FLUCKABLABENSCHUT

Daze Maze

2012-01-19T14:20:00.001+08:00

It’s not sleepwalking, so I don’t know what keeps me up at night. Beyond 11 in the evening, there’s no going beyond the apartment, unless I walk a kilometer to reach the village’s gate, and another 500 meters to get to 7-Eleven – my ultimate destination even if it’s really a non-place. Too generic/uniform to really mean anything, and I always just come and go. I never stay to talk to the cashiers or commune with the products.

So I usually go downstairs. I check the fridge, surf the channels, and loathe the stains on the white walls – a consequence perhaps of partying without chairs. Most of them come from dirty elbows or shoes that results when one leans against the surface, or Alex’s paws when she tries to catch a lizard or a moth. The recliner’s usually where I end up lounging. I bought this at a bargain from a friend who lived in the same village. I managed to dismantle it into two pieces, squeezed it in the car and ended up looking like a complex alternative for the ‘square peg in a round hole’ metaphor.

“Don’t worry if you can’t figure in. It’s just a case of being a mangled recliner in a ’97 Mitsubishi.”

Sometimes I go outside, at the open garage or the backyard where I’d find things to tinker with. It used to be empty bottles of liquor and beer which I would rearrange into neat pyramids or systematic rows. These days though it’s the kittens. Two of them, one named Sammy Davis Jr., and the other one named Lou Greta.

I keep myself awake at nights for no reason. I get frustrated at myself coz I know that my fake nostalgia will only lead to two consequences: first, go through the day like a zombie, or second, wake up at 2 in the afternoon. I can’t decide which one I like better. For the first one, the tasks I finish and errands I run end up shitty. As for the second, it means I’ll be awake again the whole night and will have to contend with ‘breaking the cycle.’ Something I’m not particularly willing to do. Y’see, systems are romantic.

Sometimes I think. And when I do it lasts. I can sit idle for hours, maybe come up with a good plot for a movie, apply the theory of ‘legitimation of the present’ to, I don’t know, modernist architecture or something. Last night, I thought about how Manila requires you to live fast, gather memories unrelentingly, the carrying space of time stretched to encompass the rabid stimuli of urban existence. It all means one thing to me: I have to forget fast as well. No wonder I get nostalgic so easily. My reference was Paul Virilio’s dromology.

Often I am afraid of my own imagination and would rather just plan, list or organize. I’m scared of how easy and fast I can navigate through fantasies and ideas recklessly without hesitation. I feel like if I do not restrain myself, I’d reach my subconscious and hate my mother, just like what Freud said.

I go back to my bed, curl into helplessness, and begin my sleep with the thought that tomorrow, when I wake up, I will analyze my dreams.

Summary

2012-01-13T09:53:00.001+08:00

It was quite fun hosting this year’s New Year’s party for my friends. Just like last year, the set-up included the apartment’s roof deck, a lot of loud music, fireworks, booze, and disrespect for our neighbors. However, I think most people came on the prospect of Raf outdoing himself. Which happened, by the way. Y’see, Raf was smashed beyond wits during last year’s party and we were all secretly hoping he’d surpass his wastedness this year. True enough, he fell from the roof and landed flat on his face.

It was funny for two reasons: first, he got drunk from his own concoctions; and second, the facewhacking came abruptly amidst heavy cheering and egging, silencing everyone in an instant. It was like those anticlimactic moments in slapstick movies where a character massively disappoints a hyped crowd.

It was not funny for two reasons. First, Raf is a good friend, he truly is. Second, we all thought he died. Fortunately, he only suffered cuts on his chin (which required four stitches) and a minor amnesia. Poor guy still can’t remember what happened.

Anyway, I’ve realized nostalgia is best mitigated by tradition, or at least things that occur regularly. So the mission is to keep hosting this party year after year ‘till I lose the apartment or my friends abandon me, whichever comes first.

***

Got the honor of being Jason’s best man. I think I had him at our mutual appreciation of Hangover and our common hope that it’d happen to us at our bachelor’s parties. But, we’ve known each other for about 8 years now and our friendship has been strengthened by a little animosity and a huge deal of goodwill, respect and shared experiences.

As the best man, the task of hosting the party fell (hard) on my shoulders. I’m not supposed to talk about it coz it’s part of the best man-groom code. All I can say is that we partied in style.

Anyway, below are excerpts of my best man’s speech.

“We’ve been through so much together. And though this is a huge moment for you, I can’t help but feel nostalgic reminiscing of those days when all that really mattered were unopened bottles of gin or rum, and classes that could be missed the next day. But you have gone such a long way from those days.

“You’ve traded your headlamps for twinkling Christmas lights that now adore your home; You’ve swapped outdoor Casio wristwatches for a set of gentlemanly chronometers. And most importantly, you’ve traded your Coleman hiking boots for those fancy leather shoes that make you look four inches taller.

“But knowing you, this isn’t settling down, this is just setting up. I know your sense of adventure will remain insatiable. Your passions and interests will always be precise and thorough. Because that’s what you are: a grand lover of life.

“And I am glad that you have found someone with whom you can share your brand of living with. Nice, you look astoundingly beautiful. Jason is lucky to have you as his wife and I have no doubt in my heart that you and Jason are perfect for each other.”

***

‘Will be going to South Africa this coming April for a competition on International Humanitarian Law. Although I’m a bit excited coz of Mandela, apartheid and great white sharks, I can’t help but feel a bit anxious about this whole thing. Right now, I’m in a very, very tense state, with graduation just around the corner. Thing is, in law school, three months is a long time for shit to happen. I’m bracing myself for surprise attacks on my degree. Can’t be too sure in this life.

Analog-ish

2011-12-21T01:00:00.011+08:00

'Must admit, not into taking pictures a lot this year. Below are a few from 2011.

This was taken on the first day of 2011 when we just moved in.

Later that same day, we partied. Notice Alex, and Raf being very drunk.

Summer of 2011. My mountaineer friends and I climbed Mt. Kinabalu, 5,000+ meters above sea level.

This is the Bataan Nuclear Power Plant. It looks mesmerizing.

That's Monica (in the foreground) and Dana, drinking while we were at Bataan.

Dad's first ever exhibit. He sold a painting the same day.

Me and my Morrissey hair. I smoked a lot in 2011.

Bukidnon Fantasies

2011-11-23T10:57:00.001+08:00

Have you ever seen Bukidnon’s landscape? The high plateaus and the massive canyons? The highest mountain range in the country? It’s breathtaking.

I was born in Malaybalay, Bukidnon on September 25, 1990. It’s a small town where the weather is cool and the pine trees stand tall. Around it are vast plains and pasturelands, forests and mighty rivers. One may compare it with the Cordilleras. But Bukidnon is more sprawling, more countryside, while Cordillera is tougher, more rugged. I’ve always loved the fact that I was born there, partly because it gives me some credibility when I say I love nature, and partly because it’s so random. Neither of my parents lived in Bukidnon and it amazes me how I made my fucking entry into this life at Bethel Hospital. There’s some authenticity there I guess, as “randomness” is central to my life’s philosophy of hedonism/anarchy/indie.

I dream of being able to one day live in Bukidnon. I’ve already bought a parcel of land there using my scholarship money. Nothing fancy, nothing grand, just some property lying on the edge of a ridge, high over a gushing river. In the future, I hope to construct a quaint cabin out of recycled wood, Mangima rocks, and treated pine. The ground level will be one open space, with a huge glass wall facing the west. Outside, a sweeping veranda that looks out to Mount Dulang-dulang, a mountain I’ve climbed twice and will climb again many more times in my lifetime, y’know if cancer or depression doesn’t get to me first. Above the den will hang my dad’s paintings, while the plush sofas will be scattered with Talaandig sheets. A flight of stairs will lead to the attic’s two bedrooms, both with a view of the gorges and the pastures.

I’ll invite my friends over for the weekend, especially those from Manila. I’ll show them my herb and vegetable garden, and I’ll have them pluck and nip for their meals. In my cupboard will be some fine stash of goods bought during my requisite trips to Manila: exquisite cheese from Italy and wines from Rioja, olive oil and maybe some sea salt from Lebanon to heighten that hipster effect. My lolo’s die-cast manual coffee-maker will be churning brews of Guintobdan coffee shipped straight from the slopes of Mount Kanlaon. We’ll smoke cigars out on the veranda, play with memory and shit. When night comes, in the bonfire’s warmth and over scotch, we’ll talk about the next day’s horseback riding at my grandmother’s farm a few hours north, or maybe golf at the nearby Del Monte Club for my lawyer friends. Of course there’s fresh water fishing, the ultralight flying, or the 4x4 riding. Or we could just be spiritual and stick with the pot smoking. Lots of options, really.

By the time their cathartic visit ends, my friends will probably realize that the reason why I didn’t make it big in life coz I’ve always had the spirit of an artist. But I’ll know in my heart it’s just a pretentious excuse.

Bitch please, the reason why I didn’t make it big is the internet.

Cyberbullying

2011-11-16T16:38:00.001+08:00

The proliferating Smart-Bros, Globe Tattoos and the cheap internet have given most people the access and false sense of duty to air their opinions on every damn issue that seems to grab headlines or virally infect the internet’s mimetic culture. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in freedom of speech and expression. Unfortunately, I equally believe that such freedom is best exercised in contemplative restraint and sobriety. So, allow me to bully someone using the rainbow of logic just so I can drive the point that execrable and illogical online commentary does not further democratization or “freedom,” whatever the hell that means.

I just came across this one comment on one of those news sites. The headine said something like “Constitutional Crisis Feared.” This is in reference, of course, to the recent showdown between the DOJ and the Supreme Court. The comment says:

“DE LIMA IS JUST FOLLOWING THE CORRECT PROCEDURE
SHE IS NOT DISOBEYING THE SC NA MGA TUTA NI ARROYO, MGA WALANG DELIKADISA!!
THE DECISION BY THE APPOINTEES OF ARROYO DURING HER ADMINISTRATION IS A GESTURE OF PAYING NOT BECAUSE IT IS THE RIGHT THING TO DO
HOY MGA JUDGES YOUR DUTIES ARE FOR THE INTEREST OF THE FILIPINO PEOPLE NOT THE PERSON WHO APPOINTED YOU. IF THERE WILL BE CONSTITUTIONAL CRISIS IS BECAUSE OF JUDGES DECISION WHICH IS A CLEAR WAY OF PAYING BACK A FAVOR, HUAG NINYO KAMING LOKOHIN!!”

Fist of all, Caps Lock. Second of all, double punctuations!!

The comment starts off with a simple observation. “DE LIMA IS JUST FOLLOWING THE CORRECT PROCEDURE.” Simple as it sounds, this first line actually sets the context for the rest of the comment for two reasons. First, it provides a solid grasp of the position of the writer, i.e. that she supports De Lima. Fair enough. We can take positions in the court of public opinion, yeah? Second, the reader may reasonably expect that the comment will proceed to elaborate on a presumed “correct procedure.” At this point, the law, court rules, or maybe due process comes to mind. It gets exciting now, just because a real issue exists as to what the correct procedure really is. When the comment states that “SHE IS NOT DISOBEYING THE SC…”, the flames of anticipation are fanned. Perfect. Now my thoughts are starting to form a coherent idea of where this remark is going.

But like a back hand slap to the cheek of everything that is good and reasonable in the world of rationality, the comment states: “THE SC NA MGA TUTA NI ARROYO, MGA WALANG DELIKADESA.” Excuse me, but I feel quite offended here. I was just about to relax and bask in the appearance of coherence like any other modern person would when these blitzkrieg indictments, quite passionately unrelated to the previous statements too, make a bold and abrupt entry into the whole picture. Nevertheless, after a momentary shock and a slight moral displacement on my part, I start to realize that maybe what the writer is saying is that an SC who is comprised of uncouth puppies should not be followed. Point taken. A partisan SC is no SC. There’s some logic there, I’m sure.

Until, the next sentence: “THE DECISION BY THE APPOINTEES OF ARROYO DURING HER ADMINISTRATION IS A GESTURE OF PAYING NOT BECAUSE IT IS THE RIGHT THING TO DO.” A careful reading reveals that this sentence is actually quite enigmatic, mysterious, spectral even! Let me break it down. The “decision” is a “gesture of paying.” Paid by whom and for what, you may ask? Well, Justices are paying the Arroyos because GMA appointed the justices! Fine, fine. It’s a common remark/fear/belief. One problem though. There’s no substantiation. No proof. No premise. What led the writer to conclude that appointments lead to beholden-ness or indebtedness? Natural reactions? Intuitive suspicion? Probabilities? Love and gratitude? More importantly, what is it about this specific TRO that reeks of “paying” so much so that its issuance cannot be, for all intents and purposes, on the ground that “it [was] the right thing to do?”

Worse, the tirade goes on to say that “HOY MGA JUDGES YOUR DUTIES ARE FOR THE INTEREST OF THE FILIPINO PEOPLE NOT THE PERSON WHO APPOINTED YOU.” Great! I completely agree in the same sense that I agree with the statement that “an apple is not an orange.” It doesn’t really mean anything, now does it? Everyone with decent intelligence can come up with this reminder/truism. It’s like reminding a kid not to talk to strangers. It’s completely true, that is why its redundant/irrelevant in the space of public discourse. It only becomes so when it is established that the acts of the judges are indeed for the interest of the appointing authority. There was no showing of this though, so the sentence is meaningless.

Now to the last sentence: “IF THERE WILL BE CONSTITUTIONAL CRISIS IS BECAUSE OF JUDGES DECISION WHICH IS A CLEAR WAY OF PAYING BACK A FAVOR, HUAG NINYO KAMING LOKOHIN!!” Again, I’m sick and tired of empty allegations. Please, please, just back it up. But you may retort: we are not in the court of law, and therefore I don’t need to present proof of anything! Of course we are not in a court of law, and of course you don’t “need” to present proof in the mandatory or obligatory sense. If you don’t however, you risk the judgment of silliness or naiveté in a world where reason is the primary motor of the language you use. What the hell does this have to do with de Lima following the correct procedure anyway? Y’know, that first sentence you wrote which made the most sense.

I’m being a snobbish bully here, I apologize. And who knows, the writer may have been a 13-year old or a senile octogenarian, in which case, high regard is in only proper. But even then, comments like these are emblematic of the ever-saturating and burgeoning discursive landscape for opinions and comments. The trick to increased sophistication in public debates is not through deluge and noise-making. Instead, the space for discussion is benefited (in a democratic sense) if opinion itself accounts for the possibility of hierarchization. Y’know, that subliminal belief that some opinions are better than others. Just saying.

Critiquesque

2011-11-14T10:27:00.003+08:00

Sometimes, when I have nothing to write, I write bullshit. To wit:

October 23, 2011

I was just contemplating about the relationships between the State and the Commons when I realized that Roland Barthes was sitting on my shelf. I remember him as encapsulating my long-held suspicion against naturality, or the uninterrogated states of knowledge that are accepted as universal and enduring. He said it was through “mythologies” that we organize our lives and which define our relationship to and with the world. These mythologies are modes of thinking that have gained a history of being true and stable collective logics. It’s interesting because it disturbs stability. In my life right now, anything that justifies instability is a friend.

So with the State, I realized that mythologies may partly explain why we have the Regalian doctrine. Simply, the doctrine urges that land ownership traces its origin back to the State at all times. It sounds quite ridiculous, as we all know that the State is quite a modern creation. How can something so new own everything? Yet, we accede to its rule nevertheless. The Commons – or those domains possessed and cultivated by groups or communities since time immemorial, even prior to the inception of States – serve as an inconsolable challenge to this long-standing legal fiction we all call the Regalian doctrine. On a more personal note, I really don’t like law. Or to be more precise, I really hate the idea that law is studied as an isolated phenomenon. Maybe that is why I’ve been longing for a performative critique against it this whole time.

Carrying on, the Commons may be viewed as the embodiment of Regalian doctrine’s internal contradiction, that is if we are to view this incompatibility in a Marxian sense. In essence, logics that have embedded and inextricable ironies are false logics, like capitalism. And so I wonder if the health of the Regalian doctrine can continue to withstand its cancerous subaltern. In my research proposal for my Supervised Legal Research, I recently wrote:

"The postmodern criticism against totalizing narratives insists that homogeneity is an impossible project. This critique espouses the position that the constant assimilation of events and phenomenon into the 'generalizing logics' creates injustices. One such logic is the Regalian Doctrine. This research paper seeks to articulate the postmodern critique by contrasting the fundamental assumptions of the Regalian Doctrine against the persistent existence of the Commons. I will attempt to argue how, despite the two concepts’ antithetical logics, the two are presented as a coherent whole in the modern understanding of land ownership. In particular, I will show how the concept of the Commons has been recuperated into a less aggressive form of opposition by its reconfiguration as 'Ancestral Domain.'"

One of my favorite quotes is from Carl Schmitt, a German thinker whose work on sovereignty has been seeing a resurgence of sorts lately, much thanks to Giorgio Agamben for reinterpreting his ideas on Homo Sacer. It goes: “the general rule means nothing, the exception means everything.” If it is true that the Commons serves as both a contradiction and an exception, it is not hard to concede that the Regalian doctrine – and all the legal legacy it bore – may just be one well-veiled mythology.

Sem Break

2011-11-10T02:53:00.001+08:00

Went to Iloilo over the break with Monica. It’s an enthralling city, one with a very healthy mix of urbanity and history. The old district was particularly interesting with its old art deco buildings and arcaded streets that resembled Recto in Manila, only cleaner and more intact. I love heritage structures, especially those that announce their history loudly and ostentatiously, like the old houses around Jaro Plaza where the miradors, colonnaded porte cocheres and huge persianas tucked behind large capiz windows all tell stories of a glorious past. The names don’t fake the grandeur either - houses of the Ledsma, Lizares, Locsin and Lopez clans bear the southern industry with pride and success.

In the eastern side sits the more modern part of the city, with squares filled with fancy restaurants, gentrified into old river banks where the lights from the bars breathed life to a thriving nightlife. It was Halloween when we were there, and Ilonggo creativity reminded me of how aspirations can get too Western at times. I saw at least three pirates. But who knows? Iloilo was a significant Spanish port that constantly defended against Moro marauders. There might have been some locality to the Jack Sparrows of October 31.

***

It was in Concepcion, 4 hours northwest of Iloilo, that all the elements of my idea of the beach conspired. It’s a poor town with poor infrastructure and tacky resorts. I don’t mind the absence of modernity though. In fact, I secretly wish ruggedness and a bit of discomfort in my trips coz it makes me feel more ‘backpacked’ than I’d actually care to concede. Anyway, off the town’s coast lie a bundle of unbelievably beautiful islands whose climax comes in the form of a huge, towering limestone monster of a mountain called Pan de Azucar.

In the main island, a woman tried to sell us some tropical real estate. I asked her if she owned an elevated patch of land I noticed hours earlier on the approach to the coast. She said she didn’t, but that she’d escort me to the owner. After an hour’s trek, we located the owner who was ambivalent in selling this parcel of rolling terrain which was perched atop a high cliff that fell directly onto pristine turquoise blue reefs. To boot, it had the best unobstructed view of the limestone mountain.

I don’t know if I’ll ever buy that land, coz in hindsight, I don’t actually have any money and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to utilize it the way I fantasize the idea in my head: a modest hut with a wide open porch where I will sit on blue chairs while smoking a cigar over champagne/scotch and exquisite seafood, sunlight on maximum.

***

I spent three days in Baler with my good friends Aames, Paul and Raf. They’re the best crew for lazy out-of-towners. Raf drives like crazy through rough terrain but makes the best coffee with his portable espresso machine, Aames offers the intense conversations which involve only either political debates or sex, and Paul sort of neutralizes with his composure and choice words. I usually play the part of a dictator-singer-songwriter. Anyway, Baler was on fire! Never seen beach breaks host swells as huge as the ones that weekend. The first day I tried to get through the breakers and to the lineup where waves were at their most prime, but my endurance just wasn’t enough for the powerful whitewash. So I settled with paddling and surfing secondary waves – which were not bad at all considering most were almost overhead.

On the last day I made the bid to get beyond the breakers, and after a grueling paddle out to the lineup, I finally reached the golden spot where things were more peaceful. I rested for about 15 minutes to regain some strength in my arms, and when the perfect wave rolled towards me, I paddled so hard I almost dislocated my shoulder. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to turn my board in time and ended up being wiped out in grand fashion midway. I twisted and turned underwater like I never twisted and turned before. As I buoyed up above the surface moments later, a second huge wave pummeled me again, and this time my leash broke off and my surf board got lost in the current.

So, in the middle of harsh waves and deep Pacific water, I tried to fight the panic and the exhaustion. I couldn’t reach the sea floor, and was too weak to swim to shore. I made the choice to just keep floating rather than exhaust myself to death. Consequently, I took some more thrashing and slipped helplessly up and down the sea before I decided I was strong enough to start swimming to shallower waters. I finally reached the shore with a realization that with surfing, the stakes are only going to get higher. No surfer ever graduates from near-death experiences.

Commarb Random Notes

2011-10-03T20:07:00.003+08:00

A six-hour class is a true tragedy. By choice or by consequence, my mind floats. Below is a sample of the things that i doodle /write/muse. Glimpse of coherence, y'all.

I wish I were a real artist, that way, I can get away with unkempt hair and be blithe about recitations. I’m tired of playing this ‘take me seriously’ thing. ‘Never was my style anyway.

I’ll just keep doodling, I’ll appear busy while I do a mental rantfest.

It’s too windy outside. ‘Worried about the car getting hammered by a falling acacia trunk. I feel kinda sorry for all the fallen acacias caused by Pedring. The university oval’s tree-lined look makes UP feel ancient, which is a good thing.

It’s my sister’s birthday today. I miss her a lot.

What the fuck really happened to Louis Althusser? Or Nicos Poulantzas? Or Roland Barthes? Why did they die tragically/fantastically?

Write. Write. Write. Write. That’s the biggest lie ever. I’d rather not write.

I enjoy this class. For some weird reason, law with an international component is much more interesting than local laws. Either I’m a secret euromaniac, or I’m too special to be doing ‘Philippine law.’

If my absolute net worth is 1 million pesos, and I find a Ronald Ventura that sells for 1.2 million, I’d sell myself and my inheritance to buy that piece.

The day you reject objectivity is the day you become free.

“Waves are coming. Paddle hard. Harder!” Someone on the shore is holding her breath. "You can catch it!" I see you bob up and down, where the waves are harmless, pre-break. I’m nearer to the shore, where the chase is real. “Paddle harder!” The break makes an artificial rain from sea foam. The sun hurts, but I’ll paddle harder. (Another burst-fiction)

Max Out

2011-09-29T14:06:00.000+08:00

I’ve realized that the end is almost in sight. My (overdue) career as a law student, if things go smoothly, will finally come to its anticlimactic conclusion soon. Like less than six months, give or take. So, unless I end up eating my words for being too anticipating, I might as well make the most out of it.

And I have been. I, along with a few friends, hosted a party just last week where booze was free flowing and music was A-thumping. The apartment was filled to the brim, with new and old friends and strangers coming from all directions. Cases and cases of beer went through the quick and standard course of storage-refrigeration-distribution-consumption-disposal. To a few innocent souls, an additional step of “persuasion” was necessary, mostly ending in the different and expected final stage of regurgitation.

It was customary to most though, as almost everyone there has had some respectable mileage in the alcohol department and needed no convincing whatsoever. In fact, most of us found ourselves bored at how commonplace it was to just gorge on the booze. Either we’re all alcoholic or life fucked the collective joy out of us just the same.

Anyway, I made this special playlist just ‘coz I felt the mission to re-orient people’s party music taste towards the hipster version. So on my monopolistic hold over the iPod, the latest from M83, Friendly Fires, Holy Ghost, Bag Raiders and Craft Spells filled the air all night. ‘Kinda feeling proud about being such a good influence.

But really, it’s quite depressing seeing drunk people dance to Phoenix or Black Eyed Peas, or good lord, Bennie Benassi. Intoxication is supposed to enhance receptivity to the transcendental, and remaining in that level after all the alcohol I’ve dangled in front of everyone’s face would’ve surely made me feel lame.

Anywhore, things turned a bit messy towards the end, with people getting indecent and puking and riding out bad trips. Of all phases in parties, I like this part the least mostly ‘coz I’m normal and it’s just normal for people to hate this part of a party, and partly coz I’m terribly awkward at making people leave. Especially so in this case where I had class at 8 in the morning.

I made it, by the way, and I tried so hard not to pass out in that class. I reminded myself the whole three hours that being a student will have to end soon, and I might as well make the most of it by keeping my neck upright and my digestive system in order so I can soak up each drop of the contradiction. Soon after, I thought, predicaments and ironies like this will become nostalgic anecdotes to an optimized university life. Quite sobering, isn’t it?

East Coast

2011-09-17T13:15:00.001+08:00

Some of the things I’ve written about my backpacking trip last year, edited for the purposes of this blog, i.e. ‘protecting my dignity’ and ‘readability.’

I found myself leaving at the dead of night, when buses travelled the highways with their windows open. At the terminal, I boarded a shuttle to Butuan, five hours away from where I was. I’d reach that city before sunrise, and the connecting transit to Tandag won’t be on schedule until a couple of hours after. It took me a long time to decide if I should buy breakfast already, considering that if my memory serves me right, the station there is at least a couple of kilometers from the city center. I don’t intend to walk that dark distance.

***

I finally arrived in Lanuza, a fascinating place for those who take surfing seriously, excluding myself. I can’t quite figure out why I decided to go here. They said the waves were good, empty and diverse. I saw it. They weren’t lying. I’d be corrupting their passions if I didn’t agree, but the thing is, the place demands respect. I’m reminded of my displeasure at people who profess their love for the same things that took me a whole lot of time nurturing to fully understand. I wouldn’t say “I love The Smiths” if I didn’t agree completely with Morrissey’s words saying “we hate it when our friends become successful.” It’s easy to post pictures, proclaim in status messages how beautiful or how cool something/someone is; it’s much more difficult to truly mean what you publish. I wondered if I did my serious surfer friends the same irritation by being here. I’m no real surfer.

***

I met this old French guy named Jacques (what else could his name be) who had a riverside chalet in typical tropical design. He’s an architect from Paris, and told me stories of the years he lived in a boat in the Siene. I’ve been eating off canned goods in roadside inns for about four days now, reading Brownlie’s seminal Public International Law for some weird reason that I can only peg on the need to be ironic. Anyway, he served me some grilled swordfish, cumin peppered vegetables and some local shrimp. With beer and some David Bowie in the background, it was an unexpected feast of the poetic variety.

***
Drank with Peter the night before the local barangay elections. The place I’m staying in was empty then, and on the way back from the bay earlier in the afternoon I noticed the proliferation of checkpoints and armed men on patrol. Peter told me how afraid and tense the owner of the resort was the past few hours. He was running for a seat in the Council, and was advised by the police to leave town. Peter was probably worried as well, but I told him this is normal for a place like this. In California where he comes from, nobody cares about elections he says. He told me things about Mexico and Guatemala and Bali and all the places he’s travelled to the past three years. He quit his job as part of a Hollywood production crew to surf the world, and told me Lanuza was up there in his list. He introduced me to Com Truise, a chillwave band he once saw live, and promised me he’d meet me in Manila were we could trade more music.

***

Barobo is a messy, rowdy, wild city. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry, and everyone seemed to be carrying at least three bags. As I elbowed my way through to the dusty disorderly bus station, I noticed all the the piercing stares invited some form of response, as if I’m expected to explain and say “I’m travelling, I’m from Manila.” No doubt, I was wearing board shorts and a straw hat with a giant backpack on and didn’t look assimilated, to say the least. This is the part where the trip had taken a totally unchartered flavor, I thought. The heart of Mindanao. I asked around, almost hopelessly or aimlessly, for the bus that would take me to Lingig. No one seemed to know and it was only by chance that I heard the barker shout the name of the place. I ascended to the double-tired jeepney and found my uncomfortable seat amidst an aisle of assorted vegetables, cans and sacks. On the roof were chests filled with ice and fish, more fruits, charcoal and firewood, chickens, a few cases of beer and retail stuff. I was tempted to ride top load, but was discouraged by my own sense of false safety.

***

I reached Cateel in the sweltering heat of a concrete road, and sweat was trickling down my nape when I finally found a place to stay in. It was a wooden house set in the middle of town where the streets were lined with hardware stores, shops that sold livestock feeds, and generic bakeries. That was also where I would attempt to hire a motorcycle ride for a stretch of beach I’ve been researching on four a couple of months already. I didn’t know how far it was from town, or if there’s even a road to get there. I don’t like being at the mercy of the driver’s terms and not knowing if I’m getting a good deal. But what gives? It’s the Manila in me talking and for sure sincerity and candidness go a long way in places like these. Plus, it’s been almost eight days now, and all the public transport I’ve negotiated has been terribly draining.

