Coffee for the Cold Cuts

Sunday night air-conditioning at the office treats us like the quickly-decomposing cold cuts in the frozen compartment. I drove to a coffee shop in Blue Wave for coffee.

It’s red cups time and toffee nut latte tasted like Christmas. It conjured a vivid memory of the first time I tasted it. I was so sleepy and we were doing database updating/mindless encoding tasks in ____. I went down to the Starbucks in Valero with B. Life was probably more humble but way better back then: my 41st floor view, my desk by the window, launch cast all day, actually enjoying the day I also remembered the time we had Toffee Nut Latte in Tagaytay with D., B. and A. around Christmas last year. That was the perfect place, the perfect timing for this seasoned drink.

So I savoured every hot sip while in an office that reduced us to meat in a freezer. The coffee was still good. Stuck with this job, I imagine how life was so much better when I had these sips before.

The Process of Getting There

Life simply loses its novelty when you put too much logic into it.

Process Thought tells us that the quality of life suffers in predictability. Life simply loses its novelty when you put too much logic into it. Maybe we really just wanted some dreams to feel real: pristine beaches, D. in a white bikini, and being in an amusement park for our hearts. So we decided one night to join a trip to the beach the next morning.

We had a few drinks in Ortigas the night before, but still managed, excitedly, to wake up at 5am. From a gas station in Mandaluyong, we joined the bus with P., who always had excellent stories from the grassroots to the government to the imported chocolate-filled refrigerator of the British Council. P. got in the bus from the terminal. We were also supposed to be with S. who had just finished a drinking binge until 4am.


The story was that P. waited for S. outside the bus in the terminal. His stuff was already in the bus – laptop, board shorts, beach clothes, boy bawang and all. S. was late and the bus was leaving, P. still waiting outside. When the bus left without him, he ran and chased it from the Cubao station to the Nepa-Q-Mart.

He made it, the laptop and the boy bawang right where he left it. S. can just follow later. While we didn’t drive our own car to Batangas, the trip itself was relieving. It was a sunny day partnered with a cool October breeze. I’m glad to be traveling in shorts and slippers and shades, a backpack and D. - most of all. It was a glorious morning. We sang along to songs from the iPod and read a page or two of Lonely Planet Thailand during the bus ride.

We met S. at the Batangas port. At the boat, young people on the way to the beach took pictures of themselves in their camera phones and brought their iPods out. I saw a tab or two of valiums on one of their bags. The water was calm and the trip itself, calming. Everyone looked out when a dolphin jumped in the water. But this scared D., who couldn’t tell a shark from a dolphin.

Upon arriving at the usually crowded White Beach, we traveled by land to another island, Talipana,. We met up with F. and his friends. They were already settled in and already having lunch a Luca’s. It was an Italian Restaurant by the beach, owned and operated by an Italian, Luca, and his Filipina wife. The oven-baked pizza was excellent, not to mention how you get to smell baking bread, pesto, or thick tomato sauce from the pasta – having it all in a relatively quiet beachfront. You hear a familiar Chillout tune – something from Zero 7.

And there we were.

The Saccharine in September

When I was driving on the way here, I heard this familiar song you seem to fancy. You always dance this charming little dance when you hear it. So I imagined you, dancing your little dance. My eyes lit up brighter than sunshine even if rain as falls one everyone’s rooftops. Goodnight my tiny dancer. Hold me closer.

...

A line from a poem really hits the mark:

Through separate evenings, when
only you can take the stars
or give me the moon, while I assemble
all the reasons why I love
you, this way, still.

(From Rita B. Gadi’s Kidapawan in my Heart)

I love you this way, my D. On our separate evenings, only you can take the stars, or give me the moon.

...

I’m having lunch alone again: shrimp with cheese, bell peppers and mushrooms. I enjoy the idea that I can remain anonymous around all these people. I’m imagining we’re both laughing again.

While waiting in line to pay my tuition fee. Undergrads in DLSU pay 35k – 50k per term. I used to just pay around 15-20k. Now it's between a hundred to a hundred fifty grand a year. Our kid has to pass UP.

...

Off I go. Thank you for that brief worthwhile chat. Sorry I made you late. You truly are the reliever of my woes. I am sunk in your loving arms now, and I should be asleep in a bit. Café del mar Aria is playing on shuffle. I will be dreaming of you in your white top, while we are alone in a happy island, a pristine beach, a shared area of memory, an amusement park of the heart. Goodnight my fantasy chic. You make my dreams feel real.

We All Fall

We went out to see D.'s brother's exhibit at CCP, only to miss it because we weren't early enough for gallery hours. We walked around and I pictured myself standing in those hallways during my Usher days. Tonight, ballet was on the Main Theater. One of the advantages of being an ex-usher is that you can, once in a while, be a 'guest' to these performances.

D. and I ended up watching the Philippine Ballet Theater on orchestra-center seats. They danced three separate sets: locally-inspired, classical, and contemporary. It's been a while since I've seen pivots, pirouettes and arabesques. It was always beautiful from this close. The musical score on the contemporary set sounded like chillout or ambient and it just leaves you awed. Although you never completely understand it, all these graceful turns pose an efficacy. In that moment of aesthetic contemplation, you forget all the other awkward events that happen in the real world you belong to, that world of pressures and pretensions.

I remembered what we did last Sunday. We just hung out, listened to chillout and read the 2002 Likhaan Book of Poetry and Fiction. One of the poems, called 'A Dance Lesson' (by Naya Valdellon) clung to our minds as we watched ballet tonight. A line from the poem goes:

For you are a dancer,
and though your movements
mimic grace in flight
you must always return
to touch this earth
that dances under your feet.

We all fall down. Eventually, we all will. But right now, thinking of this rainless September evening with D., it still feels like we will never fall from grace.

...

After ballet, and thereby accumulating a thousand or two culture points, we had to reward ourselves with dinner. We had imported beer, baby back ribs, mashed potatoes and sausages at the Grappa's near the Trellis. They had 100 different paintings of sunsets on the restaurant walls. All these sunsets, the good food, beer, and the proximity of the sea reminded us of Boracay last summer. And since this is still CCP: those happy usher duties after Philosophy classes in college. Now I'm out here as a guest, and a PhD student. In Process Philosophy class, they tell us how differentiation is sophistication, detail is enrichment. After tonight with D., and looking on all the time we've been together, life feels like it's been enriched.

I've Used Up my Happy Days

Now the pendulum is slowly swinging back to the other end.

The call center industry has probably evolved, or it’s probably just my general sketch of people who work in call centers that has changed. Before, my officemates were usually fresh grads who went to the same school. Now everyone’s getting older and has some sort of call center experience. And call centers are fast-becoming bereft of those cute CSRs. Too many idiots got promoted, everyone’s not too friendly anymore and everyone’s hardened with the job. People learned how to endure the night. It looks like they could, and are here to survive more of these restless, restless nights.

...

I've used up my happy days. Now the pendulum is slowly swinging back to the other end. My blood pressure is probably shooting up sharply again and I always feel this tightness in my chest. I’m wishing I had a good reason to resign. Having this feeling is exactly the reason why I wanted to leave my previous call center.

Or maybe I’ve softened up after months of not working, and call centers are always stressful if you take it too seriously. The Quality team had a "Team Building" I was obligated to attend, and I can’t help but get the impression that although my teammates are very hard-working and helpful, even kind to me, we are often victims of the tendency to see themselves as infallible know-it-alls. Or they were probably toughened by the disputes they’ve had, and probably because they have genuine expertise on the subject matter. After this outing, I just felt totally unmotivated.

But I’ll stop whining. I’ve used up my happy days. Belle and Sebastian sings, “You may as well take it in the guts, it could get worse. Just take it in the guts, it could get worse.”

