How to Dream

There's a portion of the house he labelled as the craft area. That's her tiny hand on the Alice Munro book we were reading together. It was the same day she showed us that she could already crawl. For a while now, she's also able to sit upright and on her own.

I'm listening to a song by the Kooks. I run sometimes, read often, work at home, spend 100% of my time with family. In shutting down so much of the world, we find a gentle equilibrium. I've been happy, and beginning to compensate for all the time I've wasted doing something else. 

And I've also been guilty. I am not unfazed with what's happening outside, in my country and the rest of the world. It's not just indignation I feel, it's outrage. It is as if the history of the country and the history of the world is a recurring manifestation of failures, only in different faces, different modes of technology, in but always in the same pursuit of greed for money, power, violence. The rest of us settle for indifference, becoming bystanders to our own fate. 

History's a TV series, and we're just willing (if not gratified) to watch each other die. 

In between, there's craft corners and a baby's hand on the surface of a book. A man reading, running, working, loving his family and his life away. The country, the world will come to its senses. He keeps hoping that in good time and in a more gentle way, 

We should all read some more. Kindness and understanding shouldn't be so arcane, so scarce. The December light falls on him. I'm not just dreaming, he almost seems certain.  

Drink Tomorrow's Coffee Today

The coffee press gets too laborious sometimes. I know, laborious is not using a coffee press, laborious is for construction workers working with heavy equipment on cranes, or H&M sweatshops in Bangladesh, or Nike's child-labor factories in China or Vietnam. I'm sorry. I just wanted to say I bought a Bialetti Moka Pot online because I wanted to make my life easier without compromising the taste of coffee. The beans I buy were produced by oppressed local farmers who don't own their land, and will eventually lose their business to mining, resorts or shopping malls. I can only imagine the carbon footprint of shipping a three-cup moka pot. And I got it, because it's just easier to wash than my old coffee press that really just lets too many coffee sediments seeping through sometimes.

I just wanted to say that was a good part of my morning. Making coffee with local arabica which was just roasted just yesterday, grinded one setting off espresso on the same morning, and taken the heat when the coffee is out the the chamber at half-brim to save it from the burning, steely taste. It was perfectly paired with Muscavado sugar. Sugar. There's another dying local industry, losing the battle to mass-produced high-fructose corn syrup.

After coffee, I was happy to hold V. while D. prepares lunch. I sat down on the couch, while she sits on my lap, her arms flailing while I read her passages from A Cup of Sake Beneath the Cherry Trees.

Their greed for the things of this world grows even deeper, till they lose all ability to be moved by life's pathos, and become really quite disgraceful. 

I'm also amazed with what I see with I. He was in front of a laptop, googling something, singing along to a tune from Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Dark necessities are part of my design. 

I'm coughing like a howling wolf, and D. makes a glass of calamansi juice with honey, even with V. on her arm.

These are the gestures, the details, that I only quietly, but never fail to appreciate.

But being happy is a kind of selfishness. A few days ago, within running distance from my house, a police vehicle rammed a group of people, ethnic minorities assembled in protest. The chief of police defends him, saying he must've been confused. The president invites the policeman over for coffee. Many of my fellow Filipinos say the protesters deserved it, and pity the policemen. Today, it was as if the plight of the protesters were all forgotten. Not to mention that protesters were ethnic minorities supporting the President's stand on imperialism. The same ethnic minorities who's lands have been stolen, their children raped, their people murdered.

Today, I also found that a colleague of mine, who I thought was rather intelligent, shared an article from one of the many fake sites, bbc-channel.com (pretending to be bbc.com) saying Queen Elizabeth thinks our President is brave, intelligent, from grass to grace.

How can we all turn a blind a eye to the growing body count of supposed drug peddlers and users, ordinary citizens treated as collateral damage?

Everything you say against the administration is used against you. You will not be challenged by standards of logic and critical thinking. This is what the books taught us. The black-and-white thinking, the herd mentality. They are powered by, and further empowered by Social Media.

I know that one day, maybe pretty soon, I won't be able to make myself a cup of coffee. This world, like happiness, is so fleeting.

