with the new dad and son. They have identical perfect domes for an old man cut. |
I don't know how he'll react to this. I know he'll be reading this post and I didn't get the chance to fully congratulate him. Good job. You'll be a great father and friend to your son. He'll grow up to be a weird but brilliant hipster just like his old man and sweet mom.
Another noteworthy thing is a friend having the same feelings about work and making it big and happy in the fucking world. "Tara. Game ako dyan. Tapos magreresign ako, magbibisyo at magsusulat. Maganda pa t-shirt ko" like minded shit from a brilliant mind. I just put my friends in such high regard and they deserve every bit of it.
We kinda hooked it up on making my project work. It'll be more than a collaboration, more of a partnership. With his help, I know we can make something good with our god-given talents and ill skillz. I love that dude, no homo.
Quit our jobs. Do our shit. Write the hell out of every emotion, injustice, unfortunate event and other shit. Do more shit. Feed our vices and do more shit. And as icing to the cake, we get to have cool threads. How fucking good is that? And we'd get tatted up like we own our bodies. Sorry moms.
Head strong, boiiieee.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
jeepney epiphany
I'm just thinking about my 'old timer' post about how much of an honor it is to grow old in this quickly decaying world and society. That those old coots may have done something good once or twice in their lives that they still live to witness a big sphincter that the world is turning into. I feel like I'm wasting my youth. My words escape me. I can't fully define and interpret the emotion and thoughts going into this phase.
I'm looking at the things I've done in the past months on the job. And I can't find one thing to be proud or even be glad about. To me, it's all rubbish. And it's not a good feeling to have. I'd have to rethink the way things go on around here. And so, I hope I don't waste my opportunity to be young and idealistic as hell. I'm scared of thinking how I'll turn up when I reach my middle years and how I could've [possibly, sic] turned things around when I had the chance and the years in me.
Ahh fuck it. I need to re-evaluate and re-organize. I need to know what I want and when I want it. I need to understand more things and and turn imagination into a livable idea and write a concept around it. I need to translate all of this into a workable solution.
I go with the flow but the problem with me is that I don't swim against the current even if I get swept into the foamy breach of a waterfall.
Note:
Janelle Monae is just gorgeous. I'd study the lines of her face all day if I had the artistic upbringing to do so. She looks so crisp. She has that certain air of coolness and sophistication in her.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
virtue and vice
 |
| A meme from an infamous Facebook page. |
The older generations used to celebrate the virtues of being a good citizen. Sure, some ideas and ideals are now truncated variations but the core of it stays the same. Don't say bad words. Be kind and courteous when talking with the elders. Do unto others what you want others to do unto you and a whole family of spermatozoa and ovum genetics hardwired to the belief of heaven. These things pay our boarding passes when we reach the pearly gates of our perceived after lives. We receive the billing and we hope that we have garnered enough 'goodwill points' to make it to the other side. Or else, we get flung to the farthest, deepest circles of our own imagined hells. Forgive me for the most-likely erroneous scientific reference, I am no disciple of the sciences.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Auburn hair in the mirror city
Walking around one of probably the busiest cities in the country can make your mind fly. It can perch on the fact that the mirrored walls actually feed the hunger of the different types of vanities in the center business district. How we all like to see our reflections on the shiny facades of the buildings, how we like to see people see us in our thousand peso attires holding our yuppie puppie drinks with customized names. We eat many an assorted menu of vanities everyday. It is a voyeur-voyeur juxtaposition and we consume it the way we think we're supposed to.
Another moment fleets and lets it fly to the fact that these handsome and gorgeous fellows we meet as we walk past each other, these strangers that we look at indirectly through our aviators, keyholes and clubmasters are all rushing off to someplace else. Maybe they rush to the noodle joint atop the fast food stop to end up in a corner trying to scroll down their feeds and walls. We never know how grandiose their hiding really is. We feel it but we just can't quantify.
Then the bird flies to the thought of seeing a woman in her pencil skirt, flowing straight auburn hair down to her shoulders. You'll bet she's gorgeous and sweet and intelligent and kind. She walks down the polished street with her foxy gait. She holds a purse on her left hand and a cup of coffee on the right. I remember someone I love. I remember her though I never saw her that way. And the thought flies away as I fail in making a face out of her lithe and nubile figure. Her silhouette maybe was enough.