Taxi Drivers Should Write Blogs

On the way to the office today/tonight, the taxi driver told me how the cab (an old Kia that desperately needed new bushings or shock absorbers) made two of his kids finish college. One of them work for a call center in Makati.

And he told me about his flirtations with women: Pinays in Saudi, returning Japayukis in Manila. He told me the secret that makes him a myth and gives him pride: bolitas.

And another cab driver must have another story in another loaded taxi. How life jumps from cliché to another.

The Invisible, Unpredictable Logic

Soon enough, it will be time to plan another pivotal event in life. For now, I’ll sink into life’s invisible, unpredictable logic.

Just when I declared, “I’d let this month pass before looking for a job again,” the most lucrative job offer arrived. In this crunch time for preparing for my presentations for Kristeva and Derrida, I squeezed in a job interview.
I might end up working near that church by the sea.

And I did. Two days after, just before delivering my Derrida presentation, the company notified me that I start Monday. It’s a decent QA position. With all its open spaces, wide roads, and with barely any traffic, I get to drive a pleasant drive along Macapagal Road every time I go to work. Soon enough, I will be complaining about the workload and on how difficult this job is.
I jumped on the offer that was least expected, a salary and a location that seemed unlikely. Now it feels like a missing umbrella magically re-appeared, right when you decided to go out despite the rain.
Soon enough, it will be time to plan another pivotal event in life. For now, I’ll sink into life’s invisible, unpredictable logic.

So it’s roughly been a 3-4 month vacation with nearly a hundred-grand tab. What a life it has been. With the time I gained to do a few things I wanted to do, it felt like I won the lottery. I look at the past few pages of my journal. It was difficult to arrest life’s dynamism, or brew a blend of new thoughts. But one of my best rewards, for example, is that I’m almost done with my first 6 units of MA. And I’ve had my happy days. I’ve been the kind of bum I always wanted to be.

The workload hasn’t really encumbered me yet since I’m still on product and QA training. Despite being on graveyard, I still have the weekends off. There is time to pick up D. at her place and have a relaxed Sunday evening at Rockwell with dinner, a movie, and driving empty streets on the way home. There is time to dine at an inexpensive grill with excellent prime rib and porterhouse steaks.

But since I’m back at the graveyard shift, once again it’s beginning to feel like we belong to completely different time zones.

After the Play

I remember how, after watching the play, D. and I were reciting lines we snatched from it and just laughed some more. We had a terrific bento at the Rai Rai Ken by the Trellis.
It’s been raining the past few days, but tonight was a clear evening escorted by a cool breeze. The wind whispered a thousand I-love-yous to the sea. We took walks, holding each other’s hand and a cigarette on the other. As the night grew quiet, we drove the silent streets home.

The trellis is officially among the top five of my all-time-favorite places in the world. During afternoons, the sun’s white reflection on the bay makes it sparkle more than diamonds in a jewelry store. It gave me so many peaceful afternoons watching little boats while biking, glorious mornings while running, even a number of post-play, post-filmfest gimmicks, dates-with-D. (we’ve been to almost all of the restaurants in that part of CCP) and even lunch with my family. I hope it doesn’t lose its solemnity by become to commercialized, or too crowded like bay walk.

The Jologs Preliminary Remarks of my Postmodernism Paper

On an evening after my Saturday Philosophy classes, my girlfriend and I went to the Cultural Center of the Philippines to see a play. It was a production of Tanghalang Pilipino. I’m a subscriber of this local theatre company (the subscription courtesy of J.K.) and this is the first play of the new season. The play that evening was entitled R’meo luvs Dew-Lhiett, and it was a jologs adaptation of William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Although Shakespeare’s canonical work was originally a tragedy, this version of the play was staged as a comedy. Shakespeare’s Fair Verona was now a squatter “Barangay Verona” along with its tambays and tanods. The nightingale’s or the blackbird’s songs of the morning or evening were taken as the yells from the balut (evening) and taho (morning) vendors. We laughed our jaws out watching this play. It was also very interesting to see how a tragedy actually becomes a comedy. Even from my own humble standpoint, having read the original Romeo and Juliet, I believe that this play was loyal to Shakespeare’s text. That’s the best way to appreciate play anyway, to be like the Greeks, to read the play first before watching it.

The play was meant to be appreciated by high school students who usually have a hard time reading the Old English of their Shakespeare assignments. The venue, the Tanghalang Aurelio Tolentino, was packed with high school and college students. Since I was a subscriber, we were seated at a reserved section. The other reserved-seat row in front of us was probably meant for sponsors and their friends. Seated in this reserved section s was a woman who looked expensively and eccentrically dressed in a red, kimono-like gown. We heard her companions address her as “Tessa,” and she looked something like a rich publishing magnate or another social butterfly. With her was a well-dressed guy who was addressed by his companions as “Rajo,” and he seemed like the famous fashion designer. Tessa, Rajo, and their nice-smelling, literally bejeweled, rich-looking companions talked in a coño brand of English that my girlfriend and I overheard. But before that, what is this talk about coños? Elmer Ordonez writes in his Sunday column for the Manila Times (March 14, 2004) “…coños --- the term was reserved for the mestizos who studied in De La Salle and Letran.” I studied in Letran (for grade school and high school) and I studied in De La Salle (for College and currently for graduate school). Although I refuse to say I’m coño myself --- I just know a coño and their ilk when I see one. They were just like Tessa, Rajo and their friends.

The reason why I wrote this little anecdote is that it was noteworthy for me to see how coños were actually watching, and seemingly enjoying a jologs play. Moreover, the jologs and the coño were actually converged in a formerly “elite” venue, the Cultural Center of the Philippines. This was an elite venue currently staging a play meant for the appreciation of the masses. It’s also interesting how some of the jologs-looking high school students laughed like hyenas at something that Shakespeare, meant to be a tragedy. Everyone seemed happy together in this artistic engagement, which is also an intellectual enterprise with how it uses Shakespeare’s text to make us laugh at the expense of this jologs culture. At the same time, one can also see it as a criticism of what has become of our own culture, or give a new meaning (jologs) to what our culture has become.

“Postmodern?” I teasingly asked my girlfriend after watching the play, referring to the play’s nearly-literal blurring of the distinction of high and low forms of art, and catering to both an audience of both elite and masses.

“Pwede? [Could it be?]” She returned my question with another question.

And I thought of how Philosophy could be even more exciting, intellectually appetizing, intellectually enriching, and probably even – radical. Perhaps we can introduce Postmodernist Philosophy through a set of poems called Jolography. Perhaps we can show how this subtle literary work can demonstrate what postmodernism is. Like the play, perhaps I can have my own jologs adaptation of Postmodernism and Filipino Philosophy.

Perhaps we can also introduce something different to Filipino Philosophy. Instead of writing another thesis about scholasticism, or the exposition of another foreign philosophy, perhaps so we can explore on what kind of philosophy does our contemporary literature and our rich literary tradition exudes. We gather from the thesis-writing guideline:

“Having no philosophers in the real sense of the word does not mean that our country is devoid of any Filipino philosophical discourses and utterances.”

Indeed, we must have our philosophical discourses and utterances. We can look at the critical or political writings of Jose Rizal, Graciano Lopez Jaena, or the literary works of F. Sionil Jose or Jose Dalisay. We can probably take that further by looking at something that seems totally different: Jolography. Let’s look at how this attempt actually gains a wider audience. Let’s look at what kind of philosophy does our stories, our history, our culture, and the little events of our lives tell us. Literature can cover anything from motherhood to assassinations. We can probably use our literature to contribute to the formation of our own Philosophy, or our way of philosophizing.

A Wishy Washy Democracy

I also haven’t noticed how the Philippines is about to oust another President, the same one we put in power when we ousted the last one.

