End of the World

Golda and I have managed to convince each other that the end of the world is upon us.

A few nights ago, she confronted me with news that a US satellite containing toxic compound is on collision course with the Earth and could hit us in early March.

Then I contributed to the doomsday scenario by reminding her that Suharto had just died due to a lingering illness. Suharto who led a bloody anti-Communist purge in his native Indonesia that resulted in the death of 500,000 to 1,000,000 people. Could it be? Could he really be the antichrist?

We then thought about the other cataclysms that have taken place in recent history, whether environmental, political, social, or otherwise. The forest fires of San Francisco — great balls of fire devouring many?

And the two twenty-something lawyers raised on a steady diet of Hollywood end-of-the-world B-movies and late-night Nostradamus documentaries, fell into glum silence.

“Shit.”

“Shit ka din.”

I told Golda that she should resign posthaste from lawyering and being the poster-girl for anti JPEPA and fulfill her dream to be a waitress in Boracay. She told me that I need to finally learn how to say “I love you”, and move to a rural community infested with landlord violence.

Of course, the next day when we woke up, no one was mixing cocktails by the beach or dropping definitive “I love you”s, and we were still fighting over leftover pandesal at a small kitchen in an office along Kalayaan Avenue.

But really, what would you do if the end of the world was in sight? Not ten, not twenty years from now, not fifty years from now, but in March 2008? A few weeks from now?

It’s a more common question to ask, what would you do if you knew you were about to die? I’ve asked myself that many times and you could say, because I’m morbid, I’ve sorta kinda prepared for that. I have my funeral planned, wrote my last will and testament sometime back (my “estate” is a cardboard box in the far corner of my room, with a grad ring, an assortment of trinkets, a wind-up toy, letters, milestone memorabilia, and pieces of poetry scribbled on kleenex and restaurant receipts), and over the past couple of years, I’ve been slowly giving my books to important people in my life.

But all that (hopefully unnecessary) planning assumes that I die ahead of everyone else. What if we all die together, in one fell swoop, in one satellite collision? You, me, Angelina Jolie and Boutros Boutros Ghali. Two weeks from now.

What then?

Groupie!!!

Wala lang. Kakakilig. Hehe.

 

Sucker for Signs

So this morning, over the radio while having breakfast, I heard some guy talking about feng shui. I suppose these things are popular now that the Chinese New Year is drawiing near. I’m not the biggest fan of astrology but I sat up and listened when he talked about those born in the Year of the Monkey. Good year for career, for business, for travels abroad– and my best compatibility match would be with someoone from the Year of the Horse.

Because we are all secret stalkers at heart, I checked the friendster of this guy I had just met yesterday and found out he was born in 1977, which makes him one year short of being a 1978 Horse baby. (And I ALSO found out from my blockmate that he’s married so… so much for that.)

Feeling bummed out over that latest “information” (cute kasi sya talaga, at smart, at leftist, and one of those very rare breed of lawyers with absolutely no air of self-importance), but more likely because I was bored, I decided to go to the Kamuning thriftshops to look at the knickknacks there. I love doing that. And I love that it’s just two minutes away from my house. The guy manning the store was a man in his late ’60s or even older, who mumbled to himself and wasn’t particularly interested in helping me.

I saw this small vintage transistor radio and thought the price was good. While I was about to pay for it, the guy suddenly tipped over this small brass thing and it fell to the floor. I picked it up and saw that it was a tiny horse. Yeah, i know there are probably a gazillion of those, and my overactive imagination is reading signs that aren’t there, but still, i thought it was FREAKY. I asked the grumpy old man how much it was and he said “P50.00″ (hehe, cheap taiwan-made knock-off).

So yeah, now I have a completely useless horse thingy sitting on my dresser… all because one random guy was born one year too early to be a Horse and decided to get married before having met me.

Hehehe.

Para sa Magsasaka sa Anibersaryo ng Mendiola Massacre

Itong video ay sa Task Force Mapalad, hinggil sa masalimuot na usaping panlupa sa Hacienda Velez Malaga, Negros. Higit sa sampu na ang pinatay dito. Dalawampu’t isang taon na pagkatapos ng Mendiola Massacre, pinapatay pa din ang magsasaka.