Fever Breaks

I spend an incredible amount of time with the little man. It only gets more spectacular too.

Though tonight was an exception. He was sick, his head and stomach hot as a flat iron. We couldn't have you in the same bed/co-sleeper as your sister so we both stayed downstairs and pulled out the couch. Like parents are when their children have fever, we are just as delirious and dizzy as you are. I'm on my ready-to-rush-to-the-hospital status. But we manage, nevertheless. You take your meds. You pee on my white long-sleeved shirt, throw up on me and on our floors, and I clean up your sick. I mop the floors, do the laundry, the dishes, and get myself a drink. I do more laundry when you sleep, more floor mopping when you are asleep. When you wake up at 3 am, slightly recovered, you ask me to tell you more stories about our SP heroes. You ask if we can play spotify. You request for David Bowie. We sing along. Tell you more stories. You even play some online games. I told you, when you grow up, you wouldn't even want to hang out with me anymore. But six-year-olds are the coolest people to ever hang out with.

It's Friday night. I'm taking care of my little man, wiping up his sick, drinking vodka and orange, listening to your choice of music.

A few days back, you told me in a whisper: when I grow up, I"m going to drink coffee with you.

When I thought It Couldn't Get More Spectacular

It feels like courting your mom over all again.Your crying and giggling were like the flashes of a relationship’s confrontations and reconciliations. How you learned. How you blossomed. In a few months time, you learned to laugh, you learned to giggle, gained head control, and just a couple of nights ago you roll from tummy to tummy. Maybe I was too assuming and confident when I said that we’ll be even better parents, investing all of our time. Maybe we are. In the best possible way, everything feels like it’s happening for the first time, as if we had no foreknowledge of things to come. Everything I know dissolves in the pure, innocent glare of your eyes. There’s much more to this world, you seem to say. It’s a lot more spectacular than you think, Dad.

It's been the best five months of our lives, V. 

Sins of Abandonment

I was amused by Russell Brand's Revolution, and I admired his enthusiasm in speaking boldly against the horrors of capitalism - even if the book was largely a an exposition of other books or a re-telling of other people's opinions. I picked up the second installment of his Biography (Booky Wook 2) in Book Sale, examined it, and I thought I can read leisurely without turning one hundred percent of my brain on for the fair price of 125 pesos. He's had a very interesting life. I thought it was written in the same amusing language and spirited tone: 

Before I ejaculate I'm a fervid, febrile mass of sexual energy. I'll do anything, I'm demonically sexy. After I cum I'm guilty little berk in a sweaty tank top. "Good heavens, Mother, what have I done." I wonder why the chemical change is so dramatic." 

I do at least give my squandered ejaculant a dignified mourning. Picture the funeral of ten million sperm, a congregation of grief-drunk mourners yelping and shrieking, sticking their fingers up their asrses --- a sepulchral carnival, a festival of mournography.

Halfway through the book, he's still maundering on the VMA awards and the Big Brother show and the turn-off-your-brain fun I gather from Ruzzy wuzzy wanes and eventually wicks off. After skipping some pages and browsing through what I thought was an interesting e-mail exchange with Morrissey, I decided to commit the sin of leaving a book unfinished.

There are too many gems and too little time. I barely paid anything for the book anyway.

I'm sorry, Russell, but after Revolution, you probably wouldn't read your own booky wook. I trust earnestly that you haven't abandoned the principles and the actions you shaped in Revolution, the way I'm closing Booky Wooky 2 now.

20 Things I Would Have Told the 20-Something Me

1. Cheap perfume is an absolute waste of your money. 

2. Listen more. Speak less. Write always. 

3. Books are the finest version of people. It's more rewarding to stay with them. 

4. No, you've never been there and you've never done that. 

5. People with money are just lucky. 

6. Quit smoking earlier. 

7. Get life insurance and a memorial plan earlier. 

8. Stock-up on books. You'll need bigger bookshelves. 

9. Don't buy DVDs. The digital copies will be eventually free. 

10. Back-up your MP3 collection and physically list down your playlists. Don't rely on iPods. 

11. Notebooks and fountain pens will not be out of fashion. But a Moleskine is overrated and overpriced. There will be classy-enough knock-offs. 