And it perches itself on the premise of strangers in the underpass. The men and women in different rhythms and cadences. You can tell that they come from different time zones. The poorer members of the caste walk faster into a run. They have sweat on their brows and they wear semi-smart clothes. You never feel the aura of the higher-ups. For all you know, they may be scholars and distinguished persons only rushing to catch their reflections on the mirrored city. The higher-ups walk slower, in their crisp uniforms and designer things. They bask in the glow of the underpass lights. They still have their Ray-Bans on.
Just a bunch of nondescript scriptures in the mirrored city. And the thought flies into the afternoon heat. It withers as it watches its reflection on the mirrored walls. Its feathers wither side by side the prisms of watching eyes. I look at its reflection on a mirror bouncing off light in another bouncing off another from one further down the perpetual cycle of the vanities.
Her gander is so memorable. It made my heart flutter into a futile spark. She won't amount, I bet she's not even real. Though I bet she's fucking pretty.
Another moment fleets and lets it fly to the fact that these handsome and gorgeous fellows we meet as we walk past each other, these strangers that we look at indirectly through our aviators, keyholes and clubmasters are all rushing off to someplace else. Maybe they rush to the noodle joint atop the fast food stop to end up in a corner trying to scroll down their feeds and walls. We never know how grandiose their hiding really is. We feel it but we just can't quantify.
Then the bird flies to the thought of seeing a woman in her pencil skirt, flowing straight auburn hair down to her shoulders. You'll bet she's gorgeous and sweet and intelligent and kind. She walks down the polished street with her foxy gait. She holds a purse on her left hand and a cup of coffee on the right. I remember someone I love. I remember her though I never saw her that way. And the thought flies away as I fail in making a face out of her lithe and nubile figure. Her silhouette maybe was enough.
And it perches itself on the premise of strangers in the underpass. The men and women in different rhythms and cadences. You can tell that they come from different time zones. The poorer members of the caste walk faster into a run. They have sweat on their brows and they wear semi-smart clothes. You never feel the aura of the higher-ups. For all you know, they may be scholars and distinguished persons only rushing to catch their reflections on the mirrored city. The higher-ups walk slower, in their crisp uniforms and designer things. They bask in the glow of the underpass lights. They still have their Ray-Bans on.
Just a bunch of nondescript scriptures in the mirrored city. And the thought flies into the afternoon heat. It withers as it watches its reflection on the mirrored walls. Its feathers wither side by side the prisms of watching eyes. I look at its reflection on a mirror bouncing off light in another bouncing off another from one further down the perpetual cycle of the vanities.
Her gander is so memorable. It made my heart flutter into a futile spark. She won't amount, I bet she's not even real. Though I bet she's fucking pretty.
Amateurs
A very peculiar thing happened today. I told our chief-of-staff that I'd be late for work since I had to do something in Makati. She said 'Ok.' The thing is, after doing the errand, I got into a bus with my mom back to QC. The bus was humid and had air as heavy as smog. You can feel the war moisture stick to your skin and alveoli. The bus was 'air-conditioned' and asked for the air-con fee. It sucked at that.
Well, what sucked even more was that 4 hoods got on the bus. Regular hiphop guys. One with a hoodie on even if the temp outside was a smelting room similarity. The other was wearing a hoodie with a beanie and cheap wayfarers. Tall, that one. Probably wore fake Adidas shoes, too. Motherfucker. All the details I remember are those of the three fuckers. The last one I noticed was a guy wearing a ball cap on reverse. He looked fucking dumb. They all had baggy pants and cheap looking sneakers.
The stupid-looking guy with the stupid fucking cap paid for his fare. 11 pesos in exchange for pieces of tickets. The tall motherfucker with beanie and shades on stepped on my dress shoe. Shouting ensued inside the bus. Familiar flicks of butterfly knives clicked and clacked inside my ears. Motherfuckers are pointing it at two women at the back, two seats behind where my Ma and I sat. The fuckers were asking for the bracelet and yelling "Putangina nyo, 'wag kayong makialam dito!" Panic followed.
After a moment, everything was over. They got the bracelet of the woman they apparently followed from a mall not far back. Motherfuckers and their knives. Putangina ng mga taong ganun. Puta talaga pasalamat sila wala pa kong lisensyadong baril kundi dalawa siguradong patay sa kanila.
If it were a fairer fight, two of those guys would probably be beaten to death inside the bus. Too much leash are given to those motherfuckers. I really wanted them dead. I wish I had a gun to shoot them with. In the face. In between the eyes or on the cheek and through the back of the head. Though I probably have to take the day off, my dark gray polo barong may have splatters of those mofos blood on it.
I swear to god I wanted them dead.