Postscript. Nagmeeting kami kanina ng mga tumutulong sa Bondoc Peninsula. May bago na naman daw. Tinadtad. Luray luray hanggang bituka. Binaril pa ng ilang ulit. Bakit ganoon? Bakit walang katigil-tigil? Bakit kahit binibigay namin ang lahat lahat ng walang pagdaramot at walang alinlangan, hindi pa rin humuhupa? May araw din kayo.

M is for Meatpie and Murder

I watched Sweeney Todd yesterday and now Johnny Depp has taken over my system. When I close my eyes, I see him in full eye-linered glory, ready to slit my throat and make me a meatpie. I’m not a meatpie person (I don’t like empanadas even if they’re from Ilocos and served with special Ilocos suka, and you know what I hate more? Meatpies with raisins) so I don’t want to die and be someone’s meatpie.

I remember when I was a kid, I watched Supergirl and she defeated her opponent by placing her inside this sliver of glass.   I cried because I felt Supergirl didn’t spare her a quarter. (See, I was a sophisticated five-year-old who believed in reform-oriented justice and due process. ) For several months after, I was haunted by thoughts of being eternally trapped in a sliver of glass, mouth agape and eyes like black beads.

So yes, Supergirl and Sweeney Todd are my two scariest movies of all time.

(Tangnang hang-over to, kung anuano tuloy sinusulat ko. Serves me right for going home at 3am on a weekday. And serves you right for reading till the end.)

Last Night

Just when I thought my 2008 was going so well and I’ve never felt this calm and this centered in the past couple of years, something bad had to happen. Papa was rushed to Saint Luke’s Hospital last night over some heart complications. I’ve had some issues with my dad in the recent past, but time and accumulated affection have a way of gently bringing things to a happy resolution.  When my Mom called my cellphone to tell me she was on the way to the hospital, I felt my chest constrict. Papa was always the healthy one compared to Mama and me. Papa was our strong pole. And when your strong poles falter, it scares you because it makes everything else falter too.

***

I have this high school teacher who texts me quotes and jokes at least once a day. My friends are not the type to send forwarded messages on a daily basis, so I don’t really get a lot of those and he is virtually my only source. Usually, I delete forwarded messages after reading, but I particularly like this one that he sent last night:

“It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust, sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again’ who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause; who at least knows in the end the triumph of great achievement; and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.” – Theodore Roosevelt.

I know it’s the sort of thing that could be a wall hanging at a government office (katabi ng Desiderata), but I was at the emergency room when I got it, surrounded by all sorts of reminders that life is short and the regrets could be many.

This Made My Morning

Jeff Dunham, everyone. This is hilarious. I promise.

(Thanks, Bobby!)

UP Kong Mahal

I’ve lost count of the number of text messages I got that night, all on the same subject. “Asan ka? Pupunta ka bang UP?” From Journ friends to DebSoc friends to law friends — it seemed everyone was in the Diliman campus that Tuesday night, eagerly awaiting the kick-off ceremonies of the UP Centennial celebration. And where was I? Grumpy, bored and stringy-haired inside a bus from Bondoc Peninsula.

“Dahil naman sa UP kaya ako andito ngayon at pinagtatanggol ang hanay ng magsasaka.” That was my text to a friend.

“Weh. Inggit ka lang.” That was his reply.

Oh well, huwatever. There will still be other celebrations this year. And I did order that UP Centennial planner, which will of course arrive in February. And which of course will cost me P500.00. Sigh. Ang mahal di ba? See, if I sat on the Centennial Board, sasuggest ko talaga na yung mode of acquisition pareho nung sa Starbucks except that to get the UP planner, you’d need to get a sticker from pre-selected “iconic” places in UP. Like one sticker for a tapsilog meal in Rodics. One sticker for an Aristocart dinner. One sticker for a glass of refillable iced tea at Chocolate Kiss.

Hay naku, I swear, no one asks for my opinion in these parts. *insert deep dramatic sigh*

(And THAT’s why the theme of the UP Carillion is “The bells…. the bells… someday will be music to our ears…..” Sheht, mehn. profound. Nakakaiyak. One hundred years of producing the country’s best literary talent and we are stuck with “the bells… the bells… someday will be music to our ears….”)