12. You will need a good coffee press and manual grinder. You overrated drip coffee.

13. Marriage and children are the best things that ever happened to you. 

14. Don't buy cheap shoes. A good leather, high-quality pair can last you a lifetime.  

15. You will acquire too many jackets and sweaters. 

16. Your razor does not need four blades, not even three blades. 

17. When running, apply Virgin Coconut Oil to areas where chaffing occurs. 

18. Discipline yourself to stop at four drinks. 

19. Run some more. The 30-something you ran stronger. 

20. You lost a lot of money paying for the interest of a 5-year car plan. 

My Intense Fragility, Vaguely

The occasional trouble with being happy is that it makes you complacent. It makes you wane, it makes you unprepared for misery. Your skills in handling conflict, your competitive spirit flats out. The danger of being happy is that you no longer yearn for a heightened sense of power. A paranoia grows inside you like a tumor, balling up into a fear that you will lose the joy you've been clutching tightly. Perhaps it's also selfish, because even without a sense of righteousness, how can I remain with my one joy while others live in constant disharmony?

We will perish. We will all prune, we will wither, but we will live this way all over again. We dwell on the reasons why, even as our wick runs out, we seek out and share kindness. While I have been sad, I have been more than fortunate, and I have not failed to carry out what I see as my duty. 

Harnessing an inner strength requires constant seeking and re-definition. I've already found my core reasons to live. I've recognized my fragility, but I will not slide down to thinking that I am less stern.

These Scattered Pieces

My sweat drips profusely and I'm still catching my breath after running a 5:47 4k at the treadmill. Tremendous, even after 470ml of black Sumatra coffee earlier this afternoon and a slice of classic chocolate cake that I could barely finish. This morning, after 9 years of wanting to watch it, we finally saw the Cinemalaya hit 'Endo' on iFlix (for free on my 30-day trial). D. and I gushed so much, we love each other even more. Spotify plays Ceejay Sagarino's Home Away From Home. I sway with it. My smart watch distracts me with a notification and it says I hit another perfect 5-5-5 survey at "work?" I'm paid less, but I never felt so rich, even talented. I run almost 3 times a week, read almost 2 books a month, finish TV series and films like they were breakfast. After so many years I finished a short story. Maybe I'll finish a collection before I'm forty. I drive I. to work everyday and we play games about the periodic table of elements, tell stories, race to the gate when we get home. But the best part of the day is when you giggle when I tell you good morning. And when you cried so much, I hushed you. You slept my chest while I recited poetry with its powerful yet quiet efficacy. I caught another love that is better than romantic, as if my heart will not feel another depressed beat.

Oh and I just finished hanging the laundry at 130am. Before I sleep tonight, I will whisper to their ears, don't worry about the future.

Recent, Most Tender Memories of Earth

It's two in the morning and I'm hanging onesies, mittens, cloth diapers, boots, towels, and swaddles to the clothesline. The fragrance of Perwoll detergent heightens my senses. I never expected to love doing chores, until I found true reasons to celebrate why and who I'm doing it for. How can we let a stranger do it? How can we let a stranger stare into your eyes and shape your forming soul as we dance you to sleep? These days, we do it ourselves.

It's four in the afternoon and we had cake and snacks in your school with your classmates. On the way out of the gate, you were still wearing the party-hat crown we cut ourselves and holding the balloons that we pumped ourselves. We printed your own stickers and invitations. Everyone around the school gate sang for you, the higher grades, the preschoolers. You had the widest smile in the world. "I got greeted a million times." You said.

It's eleven on a Saturday night. Our children were finally, both asleep. We fire up the laptop, plug on our earphones and watch an episode of the Big Bang Theory while eating instant noodles in mugs and drinking beer at the edge of the bed. Just like those nights when you woke up at 1am so we can watch the latest Game of Thrones after I finish work.