Well, what sucked even more was that 4 hoods got on the bus. Regular hiphop guys. One with a hoodie on even if the temp outside was a smelting room similarity. The other was wearing a hoodie with a beanie and cheap wayfarers. Tall, that one. Probably wore fake Adidas shoes, too. Motherfucker. All the details I remember are those of the three fuckers. The last one I noticed was a guy wearing a ball cap on reverse. He looked fucking dumb. They all had baggy pants and cheap looking sneakers.
The stupid-looking guy with the stupid fucking cap paid for his fare. 11 pesos in exchange for pieces of tickets. The tall motherfucker with beanie and shades on stepped on my dress shoe. Shouting ensued inside the bus. Familiar flicks of butterfly knives clicked and clacked inside my ears. Motherfuckers are pointing it at two women at the back, two seats behind where my Ma and I sat. The fuckers were asking for the bracelet and yelling "Putangina nyo, 'wag kayong makialam dito!" Panic followed.
After a moment, everything was over. They got the bracelet of the woman they apparently followed from a mall not far back. Motherfuckers and their knives. Putangina ng mga taong ganun. Puta talaga pasalamat sila wala pa kong lisensyadong baril kundi dalawa siguradong patay sa kanila.
If it were a fairer fight, two of those guys would probably be beaten to death inside the bus. Too much leash are given to those motherfuckers. I really wanted them dead. I wish I had a gun to shoot them with. In the face. In between the eyes or on the cheek and through the back of the head. Though I probably have to take the day off, my dark gray polo barong may have splatters of those mofos blood on it.
I swear to god I wanted them dead.
Friday, November 23, 2012
itsalright
It's easy to write about the things that normally go in your day. The commute, the work, the MRT ride, the book you enjoyed while on queue at the barber shop. Easy peasy. But had something different happen to you, it'd be quite a challenge to write it all. Yea, so maybe it can be a little easier than what I just said but for me, I am struggling in my efforts to tell a story.
I got drunk last night, again. I swear to God, I'm going to find the time to write a blog about the different kinds of booze I've tried and the judgment I pass onto them. I think that may cure my ailment when it comes to alcohol: I'd be more of a connoisseur rather than a kanto boy drunkard (this is not meant to be offensive, seriously, there's been a phase in my life that my friends and I would prefer to drink on the streets.)
The story behind that is I was trying to distance myself from a dude here at the field office. He was from another department so I rarely see him and vice versa. But when he does see me, he comes up and make jokes about flirting. Yea, he's gay, I said. No big deal. I have encounters with gay people, they are a good bunch, happy and vocal about things. But, the thing is, he always ran his arm over my shoulder. Akbay, hagod, haplos. Rinse and repeat.
"Uhh, okay, dude. Please get your hands off me. That's enough horsing around." Talk about awkward moment in the office. The other peeps laughed at it, I did, too, politely. But it gave me the creeps. Okay, I really am not homophobic or anything but something tells me it isn't a joke anymore. And to save myself from further awkward and quite frankly, uncomfortable moments like that happening any moment, I decided to go with some co-workers to get plastered. And we did. And I'm glad I did.
Gay people, I'm sorry if any of you reading this may find it offensive. I've written this entry to the best of my ability to keep it sensitive and fair. Other straight people do that shit A LOT. I've nothing against you. I'm just glad I made a decision to let that thing go.
Aaaand, back to boozing. Yea, I got plastered really good. I woke up in the morning feeling like a dried sponge out of sea. Felt porous as if all the moisture was sucked out of me. Aaaand I managed to sleep until 5am with just my boxers on and the damn cold woke me up. And this gnawing, pulsating pain around the back of my neck, I wonder how I got it?
As for the drinks we had last night, a liter and another small bottle of brandy did the first few kicks. Then we washed it off with light beer, two buckets of it, poorly chilled might I add. The crispy tofu and betamax was great.
And I am just whiling away. Waiting for my clock to tell me "It's time to go home."
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Trifecta of Dreams
As I said in an earlier post, I've unearthed some old articles. I dug this story I did for a class requirement. It' s supposed to be a personality profile. It will be a long post so you may want to exercise your eye balls and sockets.
I thought hard about editing things out but I don't think it can do good for assessing my writing in the past years. Still, it was a fun piece to write. Forgive the fuzzy use of sentences, words and phrases. It's part of my creative non-fiction writing. Please feel free to bash. I am kind of anxious about really posting it for more than my instructor to read but I remember what one of my former instructors told us in class: "Get used to people reading your work. How else can you be a writer?" Touche.