But let’s not be nega. I heart UP. Super duper. Eight years of education. Six thousand a sem. Two degrees. Two boyfriends. Five unos. NO singkos.

And one survey that I copied from a college friend. Hehe. All together now… UP naming mahal, pamantasang hiraaaang, ang himig namin, sana’y iyong dinggin….. malayong lupain, amin mang marating, di rin magbabago ang damdamiiiiiiiin… di rin magbabago ang damdamin…….

1. Student Number? – 96-09617.

2. College? – College of Mass Communication and College of Law

3. Course? – BA Journalism, Law

4. Nag-shift ka ba o na-kickout? – Parang yan dalawa lang ang options haha. Nag-shift ako. From Philo to Journ.

5. Saan ka kumuha ng UPCAT? – Ang weird, hindi ko maalala. Pero kung saan man yun, hindi ko na yun napuntahan ulit nung student na ako. The entirety of that eight years. So that means sa Engineering siguro, or Stat. Or Home Economics.

6. Favorite GE subject?
~ Comm 1 at Hum 1. Lahat ng may writing writing chorva.

7. Favorite PE?
~ Cheerleading. Hehe.

8. Saan ka nag-aabang ng hot babe/men sa UP?
~ Yuck. Hindi ako nag-boboywatching. As in, I dont have a single memory of every doing that, “nag-aabang”. Bata palang ako, gusto ko na ng brilliant sexy writer bad boy. Hindi mo naman malalaman na magaling sila magsulat pag natatanaw mo lang sila. Pero in general, yung mga boyz na trip ko nasa fine arts o CAL o music.

9. Favorite prof(s)
~ Hmmm. Sa undergrad, mga teachers ko sa writing-related classes. Si Maam Malu Mangahas, si Maam Encanto. Ang di lang writing related, si Dr. Lallana sa Soc Sci 2. Sa law, si Marvic Leonen at si Teddy Te at si Dan Gat. Yung notion of demystifying and unmasking the law, sa kanila namin natutunan. Kung galing lang at wala nang ideological mooring, si Prof. Jacinto sa Corpo.

10. Pinaka-ayaw na GE subject.
~ Hum 2. Kasi di ko sya naaalala at all. 1/4 of the sem lang dumating prof namin. At Comm 2. Dahil… wala lang.

11. Kumuha ka ba ng Saturday classes?
~ Oo. Kasi sa Journ, madami kaming mga prof na may day job, so no choice. Tapos nung law, malimit na friday walang pasok, pero may pasok sa saturday.

12. Nakapag-field trip ka ba?
~ Yepz. Sa Mount Banahaw. 2nd year ata kami. Memorable sa akin kasi nagkahypothermia pa ako. Tapos kailangan ata ng body heat, so kinelangan akong yakapin nung isang mountaineer guide na higher batch. Medyo malaki syang tao, at nagkaron talaga ng moment na feeling ko hindi nga ako mamamatay sa lamig, sa asphyxiation naman.

13. Naging CS ka na ba or US sa UP?
~ CS ata. first year lang. kasi ung whole block namin binigyan ng uno sa Kas 1 dahil nagperform kami sa Intramuros, tapos tamang-tama binigyan din ako ng uno ng teacher namin sa Comm 1 dahil ako lang ata sa buong klase ang nakapagsabi na ang tula ni ee cummings na “she being brand” ay tungkol sa sex.

14. Ano ang Org/Frat/Soro mo?
~ UP debate society!!!! at up journ club. Nung law, Winlaw and my favorite law org, PVO.

15. Dorm, Boarding house, o Bahay?
~ bahay. nagboarding house lang ako nung nag-aaral sa bar. at dahil dun, mas lalo lang ako lumakas uminom.

16. Kung walang UPCAT test at malaya kang nakapili ng kurso mo sa UP, ano yun?
~ Journ talaga. I love my course. Siguro pwede ding creative writing.

17. Sino ang pinaka-una mong nakilala sa UP?
~ sina Clarissa at Elsa. Kagagaling ko lang sa chicken pox nun, two weeks ako absent sa class. So much for making a good first impression.

18. First play na napanood mo sa UP?
~ Lean the Musical. O di ba? Auspicious.

19. Saan ka madalas mag-lunch?
~ Katag, Beach House. At kung rich, Chocolate kiss. Nung law school, Mang Jimmy’s at si Mommy Thai na nasa Balara pero wala na ngayon.