Everyday gives me a reason not to leave Earth, the reason that makes me think I've had it all if I had to meet my end at this very moment.

We All Live in a Cave

this is the city
where carve out our own caves
to hide from each other

Hey Jealousy

Before She Met Me
Julian Barnes
Vintage EPUB 1.8 MB - 161 pages

Here's how the novel introduced the pros and cons of being a middle-aged man in contemporary British society:

 “...he read a great deal, he gardened, he dd the crossword, he protected his property. At thirty-eight, it felt a bit like being retired already.” 

 “fifteen years married, ten years in the same job; halfway through an elastic mortgage. Halfway through life as well, he supposed’ and he could feel the downhill slope already.” 

 “Sheila, Ann’s closest friend, maintained that in any case married men were preferable to single men because they smelt nicer. Their wives were always having their clothes dry-cleaned. Whereas the bachleor's jacket, she delcared, was all cigarette smoke and armpits.” 

In Before She Met Me, a man who found himself fortunate enough to have a second marriage to a younger woman becomes a jealous man. While jealousy was much more elegantly told by say, Graham Greene in The End of the Affair, the character formation in this book was neatly, stylishly woven as a Tom Ford three piece suit. As with most black comedies, we laugh with a tinge of schadenfreude. Imagine the sight of a grown man wanking to pornographic magazines.

Where is he going with all his jealousy? This question dragged on for an extra ten pages and towards the end it got a trifle unamusing. But it’s a satisfying ending, and you’ll gladly find yourself amused again.

 ***

A few highlighted phrases, verbs, and adjectives: mazy enjoyment, congenial, squirt of sympathy, fretful, winced, it was bad manners to point out other people's bad manners to them, unmappable hurt, fastidious, lurid, benign, exhausted by sadness, maunder on about how he loved her, skittish giggle, desiccating.

Enough

For those of us, who
do not seek fame or fortune
rain, falling, is enough.

Nothing Hurts

It's four in the morning on a Sunday. Roxas Boulevard is closed for an organized run. The registered runners must still be at the starting coral. For the next half hour after gun start, this road will appear like it's closed entirely for me, completely empty. As I run, I will watch the sky crack first light by the sea. I will run fast and exhilarated. Perhaps exhilarated is a poor word choice. Whatever it is that sweeps me, I close my eyes, the wind touches my face and configures my mouth into a smile, smudging it with a joyful abandon. I run as if with winged feet.

At 1pm to 4pm in the afternoon on weekdays, I cruise one coffee shop after another, listening to music, reading one book after another.

I drive I. to school everyday, and as we wander the streets we have the best stories and conversations.

Sometime in the morning or in the evening, I read more poetry to my daughter while I hold her. We listen to more music. I prepare her bath. I help with the chores.

And even if I always see my wife, I still always long for her and fill her with my mushiness.

At night, a stress-free, brief and steady stream of work comes to me at home. I even do it with a certain amount of satisfaction and fulfillment. I earn very little now, and reconsider my prospects for the future. I'm beginning to build the confidence that I can truly cement my departure from the Business Process Outsourcing Industry, from high-range salaries and high-level pretension.

For a considerably long time now, I have been free of conflict.

I feel like I'm about to melt with so much of this tenderness.

If you were once lonely, so much happiness feels like you're just cheating.

Guiltily, we live the lives we always wanted.

The future me time travels and tells me now, hold on to that feeling. No, don't just hold on. Cling tenaciously.

Whatever it is that sweeps me, I close my eyes, the wind touches my face and configures my mouth into a smile, smudging it with a joyful abandon. 

The End of Pretending

The universe has permitted me to have a good taste of the simplicity I humbly craved for. I’m sloshing it in my mouth and chewing it slowly. It’s delicious. I am fully devoted to caring for my wife, son and daughter. I run almost three times a week, read two books a month, spend my afternoons driving my son to and from school while reading, listening to music or writing in coffee shops during the interval between. I rarely drink. I do the house chores and I also do part-time work, and the work is home-based. The job, if I can call it that, is stress-free, has minimal responsibility and a flexible schedule. I’m even good at it and derive some satisfaction. For those of us who do not seek fame or fortune, this is it.