What a wishy-washy democracy. In this country, everyone has something to say (former Presidents, the urban poor, the businessmen, the military, the actors, the press, the priests, the universities, the administration, the opposition, the elite) and everyone’s opinion is right. It results not in a plurality of meaning, but everyone having their own fixed meaning, a truth of their own. Unfortunately, nothing ever makes sense.

And when everyone says a different kind of truth, everyone’s lying. We are all fools fooling the foolish. We are a country of liars, an attribute particularly true about the heads of our state.

So I'll add my own incoherence to my country's lies.

I remember reading a short story by an Italian author. In the story, the law decreed that the President be beheaded after serving his/her term. Knowing their inexorable fate makes them accountable for what they do, automatically heroic - or maybe in some cases automatically criminal. More importantly it makes them selfless.

We should do that: beheading presidents. It would save us the trouble of ousting them.

A Seamless Series of Niceties

Maybe I haven’t noticed my details closely enough, content as I am with its totalizing happiness. It’s been too totalizing that I had to doubt it, that it actually suppressed the little events of my life.
I haven’t noticed how I yearned to feel how I feel now. I just finished another attempt to understand Jacques Lacan, while listening to chillout, drinking cheap coffee and smelling the scented oils whose vapors are rising to the ceiling, or finding its way to the corners of my newly-cleaned, dust-free, accessorized and tastefully furnished room (at least from my perspective). The bells, synthesizers, drum and bass of the music’s ambient mood is a terrific anthem. I’m studying in La Salle again and I have access to the library and its wealth of books.
Rummaging the pockets of my bag for a notebook, I found a used pair of socks in a plastic bag. I remembered how, on the way to Z.’s 1st birthday party in Brick Road Sta. Lucia, my socks got wet as I braved the rain walking to the venue. I told this to D. and while we shopped around Gateway, she bought me a new pair. We went to her place after and had more Don Hen spaghetti and chicken.
I haven’t noticed how in the time between a job interview and a test, I was able to sit down to a chicken sandwich and three glasses of apple juice while reading Arthur Nersesian’s The Fuck-Up. It’s been one of the most amusing reads of the year. Maybe it’s something I half-expect to literally relate to. I realized how it was noon, and if not for this vacation I would’ve been rotting in the office. Instead, I am in a restaurant, eating and listening to Kruder and Dorfmeister with a view of Ortigas in the window. D. has downloaded a lot of Music for me, from Aimee Mann’s Bachelor no. 2 to Jim Morrison’s An American Prayer, to the 1999 K&D sessions, to the Yoshida Brothers.
One thing I noticed just leads to the other. Although I have never failed to stress this to myself, I have a perfect girlfriend who understands, shares, and appreciates my tastes, fulfills my desires, listens to my incessant whining, drinks with me, travels with me, and savors life’s niceties with me, while I do the same to her.
I haven’t noticed how I bummed around guiltlessly and through my own means. I even managed to give a little money to my mom.
I haven’t noticed how D. and I can have lunch dates now, from the Pasto in Ortigas or at the Orient Square Food Court. I had the time to visit her during weekdays for dinner, a movie and a few drinks.
I haven’t really focused on the details of what I’ve learned in Philosophy class, as well as that learning drive I’m now riding on.
I haven’t fully absorbed how, if I had work, I probably would never have the time to attend film festivals. S.’s film was one of the entries for the first-ever Cinemalaya. After the opening ceremonies, we had dinner and drinks at Dencio’s at the Trellis. The weekend after that we had a hearty dinner at Emerald care of one of my officemates. I haven’t forgotten the crabs we had.
I almost didn’t write about how we’re always out with friends.
I even remember that time D. and I watched the PurpleChickens, Kapatid, and Hale at Saguijo.

It’s been a seamless series of niceties that I almost didn’t notice, if I didn’t look into the details.

It’s bumming. It's bumming at its best.

What I Know

It’s not critical hermeneutics, it’s not postmodernism, but thinking of yourself as dumb is the one true learning. Maybe I’m not at all dumb, but it would be better if we had no claims to intelligence either. It elevates us to a higher podium and it gives us license to laugh at everyone who claims to be smart. Maybe it’s just classic Socrates. “Wisest is he who knows he does not know.”

Sometimes I tire of telling myself of happy I’ve been. Then I barely notice how happy I am.

What I Do

The silliest truth of all is that writing is not helping me now. Writing hasn’t been rewarding. It isn’t hiding the fact that I am dumb. There are no noble truths behind my choice to study Philosophy. I just wanted to obscure the fact that I am futureless. Philosophy only tranquilizes my thoughts on who I’m going to become in the future, and it painlessly absolves me of dreams of getting rich. It’s an alibi for having lost a “serious,” business-inclined ambition. So I finally realized why I’m studying again. I’m the dumbest ass alive.
Language limits us to the reality that language itself construes. Language is pounding the word numskull in my head.

Resolutely floating aimlessly can make you drift from one drinking binge to another. I miss drinking alone. You don’t have to worry about anything when you say something embarrassing. You can only embarrass yourself to yourself. And yes, I’ve been reading a little Sartre again. Hell is other people. No Exit was fantastic.

I wonder how I manage to say things sometimes: “Depressed people are people who don’t get life’s cosmic joke.” I don’t even get it. Haha.


What I do:
- Study Philosophy, since its midterm this week. I’ve recently learned that the reason why I’m studying, is because I’m so stupid I have to study again. I can’t even understand Kristeva and Lacan on my own. But I’ll probably feel better after getting agreeable remarks on the papers I write. I hope I do.
- Stay sober. Although it won’t be long till I’m inebriated again.
- Look sloppy. Dyaneh says she misses me in office attire. Is it a subtle way of telling me to go work? I just realized how much I look like the houseboy all the time. Not that I’m trying to wring people’s apathy, but I’d love it if they think I’m a houseboy.
- Read, listen. Most recent read: Kiss of the Spiderwoman (Manuel Puig). Who wouldn’t have grown a fondness for a Marxist revolutionary and a gay window-dresser talking about movies all day in an Argentine prison?
- Job Interviews. I don’t even take Call Centers seriously anymore, especially when they make you wait too long as if they had no regard for their prospective employee’s time, only to offer less than what you previously earned. I just put up with a minimum, job interview decorum. After four worn years, you really wouldn’t be that eager to work at entry level again.
- Spend less. The only consistent law I have ever known in economics, the only one I have put into practice, is that when you have less, you spend less. If you have more, you spend more.
- Dawdle. To be idle, to was time, to procrastinate.

Cashing In

Now that I’m doing most of what I want, studying Philosophy again and bumming around, it’s easier to live through the day thinking my life is meaningful and pleasant despite its aimlessness. Without having any definite agenda for the day, I revel in the thought of all those days in the past four years when I didn’t want to work, when coming to work actually --- ached. Life’s already paying off. I’m accumulating all these days for the future, for the days in the next few years when I will not want to go to work. When I snap out of this and start working, I’d simply say, I already used up the happy days. It’s simple and just.

Recent Movies

Melinda and Melinda. Wordy and well-told as a Woody Allen film could be. Both a tragedy and a comedy, the movie is terrifically amusing with its seemingly endless dialogues and stories with well placed elements.
Will Ferell should have a best actor nomination.

I love Huckabbees. With the way the actors portrayed their roles, with the way the script was delivered and how the story unfolds, one would have thought this movie was a Tanghalang Pilipino production on stage.
Philosophical issues were raised in the film. Some of the characters themselves were philosophical projects, and at the same time, philosophers. This movie staged philosophy into life.
This movie is how philosophy ought to be: available to a wide audience, applied in human drama, funny, and able to enlighten you on how wrecked people are, and how screwed your own life is.

The Incredibles. It’s more fun that I expected. This lives up to, if it’s not a step ahead, the usual Disney-Pixar movies. It’s going to be worth watching again especially when you’re entertaining children.

Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle. This is the perfect movie to perk-up your spirits if you’re feeling all losery. It’s one of those turn-off-your-brain comedies, the type that could make your head split out of laughing, instead of making your head split out of thinking. But if you think about it even more, the movie is an emancipation of actors marginalized into “token” roles from their “token” roles. They finally have a movie of their own.
A week after watching it, I still laugh at Harold and Kumar’s Wilson Philips song number.

La Visa Loca. The film has its shining moments. In a metaphor, this shows how Filipinos would do everything to get a US visa, including --- literally being crucified. The movie even has dream sequences, and the characters can honestly make you laugh.

But it didn’t have any unexpected turns, since the plot was quite easily predictable. The filmmaker also falls into the trap of the usual happy ending identified with local comedy films. In the end, we just can’t help but be chummy.

Work Hard, Play Hard. (French Film Fest) This is the story of how a neophyte in the corporate world becomes a shark-in-a-suit. The beauty of the movie is that it was able to display the conflict, seemingly without exaggeration, of two possible outcomes in life. First, there’s a life driving a BMW and laying-off people from their jobs. Second, there’s living a life of principle, keeping your girlfriend genuinely happy, and other simpler joys. The conflict and its development are shown in absolute detail, balanced with a moderate amount of drama. It even included the interviews with workers and odds and ends of their life outside the office.
Having watched this after a dinner (mint/lemon appetizer, glass noodles, grilled shrimp, pork slices) with D. at Pho-Hoa Greenbelt, this would’ve been a perfect after-work movie, if I didn’t get laid-off myself. I almost missed working.

Restating the redundancy of things I keep repeating to myself

Ian McEwan’s Atonement. The last hundred pages were the most gripping; you just have to read it to the end. It’s like watching a perfected art film. Every essential element toned and thought of to its finest. It leaves a subtle, perceptive impression that would make you feel intelligent after reading it.

Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood was so wonderful it ranks just a few notches below The Catcher in the Rye.

I’m officially a student again. I even received a partial scholarship for MA Philosophy. It does make me feel like I’m doing what I want and I’m taking control of my life. I’m intellectually stimulated, and it does give me a sense of self and I feel like I’m myself again.

I lost my job.

Thank you to ____ Inc. for sponsoring a terrific summer (they gave us an “appropriate” separation pay). And for the countless company hours they paid without me having to work. The thing I’d miss the most though, would probably the 41st floor view from the window.

I expect myself to write about all the what-the-fuck-nows, rationalize how I live, explain my situation, force a solution, even imagine the future, write, whine, and whine some more.
It’s the same old sentimental rubbish of a story that I probably shouldn’t write anymore. Now, I really ought to learn something.

Nagasawa’s piece of advice to Toru Watanabe: “Don’t feel sorry for yourself. Only arseholes do that.”

“You will have all the time in the world.” My mother always told me when I was a kid. I always thought she was right. I can spend a lifetime reading.

Two weeks after my position was officially removed from the company, I accepted a job offer from another call center. I spent a few days for interviews, tests, processing and submitting my pre-employment requirements. On the first day of training, they asked me sign a training agreement which was never mentioned in the job offer contract or in any of the interviews. It states that I have to stay with the company for 11 months to cover the training expense. I didn’t agree to this, and quit on the first day. One of the things that really did it for me, that made think, “I’ve had enough of this shit” right from the start, was the assistant trainer’s annoying, phony American accent.

Laugh at all the crap life dumps on your lap.

Where to? Where the Cheap Air Fares Can Take Us

So we went, D. and I, on the weekend of my 24th, to where the cheap air fares could take us. The timing’s perfect since it’s the advent of more affordable international travel. We were able to fly out of the country without having to spend a king’s ransom.

The month before, we researched, consulted our friends and family, consulted Lonely Planet, planned our itinerary, the places to stay, the places to visit, the modes of transport. We borrowed B.’s Sony Carl Zeiss rotating lens camera. D. and I exchanged countless messages this comprised most of our chatter when we’re out having dinner.

The planning and dreaming part was not only crucial, but also cunningly pleasurable. We were often giddy and excited for the past few weeks. Four days for two countries proved to be a tight schedule, but we were able to cover pretty much what we could cramp in such a small amount of time. We mapped our path using the MRT and LRT stations, foot paths, a cable car ride, and commutes that would require us to take a cab. We accurately determined costs such as the bus ride from Kuala Lumpur to Singapore, budgeted for our meals, accommodations, booze, made sure to eat what the locals eat, exchanged currencies, and just be there, in for our little adventure. And every little detail she planned out makes me love D. to the littlest detail.

The Fully Air-Conditioned Sound of Speed

A Philtranco bus in Megamall will be taking us to the Clark airfield where the Air Asia flight to Malaysia will take off. While waiting for the bus, we had lunch at an Asian restaurant in Megamall called Lemon Gras. I think I dipped my grilled prawns and pork with too much hoi sin and chili, it caused my heart to race, beating six times in a second. I could have sworn my whole life flashed before my eyes and scarcely survived a heart attack. Or maybe it was just plain pre-flight jitters. Even in the lane by the parking lot where we waited, I vomited around six times, imagining both the perils that may prevail and the many many strides of happiness we are to stumble upon in the trip. I was too positively thrilled I had to publicly puke my guts out.

The bus ride to Clark was an unexpected relief, despite the fact that the bus arrived 30 minutes late, despite the noon’s nearly 37 degree Celsius heat over Edsa, the maddening kind of heat which could just empty the sanity left out of anyone. The North Expressway’s roads have already been widened, and drive was quick and smooth. D. and I shared the iPod to give it all a fitting soundtrack: Eliot Smith, Hed Kandi’s latest Winter Chill, Chicane, a lot of Chillout and Alternative. We sing along to Kent’s 747: “So this is all we need. The fully air conditioned sound of speed. A violent whisper. And this time it's for real. So this day I made plans for us to leave.”


The Clark airport is something like the Kalibo airport, with slightly noticeable improvements such as an LED light display announcing “now boarding” on its check-in counters (which wouldn’t exactly be the technology that can make you go “hu-wow”). I didn’t even notice any runway lights for evening flights. But then, this isn’t forlornly bad considering how much it cost us. I’m even elated since it easily turned out to be trouble-free. Instead of asking us about the purpose of our travel, the Philippine immigration officer even advised D. not to look for jobs in Malaysia, but to look for jobs in nearby Singapore since the career prospects there could be more promising.

Jollijeep in the Sky

But we did have Chicken Rice later on.

The flight departed as scheduled and I’m with D. in an altitude of around 27,000 feet above sea level. The announcements were made in Malay, Chinese and English. The plane was an old Boeing 737, five seats in a row with very little legroom. It must have been previously owned by a European carrier judging from the language used for communicating “no-smoking” on the cabin toilet, but I couldn’t really compare it to a rusty old Russian Aeroflot since I’ve never flown in one. This isn’t a flying coffin based my skimpy standards, and I even enjoyed the convenience especially when you’re paying roughly 200% lesser than the price of other airlines.

What’s even more interesting is that they don’t have seating assignments so it’s a first come first served basis. There are no in-flight free meals. Instead, the enterprising flight attendants are pushing a cart with drinks and snacks on sale. Jollijeep in the sky. The cabin smelled of instant noodles, instant porridge; “imported from Thailand” (I heard the male flight attendant boast.) A lot of the passengers were not Filipinos. The passenger beside us was probably a Malaysian with Indian ethnicity, his ears plugged with an iPod. And there were also a number of Caucasians aboard. But the ones who were Filipino were easily identifiable since they wisely brought Lala fish crackers and Goldilocks chiffon rolls or butter slices. Since the 4-hour flight won’t land in KL until 8:30pm, a true Filipino would have thought better to bring a more appropriate baon: Adobo, a boiled egg and rice in Tupperware. The Filipinos were also first to complain when it got hot in the cabin since the plane was getting ready for landing. D. and I probably got hungry from all the laughing, so were ordered the 2 USD porridge (still not a rip-off considering the price of the fare), instantly prepared by the flight attendant in her red mini-skirt. We later found out that Porridge was sold at 1.60 RM at a 7-11 in Malaysia. We brought home a couple for pasalubong.