***

Travelling by habal habal is by far my favorite way to see the countryside. The driver’s name was Tata, and he’s shown me a lot of interesting places already, including this old plaza where he claims that the Rizal statue in the middle was made by an Italian sculptor. I believed him, particularly because the statue had a refinement unlike any other I’ve seen. The coat-tailed suit had detailed creases and the proportions were perfect. He showed me a beach cove with golden sand and turquoise waters, tucked behind a lush strip of rainforest. He marketed his town well, and even brought me to a place where they sold powdered mountain chili. The best place he took me to was this seven-kilometer stretch of blistering open beach with a scale fit for a military landing. The waves crashed with commitment, and at times I saw them swell over 10 feet tall. From the one end of the stretch, it was impossible to see the other, and I tried with all the assistance my contact lens provided to see beyond the sea mist that hazed the panorama. It became pointless to insist, especially since the big blue Pacific roars in front – a perfect view that divided the midday into sky and sand.

***

I bumped into a barangay official who offered me some lunch at his house. I accepted, not expecting that he’d be serving me fresh lobsters plucked off the reef not far from his house. Over lunch, he told me stories of how the mountains of Compostella Valley were once lush with jaguars and the swamplands in the valleys were the kingdom of the crocodiles. While stroking his white hair, he gestured at the size of a shark they once caught just off the shore. After lunch he invited me to climb up a huge rock that overlooked the ocean where we drank a bottle of Tanduay. It was still quite the height of noon then, but with my shades on, a full belly, a clear sky and the long, peeling barrels from a reef break roaring us by at the distance, there was guilt in complaining about anything really.

Dance! And then Depress.

2011-09-15T02:01:00.001+08:00

1. M83 – Midnight City
2. Friendly Fires – Live Those Days Like Tonight
3. Holy Ghost – Wait and See
4. Passion Pit – The Reeling
5. Cut Copy – Take Me Over
6. Foster the People – Houdini
7. Babe Rainbow – Greed
8. Tune-Yards – My Country
9. Starfucker – Julius
10. Washed Out – Within and Without
11. Bon Iver – Holocene

A lot of familiar names in this predominantly dance-y playlist. Things open up with M83’s Midnight City from its massively stunning “Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming” album – easily this year’s best release for me. Friendly Fires, Passion Pit and Bon Iver are among 2011’s most anticipated artists. Holy Ghost!’s catchy Wait and See is a nostalgic discotheque tune, as is Foster the People’s Houdini (more original than their ubiquitous Pumped Up Kicks). Tune-Yards’ My Country is the opening track from their mercurial release, “W H O K I L L,” which to me should be among the top albums for 2011. Things close down with Starfucker and Washed Out, and finally Bon Iver’s Holocene, whose music video by the way is very, very panoramic.

Blink and You'll Miss A Revolution*

2011-09-14T21:07:00.001+08:00

Music is my only freedom these days. I tend to my iTunes like any proper hipster would: check out the blogs, feel the buzz, and add premium to the obscurer bands/songs. I find authenticity in ‘discovering’ music because I’m contrived like that, and for some reason, I subscribe to mimesis. That’s the most Darwinian I can get. But for the most part, music to me is all about the isolation, the non-standard, and the need to get legally high every now and then. And the narratives. Music adds another dimension, yeah?

Yesterday, I participated in a protest against the Philippine Mining Act at the DENR office. At the vanguard were the so-called indigenous peoples bearing placards of carefully crafted emblems of oppression. After all the chants and the street polemics we headed to the training center for the debrief. We ate crab and shrimp fresh from a barrio in Masbate, a mining hotspot. It’s all a part of work, I’d say, but in my heart of hearts, I am political.

I smoked up on the roof deck four stories up where the view over New Manila felt colonial. Towering Miradors from old houses pierced the canopy of the acacias. I’ve been told these are the homes of families who come mostly from Quiapo. There’s arrogance here, I guess. But I enjoyed the sun against my arms, and the heat from the asphalt coated floor.

I didn’t have my iPod then, but I wished I did. The decision I concocted to finally resign from work would have been easier, much more cinematic for sure. I’m so full of shit when it comes to life decisions, coz I don’t really have any criterion to set myself against. I just feel exhausted, that’s all. And when in doubt, remember, the physical is logical.

I would’ve loved me some M83 right there. They released a new album y’know.

*title from Cut Copy

Nuclear Spectacular

2011-09-06T21:04:00.001+08:00

August was totally exhausting. In between being a student, a pseudo-lawyer for OLA, and advocate for an NGO, and a ghost-writer for a book, I found time to think about not killing myself. It’s funny how I’m stretching myself this thinly when in all truth, I’m really not a multi-tasker. But, I’ve picked up the skill of brushing my teeth with my left hand and simultaneously combing my hair.

***

After Sunday class, I went home to a bright apartment. Sun’s out after a coupla weeks of hiding behind demonic clouds. Waking up to some sunshine was a feeling all too pleasant to forget that I had to go to class. At home, I thought about how it’s a good time to read some book since I can’t remember when I last tended to my English Literature degree. The first one off the shelf when I reached my room was Jack Kerouac’s Dharma Bums. I lit a cigarette, sat on the wing chair and threw the pages open with insolent hunger. I’ve never really liked Beat Literature, but Kerouac’s open tales about being on the road, set in the 50s in the America that the gains of WWII never reached was far too awesome for me to dismiss. And, the guy has style. It was a half after three when I finished the book, and strangely, felt the urge to walk the dog around the village. Alex loves her walk and I’m somewhat fascinated by middle class suburbia, especially now that the sun was at it’s brightest. I put my fake aviators on, grabbed the leash and some ice cream from the fridge and headed out to Albert.

***

The four-day weekend was supposed to have been spent on an island off northern Cagayan. Only that a typhoon made its only landfall there. It was quite devastating for someone like me who’s longed for a road trip for about a quarter of a year already. I had plans of traversing untouched jungles and uninhabited landscape for hours before reaching Faro de Capo Engano, a century old lighthouse perched on a point break where waves crashed violently. Fortunately, my friends and I had a back-up plan: go to the nearest beach somewhere south where the rainbands were beginning to fade. So we headed to Bataan Monday morning and scoured our way through the rocky coastline hoping to find some unknown beach or cheap inns, whichever came first. Its ridiculous how roadtrips like these unfold, coz consensus is so far off the horizon that only resignation really works. Fortunately we stumbled upon this pristine isolated cove in the Nuclear Plant complex after hours of negotiating a permit. The plant itself looked grand and edificial: dictatorship architecture standing for megalomaniacal aspirations.

We only had a permit to head directly to the beach, but not the plant itself. But deviance had me sneaking my way to the open parking lot where the whole thing could be seen. As I inched cautiously forward, Petra played her meltdown alarm ringtone. Y’know, that sound they blast in submarines and underground military tunnels? The kind that’s scientifically proven to induce panic? All of what was left of my decaying criminal soul jumped out of my stiff body faster that I can say “guilty!” I really thought we breached some security beams or that snipers had my forehead on target.

The beach was marvellous, by the way, in the meta or hipster sense coz it’s impressionably radioactive.

Cut and Paste

2011-08-12T22:00:00.001+08:00

Snippets. Coz I’ve resigned to the idea that the media, inherently, always reduces. No matter how exhaustive the narrative, something is always never said. It’s like the Lacanian ‘lack.’ Or just plain indolence.

***

Finally found my way to Boston Art Gallery last Saturday. To my pleasant surprise, the Gallery is owned by the same guy who runs Pinto Art Gallery up in the mountains of Antipolo. This one though, located at the heart of New Manila, is very different from the indulgent sprawl of Pinto. Quaint, small and hardwood floors all create an exhibit space that is quite personal. If Pinto bombards, Boston invites. I found the ultra-saturated works of Padilla on display quite extravagant though, and Patrick Flores’ commentary confirms this observation a bit. Sometimes though, those descriptions that accompany exhibits are too abstruse to be of any help. At times I think it’s deliberate: a latent ploy by the aesthetic industry to maintain the exclusivity/elusiveness of art.

****

Speaking of art, Mideo Cruz’ Poleteismo (Polytheism) exhibited at the CCP is stirring up quite a controversy. Obviously, leading the polemic is the Church, which to me has increasingly become more and more sensitive. The arguments are framed in freedoms, like speech/expression and religioun. I don’t indulge these discourses too much, coz at this point in my life, anything legal is an allergen. I’m quite interested though at how much Mideo Cruz’ works go for in the midst of this uproar. After all, anger validates.
***
My friends and I crashed a party, which was totally awesome coz it was partly criminal. It helped too that the place was this huge mansion in LGV. I can’t remember the name of the owner, or the people in there, or why we all decided to go there anyway. I’ve always imagined myself as this lonely delinquent teenager in an angsty film. So for a moment, I felt my fantasies of being in Donnie Darko come alive, until I realized I wasn’t wearing a hoodie. That would’ve completed the effect. To compensate for the regret, I directed my attention to the pool table and the ostentatious bar and immediately began feeling corrupt again. Which was perfect.

***

I’m fascinated by the London riots because it’s so 80s. Collective youth angst is the conclusion George Orwell’s 1984 never had. It also felt so post-industrial, and I can just imagine what the critical theorists would’ve said about the whole thing, like how late capitalism’s seamless integration of its own contradictions must have a limit. Scenes of riot police and hooligans fighting it out in London’s streetscape provided nostalgic glimpses of those times when overt political action was still possible.

***

Been sporting a panama hat recently, in a bid to slow down my inevitable shift to, y’know, formal wear. I noticed I’ve been wearing a lot of neckties and leather shoes lately, which to me could only mean either of two things: I’m getting old or I’m pretending to look busy. I’m not too tired of pretending to look busy. After all, that has been my front this whole time I’ve been in law school. In reality, I’m one lazy bastard. ‘Getting old’ is something that riles the politics in me though. Youth is freedom, and I’ma hella fight my way to resist the expectations of adulthood that come with labor and capital even if it means I’m going to sport a fucking hat. Plus, it works in our tropical weather. And it looks good. And it’s recommended by GQ.

***

This blog may be on it’s last gasps. I want to keep it personally relevant, but I’m not too sure I have a life entertaining enough to make it last longer. As I’ve said before, I maintain this blog to make myself appear more interesting. It’s been years and I’m exhausted at keeping the pretensions alive. I’ve resisted the sure formulas for notoriety, and that explains why this blog still remains terribly under-sexed and under-angsted.

Playlist; Amalgam 2k11

2011-07-21T11:09:00.001+08:00

1.Bag Raiders – Castles in the Air
2.Com Truise – Slow Peels
3.Yacht – Dystopia
4.Vitalic – Still
5.Babe Rainbow – It’s All Happening
6.Foster the People – Houdini
7.The Weeknd – Glass Table Girls
8.Booka Shade – Solo City
9.Menomena – TAOS

A loose set dominated by chillwave and electronica. The first five are more recent, while the second half has been around the airwaves for quite some time already. I know, I know, Foster the People is quite a rip-off. But along with The Weeknd and Menommena, there’s nothing wrong with putting some remnants of MGMT and Peter Bjorn and John in the mix. Amalgam is the name of the game, and if you ain’t got no shame, better tidy up the lame.

That was me trying to do rhymes, in a true expression of hipster logic. ‘Coz the last time I checked, the Strokes were doing poetry.

Grey

2011-07-09T14:36:00.002+08:00

This is the last of my color series, the one about apartments and shit. It was written on the night I moved out, so it's a bit emo. But reading it now makes me think dislocations are romantic.

Dec. 30, 2010. 1:30 AM

As I write this, I see my things scattered all over the floor, all them I own. It get’s sentimental coz I’m moving out of my grey phase. This night will be my last here. On air is the soundtrack that kept me company throughout the past two and a half years, from Radiohead’s In Rainbows, The National’s High Violet, The Band of Horses and a little bit of Bjork’s Volta, all apartment stories in themselves.

This apartment is beautiful. It’s unfortunate that the management is tearing it down. Perhaps it's too old, but I’ve always had a heart for old houses and buildings. This one here has parquet flooring and marble counters. It has two storey ceilings and an exposed beam oriented in an angle that made it appear like it was pointing to the north. Most of the walls have been kept in their original white, while some have been given an extra splash of color, like grey.

I stayed in the apartment’s third floor, which I’ve since euphemistically called the loft. It has hardwood planks for its floors, and has windows on opposite walls. Sunlight flowed all-day long, it seemed, even on the rainiest of days.

I remember a lot of things in this apartment. For one thing, this is where I really matured as a person. My relationship with Monica blossomed during the years I lived here. And, speaking from the heart, this place might be remembered as where Monica and I really started. I wrote her letters in my room. I smoked a lot of cigarettes at our utility area the first time we broke up, while Reckoner was playing in my iPod. This is where we dreamed of our future together.

I also remember reading a lot of postmodern literature in this apartment. From Guattari and Deleuze, to Zizek and Virillo, to a little bit of Agamben. I also wrote a lot of draft essays on legal theory here, mostly at night when sleep was ever just around the corner. I ordered a lot of books online, eagerly waiting their arrival from my bed where I also wrote a lot about being artificially mature.

This is where I woke up to the news of Michael Jackson’s passing, a most sad morning. He danced his way through life, an inspiration to take your craft seriously. Here, Ninoy Aquino became President, and so did Barack Obama. Maguindanao was massacred, and so Asin played all day long.

Here raged the parties of many pretexts. Someone’s birthday, a block’s year-ender. Someone always had to leave. She deserves the popping corks, and the empty bottles in the morning will wait to be collected in a corner, a temporary reminder that some nights are spent wastefully, unapologetically.

It is always easy here. Alex, the resident dog, owned the first floor. Life wouldn’t be complete in Unit 10 without the occasional mauled shoe, or a long line of pulled toilet paper snaking its way out of the comfort room. Alex is the true queen of this apartment.

Sometimes it gets tough too, and it must be said. I will never forget a very serious mistake I made while I was a tenant of this lovely apartment, one which cost me one and a half years. It gets tough on a smaller, funnier scale. Like how we’ve made it without having keys for the main door, or not having a working flush for our toilet, or a real TV, a real dining table or a real sofa.

I learned how to take surfing seriously in my stay here, perhaps a last ditch effort to save the last of my youth; an attempt at postponement. It was a futile game I played as I was always consciously dreading a life lost in drawers, keypads and ATMs.

It could happen very well that I will forget about the architecture that I dreamed about guiltlessly here. It could also very well be the case that I will forget the love for music that made me buy a guitar and an amplifier that never saw the light of real acoustics. The day will come perhaps, that the books I’ve read, I will give away. The music I’ve listened to, I will dismiss. The surfing that I’ve professed tireless commitment to, neglected with the preoccupations of what would be me in a different day, a different year.

But in this grey phase, I remember all of them quite vividly. I am in here now, but I won’t be tomorrow.

Enmeshed

2011-07-01T01:56:00.001+08:00

“Surprise, surprise, they wouldn’t want to watch the murder of an elegant innocent fawn into the unmagnificent lives of adults”

-Mistaken for Strangers, The National

I got an early call from a friend yesterday afternoon. He said he needed a drink. I thought, who doesn’t? If that question made a lot of sense to me, it’s only because I have been resorting to alcohol to while away my depressing thoughts, on the regular.

So I headed out to Cantina, which of all places along Katipunan is the single place that truly makes me feel like a minority. I don’t know why it has that effect on me, but I guess it’s the whole college vibe thing going. Y’know, juvenescence on the flow. I’m not exactly that old, but something about the naïveté of college dormers makes me feel a bit disenfranchised, corrupted. Not since 2006 did I ever feel the disposability of my problems.

Anyway, I convinced my friend to drink at Shakey’s instead. It wasn’t a very bright idea, coz of course, it’s Shakey’s. But they had a TV and it showed the Azkals’ match against Sri Lanka, and their beer was by the liter and served on ice cold mugs. Having drinks over the football game, I noticed how the TV was on mute, which was a bit disappointing.

A bit tipsy from the whole “sports bar” attempt, I decided to stop by Xocolat to get me some sobering. It was only 9PM then, and I needed some quiet time, and somehow it felt like the more mature thing to do. There, I bumped into an old friend who told me about how her husband beat her up. Earlier in the morning, I found out my childhood friend’s husband died from a sudden illness. I felt the desolation instantly, and my shoulders and my neck started to feel heavy and lazy. I realized I take these things very personally.

And today, I found out that a friend got raped.

I am old enough to grasp the reality of these things – a true burden. To me, news of this kind hit me hard from the ground; intense and without forgiveness, jellying my knees. The effect both awakens and distorts, all the while leaving me with a constellation of permanent biting thoughts. Sometimes, I feel the urge to grab a bottle of beer, but I guess I have lost that luxury of youth.

Beast Days Yo!

2011-06-29T00:56:00.002+08:00

It’s much too early and a bit too cold to be taking a shower. But it’s been quite some time since I got out of bed this early. Exiting the bathroom, I figured how non-stifling the concoction of aftershave, shower gel, hair clay and mouthrinse is. How could so many distinct chemicals smell like a morning symphony?

I think I may have found my groove back on. I’ve never really been the go-getter type, coz most of the time, I like to think I’m the effortless kind. Nevertheless, that attitude hasn’t brought me anywhere near prestige or excellence. I must say though, with utmost disregard for modesty, that I’m quite satisfied with how other people are as fucked up as I am despite their best efforts not to find themselves in danger. ‘Makes me feel a bit underrated, y’know.

Coz in my head, I’m saying “I haven’t even started yet.”

Beast days. My new theme for the next few months. It’s not the items you tick off your list, coz that’s just plain amateur. It’s the swag, the style and the aesthetics in going through each day with stories in your head, of debacles long drawn in the battlefield of your imagination. So I went out of the apartment, ready to be on my way to school. I lit a cigarette while pushing the gate open, puffed out a white cloud of chemicals while putting them Wayfarers on. It helped that I wore an attitudinal get-up: skinny tan slacks and fitted white dress shirt. All the while, Bob Dylan’s You Gotta Serve Somebody was playing loud in my iPod.

Or maybe it’s just that I have these movies in my head. I have a constant awareness of angles and cinematography, though the plots are almost always disjointed. I can’t keep a coherent grip on that one, explaining maybe why there are moments in a day when drama turns to mystery in a snap. At any rate, it feels quite stirring having your tasks and errands enveloped in some form of narrative.

What’s the story behind tapping your seconds away writing a pleading? Is it beating a deadline, or is it fulfilling an ultimate love for the moon and the stars in Bukidnon? You see, I have dreams of building a house on top of a cliff, where the breeze is mighty and a 4x4 truck is standard. These letters I press are far away from the nails I’ll pummel down its Kamagong or Yakal, but that’s not the point. The intervening spaces between now and then may be wide and indeterminate, but for the sake of ascribing meaning, all I’m really worried about is creating conditions of possibility. Ala Michel Foucault. If it’s probable to draft a link, I will draft it. I will do it with all the verbs and adjectives in my mind just so every single event is a narrative.

As I walked out the driveway, a car pulled up from behind. The window rolled down and a stranger asked I needed a ride. She unlocked the door, and we drove off towards the morning sunlight.

Weekend Poetics

2011-06-22T01:05:00.003+08:00

‘Been on a downward spiral lately. But I’ve made this silly promise not to write emotional stuff, coz, y’know, who really wants to read that sort of stuff. However, since I am the first person to undermine my own commitments, I’ve decided to flex the rules a bit through these mindless stories:

***
I’ve revived my nasty habit of smoking. I’ve been off the stick for more than two years when all of a sudden, the urge came back. With a vengeance, I must say. Most of the contrived poetics I’m usually in involve a lot of smoke and a lot of indistinct thoughts. Like this one time, I went up our roof deck one morning where everything was white. The walls and ledges, all white even the sky with all the storm clouds. A typhoon just went by, after all. It felt cold, and I’m sure I looked just as pale, morning hair and cumbersome steps on the wet floor and all. I tried to keep my balance the whole time, and as I walked up the overhang, everything felt a bit muted. Like a 90’s scene in some Nordic village, I lit my cigarette and puffed out white smoke into the sky. I resist these moments much, except maybe for the forced crackling of the damp leaves under my weight. I realized I don’t like intensity.

***
Hoodie’s popped. Walking through the streets of our village reminds of how I’ve always been reluctantly urban. I’m trying to hold on to the little reminders of what/who I was pre-depression. I’m sure I walked a lot. Tonight’s no different, I guess. I was on a mission to buy wine. Acigarette on one hand, and my earphones pumping Beach House and Broken Social Scene: quite a pathetic attempt to recuperate summer considering the saturated roads and the random drops of water from the trees above. Nostalgia’s a big bitch, and the sadder thing is the irretrievability of re-discovered meaning.

***
Got back to the apartment earlier than I intended. Sun’s out a bit now, and my wing chair in the living area is getting some heat. I took my shirt off and sat there. I thought I’d make a good subject for Dianna’s photography. A big wreck in an elaborate cinematographic setting. Light like this doesn’t come easy. It’s always either you compensate or you capture. Plus, the smoke made this haze that hovered over me much longer to be unnoticed. We have a high ceiling, and a very empty space. I sat there trying to fill the place with my thoughts projected on the big white wall across, but nothing ever comes easy.

Summer Playlist

2011-05-27T01:35:00.004+08:00

Below is a very limited collection of the songs I've been listening to this summer season:

1. The Yardbirds - Heart Full of Soul
2. The Naked and the Famous - Punching in a Dream
3. Beige - Folds
4. Frank (Just Frank) - Coeur Hante
5. James Blake - Limit Your Love
6. Minks - Funeral Song
7. Yuck - Get Away
8. Wild Beasts - Albatross
9. Wild Beasts - Bed of Nails
10. Ducktails - In The Swing
11. Tennis - South Carolina

The only summer-y songs in the list are Tennis' South Carolina, Minks' Funeral Song, and and Yuck's Get Away. For those who like 60's music, try Tennis and The Yardsticks, which notably, is a band composed of some of history's best guitarists: Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page and Eric Clapton. The Naked and the Famous is a band from New Zealand and fields a vibe close to 2009's Empire of the Sun and last year's Phoenix. Frank (Just Frank) is a duo with new wave influences. James Blake, a favorite of the internet, is the poster-child of UK's emerging dark dance music.

Late Night; Uninspired

2011-03-22T04:25:00.002+08:00

*wrote this three months ago. "Wouldn't post anything like this under normal circumstances. It's just that sentimentality is becoming recurrent these days.

Late at night, can’t sleep. I guess I’m back in my old ways, getting caught up in the melancholy of beautiful music in a bare apartment. I don’t know how this happens, that I find myself in this same place, in this same sentimental state; how it’s become a theme for me to sit still, my guards down and the thoughts I’ve shelved aside for years now rush back – a relapse of sorts. My old visions, old dreams and wasted thoughts hurry back to fill a void. All these days, maybe, I’ve managed to block them out with pretensions of tasks and errands, lists and to-dos.

But in my pure state, which I consider to be these moments I have neither the will nor the practice to pursue, to finish, to tick off, or achieve, I feel truly alone in my thoughts. Someone at the other side of the room is talking to me; a version of myself perhaps. Should I talk to him? He will only remind me of my old aspirations, urge me to regret forgetting what I’ve always wanted. He will insist that I reevaluate my new agenda. It’s not fair. He represents what I’ve always wanted to be.

There are questions running in my head I refuse to entertain. They are there for certain, running in loops, leading me back to my old paths. It doesn’t sound right, somehow I feel like I will wake up from a dream, only to realize I’m on the other side of the chasm, and then tell the person sitting at the bare room, “no need to worry.”

Can't Stop the Laze

2011-03-08T20:34:00.002+08:00

Ironically, I can’t seem to keep my hands off idleness lately. I’ve ran out of excuses on why I’m not doing anything – from rightful lethargy to writer’s block all the way to inaction as the end of the Bohemian philosophy of life. It’s no fun really, doodling, staring and loitering the day away. In my heart of hearts, I believe that I thrive in the hustle and bustle of urbanity, but my actions (or inactions, actually) reveal a worldview that prefers sleep over stress.

I need to get over this phase soon. Exam week is fast approaching, and unless I stop deluding my self with perceived cramming powers, I better get my act together. Also, I’m kinda disappointed at how easily I’m abandoning my comeback strategy. In my head I’m still fighting; in reality I’m really just being very lazy.

But maybe it’s the artist in me. I went to this awesome exhibit at the UP Vargas Museum by Rodel Tapaya, apparently a seminal figure in contemporary Philippine art. His works are a visual indulgence on societal decay, linking entertainment and fanfare with the loss of precision in critique; an intermingling of sorts where the divides among “causes” are distinct, but the “effects” are ubiquitously indiscernible. On the third floor is an exhibit on Imperial Manila, with particular focus on the built environment as envisioned by the city beautiful, the neoclassic and the edification of state power. Of course, on the second floor is the permanent collection of the Museum, with works by Hidalgo, Luna and Amorsolo. Surprisingly though, Poklong Anading makes a sporadic appearance. I don’t know if it was deliberate or just some logistical lapse.

Anyway, the point is: I’m fascinated by things that have nothing to do with what I should be doing. To bolster this observation, I went surfing last Sunday when I could’ve memorized lines upon lines of the Rules of Criminal Procedure. I enjoyed it thoroughly though.

Yet, when I return home in the isolation of my room, outside the aesthetic experience and the thrill of riding waves, I am left to doubt whether excellence is a natural trajectory or a wasted effort. As a matter of making myself feel better, I read theory and critical literature, just so I can call the day “productive.”

Fake Nostalgia

2011-02-11T18:41:00.001+08:00

Who reads blogs these days?

I seem trapped in a 2005 when all the rave was either blogging or Youtube. It’s sad, really. To be caught up in a time that recent? I realize nostalgia is quite the style these days, y’know, mixtapes, vinyl, 80’s or even grunge. But that kind of anachronism really has its cultural value on being old; like decades old.

It’s awkward to be nostalgic about what happened 5 years ago. The truth is, the feeling can’t be denied. It’s still the same intense emotional longing for a time made meaningful only through and in memory. It’s just awkward coz it’s not cool enough.

I mean, while others stock up on lps and clothes with patterns/prints from ’69, or hype up technological manifestations of their childhood, through chillwave music and the summer it seems to accurately connote, or through “roadtrips” and lomos and polaroids, I’m here happily typing away as if blogging still has currency. And this is not even tumblr. Its blogspot.

To illustrate, how would it feel to be raving about Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and wishing bands these days would play music the way did? Compare it with someone who yearns for music like Pink Floyd’s or The Pixies. The first one kinda sounds pathetic, really.

Writing About the Apartment Again

2011-02-02T19:08:00.002+08:00

Can’t stop thinking about my new apartment. ‘Schedule’s been on overdrive these past three months due to this comeback stint I’m heavily investing all my efforts in, and so all my plans on how to make this place my own are suspended. And so in sporadic lapses of silence or stillness, thoughts about the white walls, and the curtain windows creep back like effervescent notes.

Anyway, internet’s been installed and apart from the downloading binge, I find it quite disappointing that the only real sites I visit are either emails or news outfits. All these years of feeding off other people’s wifi has stunted my capacity to ride on the interwebs mimetic culture. I’m not complaining, at any rate. It does feel good how easily I can access Jstor or Westlaw.

The apartment maintains this cool temperature all day long. I know it’s been unusually cold this past few weeks, but the first floor feels the same during noon as during dawn. Quite pleasurable really, and for a change, sunlight abundantly fills the common area in contrast to our previous apartment where vampire living was standard.

Oh, and one thing, the street I'm at says M. Jocson. I like thinking about it as meaning and sounding like "Michael Jockson."

I’ve really been thinking hard about how my room is going to look like. I have in mind framed artwork all over dark walls, like puce or indigo. I have a lot of books and memorabilia lying around in the storage room and I feel like scattering everything around my room to create that cluttered effect. I’ve been keeping things clean and simple lately, but I guess it’s not my style; I feel like I’m living in Singapore or an Ikea catalogue. Plus, I really need an excuse to refuse tidying up. Or maybe just so I can refer to clutter as “postmodern disconcern.”

There are a lot to consider though, like costs, time and labor. And maybe the lease, coz I’m not sure if I’m contractually bound not to bore the walls or ceilings. But the good thing is that ideas and visions are forced to brew and develop outside hurriedness and contrivance, in true organic hipster fashion.

Playlist

2011-01-25T20:29:00.001+08:00

Just got the access to the interwebs at the apartment. ‘Kinda off timing though, coz I have a midterm exam tomorrow for this deliriously loaded subject. Anyway, I got into the business of downloading right away. The long and short of it is a new playlist.