20. Masaya ba sa UP?
~ super! psychedelic ride. saya ng inuman, ng pag-eexperiment, ng learning to think out of the box.

21 . Nakasama ka na ba sa rally?
~ oo naman.

22. Ilang beses ka bumoto sa Student Council–
~ every year.

23. Pinangarap mo rin bang mag-laude nung freshman ka?
~ hindi eh. hindi ako model student.

24. Kung di ka UP, anong school ka?
~ wala. UP lang talaga. joke lang. ateneo siguro or ust.

25. Nagkaboyfriend ka ba sa UP?

sino ba hindi? harhar.

On Settling (Both Down and For)

“Viable.” It was the word he used to describe his new relationship with this girl that he met, a classmate of his in PE. She was a nice girl, of steady temperament, the image of the perfect middle-class Filipina. His sister found the word strange, hard put to understand a boy in college who would use the word “viable” to describe his relationship. She asked him if she rocked his world.  “She can’t even make me laugh, Ate.” She wanted to say something more, but she bit her lip. They were, after all, siblings who couldn’t be more different. He was practical and liked consistency. His politics were conservative. And she supposed that boys like that eventually end up with girls who order iced tea in bars and they grow up and live in themed subdivisions with pompous names like Hampstead Villas. He was not deliriously in love with her, but maybe that was ok, she rationalized. Maybe delirious, earth-shaking love is only for the slightly off-kilter.

Two years later, they broke up. The sister asked him why. “I thought of a lifetime of breakfasts with her, seated across each other at the table, having nothing to talk about and not even able to make each other laugh, and it felt… interminable.”

*          *          *

They had been together for seven years, going eight. No one had believed they would make it last that long. In a society where open displays of homosexuality are still frowned upon, they celebrated their love with in-your-face abandon. They couldn’t be more different from each other, but somehow, through some sleight of hand, they came together and became this unbreakable team. Many believed the relationship would not work, as they made such an unlikely lesbian pair.

Into their eight year, their close circle of friends was shocked to find out that the pair had broken up. One of the parties broke the news that she was getting married. She had grown up with her grandmother to whom she owed her life, and her dying grandmother had made it her dying wish that she get married. It was a painful dilemma but she decided to honor the wishes of the one who had single-handedly raised her. In the arms of her confidante, she let out a torrent of tears.

Only three years later, the marriage ended. And she is back with the love that made her fly.

*          *          *

She was sick with leukemia and he promised her the best medical treatment available in the world. He knew she wanted nothing more than to be well again, to do what she wanted to do without fear that her body would fail her anytime, and he knew furthermore that he had the capacity to give it to her. But the offer of help came with an implicit condition: that they would end up together.

She was an ambitious person who wanted to do so many things, and the offer was tempting. But in him she could not see the future that she wanted, nor could she feel for him that the love she craved to feel for another human being. She knew that she would only end up hurting him and they would, between the both of them, only create a lifetime of resentment. She cared for him and wished not to hurt him. There was someone out there who could love him better than she ever could. And there was someone out there that she would love they way she wanted to love – eternal, unbridled.

Sick, scared and uncertain, she turned her back. To this day, there have been no regrets.

*          *          *

These are stories of real people, not mine certainly, but of people I know. I recount these stories now because I had a conversation very late last night with a good friend of mine. I said that for a relationship to be lasting, it has to start with fireworks. And by fireworks, I mean not fireworks of the sexual variety, but of the explosions generated by mad passionate love. Of course, at some point the fireworks will lessen in intensity, and will morph into something comfortable and reassuring (and perhaps even more wonderful), but I firmly believe that it is a prerequisite to a lifetime commitment that at one point, you were head over heels in love with the person you’ve committed yourself to.

He pointed out that people have relationships that start out with a lot of heat and fireworks, but still don’t work out. Sure, that has happened to me, I said. I guess there are external factors that make the relationship fail. Or even inherent incompatibilities. In every relationship, you take a chance. You take a gamble. But if, at the start, you enter into it half-baked, or you know you’re settling, then for me, there’s no gamble. It’s a losing hand of cards from the get-go.