We are debt-free, the bills are paid for, but we also have to be really financially conscious. It’s difficult to be charming without money but easy enough not to spend on non-essentials. There is such a joy in spending so little, but having so much of life to actually squander.  As I always pray, keep me at my humblest and therefore wisest.  The wisdom there is a practical one: nothing lasts. The financials are good for the next three quarters, and if my new part-time work does not sustain us I will have to go back to pretending big time. 

So be it. I hope I still know how to pretend when I wake up from this dream.

Fuck the day when I return to my former company and tell the executives, “Your prodigal son returns.”

Most people will probably look down on what I chose to do, or would think that I threw my career away along with the decent salary. Of course I worry that very little money is coming in. I worry that what I am doing now is a kind of morbid self-indulgence. I suppose will never be truly fear of worry.

Previously, when my energies were sapped by work, all I could think of was mentally drafting my resignation letter.  I pulled that trigger, resigned, and finally felt more alive than I’ve ever been. These days, I’m so happy I’m mentally drafting my obituary. But having lived, I know better.

Tomorrow, I’ll actually write that short story I’ve been mentally drafting. 

To Us, It's Tuesday

A gulp of beer. A slurp of the shabu shabu hot pot soup. A gulp of beer. A bite of thinly-sliced beef or dumpling. A gulp of beer.  A bite of steamed, fresh lapu lapu that they just fished out of the aquarium. A gulp of beer. A slurp of shabu shabu soup. Laughs and conversation.

Repeat.

We’re all here. It’s mother’s birthday. Like everyone else, we know well enough that everyone one of us has some sort of inner conflict or pain, but that gets assuaged whenever we are together like this. This is the joy that we will remember.

Standing Around Downtown Manila

I invited D. out for a date, but my own wife stood me up on the last minute. She had the best reason in the world (our daughter). So I headed out alone and promised I'll be back within three hours. The Spanish language school, Instituto Cerevantes, sponsored a music event in Escolta.

This gig is an attempt to spark a cultural renaissance cradled in Downtown Manila. To me, it’s never been dead or out of fashion. Perhaps our Spanish sponsors know our city and history better than us, and it did look like people are having fun. I’m happy for them. It was a very small space in art gallery within a historic building. It’s a terrific crowd - Spanish men and women drinking wine in plastic cups, and a bar that sold craft beer and reasonably priced local beer.

I came for the music, and I was on time for the up-and-coming, local indie artist’s set that I sought for.. She plays electronic music while singing along. I wanted to experience her music. "I like to make eye contact with the audience." I heard her say in a YouTube interview. Her performances require an amazing amount of multitasking along singing, flipping through switches, waving through radio buttons, devices, microphones. She is convincing anyone who still thinks that electronic music is a soul-less enterprise, to reconsider. Through changing tones and a shadowy pair of eyes, it is as if she tries to peer through your soul. There's an immature thing here and there in her lyrics, or the hat she's wearing. But when you’re as young as her, what better time do you have to nurture your raw feelings? She is only coming out of her sheltered enclave. I was persuaded to listen to how this music blooms when performed live.

And I was disappointed with the set because she really was just there to spin. Soul-less as shit, just as how i felt standing on the pavements of Escolta with a drink in hand. I wanted to be home listening to Spotify instead of being surrounded by a good crowd. Maybe I’ve been outside the circle too long (if ever I’ve been in). Maybe it’s because D. wasn’t with me, and I failed to rekindle that penchant for being alone.

I saw the artist on her way out. She was flanked by two young, tall gentlemen who surrounded her like groupies. I overheard one of them saying, “You want to go Makati? But both of us are broke.”

I spotted a pair of young women. Both of them were fancifully, fashionably dressed, the sides of their hair shaved down to a half-inch. Under an Escolta lamp post, they kiss on the street. I didn’t mean to intrude, and I was in a far-enough, respectful distance. I realized they wouldn’t have given a damn if anyone was watching. Let them all see true beauty, they seemed to say. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in this night, impressing upon me how Escolta's always been alive and it's no secret.