My Forgotten Country

From the Petronas Tower footbridge: somebody else's 41st floor cave.

And then it’s official: I’ve been to another country. D. was happy to tag along, and I love her for that. By this time, I already understood what “Keluar” meant. KLIA was an impressive airport, in terms of its organization and architecture, to think that there were no separate terminal fees, or were probably very minimal.

KLIA was a 45 minute ride to the hotel we’re staying at near the Chow Kit area. We first saw Kuala Lumpur through the window of a right hand drive vehicle. The highway was lined with tall trees, passed through with relatively disciplined drivers who almost (if not never) cut and intersect, and never exceeded the speed limit.

As we neared the city, you’d almost see the silver, twinkling lights from the Petronas Tower from everywhere, and the KL tower was like a jewel in the sky.

The hotel we stayed in was a 3-star with a surprisingly huge room with one queen and a single, even a tub, other standard amenities, breakfast buffet and a view (from our window) of the Petronas and KL tower.

We walked around the hotel area and just looked at what they sell at the restaurants. We had dinner at a nearby restaurant called Yusof. It wasn’t fancy but it was all right. I figured Nasi Goreng in most places in Malaysia would probably be authentic.

There was a troop of young people who were also at the restaurant, a few tables away from ours. They looked like the “varsity” type of kids. But it was 11ish on a Friday night and when I asked the waiter what they were drinking, it was all tea and Nescafe. In the Philippines, a town like this must have a mandatory videoke installed somewhere and there’s booze in every corner. A friend of this varsity troop, a tall and tough-looking guy of Indian ethnicity with thick facial hair, had just arrived. D. and we sort of had the impression that this one’s going to have beer. We asked the waiter what he ordered, and it was Milo, the Olympic Energy Drink. We imagined him ordering in the brusque voice of Filipino alpha males, “Pare, isang Milo nga dito oh, yung mainit”

Since we planned to spend most of the money for night life in Singapore, we decided against a night out. We went to the 7-11 bought a sim card with load, (really, really useful at 16 RM) a few bottles of Tiger that we’d drink in the hotel room.

Tomorrow’s going to be one of the longest we’ve ever lived.

Compared to Manila, the sun comes out around an hour late in this part of the world, just as it won’t set until after 7 pm. We were up at 6am and we watched the KL skyline transform from the hotel windows. We had breakfast at the hotel. In the wide variety of the buffet: croissants to omelets, pancakes to fishcakes, porridge to rice, including a whole tray exclusively for a thick curry chili paste, we found the local mi hon (fried noodles) as the most delicious.

We asked the waiter, the concierge, and someone from the street for directions on which train to take to get to KLCC. Although most of them spoke English that’s graspable, we got three different answers. So we had a long walk along the hotel area’s streets which were all named “Jalan something” and we made it to the Chow Kit train station.

Unfortunately, we weren’t able to figure out how the interchange would go in the train. There were three rail systems: Star, Putra and KTM. Although we were able to try out the subway in Masid Jamek later on, we had to take a cab to KLCC as were already late in meeting D.’s friend, Ge. Although I read about cabs being notorious for not putting the meter on, we didn't have that trouble in Malaysia, and the driver even insisted on giving the change to the last sen from the 4.60RM fare.

We got off at the foot of the Petronas tower. Up close, this structure is even more impressive and intricate than it looks: inspired by the five pillars of Islam, it’s the proud, bejeweled symbol of the nation’s aspirations, as well as its achievement. And a phallic symbol, which you should probably never mention to the no-smiles-serious-tour-guide in the sky bridge who referred to it as the “majestic Petronas tower.” We were there between 8:30 – 9:00 am and were booked for the sky bridge at around 10:15am. At 10:15am, they were booking viewings to as late as 3:30 pm.

So we had over an hour to stroll around the Suria Mall within the Petronas tower. What’s impressive about this tower is that it had the mall, business centers, and even a performance hall for the Malaysian Philharmonic all in one place. We had coffee with Ge, who told his stories about Malaysia and picked up the 25RM bill for a cup of coffee, a glass of cold, blended coffee, and a bottled raspberry drink. The mall was something like the Podium in Ortigas.

The security check before entering the sky bridge was probably at par with airport standards. I was impressed with how they had it all organized: with the ticketed scheduling, the color-coded tags, while collecting absolutely no fees. The “no fees” part is just impossible where I come from. This is probably the most sophisticated structure I’ll ever see, if ever I don’t live to see the Leaning Tower of Pisa, or the Pyramids of Egypt.

And then I saw the city from another 41st floor. I thought of the view from my own 41st floor cave. This time, with how the street intersections, buildings, roofs, parks, trees are arranged, balanced and probably placed for maximum efficiency. The no-smiles-serious tour guide volunteered to take a picture of the three of us together. She even initiated a little small talk and asked us where we’re from. The Philippines, which Lonely Planet described as “a little off the fashionable South East Asia route… the forgotten islands of the region.” She asked about the tourist spots we had. “Boracay.” I replied. Her face titled to an angle and gave me a look of non-recognition. So I told her: “It’s a nice beach, like Phuket in Thailand.” The no-smiles-serious-tour-guide acknowledged with a polite nod.

We probably are forgotten.

And The Bargain

We took the bus to Chinatown, a town that probably every Southeast Asian city has. The bus was a non-aircon bus (like EDSA/Alabang-bound ordinary buses we have were) with an English-speaking lady conductor, and .75RM per person fare. We stopped at bargain book shops with many Kurt Vonnegut and J.D. Salinger titles. We had lunch at Chinatown with a Filipino friend, and the chicken-rice (Soy chicken with chili sauce and a vegetable side dish) was terrific. A few blocks away there’s the Puduraya bus station, which lived up to its reputation as hot and clamorous. It’s just a little more organized than Cubao. We bought our tickets to Singapore at 25RM each and were scheduled to leave at 2:00 pm. The lady selling the tickets was Indonesian by nationality, but spoke Filipino almost fluently.

My shirt was smudged with sweat from all the walking and KL’s noon sun. D.’s shoulders were giving up on the back pack since we’ve been carrying all our stuff for Singapore all morning. So I carried both our bags. But all the walking was worth it and the word “tired” was omitted from of my vocabulary. I’m loving D. and D.’s loving me every step of the way. We walked downtown to see the ordinary places: a Chinese temple, the Hindu place of worship (which looked like an illustration out of the Vedas and the Upanishads), streets lined with shops selling arranged bouquets of flowers, parking lots where it seemed like all the motorcycles of the world are parked.

While we were shopping in Chinatown, we experienced how bargaining could become an annoyance. We found a shop selling small Petronas Tower figurine bells which we were sure my mother would love, since she was mad about bells. We asked how much it was. The Indian hip-hop-looking guy wearing a jersey with a bling-bling dangling on his neck told us it was 25 RM. D. bargained for 18RM. The guy started to wrap it but I said it was expensive and we’ll come back for it later. When we were leaving he yelled at us, “No, you buy… opening time, man…” D. paid for it at 18RM and we had the bells. We spent a lot of time looking around and I got D. a Greenhills-quality Roxy shirt for 15 RM. There was a Chinese girl of about 12 helping out in a store selling football Jerseys. I asked her how much Brazil was and she said 40RM. I said I’ll buy it at 20RM and she gave it to me for 25RM. I let her have her undeniable ace as I wouldn’t be able to bear it if this little girl wipes that smile off her face.