I guess if there is one thing in my life that I fear, it’s settling for something. In life, as in love. I would hate to settle for a job that pays well but does not make me happy, I would hate to settle for a cause that I only half-believe in. In a similar vein, I would hate to have to settle for a relationship because it’s convenient and secure, and because from it I can expect no major fluctuations. I know myself well enough to know that that would be a disaster from the start.

Sometimes I wish it would be simpler if things like passion and intensity don’t matter as much to me. Then perhaps my life would be less psychedelic and I would find myself in a more or less stable life where the margins of error are few and far between. I’ve lost count of the number of times that I’ve had to pay for my recklessness. But I guess that’s not how I’m wired. I am not built for half-baked.

Of course this does not mean that I do not wish for calm and constancy. Roller-coaster rides can be tiring. But calm and constancy should be built on the premise of big-bang love. You are calm because you know you are with the person you want to be with, and not the person you settled for. There is no restlessness, no anxiety. You have constancy because there is nothing more that you seek, and there is joy in knowing that this is how it will be in the end.

Unlike the college boy who looks at the future and sees only long interminable breakfasts eaten in resigned silence, you look forward and see that it carries all you will ever want.

Mom

It was the year 1983. In school several years later, I would learn that the actual date is August 21, but I was only three and a half then and did not care much for dates. Our transistor radio was on, a lot of people were talking, and my parents — my Mom especially — were very agitated. I did not know what was going on. I was scooped up and placed in the backseat of our small beetle. My dad was driving and was honking the horn of the car madly. There were other cars doing the same thing. Then we saw a group of people burning tires and shouting. My dad stopped the car and my mom and I clambered up to sit on the roof. My mom always told me to take care of my things and not to destroy them, so I was puzzled why she was not the least bit angry at those people burning perfectly good tires. “Are they bad people, Mama?” I asked.

“No. The real bad person is the one that we are all fighting against. He killed an important person today. And sometimes we are forced to do these kinds of things so that the bad person will be forced to stop doing his evil.”

It was a complex concept for a three-year-old. But it was important for my mom that I got it. And I did. And what I also got was that I had a mom who, from day one, never underestimated her child’s ability to understand.

***

I was in second year college, a Journalism major at UP. The semester was ending and I found myself at my wit’s end with tons of academic requirements to complete plus a host of extra-curricular activities that I was juggling. As that particular sem was packed with Journ writing classes (feature writing, news writing, editorial writing, etc) most of the requirements had to do with passing written pieces. Since needed to submit three articles the next day,  I begged my Mom to write one article. At the time I was already earning money from free-lance writing work, so it was clear to both me and her that it was an issue simply of time management, and I was not cajoling her to write for me so I could come up with a better piece and get a higher grade.   

She refused. “In the future, I want you to be able to look yourself in the eye and say that everything with your byline is entirely a product of your own mind.”

(Of course, several years later, when I mentioned this to her, she laughed and snorted and told me, “tinatamad lang ako nun. nyahaha. pero buti na din di ka naging plagiarist.”)

***

My Mom cannot cook to save her life. Once, she learned how to make refrigerator cake, and for maybe ten Christmases we would have refrigerator cake and office raffle-won ham. Lately, after a weekend with some nuns, she was taught how to make buco sherbet. Now, she is on a sherbet-making frenzy. First buco, then lychee, then peach. She is threatening to make sherbets of the thirteen New Year fruits.

Once, she attended this new agey seminar at the behest of a friend and was annoyed at this overbearing woman who went on and on about how a good mom cooks for her kids. Feed them, feed their aura, yadidadida. She pursed her lips into a thin disapproving line when my Mom intimated that she does not know how to cook.

My mom retorted, “I call for pizza, sit down with them to eat, talk to them about life and raise them to be good, non-judgmental kids.” 

(And that is why we are what we are now: fat and mulat.)

Happy 52nd birthday, Mom. I love you.

P.S. Only a few days ago, someone who perhaps had some differences with my Mom several years ago (he thinks my mom singled him out for being an activist and disapproved of his activities; when in fact the only problem she had was that he did not meet his deadlines), said to my face, meaning to compliment me,  ”But you are nowhere like your Mom.” As far as I am concerned, that can only be an insult to ME. Dude, you don’t have a clue.