1. Wild Nothing – Live in Dreams
2. Washed Out – Feel It All Around
3. Washed Out – Lately
4. Baths – <3
5. Bibio – Jealous of Roses
6. Air France – No Excuses
7. Teen Daze – No Regrets
8. Small Black – New Chain
9. Memory Tapes – Bicycle
10. The Radio Dept – You Stopped Making Sense

This is a glo-fi/chillwave/shoegaze playlist. Been out of the loop, admittedly, but am trying to do my best to keep up. Enjoy, my phantom audience!

New Apartment; Roof Deck Fantasies

2011-01-12T20:27:00.001+08:00

It’s been almost two weeks since Dec. 30, 2011, the date I moved into this new apartment. Kay and Chris are with me. I’d like to believe that we’re sticking together as a matter of friendship, but the whole moving-out/banishment plus moving-in/asylum-seeking fiasco’s got me thinking if this arrangement is a matter of expediency.

Coz from my point of view, all that ends well must have been something either brainless or induced by a box of honey cinnamon rolls.

So the three of us in the same house. This time though, the place is much bigger than the old one, with tons of sunlight and a two roof decks – to me the real clincher (the fake one being the three bathrooms). The possibilities of those roof decks have got me fantasizing the past week on how to maximize the (marginally) increased rent. I’ve drawn up the top five uses, in no particular order:

New Year’s party. I imagine a tons of leftover Christmas lights hanging above from a center pole, radiating to the center like a desert canopy. Happy people underneath, drinking beer or wine or champagne. Platters of hors d’oeuvres circulating, Alex the Dog delighting in the attention, while Talking Heads or some other dreary-dance music plays on. Fireworks will top the celebration, and will from then on slowly die down along with the realization that a new year has dawned.

Actually did this last Jan. 2, 2011, and on a scale of how it actually happened versus my fantasy, I’d give it a good 7 out of 10.

Emergency article-writing. In the middle of a night, I’ll bring up a retractable table, and a monobloc chair, an extension cord and a table lamp and set everything up in a minute, to answer an inspiration. I’ll begin writing until the sense of emergency loses steam, hoping that maybe by then, I would have come up with a poem that reveals a mystic truth about youthhood, or an essay that effectively criticizes how state-centric international law is inherently self-referential.

Sunbathing/Riviera-style lounging. This is easy. It involves only one of those poolside reclining beds, a side table, a chest full of ice and beer, and a pair of sunglasses. IPod will be optional, but good sunshine, indispensable. I’m thinking 3pm onwards. Face the West and watch the sky remain blue.

Early dinner barbecue. Not a big fan of outdoor barbecue stuff, unless it’s on a beach. But having lunch on a roof deck stimulates the same effect of openness that makes beach meals appealing. The whole things will start off shortly after 3, other people will prepare the food downstairs (not me, I’m helpless in that department). I’ll probably set up the amplifier-iPod and the barbecue. Stuffed tomatoes, onions, bell peppers, corn and meat (for the carnivores), all primed and ready for the fire, will then be brought up. White wine will be abundantly served while the food broils on the grill, releasing appetizing aromas ideal for long talks.

Sunrise yearning. Yes, coz one of our two roof decks faces the west, and the other deck faces the east. After one of those all-nighters, probably from studying till the wee hours, or emerging from a late night drinking binge, or arriving an early flight, it would be cool to await the sunrise. Leftover food on one hand, and a cup of hurried coffee in the other. It would be nice if a newspaper is there, or a cigarette (if I smoked). It’s a therapeutic way to start a day/end a night, maybe coz early mornings remind me of mountains, or the countryside.

Black & Red

2010-12-23T10:27:00.001+08:00

Even before everyone started painting their “feature wall” red (thanks to magazines and catalogues urging the idea as edgy), I already had a Ferrari-esque red wall in 2006. Not only that, the adjacent wall was painted ivory black. It was intended to feel monolithic. It turned out well, considering that these walls were, for a long time, the only elements of our condo unit.

I shared a condo unit with my cousin in October 2006. We moved in amidst the stir of freshman year in law school. It was our first time to share an apartment and so we started off with incredible ideas on how to make the space feel like the opposite of Malcolm Hall. I guess the colors were part of an attempt to dislocate our institutional(ized) identities as “law students.”

One idea was to turn the space into something that resembled Havana. Old, colonial, isolated but very poetic and charming. The sun always set on our side of building, and I remember the most amazing sunlight from that unit.

The funny thing, however, was the lack of items in that room for a long time. Despite our massive, incredibly ambitious aesthetic visions for that 36 square meter studio, my cousin and I lived off our suitcases, our books and readings scattered on the floor coz we didn’t have cabinets. We slept on either the floor or a loveseat, depending on who got there first. We also didn’t have an electric fan, despite knowing how awful condo ventilation is. This kept on for three or four months.

I really can’t point a finger at how this happened. I mean, we had to live. One reason could be that the idea of maintaining a bare space sorta appealed somehow. But that can’t be enough not to have a bed for three months, coz contorting my body to a two-seater isn’t easy, or painless. One other reason could be we got used to it. But that’s unlikely considering how easily I get bored of static surroundings. Like Starbucks.

So, the whole condo thing is funny because it was unexplainably possible to live like that.

But, two months before our contract expired, our beds arrived from heaven, and so did an electric fan, a cabinet and a bookshelf. To us, the delayed domestication of our condo unit was both anticlimactic and immensely relieving.

So, to conclude a non-narrative, black and red was a contradiction. It was designed not to remind me of law school, but the colors sorta resembled Seattle’s Best which is “law school after hours.” It was designed to feel like the hustle of Havana but turned out to be bare and quiet. I loved it though, coz as a freshman, I was in quite displaced myself. Nothing like have your immediate physical environment mirror your current condition.

Aside: Extracts

2010-10-12T10:24:00.003+08:00

Writing about colors is a bit boring. But since “following through” is a component of maturity – which I’m at loggerheads with the world to achieve – and I did declare in an earlier entry that I’m going to write about the fucking rainbow, I am left with no choice but to carry on with the task. That being said, I still feel the need to write about certain things that have been happening lately, coz y’know, documentation and stuff.

***

I went to NAMRIA three weeks ago to buy me some topographical maps and aerial photographs. I have this project up my sleeve which is quite top secret at the moment. But isn’t it fascinating when cartography and secrecy come together? Makes me feel like I’m on an espionage mission, or a military offensive. But this thing I’m about to do is anything but political, or criminal.

So in the said office I went to the laboratories with all the cool 60s-era geological survey and mapping equipment. I can’t recall all the names, because much like scientific and medical terms, technical contraptions are way too cumbersome for my lexical skills. Anyway, there was this one dark room where aerial photographs are developed. I’m talking about ultra-high resolution: these photographs, when blown to their actual size, can reveal facial features of pedestrians. And there were rolls and rolls of these photographs covering the entire Philippines dating back as early as 1957. The latest photographs can be re-formatted into 3D or anthrophometrics, which essentially means that these photographs are exact replicas of actual surfaces so that the distances there are accurate representations of real distances in the physical environment. Apparently, normal aerial photographs are skewed due to the earth’s curvature. Or some bullshit like that.

On the ground floor is this museum on Philippine mapping. Quite interesting really, as it is potentially the only one of its kind in the country. It features the history of mapping in the islands dating back to the 18th century and exhibits some of NAMRIA’s equipment. Some were really monstrous in size, like this machine which resembles an evil and blown-up version of a microscope.

Anyway, I went home with three maps in tow, and a token aerial photograph of Clark Air Base and the surrounding rice paddies, which in black and white, looks completely mesmerizing in its mosaic-like appearance.

***

I’ve been surfing a lot this month. No Sunday was spared without getting stoked, or at least attempting to. Law school’s around the corner, and before I return to the place where dreams die, I thought it was only reasonable of me to get my share of “fun stuff.” Parties and other road trips don’t count. They’re obligatory.

***

I went to Baguio with Monica a month ago to celebrate her birthday. We’ve always wanted to go there for leisure. Well, her more than me. It’s not that we don’t regularly go there, but during the times we do, it’s always about mountain-climbing and we’ve never really had the chance to see the city in its urban glory.

So, packed with a Wikipedia-based itinerary, we headed north and up to where the temperature is a bit cooler to check out the cafes and the city’s heritage. We went to these beautiful cafes, most of them doubling as art galleries, and it was enjoyable how Baguio has nursed a unique sense of culinary experience. Must be the altitude and the proximity to the freshest vegetables. Like this tofu and squash soup at PNKY’s which was absolutely lip-smacking divine.

I wouldn’t really characterize Baguio’s are scene as cutting edge, coz that honor remains in the hands of Manila, although I’d easily admit that it is thriving. The galleries in Kidlat Tahimik’s Oh My Gulay! and the one in Tam-awan village are places to see. Of course, the Bencab Museum is automatic.

We had a great time, except for some disappointments, like Café by the Ruins and the torrential weather. But since I’m not a perfectionist, I am satisfied with the reflex justification that “failed expectations are part and parcel of travel.”

***

On other, equally non-intriguing things, I’ve been reading Contingency, Hegemony,
Universality by Butler, Laclau and Zizek. It’s interesting how the three theorists’ political commitments are given an intertwined treatment in this book, with each author directing and addressing questions from the others. But if you ask me, honestly, the primordial reason why I’m reading this book is that I have neither the patience nor the attention span to read each author’s oeuvre separately. Intellectual indolence, or something.

Green

2010-09-23T16:55:00.001+08:00

Green, like the color of money, is a very dangerous color. I’m talking about ambition and how it is often written in pesos (or dollars, for those with western-ized imaginaries, including a version of myself). Cars, mansions, travel and the occasional tryst with a dangerous, captivating woman with ambivalent morals, James Bond style.

When law started, I was seeing green. The color of my walls were the kind of green you’d find, not in one’s dirty thoughts, but in the wallet. Law was for me, a gateway to the riches of the world. Initially, I thought the legal profession was a goldmine of opportunities where life dilemmas were not so much a matter of desperate choices, but of the ‘speed of success’.

Not unexpectedly, I also started my first business during my stay in this condominium unit. It flopped badly, but me and my partners got it running for six months before the shit hit the industrial fan.

This stage in my life represents youth and its encounter with capital. I was so driven and motivated to the point of stretching my limits – something I usually reserve for drinking and not money-making. Mornings usually consist of going to class and dodging recitations, and afternoons were spent in the office. Nights were mostly devoted to studying, and weekends were for more studying. In between were government-related errands and meetings with lots of people.

My first year in law school was overshadowed by this venture, not so much because law took up less of my time. Rather, it’s because somehow, the idea of capital was more obsessive. Inspiration came in the form of tangible things, which in hindsight are the quite shallow to what I’m obsessed with right now, i.e., the “art of life.”

Scratch that last part. Completely false. I’m still a capitalist whore, albeit the understated kind.

I remember subscribing to the whole “indie culture” during this time. An iPod with obscure music kept me vague and mysterious enough, while an Apple laptop sorta placed me in the whole “counter-Windows” movement: truly an indie move.

Come to think of it, the themes “capital” and “indie” are antithetical on fundamental levels. But maybe that just illustrates, how at this point in my life, all that I was really dealing with was a protreacted post-college identity crisis. I’m totally non-indie now. I’m normal coz normal is the new cool.

Yellow

2010-08-17T15:47:00.002+08:00

Those walls were initially peach, a really terrible color when used in a small room with minimal sunlight. My apartment was after all a small studio unit occupying the lower half of the ground floor of my lovely landlady’s two-storey townhouse. She lived upstairs with her husband, and with only a dog to give love and affection too, I figured having someone like me around gave them a certain sense of distorted parenthood. They did give me food on a number of occasions, and withheld their tempest during the many instances I paid the rent late.

So I decided to paint the walls yellow because I figured I needed something happy. I poured black elastomeric on the floor too. These became the colors of my entire college life at Ateneo, the entire four years. So naturally, I’d associate mountaineering and debating with the color. I applied for the Loyola Mountaineers while I was residing in this quasi-cave of a room: a dramatic contrast in scale considering many weekends were spent with the vastest views of mountains and skies and clouds, only to return to a nook where space is a luxury. It was fun though, because looking back, I feel a certain sense of secretiveness. Only a couple of people have been in that room.

I had a desktop computer and back in those days the only way to get student-friendly internet service was through dial-up modem. So I signed up for my own landline service and bought prepaid internet cards regularly. I downloaded music through Limewire, and the constant music was a playlist of 90’s alternative rock. Whenever I hear Live or Smashing Pumpkins, I immediately get transported back to 2002, to the fresh feeling of living alone, getting acquainted with newness as an everyday experience.

I don’t ever remember coming home to this room drunk. For some reason, the place is a sober one. I didn’t drink much then, but whenever I did, I usually got wasted. This was especially true during the latter half of college when the mountaineers would drink ala fraternity style. I always spent the night at another person’s house, maybe for two reasons: First, we never did bars then, and second, after 10 in the evening, the village’s gate nearest to my place closes, which means I'd have to walk an entire mile from the only open gate. But of all the drunk stories that are normal, if not mandatory, for any college days reminiscing, one stands out the most: getting arrested for drinking on the sidewalk. Arrested, as in ride the mobile patrol, visit the precinct type.

Things changed when I got Lilibeth, my legend of a car. She was my first, and I remember nights became longer with her around. She was very dependable, although I didn’t care much for her. Here’s an excerpt from a journal entry the day after I gave her away:

“I got Lilibeth the day I turned 18. She’s nothing fancy as a car, though I always loved thinking about her as “sexier than yours.” I remember the first time I drove her to Ateneo. It was 2005’s OrSem. It was drizzling lightly, and I parked her ever so gently on one of those hideous gravel parking lots. East? West? Northeast? I never really knew which parking lot was which. Anyway, at around 5 pm, I checked up on her and noticed a big gash on her front bumper. So much for her first day out with me.

Since then, Lilibeth has seen many a wild ride, romantic drives to wherever, busted a tire on the way to Tagaytay, stalled on the crest of Katipunan flyover from running out of gas, got mangled by an Edsa bus, got towed by a scrupulous MMDA truck, became an accessory to petty crimes and naughty stuff, got driven by drunk drivers, smelled of smoke and puke,

Goodbye Lilibeth. You’ve been my best friend, though I really don’t give a crap about you or your axles”

I read a lot of fiction in this room too, as I was doing a Minor’s on English Literature.What comes to mind are Harold Bloom’s critiques, Nurrudin Farrah, Jessica Hagedorn and Nick Joaquin. My yellow years were imaginative and idealistic, but very pure and free: youth on the cusp of coerced maturity, I think.

Thinking in Color

2010-08-06T23:21:00.001+08:00

I can’t remember periods in my life based on years. Like, I can’t tell what happened in 2003 or 1997. At least not immediately anyway. Sometimes it makes me feel shallow, because my stories have no temporal anchor. For instance, I can’t say 2007 was the best year of my life, or frame memorable events within a certain period, like “The World was Mine in 1999.”

As a matter of literary tool, and regardless of whether or not it has cultural value, contextualizing certain narratives makes the process of storytelling more meaningful, if only because it makes the story more real. So, since I have the awful habit of not thinking in terms of years, I had to device ways through which I can peg my life as a chronological development. Blogging, I guess, helps a bit, because at the very least, I can lump entries into yearly archives (and Blogger.com does that for me conveniently). But, two things: first, I don’t post chronologically and sometimes it takes years for me to post entries about past events; second, my blog is all about making me appear interesting, so content-wise, it’s very contrived.

Which brings me to the title of this entry. I have realized that since coming from CDO to study in Manila, I’ve always painted the walls on my room where I stay certain colors. For my first room, I painted the walls yellow. The next was green, and then red after, and then blue, and finally, grey. In a way, I can remember events and reflections through the color of my room. The time I gave corporate identity a try, for example, happened during my green years. Micheal Jackson died when I was grey, and I slept on the floor for two months when life was a bit red.

So the next few entries on this blog will be dedicated to the paint on my walls, my life post-CDO in technicolor. I guess I’ve ran out of things to say, and blogging really is getting old. I’m getting old too. More importantly though, I think this is all an effort to restructure my young life’s short history.

MANILA AND FILIPINO ARCHITECTURE

2010-07-26T15:47:00.004+08:00

Why the capital’s old houses inspire

(Article written for Garage Magazine's November 2008 issue, overdue repost)

“If Manila were a film, it would be a cult classic,” Carlos Beltran once said in reference to the capital’s unique streetscape. Why not? It’s got the awkward yet poetic mix of the shabby, the mundane, and the spectacular. Right beside the Metropolitan Theater, touted by many as a showcase piece of art deco design, sits a multi-story parking building. The other side, a flurry of flyovers and bridges. It all makes for a distinct scene, yes, but nevertheless denies the kind of inspiration that public spaces ought to invoke.

Quiapo, for instance, once had a look that can rival Segovia or Shanghai’s Bund Street. It used to be the most elegant quarter of pre-war Manila, housing the society’s pre-eminent families in their equally grandiose mansions. Now, only a few old houses remain. One such house is the Bahay Nakpil which is found along Bautista Street and is still, surprisingly, in pristine condition. Bahay Nakpil has a unique look reminiscent of the Vienna Secession movement, its art noveau grilles and calados differentiate it from houses built during the same period.

But all is not lost in Manila. In this quiet and peaceful neighborhood called Santa Ana, the streets are lined with old Filipino villas. Here, amidst the chaotic and confused visuals that define the Manila skyline, general streetscape quiets down to an almost surreal level. Two-storey houses with ample gardens provide a glimpse of what Manila may have looked like before everyone started competing for their own piece of architectural prestige. You can see it in the way the houses are built: uniform and systematic, leaving the idea of uniqueness to very subtle shifts in details.

Tondo, a place more commonly associated as the postcard template of Slum Philippines, is surprisingly abundant in pre-war houses. Away from the main thoroughfares and the esteros, one is sure to run into some beautiful heritage structures. For instance, the Bernal house along Fullon Street is a massive structure that displays intricate eaves carvings and window canopies, an amazing sight amidst the uneven patchwork and bricolage of urban waste.

Another place to visit in Manila is San Nicolas. Just a stone’s throw away from the more popular Binondo district, San Nicolas boasts of the oldest neighborhoods in Manila that has a number of pre-war houses still standing. But despite surviving the war, San Nicolas sadly did not survive histo-architectural apathy. Of the hundreds of beautiful houses that once existed, only a handful now remains, most of which are in poor dilapidated condition. Photographs from as recent as the 80s reveal a San Nicolas that can easily beat Vigan as the prime showcase of colonial Filipino streetscape. It is left to wonder why nothing was done to preserve this heritage district.

In the scattered frequency, Manila provides us an insightful glimpse of Filipino architecture. The Filipino house, or more commonly referred to as the bahay na bato, or bahay mestiza as Dr. Fernando Zialcita would have it is found here in its most intricate and ambitious forms. Yet, not much has been expressed about the bahay na bato, architecture, at least not as much as it deserves. And this is what Manila does: it strives to show that, first, the bahay na bato is uniquely our own, that this type of house features three centuries of Filipino (colonial) experience as expressed in lived spaces, reflecting an aesthetic that is culturally attuned to an accurate history.

Next, that no other design is better suited for Philippine climate and Filipino customs than the Filipino house. Think ventanillas: these small windows with sliding panels found just below the main capiz windows not only serve to cross ventilate the upper floor of the house, it also functions as a view deck for small children to peek out into the streets, perhaps to watch a religious procession, or to watch and listen to passersby – a testament to the Filipino value of collectivity or voyeurism.

Lastly, that a Filipino house is beautiful. Period. It is a work of art that has come to its own through its peculiar structural and artistic evolution. It just must be celebrated.

To see Manila on foot beyond the usual places of interest requires guts and determination. Yet, with an architectural heritage rapidly disappearing, it is also imperative to experience what remains. Because, if at all, what Manila shows us is that a certain sense of nostalgia and posterity exists amidst its more apparent landscape of grime, crime and ambitions. It struggles to articulate the glamour and beauty that is the bahay mestiza. So in sporadic and scheming frequency, Manila slowly reveals Filipino identity through the language of architecture. Very cultish indeed.

Culture Warp

2010-07-18T18:14:00.004+08:00

It was awesome seeing lots of people at this year’s Cinemalaya. People from the media and the academe, students, people from the movie scene and ordinary movie lovers like myself packed the CCP. The annual festival has come a long way since I first participated in Cinemalaya as part of the audience in a gala showing of Baltazar’s Amihan three or four years back. This time, I watched Arthur Katipunan’s Techi, si Teknoboy at si Juana B., which personally was a bit meh for me. It seemed like a movie with an excessive focus on an excessively articulated subject, i.e., technology. Too passé for a movie festival as defining and as eminent as Cinemalaya.

Anyway, I was there with Miko and his girlfriend, Faizza, who I got to meet for the first time and found immediately easy to be with. She’s from Iligan, my fake hometown, and we got started on local humor right away. We went to see some of the exhibits in the upper floors of the theater, and afterwards had to pick up Monica at Sofitel. She was doing some photography duties for a fundraising event involving the French Embassy, or something.

With all the four of us in the car, we decided to go to Malate and find a cozy café where we could just lounge over long conversations. We all conceded how tough it is these days to just sit and talk, and it felt like real quality time has been commodified even at the level of personal dialogues. Anyway, we chanced upon this café called Sanctuario which was set along Mabini Street in a 1936 house. And immediately upon entering were these two huge Manansala sketches. Sketches! Upstairs were a couple of Bencabs and the waiter by the counter proudly told us one of the sketches fetched a whopping 1.7 million bucks.

The place was nice, but all of us were wishing the Oarhouse was still open. I refused to believe it had closed down, and faked an internet rave that it was revived recently. I searched the net for clues, but it became clear that, along with Penguin Bar, Oarhouse was never to be open again. So we decided to traverse M.H. del Pilar Street and look at the famed Syquia Apartments. Monica and I have been toying with the idea that living in the Apartment would be a life peg for us. What, with neighbors like Carlos Celdran, Helena Carratalà Mander and Sammy Asuncion, a bohemian nonchalance, and an exclusivity that borders on artistic elitism (the homeowners association has to “approve” your application, meaning you have to be cool enough to be a part of the neighborhood)?

But the place is amazing. Streamlined art deco, corner units, hardwood floors and high ceilings in a pre-war apartment complex designed by Pablo Antonio Sr., in one of Manila’s most historical districts (it’s a stone throw’s from the Malate Church). Nearby, another pre-war apartment is being renovated, the Angela Apartments also along the same street. If I remember correctly, it features an accordion-type elevator from the 30s just like Syquia. And the last one, the Michelle Apartments along Mabini street, is still abandoned, but hopefully will get gentrified soon. Concrete pre-war buildings are increasing in value, and why not? The aesthetics is totally different, the architecture testifying to Manila’s vast ambitions and projecting an image of security and charm.

Better build up on my cultural capital then.

Pyrrhic Victories

2010-07-13T17:10:00.003+08:00

The debacles I’ve been putting myself in these past few weeks are ridiculous. One night, I was torn between reading Republic vs Sandiganbayan and undertaking a serious bout of monumental debauchery. Early this morning, it was a matter of choosing between collating essays and buying a ticket to Beijing. I’ve developed this habit of reminding myself of the likelihood of extreme, radical decisions, no matter how mildly possible the prospect of flying to China is, for instance. I could’ve done it, but I didn’t. Somehow, I’m beginning to like the idea of reserving and building up the excitement, in the hope that one day, everything will lead to a cataclysmic explosion of pleasant experiences. Life orgasm, or something like that.

Life’s been dull, but meaningful in the blithe sense of self-control.

I am, after all, putting my maturity on steroids. And the best way I know how is by placing myself in artificial antagonisms/struggles which enrich my life with more artificial victories/triumphs. All these remind me of Nurrudin Farrah’s novel about a military general who fabricates state enemies just to be able to demonstrate his skill in strategy and warfare.

My new Moleskine midyear planner, for instance, is replete with rushed notes and items to do, goals to achieve before any which date, or protest emails to send to which priest/mayor/broadsheet. It pleases me to see a well-planned out schedule weeks in advance, despite knowing that the best people really don’t have planners: their agendas are in their minds. Like Condoleeza Rice.

Anyway, life will only get harder for me in the next few months. I’ve got a couple of tricks up my sleeve, like a book reading club on law and social theory with my law classmates. I’m quite excited, since, perhaps, Prof. Merlin Magallona, Prof. Florin Hilbay, and Prof. Fernando Zialcita might be joining us. I hope I can invite Dr. Benedicto too, since that would be a whole new paradigm of theorizing altogether.

Bagasbas

2010-05-18T22:18:00.002+08:00

It was a Saturday night when all of us decided to do teenage things along Bagasbas’ promenade. The offshore winds were invisible but present, delighting us with jealous gusts and a welcome constancy. We were by the sea, after all. Further east, the waves were breaking, barely visible but quite vivid in the whiteness of the seafoam against the pitch black Pacific.

Along the boulevard, a collection of huts and lights dimmed by the rusting of iron to the salt, telling me tales, perhaps, of similar nights of similar crews of the past. The night was light, packed with emotions of gratuity and relationship hang-ups. Monica and I fought earlier, and she was sitting in a controlled stupor by her patch of the ledge, her face towards the sea she endlessly fantasizes: permutations of science and sea creatures to her, a lesson in infinity.

The car was parked across the street. The interior lights were left open for easy access, as if it were a magical box where all of what we needed could be found. The beer, ice cold and generous, was in the cooler, the iPod docked in and playing the music of our nostalgia and post-adolescent dreams. The doors were left open to allow the music a few more decibels. Not long after, we were all dancing in an apparent show of Manila naivety in a place that took us eight grueling hours to get to.

It was fun because we did it our way.

Petra was in a black dress, and Aames in his board shorts and T-shirt. I was wearing a black pair of skinny jeans and a loose Indonesian shirt with ethnic prints. When the music played and the dance moves came, the spectacle of the sea before us contriving, that was when I thought we were a visual language all our own: never understandable along the lines of logic and culture, but on the level of senses and meaning-making, quite an extravagant affair.

Tanned and far away, on the sands of Bagasbas, we got drunk. The wind was strong and a malong became our only source of steady, spark-friendly air. We laughed a lot, loudly and even ridiculously. What gives? The beach was wide and open and I was feeling immature. The jokes came and it all seemed like a protocol, but nevertheless, it was to me a conjecture of a million things all at once. Something which perhaps may never happen again. But that’s the whole point exactly.

I cannot conclude. It all seems a bit strange to do so, considering how retrospection already takes much away. But for the life of me, I guess I just wrote a summary of the aesthetics of my youth.

Quotation Marks

2010-05-09T22:31:00.002+08:00

I went to Real, Quezon last weekend for some surfing fun. I booked a flight to Siargao for Monica and I, and I deemed it “respectful” that I get some sort of “training” before heading out to the Philippines’ surfing Mecca.

So it was somewhere along the gorgeous coastline of Quezon that I tried to hit the waves again. The last time was at Calico-an, in Samar, in December of 2009.

I’m not a surfer. And if I were to enumerate my identities, "surfer" would be somewhere in the last of a 20-item list, alongside “art critic” and “social theorist.” But I know, as with the rest of my other “mal-identities,” deep inside is a part that wants to take surfing seriously, make it more authentic or something.

I realized using quotation marks makes a term more interesting coz it makes it appear as though there’s some form of subtext or hidden meaning, when maybe there really is none.

SO, in Real, I was able to ride some good waves despite my acclaimed absence of muscular coordination and sense of balance. Having been to Calico-an and Siargao before where the reef break kinda makes “hanging loose” a dangerous business, Real’s beach break was less intimidating to maneuver around, like La Union's. Nevertheless, I ended up with a fair amount of wounds and bruises, which in my opinion is caused by the “numbing effects” of surfing on sensory perception. You never quite feel anything except the rush of an oncoming wave and the dire prospects of catching it.

Round Up

2010-04-13T15:51:00.005+08:00

Writing in excerpts again, coz’ I’m feeling very perfunctory. Really, a lot of the stuff below deserve more cyber space. Cyber space. Get it? That was me trying to be witty.

***

Monica and I went to Coron, Palawan. What can I say, the place is a paradise. Riding propeller in both air and water, we toured the area in three days and in the process got to see giraffes, corals, a multitude of fishes, zebras, and the mother of all tropical beachscapes. I swear Coron (the island, not the town) is one of the Philippines’ best islands in terms of natural features. With its skyscraping limestone cliffs whose verticality is challenged only by the dramatic depths of its lakes, Coron is the perfect face of Philippine tourism.

We were very cheap, dodging the restaurants and the fancy resorts all for the sake of “backpacking.” Either that or we really just did not have any money. But I think with Coron, money is not so much an issue as it is a luxury. To illustrate, having a thin wallet is like going to a M83 concert without a camera: it doesn’t matter as much because it’s all about the music, not the pictures. Get it? That was me trying to be imaginative.