My History of Love

The History of Love
Nicole Krauss
242 pages 125 PHP at Booksale

I detest the government of Israel for what it has done, and is still doing to Palestine and Palestinians in Gaza. Too often, this becomes enough reason for people to become biased towards Jewish people, including writers of Jewish descent. But writers are writers, regardless of their political inclinations or ethnic origins, nothing stops them from writing good literature.

My imagination sews up a story. Someone no longer wanted this book that I held dearly in my hands, mining it like gold from the bargain. It's in perfect condition, except perhaps for an aborted "Dec" written upfront, presumably for the date of a hand-written dedication. I think of the many reasons why this book never made it to the intended recipient. Maybe they just had enough of the violence of the Israeli government has inflected upon Palestine and Palestinians.

I don't call it a compromise when you admire the outputs of a culture, then exercise the freedom to despise their government.

This book became a gem in the glorious summer of my life. The History of Love is a most ambitious title, but don't expect to be served something as grand-scale. Nevertheless, the small-scale has its own charming glitter.

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering. 

 A book describes the way you feel and adds itself to the bundle of impressions that compose your decisions. The History of Love describes these feelings splendidly. I read it during the summer my daughter came into the world, and this book helped me describe so much of the love that knocked me out when I first sniffed the air with her.

"Even now, all possible feelings do not yet exist. There are still those that lie beyond our capacity and our imagination. From time to time, when a piece of music no one has ever written, or a painting no one has ever painted, or something else impossible to predict, fathom, or yet describe takes place, a new feeling enters the world. And then, for the millionth time in the history of feeling, the heart surges..." 

The story bears resemblance to Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I found out later on that they area couple in real life. I first both met them, together, by way of New Yorker's 20 under 40 (Stories from the New Yorker). But Nicole Krauss isn't a moon that just takes its light from her lover. She very well beams brighter on her own.

Filling the Silence

Twenty Days of V. 

“The result are ok.” The hospital staff confirms after conducting a mandatory hearing test on your day-old ears. You’re ready to hear more about this world. We’ll set you up to your maiden sonic trip. I played you the songs we made you listen to when you were still in the womb. Now that you’re out, your first auditory memories of Earth will include Chopin, Explosions in the Sky, Chet Baker, The Philippine Madrigal Singers, Siguro Ros and The Beatles. You will hear a lot more awful things in the world. You will hear about about the meaning of discrimination, crime, capitalism, neo-liberalism. But there will always be music. As we say,  music is a wand that brings both magic and meaning to our lives without the aid of logic or explanation. 

Who can resist not playing “Here Comes the Sun” during your daily serving for morning sunshine?

We filled the silence you hear with poetry. The first faint line. Pure nonsense. Pure wisdom. Of someone who knows nothing. We acquaint you with the world through the love sonnets of Browning, Shakespeare. We comfort your ears with the poetry of ee Cummings and Neruda.

I queued our wedding’s play list when I carried you earlier. We danced along with the songs. You looked up to me, locked in a stare of pure concentration, until you finally fall asleep. So this is what having a new-born daughter is like. It’s a wedding dance: triumphant and liberated from fear.

I also understood why I skipped so many poetry readings, those literature-inclined gigs and parties and meet and greets. Because I am meant to read it right now to you.

                                                         i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

 You are, after all, truth.

V

Ikinararangal namin ang magkaroon ng anak na babae. Ang mga babae ang nagpapaikot ng mundo.

Ipinangalanan namin siyang V., bilang katotohanan. F., hango kay Pope Francis, at sa character na si Franny, likhang-isip ni J.D. Salinger. Hinangaan namin ang krusada ni Pope Francis laban sa katiwalian at kasakiman. May katangian naman si Franny na nilarawan bilang "disenchanted with the selfishness and inauthenticity she perceives around her."

Mabuhay ka, anak. Maligayang pagdating sa ating kamangha-manghang, komplikadong mundo. Walang hanggang pagmamahal sayo. Simula ngayon, wala tayong katapusan.