We walked back to the Puduraya station. Just like yesterday, we’re off to another country.

I Am Lost Without You

The 5-hour bus ride to Singapore was extremely comfortable. In this huge bus, there were only three loungy seats in a row. There was even a small pillow for the neck, and a recliner for your legs. Except for a few minutes out of KL, we didn’t encounter traffic. The highway was wide, and the roadside was filled with trees which turned into thick forests as we went into the country side. The iPod really came in handy. There was just one stop over in Johor Baru.

Between 7:30 – 8:00pm we were already at the Singapore immigration. It’s a good thing G. advised us not to leave our bags when while have our passports stamped since bus drivers are known to have a shorter string of patience on waiting and are likely to leave passengers behind.

We took sometime since we weren’t able to fill out our departure cards beforehand. When we got back, the bus was gone. If our bags were still on that bus, that would have been a really huge hassle. The bus was supposed to take us to Boon Lay. The few Singaporean Dollars I had with me proved to be a bonus, since we just rode another bus (about 1.50SD each) from the immigration (I imagine to be somewhere in Woodlands) to Queens. While on the bus, it’s too noticeable how Singapore’s highways are peppered with directions and speed limit sings.

What probably was the most thrilling part of the whole trip was that we didn’t have any reservations in Singapore. And so we were there, walking on foot and looking for the street of the Lonely Planet budget-recommended hotel. D. picked it for its ideal location: it’s proximity to bus and train stations, and areas of interest such as Orchard Road, Sin Lim Square and Little India.
It was true that you’d really feel safe walking the streets of Singapore, and from what we saw at first the streets were really tidy. We just felt confident that we won’t get mugged or robbed. We looked at our maps feeling like real backpackers in this backpacker heaven, and we just walked rightly into place and found Jalan Besar, the street where the hotel was located.

The staff at the hotel, Lawrence, was quite friendly and helpful to the point of being endearing. We settled for 70SD double room with a queen and single bed, toilet and bath, but it was really small for a 70SD room. I didn’t have Singaporean dollars yet so I made a 50USD deposit to be returned after I change currencies. After accounting for what we paid for everything in this city, we didn’t wonder why this so-called “fine” city is also the most expensive, and yet worth the visit.

After we unpacked, I was first to take a shower. I told D. to get ready and I’ll be out to change currencies. Lawrence from the hotel gave me directions where I can find a money changer. It’s a 12 to 15 minute walk towards Little India, near the Mustafa mall. And yes, as I was on my own, I was lost.

D. was waiting outside the hotel and saw as I was walking very briskly towards her. It was almost embarrassing, literally and metaphorically true, that I was lost without her. Lawrence,

the hotel staff, was kidding around telling D. I was kidnapped. He assured her later on, that nobody gets kidnapped in Singapore. We hailed the next cab and headed for Orchard Road.

Be Happy Now, La!

We walked along Orchard Road. We walked along the wide, tiled sidewalks of spectacled malls: Wisma Atria, Lucky Plaza, Takashimaya, Paragol, HMV. And this is where we saw the well-dressed Singaporeans shopping, dining and drinking on a Saturday night. It was an interesting-enough stretch, with its many neon lights, sophisticated interiors, trendy places, and hip-looking people. It’s something similar to Greenbelt, but this stretch just seemed: larger and richer in character.

What surprised and pleased us the most was how many Singaporean well-dressed, westernized-looking bagets in groups, or even twenty-somethings in office attire, just sat in staircases or sat in street sides with a bottle of liquor and chaser, such as a bottle of Jack Daniels and Coke, or bottles of beer from a nearby 7-11 stall or from a grocery. I’ve imagined stereotypical Singaporeans to be workaholic types who lived the life of zombies. But they were loitering like high school kids, they littered, smoked and drank outside the malls. And I don’t mean bars around the malls or in the street. They sat in the pavement as if having a picnic with booze. You can’t even do that in a country like the Philippines. We didn’t have policemen in civilian clothes, but that’s enough to get you arrested. As Herbert suggested, Lee Kuan Yew must’ve barked an order to the nation of 3 million, “Singaporeans, be happy now-LA!” I wonder how successful that state-sponsored dating scheme is.

With the wide array of bars and places to dine, we just had to pick one that caught our fancy. I think we picked a very good one for dinner and the first drink: Pre Rogue, which is right beside Alley Bar. A pleasant, pretty Singaporean waited on us for what probably was one of the most expensive and rightfully remarkable meals of my life. The interiors were perfect since the walls had a certain old-architectural flavor and the place had a good crowd with the expatriates and locals. We just had satay with sticky rice, chips, Heineken for 11SD each, fancy bottled water called for 6SD, and Marlboro lights for a debilitating 13SD - a price could’ve bought us two reams. I’ve never had Heineken in my life and I just found out how terrific this German beer is. And D., my dashing date, was clad in her tube top and was looking delicious herself. We also took a peek at Alley Bar, where there was a performer playing jazz on a saxophone and good crowd that’s hyped up. It’s almost midnight, so it was time to turn 24.

In 2004 I wrote, “2005 means I will be 24. That’s definitely something I don’t want to think about.” I never thought I’d have what I wished, of going away with the woman I love, and turning 24 while out travelling. When I was 17, I wrote a story about turning 24. “…turning twenty-four seemed unusual, twenty-four sounds --- nauseatingly ancient. It suddenly occurred to me, from some random palpitation of brain waves, that being another summer older is like having a venereal disease.” The palpitation of my brain waves took a sharp turn and reckoned that turning twenty four was a joy I least expected. Why the fuck did I ever dread to turn 24? Why was I ever afraid of the future?

After paying what the grand 60SD bill, we went to bars after the Alley and found many other interesting, crowded places. There were even those that had San Miguel Beer, which would be on sale at 5SD during the 1am happy hour. But we didn’t want to give Boat Quay a miss.

We took another cab to the Boat Quay and had the after-midnight surcharge which ran the fare to around 7SD. The streets towards the Boat Quay were lined with bars, and we walked the entire stretch to check out the places. Short-skirted women, locals, and many foreigners walked around parading themselves or scouting a bar. Boat Quay is a bit similar to Boardwalk in Manila, although Boat Quay had much more decent (and therefore more expensive) bars, as well as a neater, tree-lined footpath that is (unlike Boardwalk) not directly beside the highway, not directly beside the river, and the water did not have smell that some people found appalling. Boat Quay, after all, was described as the liveliest nightspot in the city, a picturesque area of old restaurants and shops. Among the pubs, lounges, bars in Boat Quay were soccer joints, and dance clubs.

D. and I wanted to see how these Singaporeans would dance in a club. We both weren’t into dancing, so we sat outside in a table by the river. They sold a drink-all-you-can cocktail for 15SD for men and 10SD for women. We decided against it since we wanted to walk to other places and each had the 10SD Heineken, and the waitress gave us an on-the-house bowl of assorted chips, nuts and pretzel twists. We took a peek inside to see what its like and we saw the Singaporeans in choreographed club dancing as if they’re practicing for an intermission number, and some women who were just dancing like mad by themselves. When we used the toilet, it’s as if the whole club threw up all the drink-all-you-can cocktails. The toilet bowl was all puke. After all, they weren’t zombies who went obsessive-compulsive about following the law.

We walked further from Boat Quay to the Bridge near the Fullerton Hotel. It’s an interesting walk since this seemed like historical places because of the statues of Chinese traders and Englishmen, and historical markings on the bridge. We found out later on that if we walked farther to the second bridge, the Anderson Bridge, we would’ve found the Merlion they built in 1920. But our legs would’ve gone wobbly if we did.