Obviously, it’s not working.

There was this one island off Busuanga which in my opinion is the best island in the Philippines. Inhabited by the local Tagbanua people, Black Island has this blazing white sand beach running the length of its eastern coast. Its towering limestone cliffs were partially stilted, making way to caves half-submerged in seawater. Not far from the coast is a vibrant reef system where snorkeling is encouraged. As with most reefs in and around Coron, this one had a sedating array of fish and psychedelic corals.

***

Missed the Kings of Convenience concert by a mile. Booked myself twice for the same date, March 30. I bought tickets both for the Mindanao super climbs and the KoC gig without noticing that the two coincided. What’s a mountaineer-groupie like me to do? Be prudent?

And so I had to choose the Mindanao climbs, just because missing it would mean ostracism on my part from my fellow mountaineers. I can’t risk that because I’m a people-pleaser.

***

The Kitanglad-Dulang Dulang Traverse is one of those climbs which may or may not change your life, depending on your dedication as a mountain climber. The rappels and the assaults were just the kind you’d read in adventure magazines, as in “experience the rappels and the assaults of Mounts Kitanglad and Dulang-dulang.”

With me were the younger generations of Loyola Mountaineers, and most were first timers in Mindanao. Before, I would’ve been eager at dispelling stereotypes against the people and the place. But now, I just don’t care anymore. Plus, being the only one from CDO, I was preoccupied with the more difficult task of touring the group around the city. It was something I found hypocritical as I myself was in need of some touring too. I don’t know much about the scene anymore, having detached myself for too long. Asking from local friends wouldn’t have helped. They’d either direct me to a cheap strip club or to a parking lot where kids show off their cars’ sound systems.

The climb itself was very challenging. The vegetation was unforgiving and the climate in the highest parts was freezing. The views, however, made up for the hostility: gigantic rock formations, beautiful forests with trees covered in thick moss, as if a green blizzard just swept by. Up in the summit of Mount Dulang-dulang, the 2nd highest mountain in the Philippines, is an expansive view which can reach as far as Mount Apo to the south, and Camiguin island to the north.

***

In the middle of the village where I live is a 20-hectare expanse of bare land. The far corner is now being used as a basketball court, while the rest sits in idle permanence for as long as I can remember. Well, maybe except for that one time a touring perya dropped by, converting one portion into an instant carnival.

Last April, apparently, my neighbors and childhood friends took the initiative of clearing one hectare and converting it into a soccer field. I’m writing this not because I love or play soccer. I’m writing because I’m a big fan of drinking on soccer fields.

Which was what we did for three nights consecutive. We parked our cars in the middle of the field, put the Eraserheads on background, and set up a makeshift tavern for us to comfortably lounge and get wasted. On the last night, while Michael Jackson was crooning, the lights went off. Another brownout, I thought, but this time it was great because the dome of stars above started to sparkle vividly amidst the pitch-black air. There was a cool breeze blowing too, giving a boost to the reunion/hometown nostalgia effect that I found very meaningful. And suburban.

I love my childhood friends. They’re very uncontrived.

***

After almost two years of not caring, I finally decided that this time, I’ll pay our fruit farm a visit. My dad, an agriculturist by profession and by passion, has dedicated much of his downtime this past 10 years or so tending to our modest plantation. I’m not quite interested with growing stuff, but the fact that the Durian trees are beginning to bear fruit has grabbed my attention. That there are a hundred trees, and that I love the fruit beyond anything that grows from earth, means, in a frightening expression of logic, a lifetime of Durian supply for my satisfaction.

There are mango, rambutan, lanzones, and pomelo trees too. My dad expects them to be ready for harvest in two years, and I’m quite excited for him because this is what he loves doing – growing things and making money out of it. I felt very proud of him because despite the distance and the security threat (the property is located in the middle of a war zone; in fact, two military helicopters landed in a nearby patch while we were there), he managed to transform what would have been idle fields into what could be a lucrative retirement option.

He told me that he rented beehives to speed up the pollination/fertilization process. He has also enlisted the help of several ranch owners to supply organic fertilizers. And, a small cottage has been built in the middle where he could spend the night. Next up, he’s planning on buying a couple of horses. I told him I’d give him a pair of boots for Christmas.

He just shrugged, but I knew he was feeling kinda Southwestern then.

***

Been binging on new music recently, in a bid to stay "current." I'll post a playlist soon as this entry is deliriously long already.

***

I've opened a twitter account, catch me make useless, often self-deprecating and acerbic comments at twitter.com/pacocamacho. I need followers because I feel sad when I'm reminded that I'm not popular.

Cracking Bones

2010-02-18T16:16:00.003+08:00

I saw a man fall down a set of stairs earlier today. I didn’t feel shock or sympathy, interestingly. I was too busy carrying on with my life – my attention span’s short and exclusive like that.

What did preoccupy my mind were my intimations minutes later. I thought about how falling down a set of stairs is the crudest form of representing the awkwardness between human bodies and technology. The fall was just a moment; it was nothing more than the pinnacle of an ongoing expression. The body of the man who fell down was twisting, buckling and contorting in ways which evolution couldn’t have prepared for. Simply because the staircase is a recent invention, more or less.

Those stiff right angles, in their seemingly endless tiers of descending horror! Imagine a rolling body of bones and flesh trying to mold its form as quick as it could on a solid and uncompromising surface. It’s just cruel, I thought. The unnaturalness of it all. The artificiality of our world and world-perspectives. The ubiquity of these structures also helps to reinforce the notion that staircases are more than just means of vertical transport. They represent pure structural tension in two senses: first, the engineering kind (of which I know zero technical jargon, except perhaps “gravity”) and second, the leftist variety. More specifically, the type which Walter Benjamin would have attested to, namely the biopolitics of technology.

On other things, I’ve been rereading Paul Virilio’s Negative Horizons, and this time around it’s the Foreword I find really fascinating. He takes a step back from his acerbic and inaccessible writing to focus on his hobby of painting, and how in such activity he finds basis for his current philosophy. I’ve also finished Marc Auge’s Non-places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity after years of waiting for that deserving moment. I sort of approach books with more respect than I do, say, places of worship or army generals. And sometimes I feel like I am not yet worthy to read something. Hence, I maintain a constant urge to expand my postmodern vocabulary beyond “simulacrum” and “dromosphere.”

Crazy thought: I race down stairs on a constant basis. And since my sleeping habits aren't exactly functioning like clockwork, mornings usually start with me pretending the staircase leading down to the bathroom is a slalom course with obstacles of things (shoes, books, umbrellas, the dog) haphazardly scattered on the steps. If one of these days I fall down, I'll bet my postmodern ass I won't be as reflective and exclusive as I was earlier today.

Playlist for the Listless

2010-01-27T23:02:00.002+08:00

1. Film School – Compare
2. Phoenix – 1901
3. Discovery – Osaka Loop Line
4. The Clientele – Bookshop Cassanova
5. City Center – Life was a Problem
6. Tindersticks – The Turns We Took
7. TV on the Radio – DLZ
8. TV on the Radio – Crying
9. The National –Slow Show
10. Tahiti 80 – 1000 Times
11. Best Coast – I Wanna Make You Mine
12. Atlas Sound - Activation

Again, heavy 80’s preference, particularly with the post-punk tradition. I like Film School because it kinda reminds me of My Bloody Valentine, which in my opinion deserves a more loyal form cultural “re-discovery.” TV on the Radio is particularly interesting, its semi-rap/spoken word and lo-fi sound brings me to Brooklyn, as if I’m walking with Basquiat along the now-gentrified sidewalks of Burkin Street. Tindersticks, a band that made its name in the 90’s, has the Antony and the Johnsons melodies and voice quality, but is more symphonic and attitudinal.

The National’s Slow Show is just pure, pure love. What with lines like “I dreamed about you, for 29 years before I saw you” or “I want to hurry home to you, put on a slow damn show for you, and crack you up.”

I can group Discovery, Phoenix and City Center together in the shoe/nu/air/pantyhose-gaze department. Nice tunes for multitasking purposes, dance shakedowns and maybe an occasional coffee. A special note on City Center: it sounds like Bjork on sedatives.

Best Coast is alone in the Surf/Beach department. Well, probably there with half of Tahiti 80 – a band whose music is a bit dance-kitschy, like Prefab Sprout, but very lovable and charming.

Anyway, I leave you with these very political lines from TV on the Radio’s Crying:

And the wrath
And the riots
And the races on fire
And the music for tanks with no red lights in sight.

Got you

cryin'
cryin'
Oh whyin'
Oh my my my

Gold is another word for culture.
Leads to fattening
Of the vultures
Till this bird can barely fly.

Unmagnificent Lives of Adults

2010-01-12T14:53:00.001+08:00

And so the tirade continues against the atrocities of adulthood against personal freedom and dignity. Why? I do find working for an obscure goal somewhat alienating, regardless of the amount of salary, but especially when it’s as measly as the one I’m receiving for doing “research.” I feel so alienated its like I’m pure somatic energy already. Nothing more, everything less.

But I’ve never been good at ranting, and honestly, it isn’t me at all to complain because I’m a cowboy like that. But in truth I just don’t have anyone to blame and there’s really no alternative beyond labor and capital. And so it is that I’ve made for myself a set of resolutions all aimed at making me feel meaningful and belonged in this magnificent world. Interestingly it’s created during the early part of the year.

I won’t call it New Year’s resolutions though because that’s too conformist. Its pure coincidence, trust me.

I’ve taken my cue from Foucault and have decided to immerse myself in micro-disciplines like fixing my bed at all times, extending my personal care and hygiene to include regular toner use and aftershave application, and most importantly, introducing digital photography to the light of print. I don’t know, but these three things to me appear like a real strategy to ride the wave of aging: organization, vanity and preserving memories.

C’mon, hop aboard the adult train!

Neighborhood 2

2010-01-05T11:14:00.003+08:00

Okay, cue in Arcade Fire’s Laika.

I’m going to write about my neighborhood. It’s the place I associate mostly with growing up, as in the physical sense, as I have yet to really come across maturity of the social sort. The street’s Kalantas, the village, P.N. Roa. Sounds very provincial but I like it this way because it doesn’t remind me of Manila.

It’s supposed to be a suburb, and still strives to be, but with all the adjacent developments mushrooming everywhere like capital on crack, I’d give the village half a decade more before it tips over to urban decay. You see, this place is a village without a gate. Its that kind!

I remember how well planned this place is. Identical houses lined the streets, because residents moved in to built houses: bungalow structures with wooden clapboard walls and awning windows, vast front, side and back yards with minimal fencing. The streets are named after trees, and these trees rowed the streets. All around the perimeter were forests and hills, except for the north where rice paddies were the more prominent. Approximately 10 kilometers from downtown, my village sits in a valley of lush green, right on the featherbed of a blossoming middle class.

One pastime I miss is gathering fruits in the nearby forests. At the risk of sounding pre-historic, I found climbing Sampaloc and Duhat trees the most worthwhile as this often involved risking one’s skin to the sting of bees. Nearby was a gentle stream where my friends and I would try to catch hito and those little fish with multicolored scales which I forget the name of.

Anyway, I’ll have this story to tell when I grow really old and deaf: When I got my first bike as a graduation gift, I began to explore the outskirts of the area. Luckily, another neighbor, Alfred, had his own bike and we became co-explorers. We used to bike up a hill into a plateau of grassland right after we got home from classes, just when the sun was about to set. In the middle of the field were tire tracks, and it was perfect because one track was for him, and the other, totally mine. One day, while happily biking our way through the grassland, a white owl hovered over us. Alfred spotted it first. I looked up and realized it was slowly descending to our level. At first I was anxious as I thought it’d do a sudden dive and pluck my eyeballs out, so I pedaled harder into the sunlight. Moments later, the owl was right beside me, just flapping those wings like any bird in flight would. Harmless and just playing cute.

I didn’t think much of it; I have seen wild owls at least a dozen of times. But remembering that moment now makes me feel poetically relevant. Because no matter how hard I try to live life at the cutting edge of culture, deep inside me is a provincial sensibility I have silently forgotten, but have always treasured. Makes me feel very current, because the art scene right now is filled with themes of rediscovery and "looking back" and I think I deserve to be Jason Montinola's next subject. Hehe.

Oh yeah, guppies. The name of the little fish.

Leyte, Samar

2009-12-31T22:48:00.005+08:00

Since 2009 was filled with bad things, I decided that maybe heading off to a frontier this late in the year would even out the karma a bit. The destination would be Calicoan, Southeast Samar. The company, well, the usual. The plan? Loathe adulthood.

The way there wasn’t exactly the kind of route one would call typical. From CDO, it eventually took me 18 hours of combined road and sea trips to reach Leyte, involving all kinds of public transportation. I usually don’t mind long hours on the road, unless it’s the awkward kind like with family or co-workers. But this time, something about sitting all day long with redundant views outside made me feel like I’m missing out on days which could’ve been spent scouring Biri’s majestic rock formations. Which the group coming from the north was doing exactly during the time I was negotiating my way through Agusan del Norte’s flat landscape. All in all, I spent a total of 36 hours on a road and for a while believed that I caught the white line fever.

Was supposed to be in Tacloban on the 28th, but for some weird logistical reason, arrived one day earlier. So, not one to allow others a head start in the adventure department, I decided to find myself a nice island. Fortunately, two friends were able to tag along and we were able to reach this small pristine island west of Southern Leyte. We spent a night there and slept on the sand beneath a sky full of stars, and the strong moonlight on the white sand made everything visible. It felt strange being able to see clearly in the dark; everything looked distinct and cosmic.

Tacloban was where everyone was to meet. Some were coming from Manila, Monica was coming from the West, and myself along with Ann, from the south. When a year fucks up a collective spirit the way 2009 did to us, a definite destination is all that’s needed to create a parade, wherever the points of origin may be. I was particularly excited to see Monica, as she was coming from Cebu and Bacolod and it was quite romantic how we were both elbowing our way through long and expensive routes to get to the same place for the same reasons at the same time.

Anyway, everyone was finally assembled and we embarked on a trip to Calico-an. Arrived quite late, at nine in the evening. The resort was small, but appropriate as a venue for the non-discriminating. Immediately noticeable was the view from the pool’s edge: A line of huge waves separated the deep Pacific from the shallow coast in the foreground, the distinction made perfectly sensible under the bright full moon. Ahh, the mighty Pacific, where fables and tragedies are made, and the idea of mystery has found a perfect metaphor. I was very amazed. Nothing disrupted the curved horizon.

Later that evening, we decided to just “chill out.” While most were preoccupied trying to waste their consciousness away, I busied myself taking pictures and trying out different picture effects using different lights to achieve that indie feel. I thought at least I’d have something worthy to post on Facebook – a site which has increasingly become the battleground of cool. People compete to post imaginative pictures here and inventive status messages there. I wish I could keep up, but every time I come up with something creative, it almost always turns out to be more offensive than cool.

The next two days were spent doing what we came here for, i.e. “critiquing adulthood by deed.” This involves at least four of the following things in any degree: alcohol, caffeine, sugar, rock and roll, nicotine and other things. Surfing, also, was on the agenda. The weather was quite moody though, switching from downpour to scorching sunlight faster than we can swap notes on how best to ride waves. I ended up with a few wounds and a sore upper torso.

As the trip drew to a close, I slowly dreaded the trip home. But was very excited about closing 2009 with that hope that I don't come across its kind in the next decade or beyond.

***

Got my quota of inside jokes from all the drinking, which I found satisfying as it bolsters my cliquish tendencies. The more exclusive I get, the more special I feel. Coz I’m a liberal capitalist like that.

***

Missed out on Biri after all, despite the island trip. Judging from the pictures taken by others, the place was dotted with the most majestic rock formations.

***

As usual, a playlist has emerged from the whole trip which includes, among others:

Ever – Team Sleep
Slow Show – The National
Detlef Shrempf – Band of Horses
Touch Me I’m Going to Scream – My Morning Jacket
Kodoku No Hatsumei – Toe
Walking on a Dream – Empire of the Sun
Empire State of the Mind – Jay-Z feat. Alicia Keys
Basic Space – The XX
20 Years – Outerhope
Wrong Heaven – Eggstone

Prospects For Disenchantment Are Ripe

2009-12-21T19:01:00.002+08:00

Tried not to sleep, my flight was 6 am. Doing chores has never been quite as therapeutic as when I was washing the dishes at half past midnight, with the cold air trying to make its way into the now empty apartment space. Alex was next, and I made the effort to heat the bathwater for her. She’ll be leaving with me tonight.

With my climbing pack on, a satchel on one side, and Alex on the other, I looked like a strange excuse for a traveler doing his rounds on the city. Can’t quite figure out where I’d be going, but maybe its just one of those lazy mornings where you get caught up between two worlds without being aware of where you are. Limbo. I think I’m in a very unmagnificent state of consciousness.

The airport was just as indecisive. Paul Virilio would’ve triumphed in his exploration of this structure as launch pads of bodily movements. I was too tired from going through the process of depositing the dog to the cargo terminal to even notice how bright the lights were over where I was sitting. The thing is, knowing all these philosophies and theories on epistemics and meaning-making, especially the postmodern variant, results in nothing more than a decreased awareness of society’s contradictions. I mean, who cares about vectorial politics really? I can’t possibly shout out in the middle of the tarmac “Down with the disciplinary architecture” and not sound absolutely ridiculous.

Philosophy is like an accessory. It just makes you feel more interesting.

The flight was uneventful, I dozed off probably two thirds of the time. The endless white outside the window could've been very impressive in its attempt to embody the concept of the infinite, in its effort to refute this Western invention called the void. But I was hungry and sleepy, and the lady to my right, obviously an OFW, was annoying me with her constant disregard for safety protocols. She was hugging her handbag on her lap, and not on someplace safe. I started imagining turbulence and an inevitable air crash where all the contents of her precious bag would burst into the cabin, as if shrapnel off a napalm. Some would get hit by gold bracelets, some by Victoria’s Secret colognes, others would be lucky and suffer only minor injuries from getting pelted by Arabian dates. I, being the closest, would see Jovan Musk shatter my face.

Put the fucking thing on the storage or under the seat. I want to think of anti-essentialism and the prospects of radical politics in Japan, dammit.

Apartment Stories

2009-12-16T00:26:00.000+08:00

It’s a lazy day today. The sound of the utility man’s voice pushed me to consciousness, and I headed downstairs to find out the sink was broken again. I wondered for a while why things keep breaking down in this apartment, like the mirror two days earlier, or the comfort room’s door knob a year or two ago.

Must’ve been asleep awfully long and deep, since things were scattered on the floor and I could make up the noise it made in my head. Nothing happened last night, I thought. And knowing how easily I’m awakened by the smallest of sounds, I wondered if maybe I was dreaming of unicorns and squids falling from the sky again. The last time that happened, I woke up in the comfort room after passing out.

Well, last night I did bike around the nearby village. I put my iPod on, pumped the volume way higher than what’s safe. No helmet. I wandered aimlessly again to the playlist I made specifically for getting lost. It’s the kind of collection that will make you want to stay missing and keep you from finding your way home, just because your misplaced situation makes the song perfectly sensible. Like Radiohead’s There There.

I whipped myself some quick lunch, and headed to the vacant room. It was warm and very empty, with only a chair and a giant painting to foil the floor’s square and bare orientation. After a short or long time just sitting down, I decided finally to fix the broken radio so I could plug some music on. With a few tapes and screws and a bit more, the radio started working again and I started listening to Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love. I lied down flat on the floor, looking at the high ceiling, feeling a bit useless but utterly non-apologetic.

I realized I dozed off quite a long while when the sunset beams started scorching the right side of my face. I felt aged then, like a raisin with more volume. Thoughts of going back home started rushing through my head, like sitting on my wide window sill, looking out to the garden where nothing really happened. Briefly, I thought about how I didn’t want to be in this apartment any longer.

Legitimacy and the Limits of Outrage

2009-12-10T14:38:00.000+08:00

The outrage over the Magunidanao massacre has indicated an almost universal recognition for human rights, the sanctity of life, political freedom, and the centrality of the press in the democratic settlement. Complete with uncensored images and equally gruesome accounts of the atrocities, the massacre hit the heart of the nation and could be seen in a “politically” positive way as both a moment of clarity and consensus. After all, times are rare when the narrative of the Filipino nation finds a rallying point where issues of values and aspirations are decided upon, unwittingly or otherwise.

But what of martial law? What of the outrage being portrayed in the outlets of information/expression, as in Facebook and the media, or the streets and legislative chambers? May we consider this outrage “public” in the same sense that we cannot argue against the role of free journalism without risk of vilification? Is it legitimate?

Legitimacy in this sense is not the kind of legal validity we invest in political expression. Of course outrage is legitimate; it’s a matter of feelings; it’s a matter of fundamental right; it is constitutionally guaranteed. The kind of legitimacy we speak of goes beyond democratic logic to include the desirability of effecting real changes through political expression. And so it is that we must consider, when we do protest, who we are protesting for.

Martial rule in Maguindano is not very well received. Yet, who is this that receives, and why is it that such entity does not receive it well? Who, exactly, is outraged?

It has been said on occasions more than once, that it is much too easy to criticize “in the safety of Manila.” Such claim, of course, presupposes the existence of a territory outside the capital. Much more, such territory is unsafe. But quite more than this, the statement points to a scenario where criticism made in safety, and criticism made of outside security, are two different things. Ultimately, this statement leads us to the value of perspective, or utterance-point, in determining whether a certain kind of outrage is indeed legitimate.

In Manila where power is centralized both in symbol and in physical structure, outrage or protest almost assuredly gains political mileage as when uttered in some other place, say Mindanao; a mileage borne through proximity and access, leaving behind a trail of legitimized worries and concern which appear as though the protest was a matter of solidarity. But Manila is not merely a city with a location; it is a consciousness, a discursive identity whose rationality is shaped by the institutional powers found within its domain. The methods of thinking that dominates Manila’s discursive space is defined by the concentration of political power within its territory, the access to such power, and the possibility of emancipatory change.

The truth is, Maguindanao is quite a different place. Its identity, if one could speak of such a thing, is surely bound to a different form of narrative. A historicity distinct in its own, Maguindanao, or its logical extension, Mindanao, doesn’t quite figure well, if at all, to the body politic which makes up the Filipino nation. And if we are to admit to these differences, we can come to question whether or not the kind of protest we express, or the kind of outrage we feel, is indeed commensurate to the needs and consciousness of the identities of those affected by the by-products of political challenge. Beyond everything, protests by their very nature effect changes and these in turn affect the realities of different subjects.

To deny the differences in subjectivities between those in Maguindanao and those in Manila is to paternalize the process of political expression. It is to institutionalize a specific way of thinking and to preclude another, in a form of domination and minority-creation that encompasses the entire range of protest-discourse. To be sure, those who are in the position to protest (i.e. Manila in general) on behalf of those who couldn’t, must do so – but not at the risk of reducing (or much worse, substituting) the issues of the voiceless and distanced.

All in all, outrage as political expression must not preclude the social imaginary of the subject on whose behalf the protest is made. By considering that this “imaginary” consists of distinct, undervalued, and unassimilated narratives and historicity, outrage becomes more legitimate. And although we celebrate and desire outrage when it is legitimate, we must begin to conceive minimizing those which are not.

20s and Out of Hope

2009-12-08T14:42:00.000+08:00

One of the things that keep me writing and posting, despite the fact that Facebook and this site called Twitter have both worked to kill blogging all in all, is that I want to document my 20s. That way, I can always look back many, many years from now and remember how incredibly shallow and useless this decade has been. Coz you know, I do have a bright future ahead of me.

So, off to interesting 20s stuff. Saturday night was Outerhope’s album launch, and seeing that it has been four years since their debut album, plus the fact that it’s one of the very few local bands that has that elusive quality which I very much admire, I couldn’t resist going. I texted a few friends, and we all decided to meet up at McDonald’s so we can march together to Saguijo. It’s a place we rarely visit so there was a collective urge to it, or some bullshit like that.

We waited for Jason to arrive. At first, we thought he wouldn’t come as he made these really sleazy excuses for being late. He arrived from Cambodia earlier that day, and chances are he’d ditch us again like the many times he did before. I have interesting friends, yeah? Anyway, I did find it interesting how Monica, Petra, Ann and I sat inside a Kia Pride on the parking lot, with me behind the wheel, just waiting. With fries, dry time and caramel sundae, we all felt a bit useless. Just like how someone at his 20s should feel.

Everyone eventually made it to the gig. Raf, Jason and Dana followed shortly after we arrived, and since the bands started playing quite late, we all decided to do some drinking in the adjacent lot, sitting on tires and stepping on shit. The full moon and the visible Makati skyscrapers helped to create the feeling that we had no place to go home to. In my mind I was playing The National’s Fake Empire.

But we did have a place to go home to. Petra’s, at Fort Bonifacio. But not before the Kia Pride group had to deal with an overheated engine. To be honest, the ordeal contributed to the youthfulness of the entire night and set the mood for what would happen at Petra’s New Yorkish pad. There we decided to finish the night with more drinking and doing illicit stuff, like, erm, “playing downloaded music.” Cheap philosophizing made way to insanely offensive comments which surprisingly did not vex or irritate anyone. By the end, some were flat asleep on the floor, others on the bed, some decided to go other places.

The morning after (notice, an Outerhope slight-of-hand!), there were only four of us left. We implicitly decided to extend our 20s binge by deciding not to go home and spend what remained of the day ordering take out, watching this Joy Division movie called Control, and tinkering with Facebook.

I got back to my Apartment later that evening, having achieved nothing significant besides realizing that I can’t do things like this forever.

Snippets

2009-12-01T15:49:00.003+08:00

Haven’t done this in a long time, writing in anecdotes, as if my life was encyclopedic in scale. But somehow, I like it this way coz it makes me feel powerful since I can select and privilege personal experiences, on what to expose and to publish. What the hell, here goes.

***

Petra’s party at her condo went well, starting at around 12 midnight and lasting all the way until 6 in the morning. In between, there were talks of monotony, men in relationships, adventure itineraries, and generally cheap philosophizing. Of course, the drinks were abundant, and every bit as diverse as our multi-directional conversations. Chardonnay and Cabernets, next to Jello Rum shots, Ginebra Gin, Soju, and supreme consensus-builder, Red Horse. There were only seven of us by the end, resulting in what could be the most intoxicated day of my life. Enjoyed it tremendously nevertheless.

***

Gabaldon. What a place. The last time I visited was late 2006, and the whole experience emphasized the difference three years makes in the life of a twenty-something. Three years, come to think of it, is both long and short, both eternal and transient. Seeing the kids now all grown up, some having their own children, and knowing that some of the elders have died, Nanay Ising and the poet Tatay Angko for example, made me feel as if I went somewhere really far away for a long, long time.

Some things never changed though. The waters were just as blue and as cold, and the community was still the same welcoming bunch that greeted us each time we wandered into their sanctuary. It felt like yesterday, walking through tall grass with sun beating down my face, through a trail that led somewhere between the life I knew and the one I once crossed. Nostalgia, after all, hasn’t left me for months now.

***

On impulse, my friends and I went to Manila to buy us some culture and history. First stop was The Museum of the Filipino People. Actually, it was the only stop, as the rest were really non-places, like old buildings in Binondo, or walking along the dikes of Pasig River, getting lost at Recto, or being tempted to go into one of those surreptitious and illicit Live Shows where they offer free entrance, free pulutan and an occasional free gonorrhea from sitting on, well, chairs. It was fun though, and very random, very much how I prefer my weekends.

***

During a long car ride, my friend and I talked for hours, about humor and purpose and political agenda. In our mutual disenchantment with life-as-yuppies, we realized how dependent our worlds are to the metropolis, denouncing it hypocritically, as we knew we couldn’t escape the draw of the concrete and everything that happens inside buildings. So in the backseat, the darkest space inside the car, we cast our friendship in music through The Smith’s There is a Light That Never Goes Out, and Eggstone’s Wrong Heaven. Life's more meaningful when you know someone who's interested in the same hates and loves that preoccupy your consciousness, isn't it?

***

Aames, Petra and I drank at my apartment. There was wine again and for some time I felt better about having some form of progress in my life, until we finished the entire bottle in less than an hour and had to resort to beer. Also indicating a slight improvement is the fact that even with only two people in the room, I had a lot of fun. It no longer takes a big ass party with at least a couple of dozen of people and free flowing alcohol and loud music and a swimming pool to satisfy my idea of “fun” these days. Just good conversation, good friends, and a tomorrow that can be spent nursing a hangover’s all I need to keep me happy. This transition of preference from fun to meaning is a bit scary though as I always need some excuse for irresponsibility and recklessness.