I. Every morning, different people wake
up and imagine what the day has in store for them. In all the routines and the
little things that make them an everyday ritual. Today, Reynato will wake up in
his bed and fix his uniform before he takes a bath. It’s 5am and he needs to
get to his office fast: in his case, it’s a busy intersection in one of the
country’s most congested traffic destinations. He suits up, gets his reflective
traffic gloves on and grabs his morning coffee. He walks to work, it being only
15 minutes away or less if he’s thinking on briskly jogging to work. He arrives
at the disabled crossing line and marches into his position. All day he’ll
signal cars to go whichever direction they need to. Every precise moment he
waves his hand to a direction may well mean a perfect arrival time for an
important meeting. Otherwise it will result in numerous rants and curses as
appointments will need to be re-scheduled. He has a buddy to switch with in
between breaks: time outs are usually for lunch or the afternoon coffee.
Late breakfast
 |
| Prairie Oysters. Photo from seriouseats.com |
I wonder what'll happen if I ask them for the time I could've spent with my family. I mean, they DID steal a few off days from me. I'm not whining. I'm just asking what is due.
I am sitting here. Waiting. I am typing with my laptop. I think it's frying my balls. My gonads. My mojo. My babymakers. I wonder, how much will they pay for them? Once I get cancer of hairy testicles.
I'm just wondering. About my balls, is all.
Stand still
 |
| An ode to a December night in college. U.P. Baguio c2009 |
There
is always something that lingers on as we pass on to different phases in our
lives. We rarely get to see these splatters of past in our new lab gowns, crisp
white shirts, safety boots, silk handkerchiefs and so on. We dust them off,
give them the flip or two to make them unknowingly go away since we never knew
they were still there. But, they are still there.
For
example, remember the way that in college, you know your batch mates’ good and
bad habits? Remember that one classmate who never shows up for class on time,
parties all the way to the finals, just barely dragging and hanging on to the
last absence to kick him out of the class and then miraculously passes the
finals? Well, he’s a rare breed but not exactly one to be emulated. Here’s
another one, remember that girl who always wanted to get the highest scores in
everything? In quizzes, projects, recitation, oral exams, performances and
everything in between? Do you remember how she pouted and puffed her eyes when
she got the 3rd highest score in one of your midterms during your
graduating year? Yep, I bet you do. You still get irritated by that every once
in a while.
Well,
the fact is, we never got out of college, or high school, or our organizations,
fraternities, sororities. We don’t know it yet but we’re still stuck in the
same class, only, there’s money and for some, there’s still no money involved.
You
always get buzzed thru Facebook that this friend is living the life travelling
the world at the expense of his company, and this other college classmate now
champions the ideals of peace and prosperity in the more troubled parts of the
country. You never get really far from them not only because of the social
media but the way you still interact with them. Yes, they don’t text you but
that does not hold them back from still making you feel like you’re that dragging
dude from college who only goes to class at the end of the year.
Sometimes,
it still is a matter of bragging rights. Back in college, it was like “Oi, uno
ako sa finals!” Now, it’s more like “How much money you’re making? Are you
having fun in your job? Because I do. And, oh, almost forgot, I still got
higher scores in the Civil Service Exam than you.” But sometimes there are
funnier stories to remember. Like the memory of a classmate having a twang and
slang in her speaking voice when it comes to speech classes and you are oh so
happy when she mispronounced one word. You’re still in college; still making
fun of the uptight do gooders and people who try so hard to impress the higher
ups and then rub it hard on your face. And don’t mind if they have SWAGGGG. You
better than dem bitcheezz.
But
there are the exceptions. You still admire former classmates who made it on
their own. Who kept quiet during your years in college and got out just fine or
even better. Remember that brilliant classmate of yours who got pregnant during
your sophomore year? She raised that daughter of hers in her own blood and
sweat, moonshining and all. And that other guy who you thought can make it to
the big-time periodicals? Well, he’s a correspondent now. They’re just quiet
folks, enjoying the things that they have and take things as they go.
We
never really get out of college. We still meet and surprisingly, greet these
people on a not-so-regular basis than we’d want to. Still, no matter how much
they fling their high-and-mighty lifestyles and cool perks up in your face, you
never seem to envy them that much. Heck, not even one tiny bit of you wishes to
be in their shoes. And that’s one sure sign that you’re still in college. You
just quietly enjoy the things you have, taking things as they go, keeping stuff
that you can use and leaving the shit on the floor where they’re intended to
be. And besides, who’d want to have a phony twang and slang? Would you rather
say “Taygaylohg” than straight up “Tagalog?”