We took a cab back to Jalan Besar. On the corner from where the hotel is located, there’s a hawker-center like restaurant that housed cab drivers and some locals who drank Tiger. They weren’t exactly dressed like locals for a gimmick in Orchard Road. Big bottles of Heineken were sold at 6SD. We guzzled two of those. The beer was good and relatively inexpensive I finally had a thirst-quencher, and even reached a sufficient level of non-sobriety. I can’t even have a Heineken either in cheap or expensive places in Manila. This beer is one of the most unforgettable things in Singapore. We went back to the hotel after the drink. There’s a bit more of Singapore tomorrow.

I didn’t sleep yet to live out a dream.

Cable Cars and Badoodles

We checked out of the hotel in the morning, and bought bus tickets back to KL before heading to Sentosa. This way we can spend more time in Sentosa.

For breakfast, we shopped around for the Indian Roti but the stores nearby didn’t serve any. Our walk led us to the McDonalds near the Bugis station, since we had another thing to confirm about the McDonalds in Singapore anyway. It’s a sin to eat Mcdo in a country that prides its hawker culture, but it’s a pretty interesting sin. They say it’s a twilight-zone-like experience to see older people serving your cheeseburgers and fries, especially if you’re used to the disturbing perkiness of McDonalds cashiers in the Philippines and their below-25 age limit. Indeed. But what was also expectedly disturbing, is that we paid 12SD for hotcakes and sausage and a big breakfast set.

We walked to the Little India station. It was our first time to ride Singapore’s MRT and we can’t help but be impressed with how their train terminals and facilities are incomparable to ours, and are even better than airports in Philippine provinces. The system for train schedules and locations was easy to figure out. You can buy tickets from touch-screen machines. There was even this 40” monitor that indicated the number of minutes the next train would arrive, the time, and flashed a George Elliot quote. Inside the train were smaller monitors like that. And there was orderliness all around.

You can tell it was Sunday since the train was filled with families, lovers holding each other’s hands, groups of thin young girls clad in mini-skirts and boys who probably looked too young for their age.

The train ride was a quick one and we got off at the North Harbor station. The cable cars were already visible when we were walking. Laughing at the idea, we just had to look at where they were all coming from to find out where we could get the ride. It came from the top of this building, with tickets sold at the lobby. Being one of the highlights of a trip to Sentosa, it was a good price at 10SD per person, back and forth.

The scenery from the cable car was marvelous, since you can see the ports of Singapore, the thick greens of Sentosa Island and some skyscrapers from the city. All this from a tiny booth hanging on a wire. Cable car rides also have a way of making your badoodles feel funny; I had to hold my balls for a while to check if they’re still in tact.

By the time we arrived in Sentosa, we shopped a little for souvenirs. I thought the beach was just outside the shop. It turns out that it was a bus ride away, the one with “blue” color-coding. The good thing was that bus rides around Sentosa didn’t cost you anything.

Singaporeans have it easy, if not perfect. There’s even a concrete parking lot beside the beach. Along the beach were young couples in their Roxy and Billabong bikinis and board shorts, basked in the sun, reading magazines, eating take-away food, maybe making out a little. We laid a sarong on the beach and just hung out for around for a few hours, taking pictures. There were restaurants and liquor/drink stores around the beach with comfy wooden beach chairs and billiard tables. I had another Heineken (cheaper now at 5SD) and D. had a Vodka Cruiser.

Some travel books and travel websites describe this Island as “plastic,” and I half-expected it to be that artificial. Even the beach sand was imported from another country. They had a Palawan beach here, but we didn’t feel that it had even half of the authenticity of Palawan.

We took the cable car ride back, and a train to Bugis station. We had lunch at one of the bigger hawker centers. We had noodles whose name we didn’t bother to translate but it an unspeakable, universal language we hummed “mmmmm.”

The only regret perhaps, is that there was no time to go shopping for electronics at Sin Lim Square, and we missed SunTec city. But considering how far we got in Singapore in a span of 24 hours and less than 200USD, I’d say we’ve gone a long way.

A Blissful Trip

Late in the evening, we were back in Kuala Lumpur. I resolved to take a cab but D. was insistent we try out the train. We found the train - the subway going from Masid Jamek to KLCC. We saw the “majestic” Petronas Towers up close at night, lined with bright white light, like a building laced all around with giant, sparkling silver bracelets.
We went to Suria Mall again. We managed to get some pasalubong, postcards, and a delicious roti bread from a store called Roti Boy. So that’s where that overpowering baking-bread smell comes from.
One of the disappointments we had in Malaysia, was our failure to try the fish head curry. But the equally unforgettable chicken rice, which we had that night, was more than a consolation.

The 720am flight back to Clark airfield in Manila had many Filipino passengers. We saw an acquaintance we made in Singapore, a newly-married couple who brought their 1 year old. They also went to Malaysia and Singapore. I couldn’t forget the chocolate bars they gave us during the bus ride from Singapore to KL.

On the KLIA airport, something very different reminded us that we were on a flight back to the Philippines. In front of the gate for the flight to Penang was an orderly line. In front of the gate for the flight to the Philippines were a lot of people huddled in a mess as though the gate was the SM Megamall entrance during opening time. We heard the Air Asia flight attendant let out an “Oh my god.”
We really were on the way home.

I remember the day we paid the tickets for the KL/Singapore trip. I sent D. a text message:

Let’s just go, unafraid of where our dreams, where the wind would take us. We are, after all, riding in an air of bliss. Let’s live, laugh, love, dine, walk the walks and have our own stories of adventures and misadventures to put our grandchildren to sleep. And it won’t just be a conventional package tour. We will remember, one day, how we made each other’s life --- truly a blissful trip.

Half-Mad to Give Birth to a Dancing Star

"If one is not half-mad how can one give birth to a dancing star?" - Friedrich Nietzsche

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!" - Jack Kerouac

D. must have had this in mind during our anniversary. I didn't even fancy having an anniversary. We had a party in P. with wine and booze and salad and pizza and friends and she asked us to come up the rooftop. The floor was covered with rose petals, set-up with small chairs, candles and lamps. As she greets me, fireworks lit like a spider across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and D. goes “Happy Anniversary, J___.”

A Welcome to Where We're From

The trip back to Pagsanjan was probably one of the best drives I’ve ever ridden. I sat quite comfortably while my father drove on a highway that didn’t have the usual bottleneck. It’s March but the usual ferocious heat I so often described, softened itself as the calmest sun of summer. Like always, nature sympathizes and the clouds gloomed with my grand aunt’s demise. At the same time, I felt that all my grand aunts and grand parents who've passed away were all happy to welcome me back.

On the many trips I’ve had on the way here I probably never looked hard enough at the un-photoshoped, un-cropped and inartificial view of rice fields and mountains. There are towns lined with garden flowers and plants sold at the sides of the highway. Fire trees and acacia trees formed an arched roof for the road. We were listening to the Philippine Madrigal Singers, Café Del Mar 11, some Eels and Toad the Wet Sprocket.

Pagsanjan is lined with houses like ours: mid-20th century style two-storey houses with the familiar capiz windows. I was glad to be back at this old house. It must have generations and generations of ala-One Hundred Years of Solitude stories to tell about the _____s
There’s a four-post bed in one of the three adjoining rooms. Other bed frames are carved with monograms, AA for ____ and AAA for ____. Even the blankets were weaved with their names or initials.

In the altar near the sala, there’s a huge crucifix, and underneath were small statues of St. Dominic and St. Thomas Aquinas. Near the dining table, there’s a grandfather’s clock whose pendulum has stopped. On the cupboard, the china’s engraved MA for Maria ____, and locked in there is a set of 22K gold heat resistant porcelain.