Ang Bayan Kong Sinilangan

2009-11-27T17:25:00.002+08:00

Isang kantang paulit-ulit kong pinakikinggan, pinagmumunihan, at minsa'y iniiyakan. Ako'y tubong Mindanao. Pinanganak sa Bukidnon, lumaki sa Misamis Oriental at namulat sa Lanao. Malamang napapanahon lamang ang mga salitang ito na kumakausap sa akin, pero kahit papaano, matagal na rin pala akong inuudyok na magbalik-tanaw at makibahagi, para sa lupang aking pinanggalingan.

Ang Bayan Kong Sinilangan
by Asin

Ako'y isinilang sa isang bayan ng Cotabato
Kasing gulo ng tao, kasing gulo ng mundo
Dahil 'di magkasundo sa relihiyon at prinsipyo
Nagkagulo
Ang bayan ko sa Cotabato, kasing gulo ng isip ko
'Di alam saan nanggaling, 'di alam saan patungo
Kapatid sa kapatid, laman sa laman
Sila-sila ang naglalaban, 'di ko alam ang dahilan ng gulo

Bakit nagkagano'n, ang sagot sa tanong ko
Bakit kayo nag-away, bakit kayo nagkagulo
Prinsipyo mo'y igagalang ko kung ako'y iyong nirespeto
Kung nagtulungan kayo, 'di sana magulo ang bayan ko

Sa bayan kong sinilangan, sa timog Cotabato
Ako ay namulat sa napakalaking gulo
Dahil walang respeto sa prinsipyo ng kapwa tao
Kapwa Pilipino ay pinapahirapan mo
Ang gulo

Ako'y nananawagan, humihingi ng tulong n'yo
Kapayapaa'y bigyan ng daan, kapayapaan sa bayan ko
Bakit kailangan pang maglaban, magkapatid kayo sa dugo
Kailan kayo magkakasundo, kapayapaa'y kailan matatamo ng bayan ko

Kung ako'y may maitutulong, tutulong nang buong puso
Gitara ko'y aking inaalay, kung magkagulo'y gamitin mo
Kung ang kalaba'y walang puso, puso na rin ang gamitin mo
Ituring mong 'sang kaibigan, isipin mong siya'y may puso rin katulad mo

Sa bayan kong sinilangan (bakit may gulo) sa timog Cotabato (sa timog Cotabato)
Ako ay namulat (kailan matatapos) sa napakalaking gulo (ang gulo)
Dahil walang respeto (kailan magkakasundo) sa prinsipyo ng kapwa tao (ang tao)
Kapwa Pilipino (kapwa Pilipino) ay kinakalaban mo (bakit kinalaban mo)
Ang gulo

After Party

2009-11-04T14:29:00.000+08:00

Last night was another party I went to, and I’m beginning to think that with all the celebrations I’ve been writing about these past few months I’m coming across as this party-person shit ready and willing to submit to the draw of alcohol, music and small talk. Mind you, that is not me at all. First, I can’t sustain small talks. Second, I don’t really like drinking. Third, the music I listen to is not appropriate for parties, unless of course it’s a cult kind of party, in which case I’d be the master of ceremonies.

Long over-drag aside, the night ended with me and a few of my friends sitting on the sidewalk, smoking, enjoying wastedness and embracing the cool morning air. It’s these moments I enjoy the most because for some reason, I get to grasp the full essence of urban youth-hood. Just me and my friends out to squeeze the very last drop of “fun” there is to fleeting companionship and familiarity. Laughing, making references to epic personal disasters and talking about the future that will never be, just makes me feel culturally relevant and updated, like I’m not missing out on my twenties.

Think about it, its these dying moments in a story that really feels climactic. For dinner, there is that few minutes where you all look at each other and say, “hey, this was nice.” Or for every climb, there is that brief moment when everyone’s waiting for the bus ride home and a certain sense of collective meaning hovers over everyone. With parties, its this time you spend winding down, thinking about going to Burger Machine or a Tapsihan, smoking a last cigarette, and arm-twisting everyone for a ride home.

I don’t know, these times feel pure to me. No expectations, no hang-ups. Just a latent realization that you and the people you’re with just went through a good time together.

It’s the stuff nostalgia is made of, really.

Hating on the Liberal Settlement

2009-10-22T17:09:00.000+08:00

I’m here in a coffee shop, pretending to look busy, because at my age, I should be working, or doing some art, or studying, or staging a plot to take over a family business. That’s what kids do these days. Grow up. I hate the liberal settlement for this.

I’m listening to my iPod to this band called Melochrome, because in my demographic, I should have the most obscure playlist. This bestows some form of authenticity to my character. That’s what kids do these days. Become unique. I hate the liberal settlement for this.

I’m writing this entry for my blog, something I need to keep doing. It’s quite tiring, to be honest. But for people who have the means and the minimum ability, they should write and post. That’s what kids do these days. Perpetuate identity. And I hate the liberal settlement for this.

I’m drinking a hideously pricey cup of coffee, trying to look as if I’m enjoying it even though I really can’t tell the difference between brewed and express. Y’know, people these days should be cosmopolitan enough to know nuanced differences. That’s what kids do these days: Consume culture. I really hate the liberal settlement for this.

I’m waiting for a friend to come for some genuine conversation, just because I can’t deal with Facebook and Twitter as my source of person-to-person interaction. It’s when everything turns distanced that I fear living the most. But that’s what kids do these days: digitize relationships. And yes, I do hate the liberal settlement for this.

I’m feeling a bit depressed, seeing as it is that I have to create my own freedoms and spaces. In my generation, people obsess about forgetting basics, like life and tradition. We are all delusional in our thirst for complexity. But that’s what kids do these days. Thrive in malaise. I can’t hate the liberal settlement more for this.

On the Eve of my Day, I Did Something Uncanny

2009-10-20T16:21:00.002+08:00

On the eve of my birthday, I went to Ascend Superclub. Okay, it was very uncharacteristic of me, with all my issues about yuppiehood and all that has to do with “entrance fees.” But, as a redeeming note, it was free, courtesy of my very good friend Petrah. It was her magazine’s first year anniversary and I was invited, along with other common mountaineering friends, to partake in the celebrations a.k.a. free drinks as far as I’m concerned.

The start didn’t go quite well, with us missing the free drinks part. I made the epic effort to dress up decently, going even as far as buying new dress socks. All because I felt that free cocktails are like relationships: very hard to come by and quite demanding. By missing the free drinks hour, I was figuratively dumped.

But, fortunately for us, we were able to sneak in the VIP section through a few calls and a few swift, evading maneuvers past the unreasonably bulky bouncers. The only thing on my mind during that criminal time was how I’d hate myself for being tossed out in the streets in my dress socks. I mean, fuck you, I can’t be humiliated, and be in dress socks at the same time. It’s like double whammy big time.

Motherfuckin’ dress socks.

Anyway, a generous guy gave us some Bacardi to enjoy the night, and we got drunk just as fast as we realized we’d never do this again. So we danced a bit, awkwardly I must say, for none of us really went to these kinds of places regularly to know how to, y’know, gyrate properly. The only moves we were prolific at were those that jived to reggae and folk. So, it was very, very interesting.

It all ended well, with me piggybacking Petrah from the club to the parking lot. She was drunk as hell, and we fell a couple of times. I guess she wasn’t used to wearing high-heeled shoes, and Bacardi may have been too much for me. But as I placed her in the car’s backseat, she uttered this with half a tongue:

“Uy tsong, tsong, wait lang. Saan na tayo sa Netherlands?”

Haha. She was just as confused as I was at the whole thing.

Some Obscure Author

2009-10-20T00:30:00.000+08:00

George Steiner once said in an interview that coffee houses are anchor points in urban culture. I cannot agree more. So in the future, when I have all the moneys in the world to afford me some reckless entrepreneurship, I’d put up a coffee shop myself. I’d name it after some obscure author, and place it somewhere inconspicuous, like a back alley or in a wharf. It’d add some cultish feel to it.

It’d be a café and a bookstore all in one, with a collection primarily comprised of Continental thought. And everything in my coffee house will be politically correct. I’d forbid the use of gendered language, and be neutral on issues like pre-marital sex and gun control. If coffee houses were countries, I’d be Antigua: irrelevant but very interesting. Oh wait, that’s not a country.

Hopefully, I’d attract the attention of hippies, homeless professors, unemployed PhD holders, hardcore bums, and philanthropic heirs-to-billions. That’d sure create an environment conducive to conversation, debate, and an occasional brawl. But not to worry, I won’t install CCTV cameras, so that no one would ever go to the police due to “irreconcilable intellectual differences”.

It’d be a smart place, with artwork by local and transient artists on display all year round. It will have an organic ambience, not the manufactured and pre-fab look like most I’ve been to. It’ll feel as if I’d inherited it from a great grand-relative or something. So, okay, a bit contrived, but contrived not to look contrived. It’s less evil that way, yeah?

Perhaps, if I’m not taking care of my babies and my probable alcohol issues, I’d man it myself. Greet people. Make them feel at ease, or just serve them stuff they want. Then over time, I’d be a staple in social mingling and semi-intellectual small talks:

“I went to Cagayan de Oro last week.”
“Wow, did you go to (Coffee house named after some obscure author)? Its quite an experience.”
“Yeah, this guy (my name) recommended some great books to read, and we talked for hours about how the idea of individualism has been replaced over the years by the concept of singularity.”
“ Oh, (my name). He’s so cool, we should like invite him for a conference or something.”

Okay. Fantasy overload.

Age

2009-09-22T19:54:00.000+08:00

I’ve been surrounding myself with old people recently. Despite the fact that I possess some form of inherent aversion to the aged, I have taken some initiatives to temper this imagined layer of discomfort. I’m beginning to believe that the ability to have smooth interactions with the elderly is an important skill needed for success. And at the risk of sounding like a new-age-self-help-business-management-book, the way I engage those beyond my immediate social demographic subliminally works to reveal how I view myself.

Yeah, its birthday season, so I myself am feeling a bit old. Subliminal my ass.

Like at work, for example, where my co-workers are on average 20 years my senior. And if don’t attempt to, you know, talk about appliances, anti-oxidants and insurance policies, I just might miss out on the earthen wisdom of the more experienced. Really, what’s wrong with talking about the last amazing thing your niece did?

But I may be swallowing these words soon. I have to keep in mind that when Michael Jackson died, my age was clearly put in place. While the “youth” was eagerly waiting for the next Marvel character to make it to a Wii adaptation, I was busy revisiting my prowess at moonwalking. Okay, maybe not. But the point is, Michael Jackson was not a pedophile.

In my heart, I am young. In the deepest of me, I know that all I really want in life is a regular supply of old-style cinnamon rolls. After all, I haven’t lost my fascination with model cars. I mean those things are still in fashion right? Hotwheels? Matchbox?

Getting old. It does things.

Coz Friends Don't Waste Wine When There are Words to Sell

2009-07-28T23:50:00.001+08:00

I noticed that the things I write are not exactly chronological. Sometimes, it takes me forever to post things I have written in a coffee shop, or during a short cigarette break, or a midnight binge. I don’t know why for sure, I don’t have some form of narrative in mind to follow, no plot to complete, and definitely no characters to develop. It’s all completely random.

So maybe if I want to sound more coherent I better stop posting like Carlos Fuentes on crack. After all, one reason why I started blogging, besides wanting to make myself appear more interesting, is that I believe in the internet’s capacity to store information more safely and long-lastingly than my hard drive and mental memory combined. And hence, years from now, I can always have an instant access to my otherwise obscure past – something that I would like to sound and look clear. That’s why I try to hinge my time-space by dropping references to the immediate present. Like how yesterday’s SONA, Gloria’s ninth, is perhaps the lowest point Philippine politics has gotten overall.

But that’s just my trying to put order into my increasingly chaotic life, something I have found ironic and hilarious since I am a point shy of being a bum. Its like saying exotic-sounding real estate developments (Anvaya Cove, Viaje del Sol, Punta Fuego, Pico de Loro etc.) are becoming more mainstream. Oh wait.

You Know its Bad When You Think Research is a Real Job

2009-07-22T01:28:00.001+08:00

I could go on complaining about not having anything to do, ad infinitum. There’s no single thing I hate more, besides Photoshopped profile pictures, than just sitting at home, staring at nothing other than the TV and its hideous lineup of useless programs for the day. It doesn’t give me options, and being the hedonist that I am, them options mean a lot. Besides, what’s a restless and willing person like me to do? Surrender choice?

Wait, maybe I hate the yuppy konyo culture more. Or then again, maybe not.

But lately, things have been going a bit less lethargic for me. For one, I have booked a stint as a field researcher for the Institute of Philippine Culture, where I get to do documentation-related stuff of century-old structures in Manila, and finally living my dreams as a fake architect. But its an interesting job, despite the fact that Manila is a story of heartaches: demolished art deco buildings to be replaced by multi-level parking lots, torn-down bahay na bato to give way to a Jollibee or good god, a hardware store, those ridiculously colored apartment rows, and just the overall visual chaos that defines Philippine streetscape. I get to look at photo archives of old Manila too, and damn, they weren’t kidding when they said that Manila was once the pearl of the orient. It looked like a place straight out of present-day Segovia.

Just last week, I toured Monica around Binondo, with its Hongkongesque hustle and bustle, to see the old buildings and to finally grab some authentic hopia. There, the best-looking buildings fronted the Pasig river, but there were only a few left, and most were abandoned and left to rot and crumble into negligent death. See, far away in this city called Chicago, the most expensive and prestigious properties are those along the banks of Hudson river. And New York too. Here, we’ve replaced our Bund street with rows and rows of oil depots and informal settlers.

Probably the best example of how the Pasig once was, is the fact that the Malacanang Palace sits along its banks. But maybe that’s not a very good way to drive a point.

And so it is that I now nurse shallow desire for gentrification: change the face of Manila, especially that part along the river, into a glorious, beautiful, commercially zestful district. But that’s just me being paternalistic and out of touch. Who’d listen to the aesthetics of a fraud architect? I wouldn’t even trust my own judgment, if I were me.

My Recent Reads A.K.A. Appearing Smart

2009-07-01T15:19:00.001+08:00

Hegemony and the Socialist Strategy: Towards a Radical Democratic Politics by Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe

This book, although admittedly difficult, would put any Marxist-on-hiatus in the current shape of radical thought. It begins with a depiction of the crisis of Marxist orthodoxy and the variety of responses to the inadequacy of essentialist thinking to account for contingencies as the were taking place in advanced capitalism – from Rosa Luxembourg, to Kautsky, to Bernstein and to Sorel, and then to some more, like Stalin and Trotsky. Then, it develops Gramsci’s hegemony, ultimately tying to the more current postmodern conceptions of subjectivity and meaning to argue for a radical democratic politics.

If you ask me, its too much theory in one book, but patience will eventually pay off. The book opens a new realm for Marxism, and this is precisely why this book has become seminal and highly influential. For those who are hostile to Marxism, read only up to the Third Chapter and then you’ll be armed with enough arsenal to survive any communist-capitalist debate.

Democracy and Difference: Contesting the Powerhouse of the Political, Edited by Seyla Benhabib

For the first time in a long while, this “theoretical” collection has a literal sense to its title, because, wow, this really is one powerhouse of a book if only because of its contributors. Who, you may ask, are the contributors to this typical collection? Well, just some theorists in the likes of Jurgen Habermas, Iris Young, Seyla Benhabib, Richard Rorty, Nancy Fraser and Chantal Mouffe. Just ‘em normal, average ones.

No Logo by Naomi Klein

In a work that has been hailed as the Das Kapital of globalization, No Logo by Naomi Klein is particularly shallow. Deeply inspired by Frankfurt School’s fetishism and culture industry, the underpinnings of this generation-X work seems to lie solely on the field of a corporatist-emancipatory agenda.

But, this book is also important in conceptualizing culture in terms of imagery and iconography. For those who squirm at the idea of shelling out 200 grand for a bag, this may be the book to get those emotions theoretically substantiated. And to the adherents of Baudrillard, of which I am one, this book greatly deploys the concept of “Disneyzation” to a whole new globalized level.

Batad, Ifugao

2009-06-20T17:08:00.003+08:00

I went to Batad last weekend. Marvelous place, really beautiful. With its amphitheater terraces that rise close to a thousand meters, its old Ifugao huts, and a setting that's as breathtaking as the cold, uncommon air, Batad could be, in my opinion, the most archaeological the Philippines can get. I mean, those terraces are at least a thousand years old.

Anyway, the trip going there was not as memorable. Aside from a new Indian friend who chatted me up until 3 in the morning, the bus ride was long, bumpy and nauseating. Plus, the fact that I am generally incapable of taking on-board naps really made everything feel dragged. Maybe that's why i prefer long distance traveling during the day. I like looking through the window out into the view, whatever it may be. Sometimes I conjure urbanity-rurality issues just by wondering how it is that most of the busiest highways here in the Philippines are lined up with shabby, flimsy houses, with the sporadic overnight all-around stores. Most of the time though, I just take in the scenery, and its therapeutic how the images just pass me by while I sit there passively, just like watching TV. Oh yeah – hyperreality in reality. Inverse Baudrillard.

Bullshit aside, I really found Banaue interesting. Its my second time there, the first being that time I valiantly climbed Mt. Napulauan, with atrophied muscles and nostalgia as my main (only) artilleries. There's something magical about this place, maybe its the neutral weather, or how the place makes it incredibly clear that you are in Ifugao and nowhere else. The place drives a point. Yeah, maybe that's it. I don't know, I've never really had a good travel vocabulary.

Riding “topload” with four Japanes women – we convinced them to ditch Western safety standards – Batad was better. The sun was shining brightly, and although I felt drowsy most of the time, those narrow, rough mountain roads that seem to flirt closer and closer to the cliffs made the 80s jeepney feel like a Six Flags rollercoaster, one with a good, good view.

The jeepney was only able to carry us to the saddle, and we had to trek our way down to the town proper. From this point, the terraces still weren't visible, so being sleepless, slightly sunburned, and slightly hungry made me feel grumpy. But, as I soon learned, no one should ever underestimate Batad: it reserves its most spectacular view up to the very last curb in the trail. And when you get there, it gets absolutely cinematic, the hills open up like giant curtains out to this vast space where the terraces glide their way down, almost endlessly, to the deltas below. You get disoriented by the sheer scale, and you slowly begin to realize that maybe it was all worth it. You take a few steps more, take in the fact that one of the highest mountains in the Philippines, Mt. Amuyao, frames the background, and then you're finally led to decide that fuck yeah, it was definitely worth it.

The next few days was spent bumming around, going to waterfalls, trekking through the terraces, meeting people from everywhere -Israelis, Singaporeans Indians, Japanese, and Europeans. There were lotsa tourists. I don't blame them for coming to Batad, it'd be the first place I'd go to if i were a foreigner. Anecdotally, I always thought of foreign tourists as coming to the Philippines purely for the sake of art, and somehow I envied them for that. I've always wanted to go to lost places like Tibet or Congo or Fiji. Traveling to this part of the world, to them, must be some form of art – getting lost, feeling foreign, encountering differences, self-reflection, not knowing, testing guts, experiencing worth. But going to Batad made nationality-distinctions weak: it just simply cant hold water in a place where everyone, no matter the origin, feels artfully satisfied.

Hah, I just had to end in some esoteric note. Again, travel vocabulary. I blame it.

Ah, the Gym

2009-05-19T03:05:00.001+08:00

I’m not one to scour the cities in search of fitness gyms. I think it goes counter to my chronic aversion to commitment. Nevertheless, being in CDO and absolutely doing nothing has made me feel a bit flat. Or fat. Even by my ridiculously low health standards. So I decided to go to a local gym. And to hype things up for myself, I decided to go public.

Yep, a public gym where all testosterone is given access by way of right. But its just 35 pesos per session, so I’m not complaining. Plus, I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to collapse my class consciousness, and attempt to rid myself of political incorrectness. Its this place called Pelaez Sports Complex, and it houses an Olympic-sized swimming pool, four tennis courts, a 400-meter oval, a soccer field, and all the necessary components that go with the usual Palarong Pambansa, My dad said the entire place was newly renovated, and being one for good governance, I couldn’t resist giving the place a look myself.

Upon entering the fitness gym, I immediately noticed a huge tarpaulin poster of the provincial governor hung high above a small boxing ring. He was half naked, but wore boxing gloves and posed like what he really is – a politician trying to look like a dedicated boxer. Anyway, a dozen young kids were on the ring, practicing their boxing drills, all of them wearing a uniform. One guy told me that the governor has set up a boxing school program for promising kids from the municipalities. I immediately got it: it was Pacquiao politics in the works.

In one corner huddled a group of massive men. Bodybuilders with horse-like muscles, throbbing veins that webbed their limbs, very much like the horse steroids they may have been on. One was doing what seemed to me was a Mr. Universe catwalk, complete with poses that emphasized the bulges. He was timing them to the tune of Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust. It was funny to watch, but I must say, it was the most literal sense I’ve found for the word masculinity.

In the greater area of the gym were common folks like me, who make do with pedestrian knowledge on how to build muscle mass in the soonest possible time. Without aid from professionals, we are left to ourselves to decipher which drill to do, when, how much, and how long. This couldn’t be effective, I told myself. But at the same time, I found a certain sense of beauty in how popular culture has made its way to the simplest of people. After all, posters of Arnold Schwarzenegger, Sylvester Stallone and the entire crew of the 1992 Brazil Swimming Team were prominently displayed on one side. For a while, in between sets of excruciating bench presses, I thought about how this entire scenario was the flipside to heteronormativity. Men just being men.

All in all, I’ve been to Pelaez three times. I’ve done around 500 meters in the pool, and I’ve clocked a total of 2 hours in the oval. Not bad, I guess, considering how these past few months nothing close to physical has been on my routine list. Regardless, the governor’s poster still creeps the hell out of me every time.

To the LSG Candidates: Political Spectrums and the Limits of Freedom

2009-02-06T22:48:00.000+08:00

Election time once again. To those who are running, I hope you will take time to read this. I seek neither to present a formula to solve all our ills, nor to provide a comprehensive vision for Malcolm. This is beyond my capacity, and perhaps beyond the capacity of this medium to fully embody.

Every form of politics needs to have a spectrum – a conceptual tool that facilitates the location of particular ideologies according to its extreme forms. Its purpose therefore is practical. It is not to say that when one subscribes to a particular position, he necessarily locates herself somewhere along this spectrum. Neither does it mean that there is only one spectrum. It does however mean, that when one does opt to locate herself, she embodies the ideology/ies that such location necessarily suggests.

The assumption of this pragmatic tool is the existence of political communication; a brand of language that enables agents, actors and even institutions to brand their acts, while simultaneously reinforcing their particular brand of beliefs. Spectrums assume that there is a space where communication can exist, and this is the space which spectrums precisely possibilize. Without it, meaningful political communication cannot exist. Thus, a liberal and a conservative, a leftist or a rightist.

To this there is a critique: that in so reducing one’s platform or agenda as a mere location in between two polar extremes (say, fascism and communism) the spectrum is simplistic. This of course is true, if we assume beforehand the existence of inconsistent political positions; hence, truth to this critique relies heavily on the premise that there is no such thing as ideology through which one’s positions are informed, deliberately or otherwise. It is short of saying that one cannot have two positions in the same spectrum, otherwise she will contradict herself. The fact that polar opposites in this spectrum are irreconcilable means that debate, scrutiny and inquiry are necessitated. To put simply, the spectrum, albeit inherently limited in its capacity to accommodate all variations of ideologies, nevertheless enables political language to mature.

Hence, when we say that a candidate must make a stand, we are in fact saying that he must locate her position in the spectrum, and to be able to defend and justify such position vis-à-vis all other locations existing in different degrees in the same spectrum.

The second assumption has to do with semiotics, specifically the ability of signs to embody meanings. In the very same way that words make sense because they are situated in an environment, so too must political positions situate themselves in their realms to have meaning. Meaningful political communication happens only when there is a medium that can approximate its meaning. After all, we do not communicate through telepathy or clairvoyance. We employ signs to understand everything and anything. Without such signs, or through weak signs, our communication is stunted: language opens possibilities, and this becomes clearer in light of the relationship between the human capacity for broad communication and our superior place in, say, the food chain.

To say therefore that “I support student rights” or that “I will abandon the block system” and maybe that “I will abolish all fraternities” become meaningless in the absence of a spectrum. It is no different from saying that “I love cats” or “the New York Knicks absolutely suck.” It is to say things without a language, where the audience can hear but not listen. To this there is again a criticism: these statements are necessarily different, such as one being merely opinion, and the other being normative, political. True, but this criticism misses the point entirely. To brand something as political already assumes a categorization which exists (conceptually) differently from the “merely descriptive.” This categorization, this conceptual divide, is precisely what we need to make obvious. We must possibilize political communication by employing effective language. We must begin by employing spectrums in our campaigns and elections.

Therefore, we say to those who advocate student rights, where are you in the spectrum of liberty? Are you on one extreme, advocating no liberty at all? Or on the other end, claiming that we must have all the liberties we can think of? Of course in this day and age no one wants extremes, but that is not to say that they are completely useless. Again, we return to conceptual utility, because it does matter how close you are to either end. The danger in all of this is the tendency to stick to the middle ground, to strike a balance, an equilibrium between polar opposites. This is reasonable, but your politics dictates your risks, and your politics correspond to our choices. While the middle ground is a practical position to be in, trust there are those who would be more middle than others.

The spectrum given above (with respect to student rights) is probably not the best example, as a spectrum defined through student rights seems superfluous in political space occupied exclusively by students. Yet, this leads us to an important point: that not all spectrums are important, that some political reductions are more reductive than others, or otherwise stated, that there is indeed a hierarchy to this kind of language. This is perhaps one of the reasons why some (verbal) languages go extinct, or why for the longest time politics in America has been defined by the liberal-conservative debate [which simplistically means big-government versus small-government, respectively].

This is where my opinion comes in. I think it is politically responsible for the current LSG candidates to frame there position in terms of their location in the spectrum of academic freedom. On one extreme end is the position of absolutely total academic freedom, where professors are given full liberty on deciding their curriculum, their methodology, or their grading system. On the other end is the position of absolutely zero academic freedom, where a professor merely follows a prescribed set of readings, required to use a single grading system, and forced to subscribe to a particular manner of teaching.

I think, more than anything else, the issue of academic freedom in law school is not sufficiently debated by the studentry. Many of our issues has to do with the lack of understanding towards the extent of academic freedom. When a Professor who gives a 5 to half the class, without returning their examinations, can we say his actions are justified under the broad concept of “academic freedom?” Or can we say that academic freedom has its limits and that a body, which can reverse any given final grade, be instituted? These are all questions which involve politics, and/or ideology. I am not imposing my position, I am, however, seeking to provide the groundwork for a more meaningful election season. I am not saying that, for example, Professor Elizabeth Pangalangan’s 1-to-10 grading scale is unfair. I am merely saying that the support or resistance to this method lies somewhere in this spectrum.

Spectrums, as a system of communication, is not perfect. To illustrate, one cause for concern is the capacity of spectrums for exploitation, as in one can either be anti-poor, or pro-poor, pro-Gloria, or anti-Gloria. But this is an issue of misuse rather than inherent defect. To a certain degree, we must rely on our maturity to determine whether such (unreasonable) simplifications deserve a place in our politics. Like all forms of communication, spectrums are value-free, it is neither evil nor good in and of itself. It is the meaning we attach to them that requires collective contemplation and responsibility. As such, we do not rely on spectrums for pure vilification, rather we utilize it to clarify our issues, our positions and beliefs in the hope of possibilizing healthy and meaningful political communication.

On Fucks and These Days

2009-01-14T09:06:00.002+08:00

It’s been the second time this week that I came out of law school at 6 in the morning. It really doesn’t mean much, like I’m that academically enthused. It just means that I’m cramming some PLJ arcticles. Period. It does not foreclose, for example, the possibility of me cutting three classes in one day. Which happened by the way. All this, just to illustrate the irony of being in law school day in and day out (literally) and still not study. Geesh.

I enjoyed the second morning more, since I went back to my (electricity-less) apartment by bike. Feeling the cold morning air and seeing early joggers around the academic oval made UP feel as if it were located somewhere more northern, like Taiwan. But not Korea. I don’t know, it just felt that way.

And talking about feelings, I have come across some good literature legitimating, to a certain degree, feelings in a scholastic way. Its called postmodernism, I guess. It has been a latent practice of mine to inhibit emotions in my writing. I really don’t know why, but in retrospect, it explains how this blog is terribly under-angst-ed. But now, since I can equate the realm of feelings along with logic and reason, here’s:

Fuck you you fucking fucktard for having voidness for principle. I am genuinely hoping that you fucking roll over your fucking side and just fucking die.

How’s that for starters? It sounds pretentious, even by my standards.