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Babes
 |
| Dahil usapang bata na lang din naman, ipapaskil ko na rin ang picture ng anak kong nasobrahan sa kagwapuhan. Pasensya na po at proud lang talaga ako. (Gab before his 1st year) |
Pauwi ako mula trabaho nang may makasakay akong magnanay sa jeep. Mestiza yung nanay at mukhang may dugong banyaga. Maging ang batang lalaking karga nya ay ganun din. Yun nga lang, may kakaiba sa bata. Parang Caucasian ang ama nito. Tisoy, halata pating gwapo. Hindi ko maidescribe pero ganun. Manipis ang buhok nya at pabilog ang hugis ng mukha. Mahabang mga pilik mata ang pumipitik pitik habang nakasakay sya sa jeep.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
dig of the week
Just received good news. My postpaid application was approved after a day. And a special couple has just announced their wedding date. I am crying as of the moment. And this does not even count as a post. Huhu
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Bandwagoning with Bad Medicine
This is my first Sunday entry. All other entries in the past have been written during the weekdays and maybe on Saturdays, too, but never Sundays. The thing is, I'm still at work and about 6 hours and a paycheck away from home. I don't mind being away from home if I need to. But as a dear friend always says: "Charge it to experience." And so I shall.
I don't really want to jump on the bandwagon but the celebration of dead loved ones is upon us. As a nation, we religiously follow this tradition and culture. We bring candles, flowers and sometimes food (those who have northern roots will know the significance of "Atang" as well as our Chinese kin by bringing food to the resting place of the deceased.) Filipinos really do value the notion of honoring the dead. I think that WE believe that it's the appropriate thing to do since a vast majority of us only see the dead's importance as they pass on. Well, that's just my opinion.
Keeping true to the topic of this post, a hearse drove by me just a while ago as I picked up my laundry. The hearse didn't have a casket in it and I think the driver just finished gassing up at the station. Funny or maybe, peculiar thing about it is that it was booming. Yes, the slow drive to the final resting place has annoyed many if not most of us one time or another. The slow pace, the wailing people and the traffic that they sometimes cause are a few things (not essentially bad things since WE do honor the dead as I said earlier) that can somewhat irk us.
Going back to my story, the hearse was playing real loud music. Nothing unusual about that, right? It played Bad Medicine. Pretty badass, I thought. Going out in that glorious glam rock tune? I'd say that'll be pretty memorable aside from the capricious pink casket that a local funeral service uses as a peg for promotion and sales. Just imagine the procession of loved ones as they parade your lifeless shell into its final destination. They're all dressed in glam rock attires with all the shiny neon prints and tight ass pants while rocking two-tone electric mullets.
In view of honoring our dead, we go through lengths to make sure their final wishes are obeyed. Theatrics and culture: they can intertwine maybe even as we enter the afterlife.
I don't really want to jump on the bandwagon but the celebration of dead loved ones is upon us. As a nation, we religiously follow this tradition and culture. We bring candles, flowers and sometimes food (those who have northern roots will know the significance of "Atang" as well as our Chinese kin by bringing food to the resting place of the deceased.) Filipinos really do value the notion of honoring the dead. I think that WE believe that it's the appropriate thing to do since a vast majority of us only see the dead's importance as they pass on. Well, that's just my opinion.
Keeping true to the topic of this post, a hearse drove by me just a while ago as I picked up my laundry. The hearse didn't have a casket in it and I think the driver just finished gassing up at the station. Funny or maybe, peculiar thing about it is that it was booming. Yes, the slow drive to the final resting place has annoyed many if not most of us one time or another. The slow pace, the wailing people and the traffic that they sometimes cause are a few things (not essentially bad things since WE do honor the dead as I said earlier) that can somewhat irk us.
Going back to my story, the hearse was playing real loud music. Nothing unusual about that, right? It played Bad Medicine. Pretty badass, I thought. Going out in that glorious glam rock tune? I'd say that'll be pretty memorable aside from the capricious pink casket that a local funeral service uses as a peg for promotion and sales. Just imagine the procession of loved ones as they parade your lifeless shell into its final destination. They're all dressed in glam rock attires with all the shiny neon prints and tight ass pants while rocking two-tone electric mullets.
In view of honoring our dead, we go through lengths to make sure their final wishes are obeyed. Theatrics and culture: they can intertwine maybe even as we enter the afterlife.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)