From the capiz window, I can see an Antique Shop, where a wooden mermaid stands. I remember Lola Amada telling us stories about a mermaid in the river (a few steps away from the house) who may have been the cause of why many people drowned there.
I remember one of the summers I was here, reading Sun Tzu all night with mosquitoes feasting on me. I remember all that muttering that was the Pasion. I remember drunken excursions with cousins, and having to return here for all our grandparents’ wakes.

The house does not have a strong provincial feeling, save for the tricycles that speed through the highway, and the heavy Tagalog accent people have. This area must be richer than many of the residential areas in Metro Manila. This part of the province is free of eye sores such as slums and garbage, not to mention how the greens here are greener. There are a lot of small-scale stores that have been around for decades: the sandal and shoe store Step Rite, the restaurant Dura Fe, and this Antique shop across the street. Having been around for the groceries, the market place, the restaurants and stores, and with the tourist spots nearby, this town’s pretty progressive.

People know everyone and generally have a kinder disposition.

I wanted to congratulate my Dad for taking the effort and pains to maintain this house. The house spoke to us, wordlessly, where our family came from.

Adelia Knew A Secret

March 4. Pagsanjan, Laguna. Adelia A. A.’s finally back in her hometown. She died yesterday in a bathroom accident that's common among old people. That bathroom is across the room where I sleep. She lived 94 years. 94 years of which, she didn’t spend a day working. She never married, but she seemed to have found joy in dedicating her services to the Philippine Independent Church. She was given a dinstinction for that service. She called sugar “refinado” when I tried to make her coffee, but with diabetes she refused the cookies I offered. She loved Bingo. She used an abanico. She prayed constantly. She constantly powdered herself, being rather compulsive about hygiene. She had an excellent memory for stories about almost-forgotten friends and relatives. She had a hearing difficulty which made her, quite literally, just lend a deaf ear to the DTS sounds booming from an 8.5 diamond set-up across the room. And as long as she was able, she walked towards the Sto. Niño to touch it and make the sign of the cross.

To have lived this long, so persistently and idependently, she must have quietly kept a secret to happiness.

But then we grieve her loss. And my mother grieved the most, since she always took care of Lola Del. I hate how it’s all a cliché, but like the grieving and the death it’s all just inevitable. You cannot help but be deeply touched by the affection shared by people who’s lives she touched. How you are thankful she didn’t suffer terribly during her death, but still wished she was around.

Quietly still, and probably as happy as always to be here, she is home.

Some More Aimless Floating

I’m in the upside of the resolutely-floating-aimlessly-phase of my life. Only this time, I don’t feel lost and I don’t feel that I’ve gone astray. I’m smooth sailing. Smooth sailing while resolutely floating aimlessly, with tides and waves taking me to cloud nines and earth’s nirvanas.

A few minutes ago I was just having my serving of the early evening’s after glow, watching the sky’s golden gleams turn dark. From my 41st floor cave, I saw the sun’s fading glimmer cover half the sky with gold, red, violet and blue on one side, and darkness on the other. And I can see a mountain in between, like Olympus hanging there in the heavens.

And then one million light bulbs beginning to light up the city.

This afternoon, boss gave me a figure for my salary increase and annual bonus. My salary’s going to be more decent and I could use the bonus money for another trip. And considering how I don’t take any crap from anyone in this job, this job gives me not the tiniest bit of stress that I can’t manage, I’m grateful they’re giving me more money.

Tomorrow, I will be flying to Boracay Island with D., and a number of our closest friends. I’m no longer alone in my return to an island where I found so much of my happiness. Mathematically, I’ll be twice as happy. I’ve been too proud in telling myself that it’s my Birthday gift to D.

I remember how thrilled I was about giving D. this priceless gift. It’s a Bridgette Jones Edge of Reason original movie poster displayed in the glass walls of National Bookstore. I asked how much they would sell the poster. I had to charm (or plead, more appropriately) my way into it and ask the National Bookstore Customer Service officer to give it to me for free. For more sappiness, I brought her a bouquet of flowers on the day of her birthday. She prepared salad and we had dinner at her house. We had separate a dinner and a drink with her friends, at the Oyster Boy in Greenhills, on the weekend before her birthday. We’re out a lot and it just reinforces the joy you already have.

Three weeks from now, I will have an exam in La Salle for my MA Philosophy application. Visiting the University again and the prospect of studying again, made me feel like I’ll be doing what I want and I’m taking control of my life. It wouldn’t be the coven of complacency that is College, but studying Philosophy will somehow make me feel like myself again. I even reviewed a little.

Three weeks ago, I had a short story idea. There was one night this February when my stomach kept churning and I couldn’t sleep. It was my subconscious creating this physical manifestation, telling me I had to write. Until my hand did what it had long itched to do. Again, it’s no award winner, but I was able to write fiction again. My fiction.

Tonight, and in the coming nights, I think I’ll just have some more of this. Some more dreaming, some more living, some more aimless floating.

The Usual Pleasures

Sunday night: Slept 10 hours and woke up in the afternoon to visit the mall with D. for my obligated consumerism: a new body pillow, and the more rewarding buys from Book Sale. I found Goethe’s “The Sorrows of Young Werther.” It’s hardcover, newly translated Random House publication for the unbelievable bargain of 120 pesos. I’ve always wanted to read this, ever since I heard about it in Sophie’s World back in 2nd year high school. My adolescent urges made me interested in a book that caused suicide rates to increase. I remember reading that it was banned in Denmark and Norway for a time.

I also got a back-issue (August 2004) of the New Yorker from Book Sale. I’m not a big magazine fan, but this is a magazine that gives yourself a kind of blandishment for your good taste. The magazine has poetry and fiction, good reviews, the most well-written magazine features. Even the font looks good. I afforded this pleasure for P50.00 or 90 cents (against the $4.95 price on the cover.) And I’m reading on quiet Sunday night burning scented oils, while playing the Thievery Corporation, Groove Armada, and Jakata Visions.

Thanks to Book Sale, you can at least take a break from profligate book buying.

Another night: Spent the evening having dinner with D., at a Japanese restaurant whose servings are too big, then coffee at Café Ad.

Saturday: Visiting D. at her place, shopping sale items at Podium, and her treat to an excellent dinner at China Star. Hakaw, fish fillet spicy garlic, seafood rice. Laughing with D. while watching Friends’ final season. PS2 and booze until 6 in the morning with M.M., D.D., V.E. A.V. and my brothers.

I was spent some time listening and really re-absorbing The Smashing Pumpkin’s Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. It’s one of the albums I’d bring if I’m going to be stuck in a desert island. Listening to Billy Corgan’s sad lines, I feel like Rob in High Fidelity (that part about having a which-came-first-the-music-or-the-misery? kind of conundrum.) How easily I identified to these lines:

holding back the fool pretends
(from To Forgive)

rescue me from me
(from Galapogos)

suffer my desire for you
(from In The Arms of Sleep)

tomorrow’s just an excuse way
(from Thirty-Three)

Having these usual pleasures, I remember how I was once miserable high school dweeb singing along to Melon Collie and Infinite Sadness. I’ve already attained a high on happiness that I’d almost be happy to be a little sad. You barely feel that you are yourself when you’re happy.

I'm a Model, an Alienated Labor Model

I’m a model, an alienated labor model. Work’s been so tedious, repetitive, bobofying, and dehumanizing. I have metamorphosed into one of the office furnishings. I’m just one of the pieces of furniture occupying office space. And I’m exceptionally tired of repeating to ask why.

My life felt like a Kafka novel.

And I feel useless. I’m as useless as the in-and-out tray for letters, at a time when everyone e-mails everything.

I wouldn’t have noticed that I’m actually alive if I didn’t hear some chillout or late 90’s music from my launchcast station. And if I didn’t sit beside a window behind the broad metropolitan sky, with a daily serving of sunsets during late afternoons.