I stayed over at a friend’s apartment. I swear I wanted to tough out the entire night in candlelight. I wanted to try how it felt being suddenly off the grid, which happens only when I’m up in the mountains and never in the urban setting. I figured now’s the best time to try, seeing to it that the weather has been comfortably cool. But the fact of me not being able to charge my dead cellphone, and how not having access to my cyberpresence (which counts only three, Facebook, Multiply and this blog) made me feel out of place. Really the most awkward feeling in the world. The fact that I could hear my neighbor’s keyboard just made things unbearable.

It a quarter past four, and I can’t sleep. Decided to bike to 7-Eleven, which until now I still don’t know the correct spelling of, and churn up the city-ness of being in Manila. On the way, Donnie Darko was in mind again. Biking. Misplaced hours. Directionless wondering. I really don’t know when the day ends or starts, these days.

Normality

2008-12-05T13:59:00.002+08:00

There are a few things about me which I have realized are not normal. Somehow, I get caught up with my artificial realities that I get to forget to juxtapose. Plain simple juxtaposition. One needs that every now and then, say for calibrating ambitions and gauging the worthiness of particular goals. I thought it was commonplace to have, as an ultimate goal, bountiful breakfasts. Then I hear people talking about academic prestige, writing a book, traveling to Santorini, or Mars, or fuck wherever. I mean these are things you hear about everyday, glorified by the media and the sciences, but I never found it necessary to indulge my happiness against these. But now, hmmm, maybe it makes more sense.

For example, I figured out that I’m awful at drinking coffee. I thought it was normal for people to get tongue burns every every cup, y’know, like pain makes it more meaningful. Like tattoos. Maybe this explains my slight aversion for Starbucks, baseless pricing and creepy marketing aside (they’ve put every conceivable elixir in their coffee that I wouldn’t be surprised if they had Unicorn Tears Frapp next season).

Must vegetarianism be spiritual? Many people ask me what motivated me to ditch the meat, but I always end up answering that I just woke up one day and never ate meat again. Apart from the obligatory where-do-you-get-your-protein questions, many people link meatless diets to Hinduism, paganism, idolatry, yoga or whatnot. Apparently, being trendy is not a valid enough reason to overturn ingrained habits of eating. Thus, I try to be creative in answering these questions from new people, like “I turned vegetarian so that we can start this conversation,” or “I once taped a frog to a firecracker and I have never looked at blood the same way again.”

It’s not normal to soap the body before proceeding to shampoo the hair. It’s actually the other way around. Man, where was I these past 23 years?

It’s not normal to feel stiff around old people. I don’t know, they have that effect on me. Whenever someone old, like a parent of a friend or wrinkled stranger, enters a room, my back deliberately straightens, and I play conscious censorship on my normally crass language. What’s up with that? Basic politeness and courtesy dictate that these things come naturally, but I get awkward and stiff and I feel like running away and watching The Simpsons or an intensely slapstick movie, like White Chicks.

There’s a lot more about me that I can throw in the “crazy” bin, like finding Bjork as extremely hot, or having chronic difficulties with prepositions. But maybe I’m just having a random episode of self-doubt. After all, Morrissey said “There is no such thing in life as normal.” Next time though, as per Mon's advice, I'd wait a bit for the coffee to cool down and sip slowly. Okay, I better stop writing since I sound incredibly stupid already.

Something Boring

2008-12-03T00:32:00.001+08:00

I was thinking of something profound to write on my Facebook’s status message when I realized no one ever really looks like his or her profile picture. I noticed that there is a certain truth to the claim that technology does have the latent ability to embed standards for all of us. It used to be fanciful, stalking at people who look “good” in their profiles believing in an idea of accurate representation. Then everyone started making themselves look better, resorting to Photoshop and arm’s length camera angles, which are almost always above the head, to maximize the reductive tendencies of 2D media.

Same goes for other interactive sites. Multiply, for example, is a dense conglomeration of cultural artifacts – pictures of the first new born, a recent wedding, a cool vacation, etc. There is an underlying message in all of these; that perhaps there exists a collective idea of what is “cool,” “fashionable,” “worthy,” and even “admirable.” More importantly, it suggests that there is a space, a paradigm that can perform the task of distilling these virtues in a manner that both preserves and propagates. Hence, when one posts a picture of a recent trip, say to Aspen (what the hell), he is simultaneously recognizing the importance of the act, and reinforcing the role of the medium he chooses. This may be deliberate or otherwise.

The question is, what motivates these movements of virtue-formation to traverse a certain line? Why do people suddenly become enmeshed in these cyber-realities?

The answer may be found somewhere in the intersection between technology [in the technical sense, of course] and culture. God knows I’ll be the last person to deconstruct culture and its identity-propagating and -informing mechanisms. I’m in too deep in its clichés to make it a subject of academic insight. And technology is rather a bit too alien for me to decode, really, what with a tech-vocabulary that stopped updating itself at Nokia 7610 and the iBookG4 (circa 2005). Well, in that sense, I am a bit anachronistic.

Oh yeah, another artifact – vintage outdated-ness. Seems to be virtuous these days.

Biking Positive

2008-11-26T02:40:00.001+08:00

I’ve been extremely full of myself lately, reading my own blogs which to a certain degree is pathetic, really. But I noticed that lately I’ve been a bit gloomy. Mon asked me a while ago what I thought of first thing in the morning. I said, without hesitation, that it has always been, hey, this is going to be a great day. I’m positive to the bone; it’s in my DNA. But I’ve been off character lately, talking about misappropriated decisions and world forces. Fuck that. I’m cheery as the sun, although I always make it a point to ask my friends that if I were a complete stranger, would they be scared if they passed by me in some random street. They’ve unanimously said yes.

Well, for starters, I bought a bike. Working for Prof. Sison, plus the ridiculously inefficient payroll over at the Law Center, have bottled up my salary to four months. I suddenly found myself awash with cash. Since it’s been an irreducible habit of mine to spend on impulse, my immediate thought was “what to buy with this much money?” Thus, a quick trip to Quiapo and in an instant I have subjected myself to the rigors of Manila road hazards.

I have always enjoyed biking since I was a kid. I remember my Dad’s elementary graduation gift for me was a BMX. I was the coolest kid in the village until everyone started having their Playstations. Great, while Tekken was all the rave, I was three kilometers north by myself making my way through uncharted grasslands.

In Manila though, biking is a different experience. Since I’m still hung-over from Donnie Darko, I get the feeling of youthfulness in the carbon-laden wind blowing on my face and the semi-rush of places and people that I pass by. Take away the occasional brush with death, and I’d say, in the cheesiest of ways, that riding a bike in the city is a lovely experience.

Ha. Plus I’ve always wanted to reduce my carbon footprint. That’s the trendiest I can get these days.

Getting Emotional Is Not My Thing

2008-11-24T01:37:00.002+08:00

I haven’t written in this blog for a long time. Usually, it would take something either extraordinary or terribly mundane to motivate me to post. I do write, yes, but posting has a more social thrust, you see.

So is it going to be something intriguing and extraordinary (self-proclaimed, but shameless) like sleeping in a councilor’s house in Siargao, or something that’s too much of a cliché, as in driving a depressed friend to the mountains of Antipolo and getting lost? I don’t know; this is a strange day.

I watched Donnie Darko again, upon waking up at a friend’s house a quarter past twelve. Alone. I saw a note at the fridge, saying I could eat the cake. My head still hurt from last night’s party, and my phone had a dozen messages. My friend’s laptop was on the desk, and I remember she mentioned she had Darko. I opened it, without permission. No password. Great, let the melancholy begin.

I knew I would get punished. I was entitled only to pastry but then had some more. Darko’s a dark film; on its face the title sounds revealing enough, but I’ve watched it enough times to notice the science fiction and the theological themes interlock. This time though, it was different – something familiar happened. I subconsciously lifted from the screen themes of smallness, of uncontrollable world forces, like dying alone and, ugh, God’s existence, and it made me feel strongly empty.

I noticed I’m already in my junior year in law school, and I scoffed at myself, eerily, at how easily I can ignore my power to choose. I didn’t want to be a lawyer, never did. I hate structured knowledge as much as I hate, what, The Rolling Stones? But I go with the flow, settling with the fact that I really don’t own my decisions. I find it funny how I got this far without seriously entertaining myself. I’m a coward like that; and it makes me feel like such a frigging waste. I’ve told my self many times that I’m a pushover and that I don’t have any trouble whatsoever with convincing myself on anything. This time though, it doesn’t sound as funny as the time when I was still blissfully ignorant of the fact that I’m not getting any younger.

So I went home, walked past Bo’s, which in about two hours’ time would be rammed by a truck, and tried to think about life and how to live it. I decided I needed something nostalgic, so I called Tony and congratulated him on topping the teacher’s boards. I said he should teach here, maximize the lifelong credential and all that economics-based mental shizz. Then I remembered that I should have my brand new bike assembled today. Just as fast, I realized I didn’t have enough moolah to do so - I spent it all. Then and there, in front of the newly reinvented Teriyaki Boy, I noticed how I really didn’t want to have a bike. It cost me a fortune, but I never really wanted it. Half-meant decisions, although fun at first, really have a way of creeping back full circle.

Then with only 35 bucks in my pocket, I decided I should see Kay, feeling all down and in deep need of nostalgia. I called her up and told her I only had a one way ticket. She said she’d lend me some for my way back. Within twenty minutes I was in her unit, and we talked, covered a lot of things from relationships to how her yaya, with her cleft lip and two missing front teeth, would surely be good at giving head, and how she should buy a Chihuahua.

Around two hours into our chat, I suddenly wanted to go to New York and work as a waiter for two months during the summer. I actually constructed the rest of the day romanticizing the idea, revolving it around thoughts of bussing tables with models dining, serving them celery sticks, of visiting the MoMa, and of finally having my shot at American clichés. Will I ever get to own this decision? Who knows. At the rate I’m going, I’m I’d figure it out as soon as I have the next whimsical choice at hand. And it would just repeat itself over and over again.

No Final Swap

2008-09-28T11:33:00.002+08:00

No final swap; today flirts
ambition with sloth - at its
purest during near-noontime
bed. Half dreamt whispers of
bountiful breakfasts amidst
half eyes: Appetites still standing,
the mechanisms of routine
undone - what, the day
is long enough.

Almost midway, a body curls.
Turning slowly to the edge
of indecision, hoping instead
of a clear line somethinghood.

Awkward moments, Among Others

2008-09-09T20:48:00.001+08:00

I hate being in awkward situations. I really do. It makes me feel highlighted, like how Ma’am Quintos looked when the electricity went off last night and the only light in the room was her laptop’s LCD, directly illuminating her face. That’s why I like saving others from uncomfortable situations. During dinner, for example, when someone sneezes and accidentally discharges a thread of snot, I’ll intentionally drop my fork to afford the other enough time to clean up. I’ll also pretend I didn’t see anything.

***

I’m trying to unlearn the habit of soaping and scrubbing first before shampooing. It makes perfect sense to do the head and proceed to the rest of the body, doesn’t it? I mean rinsing would be so much efficient. I don’t know how I picked up my current bottom-up practice. Perhaps its my firm belief that national policies should always start form the grassroots. I know it sounds too dislodged an explanation, but I’ve been reading up on psychoanalytic politics lately, and I’ve learned that behavioral patterns are transpositive in nature. Say, how we button our clothes has a lot to do with the way we perceive of our immediate goals in life.

***

I watched Annie Hall yesterday, and I must say, I enjoyed the movie terribly. Many critics say that it single-handedly changed the way romantic comedies are conceptualized. But 90% of the movie’s genius has to do with its witty screenplay. Woody Allen’s character, Alvy Singer, is a perfect showcase of how too much self-entertaining can deconstruct life’s simplest pleasures. It’s difficult to find happiness when we meticulously try to calibrate our own ideas, hates, likes, biases, and worldviews against our immediate externalities. Love is love, but not when Sylvia Plaith enters the thought process, yeah?

***

I went to Anilao last weekend, just because lately I’ve been feeling as if spontaneity is such a fashionable trait. But beyond that, I really wanted to get away. In fact, given any other day, I wouldn’t have joined the trip for the reason that almost everyone there was old. I tend to keep to a few close friends and unlike Dianna, I can’t be at ease with a new crowd that easily. Anyway, I managed to enjoy the lazy time, reading The Rolling Stones’ special on Radiohead and grabbing ice-cold beer randomly while soaking under the sun. In between, I either took brief dips or binged on the leftover grilled fish.

Playlist! Playslist!

2008-08-26T10:11:00.001+08:00

1. Mistaken for Strangers – The National
2. Green Gloves – The National
3. Fake Empire – The National
4. Transmission – Joy Division
5. Dead Souls – Joy Division
6. Disorder – Joy Division
7. We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful – Morrissey
8. (Oh) God – The Most Serene Republic
9. Proposition 61 - The Most Serene Republic

***

I obsess these days about The National and their politically charged songs. But delight, theirs is not propaganda. It’s a subconscious critique of the workaday world. Take for instance the song Mistaken for Strangers. It’s an ode to the painful, but inevitable initiation of young people to the “unmagnificent life of adults.” Matt Berninger sings “You swear, you just saw a feathery woman carry a blindfolded man through the trees.” Beautiful.

***

Joy Division is a classic. As one critic put it, “many guys get in a band because they want to be rockstars, to do drugs for free. The guys in Joy Division formed a band because they had no choice.” Music moved them, and today, their impact in music still resonates profoundly.

***

An excerpt from one interview with the Moz:

What do you think about T.A.T.U.’s cover of your song How Soon is Now?

I think it’s good.

Really? They’re Russian lesbians.

Aren’t we all?

***

The Most Serene Republic is a playful band from Canada. Their sound resembles that of Broken Social Scene, only more experimental and energetic. I got them from Monica and they’re a pleasure to listen to during hot days over laundry or dishwashing. I don’t know, they have that kind of appeal.

Of Possibilities

2008-08-25T15:03:00.002+08:00

I was treated like a VIP when I went to Cebu last June to visit my cousins. What with the spas and the bottles of wine and the mingling with local bigshots. Honestly, I am not accustomed to the fineries (haha this word) of life, as a matter or principle and of consequence. I don’t wear branded clothes, nor do I crave exquisite cuisine. In fact, I’m so used to consumer products like Tanduay that last night, one shot of Bacardi spiraled me. And Bacardi’s not even fine. It all makes perfect sense, perhaps, when I say that I only have two ultimate dreams: First, I want a bountiful breakfast every morning, and second, I want an all white, airconditioned room with a big sunny window. That about sums up my life’s masterplan.

On one hand, it sounds pathetic. I mean an eighteen-year old these days can get this by doing a call-center. What about ambition? What about the will to greatness? What about scale and scope? Got none of that. Sorry. I don’t care. Enough. Period. Leave me alone, I just want my pancakes and blueberry side.

On the other hand, it sounds profound. With only these two things occupying that part of my mind called foresight, I actually have a vast space left to be flexible, yeah? And to me, flexibility is premium. I can entertain my whims without any risks of walking off-course - because I ain’t got none of that to begin with. I think the best way through life, contrary to what Albert Camus would argue, is not pride: it’s flexibility. I can try painting this year, and drop my palette knife midway to watch a gig, and walk away after two songs to catch a trip to elsewhere, decide to enroll at some culinary school, try being a bartender maybe, or volunteer at some NGO somewhere in Africa. Imagine these and multiply it to about forty or so years and it’s easy to see how I would have been all over the place.

The point is, every time I look out my big window, I can never say to myself that I limited my possibilities.

Life Random Button Off

2008-07-26T18:15:00.001+08:00

I’ve been fucking up badly this early in the semester. With three 5s in three different subjects, I might as well just roll over and die. And this got me thinking again: its never too late to pack up and zoom far away, and fast. There are a lot of options, and the fact that taxation is as far from my heart as the next album of Jocelyn Enriquez gives a big tilt for the escape side.

One thing. I want to be an architect. In the deepest of me, I want to be an architect. My friends would attest to the thousands of house plans I have doodled during classes and during coffee breaks. I’m serious when I say that I have more drawings of themed houses and buildings than all my law notes combined, times three. You know those magazines with house layouts or blueprints? They excite me. They send this charge up my spine that makes me just wanna sit down and doodle, conceptualize, visualize.

I’ve been thinking, what if I take architecture after law? That’s 5 more years, plus the requisite two-year apprenticeship, and another one for the board. I’ll finally be working by the time I’m supposed to be buying life insurances and pondering on my next career move. If I took architecture instead of political science from the get go, I wouldn’t feel as helpless as I really am right now. Too bad I’ve been deciding major things in my life based on impulse. Like law. Mehn, who would’ve thought of that? Hapless decisions have worked well for me before, but the times have caught up, and responsibility is knocking at my door as I write.

I wonder when I.M. Pei decided to become an architect, or Oscar Niemeyer. Life decisions. Sometimes I hate them, sometimes I don’t. And the fact that I get this protracted episodes of indifference and self-apathy makes the ambivalence more apparent. But that’s just me whining. And really, what’s a law school sem without a tense shuffle?

Fete de la Shiznit

2008-06-23T14:40:00.002+08:00

I texted Pets, asking if she wanted to go to Fete. She said yes, so I asked a few more people out. Max said okay and Miko was up for it. The few others, the losers that they are, declined and I hope their souls burn in hell.

When a successful graphic artist, a staunch green advocate, a fledgling law student, an eager development studies major, and a legendary literature professor are cramped into one small space called Lilibeth, bad news is surely just a blink away. The fact that they are all mountaineers too is combination worthy of its own version of the Big Bang Theory. O.A., but you get the point.

We thought all roads led to Fete de La Musique, the same way it did three years ago when the streets of Ortigas resembled a metropolitan Glastonbury. Sadly, the six stages then were reduced to just three now, with the anticipated World Music stage grouped with Jazz and Electronica. I understand Jazz, but electrofuckingnica? So are hippies and dreadlocks supposed to groove to the synths of DJ Mausbaumm? To the organizers, one word: antithesis.

The crowd was sparse, no energy whatsoever. The reason for this is probably the unreasonable policy to ban alcohol in the vicinity. As if I wasn’t pissed enough (Mall of Asia is far from Quezon City, and with gas prices this high, its about 600 pesos away), a security guard came up to our group and told us that drinking Tanduay is prohibited. Great. First we can’t enjoy the music, and now we can’t get drunk to pretend to enjoy the music? Fete is supposed to be a vindication of musical justice. To the organizers, another word: pointless.

Then, just as things were starting to settle via clandestine alcohol, a heavy downpour abruptly sent everyone flying to the nearest shelter. We all decided we had enough of this ordeal and decided to go to Malate instead. As I walked by the stage, I saw the amps steaming. I’m sure they’re either busted or short. Organizers, a final word: karma.

Luckily for us, we were able to negotiate the insanely confusing streets of Malate in time to catch a few more songs from Sammy Asuncion in Penguin Café. Whew. A few beers and we all called it quits at around 4 am. And, just as the Big Bang justly sorted itself out in the long run, the cosmos was evenhanded, sympathizing with our unceremonious quest for good music by ending the night with a freshly brewed typhoon.*

*Pure literary reference only, with due respect to the gravity of the situation. I hope they find more survivors in the capsized vessel off Sibuyan Island.

Siargao

2008-05-17T14:33:00.005+08:00

After three years of waiting, the opportunity to go to Siargao showed itself. And yes, I grabbed it by the fucking horns. By my lonesome, with barely enough cash to see me through the week, and only my back pack stuffed with tent parts and canned goods in tow, I headed east to the pacific where the waves were at their biggest and where the sun rose a bit earlier than anywhere else. It wasn’t until I Bon Jovied my way to Surigao (god, that bus driver had a serious thing for 90’s rock) and hypnotized myself from there to Siargao via scary waves that I finally stepped foot on the elusive island. Yep, the place where everyone wears board shorts except your mother, and where whites speak Bisaya. Here are excerpts from my solo escapade to the island which put the Philippines on the surfing map.

***

General Luna has a blistering 27-kilometer stretch of white sand beaches that weaved endlessly against the coral cliffs on the shoreline. The town was quaint and very old and I was surprised at how this small place resembles Vigan in that it’s main road is lined with big wooden houses. The place looks dusty, but it turns out that the roads are covered in white sand. It wasn’t until I went further east to Cloud 9 that I saw glimpses of the famous waves in between gaps on the coconut fields. I asked the habal habal driver to stop somewhere with a view, and he dropped me off at this place called Sandaga. I ventured out to the sea and saw for the first time how big the waves were. Around 200 meters from the shore, the ocean hits a coral break that causes the waves to swell up to 20 feet. I swear they sounded like airplanes taking off. I scoffed. It was insane.

***

I didn’t plan on spending on accommodations, that’s why I brought my tent along. I didn’t know anyone, and fortunately I stumbled upon someone named Tata. He manages this small souvenir shop with a big beachfront lawn. He said I could pitch my tent anywhere I wanted, and I could borrow his surfboard anytime. For free. Being all alone suddenly mattered less against this tangible Surigaonon hospitality. After setting up the tent, Tata introduced me to some of his friends. I suddenly realized that Bisaya here is spoken differently. The L’s are Y’s and the Y’s are J’s. I had to translate everything they said, which meant I understood them only half the time. It was enough to get me by though. At least that night we all spoke the common language of Tanduay.

***

I woke up at around 6 am. The rhythmic crash of the waves, which could easily be mistaken for thunder, put me to sleep in my crowded tent. My second day in Siargao officially started when Keyong, a champion surfer, offered me a ride around the island. I wanted to see the famous Magpupungko beach north of General Luna. He says he’s got a few more places to show me. So I hopped on his motorcycle, and picked up Takwin along the way. After 20 minutes up a bumpy road we finally reached Magpupungko. The beach was made up of calm, natural pools with depths that varied from 3 to 10 meters. The tides keep the pools clean every time. The massive stones on the shoreline made for good springboards, and I took my share of daring jumps. The waves further down the sea were massive, setting a perfect backdrop to this turquoise paradise.

***

Further north is the surfing destination called Pacifico. This is the eastern most part of Siargao, and is said to have the most ruthless of waves during peak season. The beach was absolutely divine. The sand was pinkish and dramatically dropped to the sapphire sea. The horizon stretched unimpeded into an endless concave, and the sea foam from the waves formed a second horizon. I sat down in the middle of the deserted beach, and I could only sea the Pacific in front of me. It was a perfect lomography moment, and I felt like a million bucks soaking under the intense noontime sun.

***

I tried my first attempt at surfing around three in the afternoon. This time of the year doesn’t see much visitors, so I had the waves all to myself. Tata’s 6’3’’ shortboard was impossible to maneuver, and although I got to ride a couple of waves, the strong southward current cut my session short.

***

I decided to spend the night roaming General Luna to check out what kind of nightlife the town had to offer. Aside from the sporadic Karaoke bars and drinking pubs, I found out that General Luna is an early sleeper. I had dinner at this place called Jabines, where a group of middle-aged Australians talked about Filipino women and watched Rugby on TV while simultaneously gulping down San Miguel Pale Pilsen. To kickstart the digestive process, I headed back to the road again, and after 30 minutes of mindless roaming, I stumbled upon this place called Cave Wave. It looks relatively new and I decided I had nowhere better to go. So I had three bottles of beer inside, and the bartender, Jam Jam, offered me a few tips on where else in Siargao to go. I met a few friends too including Maria, a Cuban in her late 50’s, who was highly interested in Camguin and Sagada, and Cheaperazzi, a (loud) gay American who was just hanging around Siargao for the past two months already.

***

The weirdest thing happened last night. As I was on my way home from Cave Wave, a bit tipsy and all over the place, I realized that there were no longer any form of transportation that would get me back to my oh so luxurious tent. It was drizzling too, which meant I couldn’t walk the 5 kilometer distance from General Luna to Cloud 9. Yeah right, as if I’d dare. So I kept walking until I saw this group of old men drinking in a corner and approached them on where to find possible transportation. They said it was almost impossible at this hour and that I should just sit down and drink. I declined, but decided to stay anyway. After getting into their conversation, I realized that the oldest man in the bunch is the ex-mayor of Siargao. He had been its local chief for the past 27 years and was heavily sulking in staging a comeback. The other six around him were either councilors or barangay captain and I somehow felt a bit safer. I don’t know, but something about being around elected officials gives me this sense of security. I ended up sleeping in one of the councilor’s house, and for the second time around, Surigaonon hospitality proved very helpful indeed.

***

Daku island was breathtaking, with white sand beaches and waters with a clear cerulean quality like I’ve never seen before. What’s more spectacular is the line of huge waves further east that makes the bay around General Luna feel uniquely placid. Guyam Island, closer to Siargao, is a bit smaller, with only around a dozen of coconut trees and a solitary cottage. I was all alone again, and my shoulders dropped at the sight of the endless shallow waters. I couldn’t care less about everything I left behind at that moment, as I felt slowly rejuvenated by the strange concoction of sand, sun and surf. I tried remembering when the last time I confronted beauty, but then and there, I realized it was pointless. It’s hard to think when nature takes control. It’s almost as if everything around planned to silence me, and I felt at home completely.

***

Staring at the sky for a long time creates this sepia quality to my vision, where somehow my perspective becomes a form of retrospection right there and then. Funny, sometimes I can simultaneously stare and retrospect on the same view, as if parallel dimensions intersect. But what the hell. It was time for me to say goodbye to this adventure of an island. I sat down on the beach, and mentally played Filter’s Take My Picture, as I slowly dislodged from the hold of the island and began to get consumed by the thought of the long way home. I tried to remember what happened during the bayle last night, which saw its own version of groove and booze, along with the typical barrio brawl. I remember dancing under the stars, and hopping from table to table and meeting faces, so I can conjure that I was probably a bit too drunk.

After all is said and done, I can’t help but feel a bit proud for this haplessly planned backpacking adventure. I could have waited longer so that I can form a group that would dramatically drive costs down, or I could have researched harder so that I would know beforehand which places to go to. Instead, I let impulse override whatever principle practical travel dictates. But at the end of the day, despite the numerous lacerations, burns and aches, I still would do it all over again.

Late Obituary

2008-05-12T16:47:00.005+08:00

One of my favorite artists, Robert Rauschenberg died last May 12. He's a popular figure in pop art and has gone to become one of the most celebrated precursors of digital graphic design. Although not as well known as Andy Warhol, Marcel Duchamp, or Jasper Johns, Rauschenberg almost singlehandedly introduced to America the architectonic shift of art from futurism/dadaism/cubism to modern graphic aesthetic. As one critic aptly put, RR conceded to chaos, and was one of the first to begin to question what to make out of it. Cool guy.

One by One

2008-04-26T19:10:00.003+08:00

Goya's Bullfight

Caravaggio's The Conversion of St. Paul

Raphael's Saint George and the Dragon

Klimt's Danae

First it was the Caravaggio and Raphael Show at Germany's Van Gogh Museum in 2006. Then came Gustav Klimt's largest exhibit at New York's Victoria & Albert, 2007. But what's this I'm hearing about Francisco Goya at Prado in Spain? Largest Goya show ever. Will I get to miss that too?

The best exhibits in my generation are slowly passing me by. Never mind that they happen once in a blue moon, and perhaps will never happen again. Never mind that the master-protege exhibit took almost 57 years to complete. Never mind that almost 29 in that Klimt exhibit is in private hands, and would never again be seen in public along with his definitive works. But Goya? This is just too much. The exhibit runs until early July. Maybe by then I can apply for bogus scholarships to Spain, sneak into the gallery and sulk the glory, then leave the same way I entered. Sounds like a plan, doesn't it?

Yeah right. Al Pacino is playing Salvador Dali in an upcoming movie. If I miss that one, I'll feel awfully pathetic and hopeless.

It's All About the Percussions and the Fuzz

2008-04-15T19:01:00.003+08:00

1. Worst Taste in Music - The Radio Dept.
2. Time is a Force - Jim Guthrie
3. Interruptions - Roguewave
4. Out of Nowhere - Athlete
5. Futures - Zero 7
6. Perfect Crime No. 2 - The Decemberists
7. Obra Encantada - Pinikpikan
8. Hello Baby - Cynthia Alexander
9. Snow - Pernice Brothers
10. Gideon - My Morning Jacket
11. It's Getting Easy - Dear and the Headlights
12. Yulunga - Dead Can Dance

Funny, no 80s- nor 90s-sounding tunes up in this playlist (except for the last one, but it sounds more Indian than anything else). Although The Radio Dept., a Swedish band, resembles My Bloody Valentine in the fuzzy strings area. A lot of indie staples though, like synthed bass beats, especially pronounced in Interruptions. Again, Pinikpikan and Cynthia are always up my head.

Room Service

2008-03-28T15:43:00.001+08:00

Alex is in her tender years and needs all the attention she can get, so she’s been making a home buddy out of me lately. It’s a good thing though, since I get to do a lot of household stuff like scrubbing the floor or wiping the surfaces. Although there is cause for concern because I think having rag on hand all the time is my greatest cleaning advice to anyone, cleaning is a very pleasant activity. It’s my second best form of therapy, next to the ice cold beer + pizza + NBA formula.

