The Disenchanting El Niño Dry Spell Read

In this summer heat, in this hypnotic heat that clouds your eyes with a white blaze, I decided to fight fire with fire. I read Butch Dalisay’s Killing Time in a Warm Place. I’ve read a lot his work and what he’s edited but I missed this one. I even wrote about his work, and I’d like to think he has a profound, positive influence on me. To an extent, we’re starting to pass this on, as I read a few passages aloud to the little one in D.’s womb.

D. got this sale copy in of the many book fairs where we went in frenzied shopping. I couldn't recall why I didn't read this before. Thinking about it now, it's probably because I had a not-another-book-about-martial-law phase.

But now. Now was the time to read it in this heat.

It was written in the familiar, absorbing language that spoke of the First Quarter Storm in the 1970s. It beautifully struck out the elements of our national and historical consciousness: family trips to Baguio, ginataan meriendas, J&B whiskey, Oxford shoes, mami, American Imperialism, the Metrocom, Cubao, matriarchy and so on. More importantly, it didn’t glamorize the First Quarter Storm as though it was all about heroism against a dictator. From that act of precise incision into our consciousness with a degree of truthfulness, came a novel that represented reality. And this reality thoughtfully surprises you with all-consuming twists.

It was too real, to an effect, that it disappointed me. It disappointed me because it was simply cowardice and compromise that  made it honest and eloquent.

In being conducive to thought and reaction, this becomes a good book and Butch Dalisay becomes an effective author.

Right now I am committing a sin in my failure to separate the persona from the author. I no longer wish to read anything about this compromise and willingness to be subjugated from an author who abandoned one set of principles for another and excused himself by writing about it eloquently. And he might have taught the same thing to many others. Like myself, I thought of him as a sell-out.  And I'm obviously wrong, because I'm merely making excuses for myself.

I am simply reducing my reading to this context I am currently caved in. I am growing up and easing in, exchanging one principle for another or for a few comforts. In this read I am objectifying myself, and I am dissatisfied with the reality it represents.

Pretty soon I will rethink my perspectives and change my mind. Maybe even as soon as the heat simmering us now, cools down my incoherence.

21k Devirginization

I prefer running on my own, but it's also a must to run organized races once in a while to measure up. The best chip-based time in an organized race I registered is 54 minutes on a 10k, which I thought was not too bad for someone who already pops a strong blood pressure maintenance pill once-a-day. On the Nike Plus gadget I use, the best times are as follows:


I thought it was time to train for and run a 21k.

Yesterday’s race was the organized one I ran with water stations at every kilometer-mark, sponges, and a refreshing Makati Central Business District route. As some reviews put it, this finish line had a nice "Singapore-y" or "Orchard Road-ey" feel. Unlike other recent races, there were none of those Brazilian models handing water at the stations. No beer too. But ultimately and most importantly, there's D. waiting for me at the finish line.

The precise moment my endorphins begin to gather and kick in began at 5.19 a.m. in Makati Avenue. It’s the countdown to gun start at the 21k coral. The adrenaline of more serious runners forms up and it seeps into you like a movement in a Jungian collective consciousness. An electric jolt surges through my veins and I look up to the SGV building and the Ayala Triangle. I launch the first song, close my eyes for a second, let out a smile, and set myself sailing.

Runs like these you see nearly all types of runners/people pass and fly past you: Kenyan elite runners, someone who looks like your Dad, your Mom, your Tita, your Lolo, Biggest Loser candidates, Fernando Zobel de Ayala, yuppies, hipsters, maybe even your kindergarten teacher. While the banners show that this is for the benefit of Habitat For Humanity, most of this is really for personal gain.

The first few kilometres were too fast for my standards. I peeked at the sports band and I was running at a 4'01 per kilometer pace. I wouldn’t have enough steam later on, I know, but I was quite thrilled just by looking at the packed bunch of runners making their way uphill (still sprinting) at the Greenbelt parking ramps.

I didn’t plan on hydrating until the 9k mark, but my first among many sips of the sponsored sports drink came in at the 4th kilometer.

The route's heartbreak hill was the Kalayaan (EDSA-Buendia) flyover. At one point, I never wanted to cross this bridge again. I said fuck it when I thought coming back here en route to the finish line. This was easier back in last year’s 10k run. Of course running’s not all metaphorical and dramatic. Like certain abominable or regretful portions of life, you don’t want to go through it again. Running is a Nietzschean test of strength, it’s a recurrence.

I was still running at a decent-enough pace (5'30 to 5'45) all throughout the 10k mark. The halfway point was at Heritage Park. For a while I paused the iPod to listen to my own huffing and puffing, the faint footfalls of others runners, and the souls humming us on. I managed another smile.

At 11k, cramps were settling at the back of my shins and the muscle groups around my gluteus maximus is acting up on me. Training pays off and I manage to run through this sort of pain. I soldier on around Fort Bonifacio.

On the way back, I did the most shameful of things in running and walked for maybe 30 seconds to a minute at the 16k mark. I was also disheartened that the sports band already read more than 17k. But I was certain, I can break through these walls and finish off.

Running on short strides now, I made my way to the finish line. The street was long and quiet until I heard D., calling me out, “Finish Strong!”

I’m happy with my inexcusable mediocre finish. 2 hours 9 minutes chip time. Just 9 minutes short of target, and infinitely behind the elite. Runners using Garmin counted more than 22k in this pleasant-yet-punishing route and my trusty and relatively cheap Nike Plus says I made 21k sub-2 hours. Nonetheless, the endorphins I secreted were countless and priceless. And this makes me more determined to run another day with an official sub-2 hour 21k finish.

Running is my metaphor made physical. What lures me most to running is how the literature surrounding it relates so naturally to my own perceptions of life. “Run at your own pace and make peace with the pace of others.” Now I didn’t just say it, I felt on my own two feet, and lived it off my own steam.

Chemically, it might be the release of endorphins, but you do get your all-natural and mystical high. What I really imagine when I run is that the last hour of my life is flashing past me if I had the strength to live it. I feel that to the bone, the piercing pain that surprises your joints and ligaments, to the failures that eventually prove themselves conquerable, to the brief triumph and the eventual sense of accomplishment. In that hour, there is a lot of thoughtlessness you lose yourself to, along with celebrating and meditating with the music accompanying you.

For the first time, in a rather good race, my life just went by in a 21k run.