In fact, I wash my own clothes now. Haha. Funny really, thinking that I allow my dirty laundry to accumulate until I have absolutely nothing left to wear. As laundry time gets nearer, my shirts get looser as I resort to my outdated collection of 90’s shirts. All the newer ones are at the bottom of the bin. And then I head to Prince David and get charged 600 bucks. Great.

But now, I happily launder, rinse and wring. I could put on an apron and not just play the part. I’m so into chores that I’m a middle-aged woman’s idea of pornography – a guy with a vacuum cleaner nozzle on one hand and a feather duster on the other. But all this is temporary I’m sure. Sooner than later, I’d start dumping things here and there. Alex is just a stopgap measure to my perennially bankrupt sense of domestic hygiene.

What Next? Robbing a Bank?

2008-03-16T01:53:00.002+08:00

I bought a Jack Russell Terrier last week, and I named her Alex. She’s a three-month old puppy with a knack for running and chewing. I live in an apartment and maybe it is quite a stretch of rashness to even think of keeping a dog around. But I’ve always been impulsive. I belabored the decision of getting her though, shifting between the status quo and dreaming of dog walks at the park during Sundays. I’m indecisive like that, but the hell, decisions have to be made. Regardless.

I don’t remember a moment in my childhood where I never had a dog. There was Yeti, the German Shepherd who got poisoned by my Dad’s shelved fertilizers. Or Barbow, the Doberman who died of Parvovirosis. Then there’s Mugsy, that terrier who’s been around for 10 years already. Oh, how could I forget Aaron, the severely obese Dachshund who ate a frog after being put on a stringent diet. He died out of hunger that dog. May his soul rest in peace.

So, aside from Mugsy, I’ve lost all my pets recklessly. What’s telling that Alex would be different this time around? Well for one, I paid for her. Second, I’ve been dog-free for four years already. Three, those deaths were in no way my fault. And lastly, she’s really cute. I think I’m going to be canine’s new police, really. In fact, I’ve been quite protective lately as my paternal instincts have been triggered by DS’s maniac of a Shih Tzu who keeps on humping Alex during their playtime. C’mon man. She’s fucking three months old.

Jack Russells look like typical Filipino pedestrian mutts. But I don’t care. I’ve always wanted a “guy dog.” But circumstance dictates I ditch the Golden Retriever and Rottweiller dreams. Maybe next time when I have a yard or something. Jacks are pretty intelligent and very energetic, and they are by nature hunters. Plus their very compact. This is what makes a Jack really special. They’re a 130 pound dog in a small body. Meaning they are bursting with energy and feistiness, and I can’t wait for that mid-air Frisbee catch!

Whoooooooh Dumaguete Baybeh!

2008-02-25T15:59:00.004+08:00

I went to Dumaguete over the weekend for an exhibition debate. Lack of preparation and cold feet aside, the whole experience was exciting. We were chauffeured here and there, provided with free accommodations, delivered good food on our doorstep, dined and mingled with important and interesting people like Justices and Deans and shit. It was VIP treatment all the way, and it was interesting how our hosts, the Silliman College of Law, thought we were doing them a favor by accepting their invitation and coming over. As far as I’m concerned, they did us a huge favor by giving us a free vacation. And honestly, who is ever reluctant to get away from Law School for a perfectly valid excuse?

But the magic of the trip was this place:

Yep. Apo Island, the second time around. More magical, brighter colors, more vibrant schools of fish (and finally, i saw the a huge school of Jacks everyone was talking about, and it took my imaginations flying everywhere). If only Monica were with me, it would have been perfect.

The whole set-up kept me grounded by not making me feel too guilty for missing classes. It was an official school activity, and we were doing something academic to a certain extent. Despite the surprise of knowing right there and then that we would be debating in a televised program in front of a thousand live audience, the entire trip was a complete release. A total boost for this man with a long desensitized case of wanderlust.

GMA, Please.

2008-02-15T00:15:00.001+08:00

The current administration has been keeping a long list of various transgressions and upfront controversies on the pretension that it can always get away with it. It has, so far, by bordering on technicalities and various forms of appeal to sobriety, anti-destabilization and whatnot. But come on. Do they really think we have been deceived? Do they sincerely believe that we haven’t been keeping a close tab on their history, and an even closer eye on their tactics? Do they really fucking believe that we haven’t been engaging enough to send them the message of democracy?

If they do, I would really feel very insulted.

I see a cycle that needs to end. I see a routine of controversies followed by appeals, then diversions, then good news, and finally, a temporary silence, only to be disturbed by a different controversy all over again. I’d like to think that what the administration is trying to do is maintaining the welfare of our people (as defined by them, most probably) on their own terms. Maybe they’ve taken it upon themselves to carry most of the weight of a young democracy. To this there is an excuse, and thank you for the favor. We appreciate your boardroom attitude and sparing us the trouble of making things better ourselves. But to think this way would be painfully naïve. The administration, through its ruthless disregard for human rights, its insensitivity to the sanctity of the ballot, and its seemingly unabridged greed for the national coffers seems to manifest a real, albeit darker picture. They are holding us, the sovereign people, hostage to their fantasies of development and propaganda on stability.

If you get caught cheating in the elections, don’t slap us with a knee-jerk reaction that we need to maintain political stability to sustain our 7.3% GDP growth. Let me remind you, democracy is an emphasis on the process, not the results. When you get caught padding billions of pesos in anomalous government-to-government contracts, shut up with the requirement of evidence. Democracy nurtures a court of public opinion where technicalities are esoteric rather than apparent. If you get caught turning a blind eye to your unbelievably corrupt husband, don’t bomb Glorietta 2 to divert public attention. Democracy doesn’t even need to explain, because, well, that’s just wrong. When you get caught abducting a witness to withhold the truth from the people, don’t ask us to dance to the tunes of your officials’ contradictory testimonies.

This is not a tango. This is a democracy in limbo. And we want a way out.

Impressions, Impressions.

2008-01-31T02:13:00.000+08:00

(Lifted directly from my journal, these initial impressions are in hindsight quite interesting, probably because they were written more than a year ago. Peace everyone!)

Mich. Mich is part Japanese and is full of energy. She calls her boyfriend all the time. They look good together by the way. I offered them Transformers tickets but declined.

Bernice. She’s intelligent and charming, as Ma’am Beth said. I think she’s number one in class. A favorite of Hilbay.

Cheska. She’s from Davao. She’s got a cool, edgy haircut. Makes her look like someone who’s known cultures. Nice.

Rency. I don’t know Rency that well, though my starkest memory is when we made the bonfire together with Jansen. I met her boyfriend too that night.

Jing. My Palanca-winning friend. She’s very straightforward. It comes with age, no? But I like her. She’s one of the few who I allow to read my poems. She gives frank comments on them and everything else. In a sense it’s refreshing.

Mike. He’s someone I have yet to know. He drives around a red Honda. He’s popular because he dances well. And has really curly hair.

Chris. She’s the prettiest in the block. She’s got a lot of admirers though, validating my impression. She’s an accountant and taught at Ateneo for a year. She must be one of those dreaded teachers, but I doubt strongly.

Krizelle. She’s the class’ resident robot and our go-to for instant digests. She digests ALL the cases, types and uploads them, watches soap opera and still gets 8-hour rests. That plus she’s able to jog regularly. I feel severely inadequate already. She’s not human.

Raymond. He’s easily the funniest blockmate around. He’s the pedestrian-with-class type, with a kind of humor that cuts across crass and wit. He’s got character. He’s got this tendency to run his stammers during recitation. But that’s just Mon. He smokes too. I wouldn’t be surprised if we decide to rob a bank together and get caught.

Hermie. Another “mommy” in class. She was interviewed the same day and with the same panel I was. She was a mountaineer. She’s got a kid too. And with her small frame, one has to wonder where her intestines are located. We talk about a lot of things too.

Paulyne. She’s from Ateneo, a year older than me, I think. She did JVP and for that I’ll be forever in awe of her. She has a ______ on one of my friends too. Wonder how this one works out.

Raissa. She’s sweet and easy to get along with. She smiles and laughs a lot, makes things less gloomy in school. We talk about gossips often and we enjoy backbiting Sison because he’s just boring.

Jo. She’s also a mountaineer and I hope we could climb together soon and bring our blockmates along. She shares some of my music, and has an exquisite taste in literature. She’s a bit shy.

Macel. Macel’s a pretty face in class. Refined and very polished. She’s good in imitating people, though I think she’s bored with law. I don’t know. Everyone’s bored with law. Except Krizelle.

Aaron. The class president. He’s responsible and confident. He never runs out of load, or maybe he’s got the line. He’s got political ambitions, and I wish him all the luck. He’s had a seven-year relationship, which to me is “what-the-hell?”

Dan. Dan and his most abused surname in class. He’ s got a peculiar twang too. He gets people drunk. I think Aika lost it one time due to him.

Louie. He’s the perennial favorite, partly because he’s very, erm, young-looking? They say he looks innocent. He’s pale white and a gentleman. Doesn’t sound coherent in one sentence.

Mark. Mark’s my best blockmate. I open to him the most (Dianna doesn’t count) He talks openly about his life too. I need usap-buhay moments. He was my blockmate back in college.

Mau-She’s a vegetarian. And a political science major. She writes poetry too. Surprisingly, with all these things in common, we really don’t talk much. Probably because she sleeps all the time in class. Or maybe it’s me and my instantaneous entry and departure from class.

Rachel. She’s another accountant. She’s really pretty. She’s always prepared for class. Though I think she walks like Ma’am Chit. I don’t know. I observe things too much I guess. She recites with confidence and the necessary aggressiveness.

Joseph. He’s another accountant. What’s up with that? He’s very diligent, contrary to my first impressions.

Soph. Dianna and I agree that she’s the funniest person in class. Her jokes are always witty and indie-type. Whatever the hell that means. I think the block would be a bit bland without her.

Res. I don’t know Res that well. She lives in a dorm along Katipunan though. She hangs out frequently with Hermie, Mon and Mike. I’m pretty sure she’ll die of second-hand smoke.

Jansen. Jansen’s a character. Unpredictable, like a loose cannon. He hails from Morong, the place where “D” is the new “R.” He’s fond of crafty things, and I think he should’ve taken Industrial Design instead of law. Then again, I could’ve taken BS Agriculture Major in Coconut for all that matters. We both love Soduko.

Cesar. He’s the friendliest, though he’s a bit eccentric. But there’s nothing wrong with that, no? The best foods begin with novel ideas. What the hell. I borrowed his Kadangyan and Pinikpikan CDs once. He seems able to control his emotions. He’s cool.

Ben. He’s the thinnest person in class and I wouldn’t be surprised if he weighed 75 pounds. He danced during Freshman Night and is always game for a couple of drinks. He speaks softly though, and my new advocacy is Move-Over-Krizelle,-Seat-Ben-In-Front.

Char. She comes second to Jing in the frank department. Its also very refreshing. She injects the class with a constant dose of reality. She can ridicule, criticize and praise someone in one sentence. I must give her the Amazing Adjective Management Award.

After Bo’s

2008-01-23T21:04:00.000+08:00

Bob Dylan walked with me today, whispering to my ears phrases like “Boy, you gonna have to serve somebody,” and “times are A-changin.” The sun was setting at the right side of Abada street as I trod through its sidewalk, the sunlight hitting me at its most perfect orange. Couldn’t get any better, I thought, considering how hard it’s been these past few weeks. A midterm exam is law school’s way of reminding it demands nothing short of total commitment. That plus a strong inclination that I am going through a rough episode of withdrawal symptoms from trying to quit smoking. Which reminds me, I wrote this about a year ago.:

“I’ve effectively revived my habit of smoking [too], because going through one’s 20s without a serious ordeal with one’s self is so boring. How the hell am I supposed to relate with my children when it’s my turn telling them what and what not to do?”

I’m regretting saying those things. I really do.

Anyhow, I do have my own redeeming moments, like enjoying a cup of coffee the artistic way (meaning while writing on my Moleskine plus iPod tuned to The Maccabbees or Arcade Fire), or sneaking to an old friend’s house without warning. These abrupt and impulsive deviations are necessary for me, since I nurture a sense of focus that really doesn’t see well in long term. Coincidentally, my optometrist says I have near-sighted focus. I thought, well, how appropriate.

William, It Was Really Nothing

2008-01-20T20:38:00.000+08:00

Good friend of mine, why’d you have to go to the States the other day to live there forever? I think you finally decided that you wanted to live your lifelong fantasy of dying on an 18-lane freeway somewhere in Dallas or Tucson, getting run over by a Ferrari or a Camry (my friend, I am hoping for a 356 Scaglietti). I don’t know. The sad thing is, you’ve been my closest friend back from where I come from. We’re next door neighbors and yet now you’re just somewhere in the other hemisphere, traceable only through the airwaves.

Nothing beats getting drunk on top of a hill and finding our path down the tumbly and bloody way. Nothing like courting the same girl simultaneously, vouching only on the slightest hints of attraction and massive urgings of machismo. Remember that time we spearheaded the "Shift to Baseball from Basketball" movement? Really nothing like afternoon Saturday roadtrips via stolen cars. Airwaves are really nothing compared to that time we both got arrested for inciting a riot at Padi’s Point.

People leave, I guess. Inevitably. I’m not emotional. Attitudinal at best. But damn Will, who’s gonna back me up if ever I finally get that street cart we’ve been working on to finally run? Who’s gonna play dumbass so I’d look like the better guy in front of the ladies? Who the fucking hell’s going to sell me off for some cheap shot at the bets? Tell me whom I’d run to to get free whitewater rafting? Fuck you for leaving. And I mean it when I say that I’m demanding all my NBA and Magic cards back.

So maybe it really wasn’t nothing. I wish the last thing you’d see would be the half-glazed grills of a 1994 Toyota Camry driven by some middle-class, white-trash lunatic who doesn’t even know where the Philippines is.

***

But if you do come back, please buy me the latest TNF tent, three-man and preferably with two vestibules. Throw in a couple of blondes too from your fantasy spring breaks, idiot.

A Time To Be Small

2008-01-13T14:35:00.000+08:00

It’s a lousy day today. Waking up late to the smell of burning meat really doesn’t make much for a good mood. Our househelp said she forgot all about the chicken while she was tending to the garden. It’s nothing, I said. I realized my mom’s car was parked in the garage. Within minutes I was already off to the local beach.

With nothing but a pair of sunglasses, Karl Jasper’s Way to Wisdom and my iPod, I thought I really don’t need things for me to head out. Some people make do with hands and feet, nothing more, nothing less. As I parked the car, I noticed how deserted the entire beach was. The entire horizon stretched without interruption, and the shoreline was naturally hostile. Hot and sandy, but very beautiful. The sun was very strong. I sat down and soaked under the sun for hours thinking about nothing, really, and stood up only when I felt the back of my shoulders starting to burn.

It was quite an experience, not despite, but because of the simplicity. I realized I’ve been too immersed in things and events that are offshoots rather than basics, that I have eluded the “natural” in favor of, well, impressions. It really doesn’t make sense, but I strongly feel that I’ve unwittingly dislodged the connection between “living” and “essentials.” Being where I am and doing what I do has diverted me away from things that matter. This whole spontaneous trip to the beach symbolically represented how sometimes, its good to be reminded that I’m really not in so much trouble. That I can be comfortably small.

I’ve had it made. I’m safe now. I can’t possibly fuck up. I can drop everything and still end up fulfilled and in one piece. I’ve got ambitions, but I could do without them and still afford to put a smile up with my pride intact. I’m safe now. I've had it made. I can live in a one-bedroom house by the beach, with my other beside me, talking about all things political and aesthetic, while drinking cold beer to the sound of Broken Social Scene.

And then eat canned sardines by dinner, stress-free.

First Blogged Poem

2007-12-29T18:59:00.000+08:00

I'm a private guy, ironically. This is the first time I'm going to post a poem. I decided to for two reasons. First, i never let anyone read them. But in a much debated decision, I finally opened it to criticism to my good friend Jing Panganiban-Mendoza. She gave me the go ahead. Second, i read somewhere that aspiring poets should be confident. What the hell. Here goes.

NIGHTMARE

On this previous nightmare
That I have watched
Is a dying man’s wish
To be told that the world
And all its truths

And him

Are married long before
They are wed.

2007 Selection (Part I)

2007-12-29T18:04:00.000+08:00

Since I’ve been reading a lot of newpapers and magazines out of my worthless time here at CAgayan de Oro, I might as well jump on the frenzy about what made 2007 such a freaking great year.

MOUNTAINS

Mount Kanlaon and Mount Talinis are definitely the best climbs this year! Why? Because they are the only fucking mountains I climbed this year. Dammit. This quasi-mountaineer joke is becoming so real, its like self-depracation-in-the-making.

But yeah, they are great.

ALBUMS

The best albums I’ve listened to (or downloaded, more criminally speaking), in this order, are:

Radiohead’s In Rainbows comes first. Definitely a must-hear, not only because we’ve missed them to the bone, but more importantly because of the passion behind the album, from the way they distributed their work, to the fresh style they’ve innovatively integrated with their distinct melancholic sound.

The Shins’ Wincing the Night Away nabs the second spot because they’ve continued their post-folk sound without too much diversion. Although it features new sound, Wincing is still distinctly The Shins probably because they’re the only one who can pull of incomprehensible lyrics and bubbly guitars.

Third goes to Interpol and their latest offering, Our Love to Admire. I’ve always been an Interpol fan, and despite the “new” (to say the least) production style, and a watered down (to say the least, again) writing, Interpol is still convincing.

SONGS

According to my iPod’s Most Played playlist, Sparklehorse’s Piano Fire, Marjorie Fair’s Wave, and SIlversun Pickups’ Lazy Eye, are ones I listened the most to. Its worth mentioning the next three, which came late in the year and perhaps, given more months, could overtake the top 3. The Radio Department’s Worst Taste in Music is fourth, The Maccabee’s Lego is fifth and Peter, Bjorn and John’s Let’s Call It Off is sixth. (Fuck, I cannot not mention Editor's Blood, which was seventh overall.)

BOOKS

As for the best books, the first spot goes to JM Coetzee’s Disgrace, which features a new take on South Africa’s post-apartheid dilemmas. Rich in metaphor, plus an unforgiving bareness in prose writing, JM Coetzee is both effective and subtle.

In contrast, Salman Rushdie’s East, West, is more powerful, graphic and directed. Yet, its beauty lies not only in its message, but in its accurate depictions of orientalism hidden behind clothes of progress and development. Beautiful.

Last place goes to Kurt Vonnegut’s Hocus Pocus. Haha.What can I say? My friend Kurt is an intelligent way of saying "I’m dumb enough to read his novels." Which are good. They’re just dumb. And cruelly funny. Yeah. Maybe that’s why they’re dumb.

There’s more to come. I just have to consult my journal to verify what events, movies and places took my thoughts flying.

Satan Said Dance

2007-12-29T17:39:00.000+08:00

I’ve been doing a lot of paintings lately. I just realized somehow that art is a decision, very much like any other activity besides eating and sleeping. At this age, Van Gogh already had his first exhibit. Klimt already had his Secession. Joya already had his first auction. Cabrera already won his AAP award. I, on the other hand, am still working on a good study habit to make it through law.

Anyway, I have a new pet, named Alex. He’s an Asian Black Forest scorpion. For a vegetarian who gets away with one-liners on animal cruelty, I really shouldn’t be keeping this pet. As Dianna said, it should be in the wild hunting and making his mark on the food chain. I can come up with a thousand arguments why Alex is better off with me, like saving him the trouble of looking for prey, natural paranoia from other predators, plus giving him a cozy terrarium…etc. I’d always end up convincing myself at the end of the day. Because I’m just that kind of person.

Christmas is coming up and I’m thinking how I should just abandon my annual selfish stance, and start thinking about what to give to other people. I’m not really good at giving gifts, and I remember one time I gave my sister an outdoor headlamp knowing fully that she’s got no use for it. Secretly, I wished she’d give it back so I could use it on my own backpacking trips. Even in gift-giving I am still the center of the freaking universe. Oh well. This year I’ll change for the better. Maybe I’ll give people something they could really use, or something that I’ll make myself, like small drawings and shit. But the first is quite impossible, and the second option is too taxing for a person who considers masticating food work. Maybe I’ll just be generic and give everyone those 50-peso Filipino romance novels with cheap front-page drawings. In fact, I already saw one in 7-Eleven entitled: “Victoriano, Para Kay Brunhilda.”

(Mom, Dad, I can’t wait to see the look on your faces the moment you open those small rectangular gifts.)

Fuck, I’m still cruelly selfish.

On other things, Radiohead’s pioneering “In Rainbows” is hands down this year’s best album. Well, on my list anyway. It opens with a fresh take on techno-beats with “15 Step,” quite a departure from the normal album starters of Radiohead, which are usually preparatory to a richer middle-set. It’s followed by “Bodysnatchers,” which continues with the upbeat mood. The bassline and drumworks are the real focus of this song. From then on, Thom Yorke’s geeky, yet astoundingly complex vocals takes over, particularly in “Faust Arp” and “House of Cards.” This album reminds me of Sonic Youth’s later works, especially when it comes to the pre-verse guitars. My favorite song is “Reckoner” which truly demonstrates the intense power of a falsetto-creekflow combination.

Untitled

2007-11-05T12:47:00.000+08:00

I drove to Kapatagan, Lanao del Norte with my mother to visit some very important people. It was a four hour drive so at first I was a bit on the tenterhooks. Fortunately, the long drive was pleasurable. I guess I was just too conditioned with the numerous Luzon trips I’ve had where highways were just long streets lined with distractions and hazards. It doesn’t help too that all variants of mobile transport are competing for their share of the asphalt, from buses, trams, kuligligs, carabao-drawn sleds, trucks and tricycles. Luzon trips are pure stress. But Lanao’s different. Its free and unclogged. Its winding and very much mine for the taking. And because Kimi surprisingly won the Driver’s Championship in F1, I suddenly felt I was on a racetrack, hugging the corners and exaggerating my turns whenever I could. I have regained my belief for the freedom of the road, finally. It would have been perfect if I didn’t have a nagging menopausal backseat driver for a mother.

I mean what’s worse than a backseat driver who sits beside the driver?

A menopausal backseat driver. Who nags.

I accompanied my Dad to his cardiologist, and I find it funny how I met an old childhood friend in the same waiting area also with his dad. It was suddenly Bring-Your-Dad-To- Your-Local-Cardiologist Day. I haven’t seen nor talked to him for the longest time, and I found out that he was into climbing mountains and surfing, so we promised each other to see the Mt. Matutum sunrise sometime in the future. Yeah right. I’m still reeling from my postponed Mount Pulag climb. I swore I’ll never climb again, but I’m being a brat picking a fight with my only passion.

Bursting Bubbles

2007-10-26T13:04:00.000+08:00

After summoning the heavens for strength to help me continue with my attempt at quitting smoking, after clocking 30 training kilometers during my post-disease recovery, and after battling through exam week with the perpetual distraction of the outdoors, MY MT. PULAG CLIMB GOT CANCELLED. Life has been pretty harsh, but this is something I’ve lived with. I walk with a white flag poked up my head, and I’ve had a few troubles from raising my arms up too much in surrender. But this one’s just cruel. Plain simple crude cruelty. I mean I went out of myself for this climb. Really.

Apparently, fugitives are roaming the area and the whole of Benguet is unsafe. I don’t question the reason for the cancellation, nor the decision of the climb’s organizers to indefinitely postpone. I question life in general because I’m still too much in shock to credibly point a finger at anyone. I can blame the fugitives for choosing, of all fucking places, Mount Pulag. But they’re fugitives and who knows what’s running through their minds. I can just wish they’d die of hypothermia or something.

So now I’m back here in Cagayan de Oro. Sembreak’s ticking already but I’d rather let time pass in the confines of my home. I’m not itching for the outdoors anymore and I’m temporarily adventure-desensitized. Anyway, my flight got delayed for two hours so I finished half of Salman Rushdie’s East, West, which I was intending to help me kill time during my stay. Now I only have the six seasons of The Soprano’s to accompany me through this very upsetting part of my life.

Vignettes

2007-09-21T23:54:00.000+08:00

As I write this, Mark is mixing soya-whey protein concoctions and doing some weights, Dianna is tending to her nails, and Le Tigre’s Deceptacon is playing I the background. Its official. Mark, Dianna have moved in. It’s in this cool loft-type apartment with 2 rooms and 2 bathrooms and high ceilings (always plus points). Mark’s staying in one, and Dianna the other while I get to stay in the cosmopolitan loft! I’ve always wanted a loft for myself since it reminds me of my Brooklyn fantasies. Goodbye Havana hello New York! Dianna and I have plans on just filling the place with artwork. Since we don’t have money to fill the big space with furniture (and we’ll be making paintings ourselves, so its not really a sure thing), the look of the apartment would be a contrived sort of minimalism. The only problem is that the loft is directly beneath the roof so its hot 9am to 3pm. To a certain extent it’s a good thing, considering how it will discourage me from oversleeping and midday siestas. But knowing myself, I’d drag my mattress downstairs at the common area and sleep all day long. Or maybe steal Dianna’s bed for an hour or two.

***

It’s a bad month for my car Lilibeth because I bumped her thrice in August. First along Tomas Morato with a Fortuner. Next along Katipunan-C5 tunnel where I got squished to the wall by a Hi-Ace. And lastly at our garage in a flurry to get to Disini on time (and yes I was still late). I’m not really good at car maintenance and the last time I remember a tune up was two years ago. I know Ferraris and the entire list of Maybachs, but underwashes and wheel alignments? Who cares? And if I mal-maintain Lilibeth for a longer period, chances are she’ll just break down in shambles. Which means I might get a new car. Haha. I wish.

***

My 7-year old cousin said to her lonely 5-year old sister: “Do you want to talk about your feelings?” How adorable. I must admit I have no sense of cute but this one’s got me wishing I were a Dad already.

***

I watched Alfonso Cuaron’s earlier works and I find them amusing. He always has the isolation-despite-sexuality themes, and he tries to confuse drama and comedy through desperate sex. I got to watch Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction again after a long time. God he loves good conversations and solo, wide angle shots, doesn’t he? I love a movie with an interesting script, those that don’t compromise talk for images. Like Sideways, or American Beauty. Think Tarantino’s dragging dialogues.

***

Lauryn Hill, Bjork and Shirley Manson (of Garbage) are the hottest women in the world. There’s something about women who sing good songs that make them so appealing. I’d kill for tickets if any of them come here. I’d date Bjork in an instant and even take her whole Mardi Gras-endowing entourage. I’ll talk to Lauryn Hill forever on all things political and spiritual at the Transfiguration Monastery in Bukidnon. On this note, a local vocalist in the name of Sarah Marco (of Taken by Cars) is also hot. I’ve seen her perform and this whole attraction thing definitely has something to do with them not caring. Very much the same way people think that drugs and smoking is cool simply because these things don’t care if you kill yourself or get busted. Some analogy, but it’s a simple point really.

Mumblings

2007-08-01T20:32:00.000+08:00

(This was written a month ago)

It feels like a long time since I've last blogged. It hasn't been a month since I've last posted (but the things I post are pre-written because I still have to type and censor things from my journal, so I guess its been more than a month since I last wrote something). A lot has happened anyway and I feel that I owe it to myself to relieve some of my inner meanderings that have been kept too long in the pending area of my brain.

I watched Transformers with Petra and Paul the other night. The only justifiable thing I can say about the movie is that it takes adrenaline rush into a whole new cinematic meaning. Being a fan as a kid, it was quite a moment for me to see Optimus Prime come to life from a pimped Truck to an Autobot via exhilarating graphic effects. I sound a bit like someone from Rotten Tomatoes, but it's a good movie, hands down. I hope RT gives them a good rating though. Let's just say that Transformers makes metals look creatively inexhaustible. I hope it comes out in Imax so I can share in the action and relive my childhood fantasies. Not that I'm mature now and my dreams in life are anything but childish. Believe me when I say that my day is made when I'm offered a cinnamon roll for free.

In fact, I'm a real kid-at-heart if only because I still see the world in terms of Ferraris and sugar. What the heck.

It has been a busy month for me so far. There are many reasons though, not the least of which is beefing up my current pretension of being a competent graphic artist. In line with this, I'm trying to build a graphic design studio with Paul and Petra. We've been doing a lot of creative stuff together, like heading down to Pasig and making an abstract painting together (for my new matchbox of a room), which looks so stupid I bet my 5-year-old niece could do a better job. Not really a good start for a bunch who's got lambasting Team Manila as a marketing target. I've been doing designs for a couple of law school related projects and a set of apparel designs. Looking back at this paragraph, I'm slightly surprised why I didn't start my busy month segment by saying that "it has been a busy month for me because I have a lot of readings from Disini's class and Sison isn't making life any easier." I guess the priorities for this year are already set.

On other things:

Had a great time with my blockmates at our recently concluded inter-B party. I think we're starting to develop a knack for atrocious singing and drunk driving. But that's okay considering the amount of reading we have to do. Anything's okay with the amount of reading we have to do. Law's a license to spoiled-brathood.

***

I want an office for a study area. I just realized that I'd be more inspired to plod through law books and SCRAS if I had a big room with big glass and titanium table, surrounded by fiberglass shelves displaying a sophisticatedly arranged SCRA collection, behind me a desk housing all memorabilia from my oh so eventful life, and big glass windows partially covered by Roman blinds made from Aklan katcha. I want the ad-agency look, industrial but polished. Deliberately cluttered in an aesthetic way. God I'm so full of shit.

***

I finally got hold of The Shin's Wincing the Night Away album, and Interpol's newly-released Our Love To Admire, courtesy of bitorrent no less. Their great by the way, top of my list now. Next up is Smashing Pumpkin's attempt to stage a comeback.

***

I just realized how bored I am here where I'm staying. I want my townhouse! Or condo. I'd even settle for a dorm (not that their bad per se, I just don't like the idea of "roommates"), just spare me the mosquitoes that is as profuse as the endless supply of family feud here.

***

Look what I found. Our yearbook photo.

Cebu- Indio

2007-07-18T14:58:00.000+08:00

Karen and I went to Cebu over the weekend. It was the first Camacho reunion my family has ever attended, my dad being the prodigal son that he is. I had to cut my Saturday class, and although I wasn't as excited as I should be (Cebuâs a paradise, trust me), I was happy enough that I had an excuse to miss Dizon and Lumba. I hate Saturday classes for obvious reasons, not the least of which is not getting a full weekend. Anyway, the flight to Cebu was perfect. No glitches (not even with the check in counter!). Maybe being at the airport at 4:30 in the morning has something to do with that. I usually curse people at the check-in counter for putting me in the weirdest seats, like this one time I had to sit at the very end, against the lavatory's wall where the seats don't recline and the toilet's flush is a rhythm. I prefer seats with a view, preferably the ones where the emergency exits are. That way, I get more legroom and an easy exit when the plane does a Flight 387.

Anyway, I had a good sunrise view, and Manila's lights looked pristine from above. I slept the whole flight so my mission-for-a-view got wasted nonetheless. I woke up at six and saw Karen resting her head on the food tray, sleeping. The plane was about to land so I hurriedly woke her up. Mactan Airport was abandoned, and before we knew it, Ciara, my other sister who came to Cebu from CDO, was there with a car to pick us up. We drove to where our parents were staying and before we knew it, we were all asleep again. Its funny how fast the whole Manila-to-Cebu transition was, and it seems that I just slept my way through it. Nevertheless, the Queen City of the South awaited us.

Lunch time. We headed out to this beautiful resort at the outskirts of the city to meet up with our relatives. This was going to be the first time I will meet a Camacho that is actually related to me by blood, so I was all nervous and silently wishing to myself that I'd be smarter, better looking, richer and classier. Being the prodigal cousin/nephew/uncle imbibed me with a strong underdog sense of vindication. I cursed my dad too for making me feel insecure. But when I got to Vista Mar Resort, I was suddenly greeted with hugs and kisses from Aquinos, Fabregas-es, Gomezes, Breiens, Camposes, and Aboitizes. God. I never knew I had such elite family. God. I never knew I was such an indio.

(Well, maybe this answers partly the question why Iâm employed as my block's resident elitist, which mind you, is not true. I just believe that some virtues are intricately intertwined with, erm...money.)

But I just shrugged it off because I really couldn't care less that they all had blue eyes and fair skin. I love my color and to drive a point I went sunbathing right away. In fact, i think that having brown skin is a blessing. It looks healthier and is physically more attractive. I took a copy of my family tree anyway and tried to figure out how the hell we became so dark while the rest of my consanguines were as Caucasian as they came. The answer wasn't that hard to find at all. My lolo, a great man for sure, married my lola. My lola had acid for genes and warriors for chromosomes. Poor Caucasian blood, they never stood a chance.

But I really don't value my whole family tree just as much. Well, for the time being anyway. I don't believe that sharing the same blood automatically means sharing the same bond. Two weeks ago, I couldn't have cared less if Mr. Jaime Fabregas fell off a bridge or something, and read about it in the news. I care a bit now, of course, knowing that he's my uncle. But in order for me to value them more is to probably entrench myself in activities that foster a sense of "family". And although I can't say that I love my relatives that much just yet (because that would be too pretentious), I honestly look forward to spending more time with them.

*I had a great time with our awesome hosts! My first cousins Mecca and Trix gave my Cebu experience a complete boost. I hope to see them again soon, hopefully in a less-elusive and contrained time.

Wanna Bet?

2007-06-07T12:32:00.000+08:00

It’s a bad sports year for me (as a spectator, billiards is the most physical I can get). First, Raikonnen isn’t anywhere as close as the hype and the mileage dictates him to be. I was really excited to see the young Finn take off from Schumi’s reigns. Sadly, his aggressive style isn’t doing Ferrari’s well-known bulletproof cars any good. He retires everytime while Massa makes it through the checkered flag. There must be something wrong with the way he drives.

Second, De La Hoya lost out to Floyd Mayweather in a split decision. I was rooting for the Golden Boy because he represented political correctness, but I think the decision was unfair and even Floyd himself was surprised.

Third, Dallas got lambasted during the Playoffs’ First Round. What the hell was that?

Fourth, claymaster Nadal was knocked catatonically by World Number One Federer. On Clay. Over 80 straight wins on clay and he loses to Federer. He couldn’t have been in a better shape, but I guess being a favorite does things to the brain.

Fifth, AC Milan whipped Liverpool! Its like a replay of the Champion’s League of two year’s past, this time with the Italian’s being vindictive. Kaka I think is the player to watch out for. He’s the next Brazilian sensation who’s going to give Ronaldhino a run for his money.

If there’s someone out there willing to bet against me on any damn sport, I suggest you take this very opportune moment.

Riffs and Major Lifts

2007-06-07T12:29:00.000+08:00

My Current Playlist

1. DeVotchka- You Love Me

2. Jeff Buckley- Despite The Tears

3. Taken By Cars- Logistical Nightmare

4. Iron and Wine- Naked As We Came

5. Bob Marley- Sun is Shining

6. Supertramp- The Logical Song

7. Alexi Murdoch- Orange Sky

8. Fiona Apple- Sullen Girl

9. Wolfmother- Joker And The Thief

10. Woflmother- Dimension

This playlist is predominantly guitars-oriented. Bob Marley’s especially sulky with his minimalist riffs, and DeVotchka (the one in Little Miss Sunshine’s soundtrack) is soothing with its folksy lyrics. My Dad suggested to me Supertramp and I immediately fell in love with their music. I think my Dad’s taste runs in my blood because I like most of the songs he suggests (he introduced me to Tears for Fears, Fleetwood Mac, Crosby Stills and Nash, the Beatles, Sting and the Police, among others). Although there are some where we don’t see eye to eye (I hate America and the Eagles, and he hates Joy Division and the Stone Roses, the classics on my list). Wolfmother, last year’s hottest Grammy award-winning band, is flavorful with its Aussie brand of garage-rudimentary rock. Their songs are used in this summer’s blockbusters (Shrek 3 [the part when the Prince’s minions ravage Far Far Away] Spiderman 3 and Ocean’s 13). Taken By Cars is an up and coming Filipino band which I really like because of its Brit-inspired beat and androgynous singing and I hope they release their album soon. It’s like the Strokes with Shirley Manson on vocals. Jeff Buckley is, well, Jeff Buckley.

Right now I’m listening to Bloc Party’s latest album, courtesy of Monica. Joe Satriani is a bit too soft for me, but I’m starting to like his music. Mogwai’s a bit overrated, but I find them sincere. Boards of Canada is absolutely horrible, and so is Daughtry. Blech.

I am looking for Arcade Fire’s Neon Bible and The Shins’ Wincing the Night Away. If someone out there has a copy, please, please lend me one. I think I don’t want to listen to Modest Mouse’s The Ship Sank album because I’m sure its going to be a disappointment. Oh, I just realized that one of my most favoritest bands, Interpol, is inspired by the Doors and Velvet Underground. They sound dark and convinced.

I Keep Coming Back To Manila

2007-06-07T12:27:00.000+08:00

It’s been almost a week since I got back here in Manila. My flight back was uneventful except for the fact that I had to sit beside an old lady who prayed the rosary loudly. She even offered me to do a mystery. I declined, and had to put my iPod on and listened to Sufjan Stevens instead. She made me feel vulnerable, as if the plane would crash any minute, leaving her the sole heaven-worthy among us. She reminds me a bit of Rose from Lost.

I bumped into Senator Biazon in the terminal while waiting for my luggage. I smiled and said that the recently held polls were disastrous. He nodded and I said I’m glad Pichay and Singson wouldn’t make it, and how karma was a bitch. He smiled hesitantly and walked away, probably thinking that I was a bit too giddy. Thinking about it, I’m a bit worried that Honasan, Trillanes, Lacson and Biazon will share the same plenary. It’s like institutionalizing legislative militarism. Gloria better be wary about this one.

It’ll be two weeks until school starts. I’m neither excited nor apprehensive. The only thing I’m worried about is whether to do night classes or not. But since I’m going to live in Pasig for the rest of the school year (because I wasn’t able to find a house-mate willing enough to subject himself to my regular annoying presence), I figured I might as well do day classes. I don’t have to find money for rent because my relatives are kind enough to lend me a house (with free telephone, cable TV, DSL, and water). I’m going to live with my sister. A few steps away from where we will be living is my grandmother’s house, which she shares with my uncle and his family. Next door to us is the house of another uncle, a cousin and irritating poodle named Hero. But since my cousin is going to give birth soon, Hero could be put to sleep. I love animals, but not the hairy, overly playful and destructive ones.

So my work for the next few weeks is cut out for me, involving finding a bed, having a customized desk made, hunting for lamps, refs, aircon, cooking range, sofa and appliances. I don’t even know where to start because I’m not really good at being economical and aesthetic at the same time. Hope this one goes well.

But for now, the most immediate task for me is to shake ambivalent Katipunan out of my system. The impulsive coffee, unending traffic, dangerous procrastination with time (because Malcolm is only a mile away) and the personal familiarity all have to be dealt with. Living in Pasig would mean that I have to have everything finished before I go home, and being home would actually mean being home. Gone will be the days that I was able do both.

Summer Over

2007-06-07T12:24:00.000+08:00

My long summer finally ends with a weekend spent on whimsical spurs. On Saturday, my family decided that lunch by the beach would be fun, so we all headed to this local strip of sea where locals usually go at night to get wasted. It was awkward how I had to go through with having my parents with me in a place where I often made alibis to go to. Way back in high school, I’d go to this same beach area to drink and be merry with my friends under the permission that I was “at my friend’s house.” Of course, this beach was known to many as notorious, so I couldn’t dare tell them that I was going there. It was usually peaceful when daylight’s on, but transforms into this secret rendezvous place at night, very much like UP’s Sunken Garden. But now we had lunch there, eating mom’s sandwiches and dad’s custard salads, on a red-and-white checkered picnic sheet. How ironically cute.

Saturday afternoon, my sister and I headed back home because my sister had to get her laptop and I had to get dressed for a random night out with high school friends. After having the car parked in the garage, the sky opened up suddenly, bringing a strong downpour. I thought it had been a long time since I had frolicked under the rain, and probably a long time before I get to do so again. So in an impulsive burst, I headed outside and savored the big droplets. My sister soon followed and for a while and we took a bath in the rain. I felt a bit nostalgic. She was my raindance partner when we were still young, making waterfalls out of the gutter’s funnels, stomping on potholes while singing “I’m singing in the rain.” Deep inside I felt this strong siblinghood bond which got rudely interrupted when a lightning struck nearby. We went hurriedly back inside the house to dry up. We had to rush doing what we had to do, and soon we had some hot coffee. I got disappointed for feeling adult again.

Nighttime was spent with four of my closest high school friends. The plan was to have some coffee, hang around for a while, get some dinner afterwards, and head to a local bar to have some alcohol and a face full of dancefloor. I wasn’t able to join the last one because I had to pick my impatient sister (whose bond I felt a strongly with not long ago get shattered) up, and also, I really can’t stand dancing to the beat of Akon or remixed Rihanna. That would be too much to demand from me.

I had a lazy summer, come to think of it. For two months, a persistent author can write a draft novel. An aspiring graphic artist can create a decent portfolio. A poet can compile a good collection, and a musician can compose at least 3 good songs. I, on the other hand, did nothing. Since I am aspiring to be part artist, part writer/poet, and part musician, I am effectively a failure. But I could go on blaming law school for feeling so drained, or summer as inherently the most lethargic part of the year, or just the slogan that art can’t be rushed, and I’d end up feeling better about myself. God, I am the easiest person to convince. I’m such a pushover.

I’d still like to think I’m an underpromise though.

Brady Bunch

2007-05-14T17:09:00.000+08:00

Sunday morning was abuzz with groans and half-slit eyes, arguing mentally on why being awake at 5 in the morning is not a very good thing. I didn’t have a single second of sleep, but it was mother’s day, so we had to oblige with filial obligations, while secretly cursing hallmark over coffee.

My mom wanted to hear mass on this beautiful church two hours south of the city. Since mass starts at 8 in the morning, my sisters and I had to temporarily disrupt our body clocks, used to bumhood for about two months now. Despite the lack of sleep, I managed to enjoy the coffee and the sunrise, starkly visible from the breakfast nook. It’s been a long time since I last saw sunrise from this part of the world, I thought. The cold shower made me feel a bit disoriented, and sleeplessness made me feel hollow in the head. After a few minutes of mumbled hecklings and taunts, my sisters and I got in the car. It’s been a long time too since the last time all of five of us squeezed ourselves in the car.

My dad drove all the way, and I was a bit disappointed that I didn’t get to weave the car through the open and uninterrupted Bukidnon highways. There were hardly any traffic, and it would have been exciting to watch the views from the windshield rather than a tinted window. I contented myself with looking through the window though, since I find it hard to sleep during road trips. Bukidnon is filled with the most challenging and beautiful mountains in the Philippines, so I religiously paid attention to the skyline, trying to identify which mountain range is which.

We’re a funny bunch. I thought we were an odd cast, my older sister, the everlasting antagonist with her crass and uninspiring remarks sat on the other end of the backseat, hugging her big pillow which made me and my younger sister feel unsupplied. My younger sister, the whining ditz (but a painfully smart one, though) sat in the middle, her piercing voice underscored her jokes that only she found funny. My mom sat in the shotgun, telling stories about the lives of uncle this and aunt that, people I haven’t heard of before. She was enthusiastic all the way, while the rest of us drowned in our individual struggles to fight morning sickness. My dad, who kept interrupting everyone with his trivia and small talks, made everyone seem like students. I, on the other hand, pretended to be the scholarly type, I spoke little and feigned aloofness. I calculated my comments, which I hoped came across as insightful and philosophical. But leave it to my family to dismiss me as the weird one. I enjoyed the role-playing though. I realized this crazy bunch of five could be an ensemble worthy of a reality show in MTV or JackTV.

We heard mass at this church designed by Leandro Locsin. It was shaped like a pyramid, made of steel, glass and local pinewood. The high-altitude breeze kept me comfortable, while the gregorian choir of the Benedictine monks gave me goosebumps all over. After that, we headed to the vast front yard and had a delicious breakfast-picnic along with other church-goers. The manicured lawns, surrounding pine trees, the views of nearby Kitanglad range and the cool air made for a heallthy bonding.

On This Thing Called Financial Maturity

2007-05-04T20:25:00.000+08:00

I flew home to CDO last week. Its good to be home again, but more than anything else, I felt that going home this year would be more of a relief. For one, I can loosen my grip on my finances, which is something that has been too lax, I guess. No need to budget for this or for that, which means I don’t end up getting frustrated because that really doesn’t work, but I enjoy kidding myself anyway that I can do it. Somehow though, this one is not as enjoyable anymore. I satirically entertain myself by regularly assuming and affirming responsibilities I know I’m bound to fuck up, but something about trying to be financially mature but failing that really makes me feel so unsolved.

I’ve always been bad with money. I save sometimes, but all for the wrong reasons. I’ve had small debts here and there, and recently I’ve been bothered by the laxity with which I borrow money from anyone. My class accounts in law school have always been delinquent yet I show a straight face whenever our resident accountants demand that I pay my share, without even trying.

Last week, for example, as I was moving out, I got so tired from all the packing and organizing that I decided to get all my laundry serviced so that I won’t have to deal with packing them. It was a month’s worth of dirty clothes, I think (because I'm not sane enough to have them washed weekly and would rather wait until what's left in the closet are crappy, unwearable Hawaiian prints). They could just hold on to it for a while and I’d be spared from the trouble of carrying and keeping it. Well, the day before my flight home came and it was the last chance I had for paying and claiming my clothes. It did not happen because I didn’t have a thousand bucks to spare. So now I’m at home recycling clothes and rummaging through my Dad’s old 70s college clothes just to get by sartorially. Flower power ain’t that bad, and I’m enjoying how collared shirts looked way cooler before than it does now. I found a genuine Sgt. Pepper’s and the Lonely Heart’s Club shirt. The only thing is it almost hangs midriff on me. Too bad.

On other things, I’m trying to find a roommate to join me in living at this townhouse I’ve found. I’m looking forward to opening gates instead of riding elevators, and exiting through porches rather than hallways. I feel more mature and less manufactured that way. My room’s got its own fire escape made of cast iron that leads directly down to the front garden. It makes me feel all Brooklyn.

I’m trying to buy a Moleskine, the large one with the grids. I can’t find anything at Fullybooked. Buying an expensive and historically-laden notebook would compel me to write more religiously. And it looks ubercool and intimidating, that I think I’ve just found my new adversary-at-art.

I’ve quit fish and seafood altogether now to fortify my claims of being a vegetarian and sympathetic to animals’ facial cringes. I’m thinking about dairy because I do climb and the last thing on my mind is being too lanky to do 12 hour treks.

Oh yeah, before I forget, I’m done with my first year in law. Nothing much to be said about that.

Negros IV

2007-04-18T20:24:00.000+08:00

It's like being in the set of Lost or Jurassic Park

(photo by Ian Tabangay)

This is the best mountain in the Philippines. If I tried to explain every aspect of the beauty of this deadly and convincingly dramatic volcano, I’d be doing more fooling than approximating. When one is faced with a behemoth of a creation, unloose the locks that frame your head, spread your arms and say: “I’m here to absorb everything you have to offer.”

Surrender is the best attitude. Pride is not an option.

Mount Kanlaon. Standing at arpund 2,600 meters above sea level, is one of the Philippines’ most active volcanoes. Its one of the most breathtaking, most difficult to climb, deadliest, but undoubtedly the most rewarding mountains our country has to offer. Caves, lagoons, natural gardens, valleys, pine forests, lakes. I’ll just post some pictures because I’m getting increasingly senseless.

Me by the slopes of the crater

Margaha Valley (Kanlaon's old crater which is now a campsite/football field/frisbee field [size of flats: approximately 48 hectares])

Me at the summit above the clouds

One of Kanlaon's Caves (taken from inside)

(all photos courtesy of Jason Latorre. Check out his multiply page: feelingphotographer.multiply.com for more pictures)

Negros III

2007-04-18T14:21:00.000+08:00

Good Friday made Dumaguete feel like a ghost town. One Tricycle driver said that no shops opened and only a few people roamed the streets during Good Fridays. But the main group arrived that day and the overall noise level in the city rose a decibel or two. We were such unholy fucks. Damn these Manila folks.

But I was glad to see our group bloat from three to eleven. We all had the same excitement at heart, and this to me was the essential bond that made the whole group do the same things and feel the same things. Had we been there with different expectations or conflicting purposes, we would have bred animosity. But fortunately, we were all simply looking for a mountaineering frontier. No one has climbed Mount Talinis, and all but one haven’t climbed Kanlaon. We were eager, patient, and light hearted. Good times were just in front of our noses, and right there and then, I swear I could smell every scent of it. We were going to have the mountaineering expedition of our lives.

So we packed all our gear and all our supplies that night. We’ve seen pictures and heard stories about Talinis, the first mountain we would climb for the trip, and we expected a difficult ascent. Since no one has been there before, no one really knew the attitude of the mountain. Nevertheless, we didn’t let this apprehension get the better of us. At the onset of the trip, we had no formal itinerary for the Talinis climb. No assigned Team Leader and no Guides to help us be on the right track. But because the advanced group, myself included, were so nosy with locals, we met a local mountaineering group during Thursday night. We were drinking at El Amigo, indulging our blasphemous selves, and a person sat in front of us and asked if we were mountaineers. To our surprise, they were mountaineers too. We shared stories and drank a lot of beer, but the night culminated in a deal that they would guide us up the mountain, and in return, we would be their friends. They were obviously drunk and I was obviously glad.

So on Saturday morning, everyone gathered at Chowking, afterwards we headed for the bus terminal. The trip was fairly short, around one and a half hours. I sat at the front seat so I could see the Mountain getting ever so big as it looms nearer. It was high, with all its corrugated ridges, thick forests, and clouds for a crown. We started trekking at around 8:30.

The most memorable part of the climb for me was the campsite. We were almost two thousand meters high, and the temperature was very low. But the most beautiful thing about Mount Talinis is that the campsite sits beside a placid, clear and cold lake. The name’s Lake Nailig, and it was beautiful. It was surrounded by stiff ridges, and its deep waters were very clear. It was so clean that the water is actually potable! Yes, we drank and cooked our meals with water from the lake. I was so amazed at how serene the place was. I took a dip for around ten minutes and it was an experience unlike anything I’ve undergone before.

Mount Talinis is also called the water mountain. The trail we took passed through four lakes, and on our way down, we chanced upon a pristine waterfalls, and during the last few hours of our trek, we took a dip in a frigid spring. Normally, climbs would make everyone feel icky and sloppy, but Talinis is a clean mountain, and we all felt hygienic or something. Of course, this was more psychological than real, because the clothes we wear never really get washed.

The trek itself was fairly difficult. Hard, but manageable. But the sights and views make Talinis one of the most beautiful mountains in the Philippines if adjudged on difficulty-for-value ratio.

Lake Nailig

(Photo by Jason Latorre)

Twin Falls

(Photo by Jason Latorre)

Negros II

2007-04-16T00:31:00.000+08:00

On our second day at the City of Gentle People, we asked around for a good place to visit. I texted my friend Trixie who’s from Dumaguete and told me to visit Apo Island. I’ve heard a lot about this coral island a lot of times before, but I really had no idea how to get there, how far it was, how it looked like, or how much it would take to stay for a day. But since we, the advanced party, had no formal itinerary and were all reluctant to stay at our cheap storage of a motel, we had to find a way to get to Apo.

We asked around (as this was increasingly a more reliable way to formulate an itinerary), and since I can speak a little Cebuano, we got all the information we need from combined testimonies of a tricycle driver, our hospitable yet unkempt receptionist, and a tindera at a nearby carinderia. No conflicting accounts on their part, and getting lost is not really that repulsive a thought. We were after all lost to begin with.

Hoping that the data we gathered would be enough to catapult us to dreamy white sand beaches and pristine coral reefs, we left for Apo at six in the morning. The whole trip would supposedly take around two hours tops, but because we were so unfamiliar with the place, we reached the island at almost noontime. The trip from the mainland to Apo was pretty harsh. A boat the size of a minivan battled waves the size of minivans. All fourteen people huddled together and silently prayed that the boat sink as early as possible so that the shore wouldn’t be too far away to negotiate. I looked at every wave, and tried to be as keen and as observant as I could. In what is perceived to be a near-death situation (or every time that the chances of dying are higher than usual), be as observant as possible because: in case you die, you’d know what or who killed you and how; in case you survive, you have a great story to tell and lastly; when nothing happens, well, you enjoyed the view.

We met a US Peace Corps volunteer on the boat named Letha. She’s from California and is doing volunteer work as a coastal resource manager in Bohol. She gave us a lot of trivia about coral reefs in the Visayas area and said that the Apo sanctuary was the best in the region.

When the boat docked, I was immediately thrown aback by the sheer beauty of the beach. White sand with massive rock formations lined the shore. Palm trees and nipa huts stamped “tropical” in what was undoubtedly a postcard view. Simply put, the place was divine.

After having lunch and renting snorkeling gear at Paul’s Dive Shop, we headed for the Sanctuary where we reunited with Letha. The corals were massive and untouched, colorful and truly a surreal sight to behold. The water was clear and the fish were abundant. From tomato fish to eels to jacks to puffers…the sanctuary was a giant aquarium. Fortunately, the coral sanctuary was protected both by the government and the local community. It would be a shame to see such wonder get decimated by illegal fishing or get blown up by dynamites.

After our snorkeling trip, we went back to the community to get some snacks and beer. On my way to a restaurant, I surprisingly bumped into my cousin Dianna who was also at Apo for the day. Well, what a coincidence, i thought. We didn’t plan on going to Dumaguete together, much more Apo, but the world’s not big enough for consanguinities running away from law school, I guess. We took pictures and talked a little. Pretty soon, she was off, and I was off to the restaurant which had an overlooking view of the beach, where Letha and my two friends were waiting. There I had the most delicious fruit salad I’ve tasted in years. Cinnamon, mint and some custard syrup dressed the fresh bananas, papayas, mangoes, pineapples, and kiwi. I had cold beer which I drank to the beat of Peace Pipe, to complete the Apo effect. Paradise. Good God.

As soon as the sun began to descend, we headed back to the mainland. We had the all the boat to the four of us. Me, my two friends and this faith-healer (Letha spent the night at Apo, since the next day would be the island’s fiesta) who was too touchy and flirty that it made me awkward and just wanted to throw her off the boat. The only thing stopping me though was the fear that she’s got a sample of my hair and would use it to do some voodoo or some artificial karmic retribution.

Negros I

2007-04-15T23:49:00.000+08:00

My blockmates went to our place at around 9 in the evening to celebrate the end of a bittersweet schoolyear. It’s more of semi-end because an oral exam still looms two or three weeks ahead to most of us, so I’m sure we were a bit more inhibited than we thought. It was fun to see most of us having a good time. I had a good time too, despite the heat that all the laughter and pizzas exuded. The drinks, food, jokes thrown here and there all made for a quintessential post-graduate party, and by this I mean the utmost reverence. God knows how drinking till intestines are a choke away disgusts me now. We partied our age and that was good.

The sad thing was I had to leave at around 2 in the morning in order to catch my flight to Dumaguete. I partied and packed my gear simultaneously. In an impulsive denial, I readily believed that I could multi-task, something which has been disproved way beyond doubt . God I could be so arrogant. This proved to be disastrous, since I forgot some of my most essential climbing equipment.

The flight was flawless and convenient, except for the exorbitantly expensive airport concessionaires that refused my appeals to buy their C2s for 25 instead of 55 bucks. I traveled with two friends (we were the advanced party, the main group would follow 4 days later). When we landed on the airport-by-the-shore, we immediately got consumed by the feeling that Dumaguete was ours for the taking.

And take it we did. We found a motel (note: sex-spot) which rented rooms for a hundred pesos a night. We couldn’t care less about the dried up sperm that surely lined the walls and floors, shit, we were only going to leave our things there. Nights in seaside cities are too mysterious to pass up for sleep. Plus, we were on too tight a budget to really complain.

What was memorable was this saxophone player that gave us a romantic rendition of Girl from Ipanema while we were strolling along Boulevard. The walk around Siliman with its century-old wooden buildings was a serious time-warp which made all three of us feel Amish or Kansan, probably because the university was built by Americans and the buildings resembled those that can be seen in the Hallmark Channel or something. Also, it’s summer and everything was autumn-like.

We met a lot of locals, since no one among the three of us was familiar with the city and we had to make do with asking around. This part of the trip proved to be an exercise since our next trips around the province would be organized around hearsays and second opinions of drivers, waiters, receptionists and bystanders. The most entertaining local we met though was this waiter at a bar called El Amigo. His name is Roderick or something like that. He appeared constantly drunk and he was so animated to the point of being ridiculous. With his slurred speech and seeming hyperactivity disorder, Roderick kept us entertained during the two nights we drunk the night away at El Amigo.

Dumaguete is personally the most appealing city in the Philippines. From the friendly people, to the straight-up-your-face attitude of the buildings, Siliman University, Rizal Boulevard, the carinderias which offer complete meals for 15 pesos, to the colorful nightlife and reggae culture that defines the city beat, Dumaguete is the city for the not so centrist.