We are honored to have a baby girl. Women make the world go round. 

We named her V., as the truth. F., after Pope Francis, and J.D. Salinger's fictional character, Franny. We admired the crusade of Pope Francis against corruption and greed. Franny was disenchanted with the selfishness and inauthenticity she perceived around her. 

Have a life worth living, anak. Welcome to our complicated, fascinating world. Infinite love to you. Beginning today, we will never end.

See You Soon, Love.

We're waiting for you. As a father, and someone who often overthinks and overanalyzes, I stir and keep asking myself what I can do other than wax the floors, change the curtains, accompany your mother while shopping for your clothes, assemble things, drive her to the OB consultations, --- what can I do more than the given?

In a few days, we begin all over again. Just last night, I was telling your Kuya about the concept of reincarnation juxtaposed with the law of conservation of energy. How atoms are like legos as basic building blocks. With you, we start anew. I wonder where the world will take us, how we’ll shape it. I try to imagine how we will describe the world together. How you’ll cry, laugh, feel. How you'll discover words. How you'll search for the truth.

Most people despise waiting. Time is another difficult earthly concept, and waiting makes many people lose their bearings. But I can tell you now how I enjoyed this wait and how I know where I stand. Because as I wait, it is as though I peek into the future. I see that we will never end.

The Sharper Colors

We open clarity, complexity, in a box of crayons.
How its character seemed to sharpen its own edges over time.
Flesh has become apricot, and so rightfully so.
The formerly plain box of 24 has flourished with dandelion, scarlet, carnation pink.

I was curious if they had gold.

The smell of these non-toxic little soldiers overpowers

even the aroma of the strong coffee in such a hot afternoon

It transports me back to the scent of wooden floors
to grade school, the dried sweat on our white uniforms, pencil shavings
lead or ink between the pages of notebooks

the poignant smells of youthful diligence 

I am fascinated by your five-year-old hands, forming your own characters
from crayons splayed on the table
gripped then rendered meaningful, rising from innocence unto a piece of paper
as though nothing, not even the temptations of gold, can distract you

I mined for gold.

There wasn't any on this set.  

Until I saw so many others, far interestingly so
gleaming infinitely brighter.

Mining

In 100 Words.

4 bookings from the previous night. 6.5 hours of sleep. In the morning, lessons in Filipino for I. Coffee. Playing with I. Dishes. Dusting the car. I.'s visit to the the dentist. Lunch out - a quarter rack of pork ribs. Reading more Che Guevarra. Flat White at Costa. Groceries. Visiting M. 2 episodes of Mad Men. Horsing around with I. Tucking him sleep. Staring at D. arranging the baby clothes for V. 4k run on the treadmill. A batch of Laundry. Loving D., I., and V.

 The gold I dug up is staring at me in the face, everyday.

Please Share

Natapos natin ang dalawang aralin sa libro mo. Kakatapos lang din natin mag-tanghalian. Tapos na ako maghugas ng pinggan, magsampay ng ilang labada at ngayo'y nagwawalis at nagpupunas ng sahig. Gusto mong magkipaglaro, at nag-alok ka din na tumulong maglinis. Ikinwento ko sayo ang kahabag-habag na pinagdaraanan ng mga magsasaka sa Kidapawan ngayon. Natuyo ang mga pananim dahil sa El Nino at wala silang makain. Nag-organisa sila at hiniling sa pamahalaan na ibigay ang bigas na nakalaan para sa kanila.

Dinispersa ang kanilang linya sa marahas na paraan. Dalawang magsasaka ang namatay, sina Rogelio Daelto at Virgilio Lumundang. Marami ang nasugatan sa kanilang hanay.

Napakaraming makasarili, napakaraming sakim sa ating pamahalaan, napakaraming gutom para sa mas marami pang kapangyarihan o pera. Napakarami rin na mga kapwa Filipino natin ang hindi makaintindi sa sa ating mga magsasaka, at kung ano - mula sa kanilang mga puso, isip, at kumakalam na tiyan, ang naghimok sa kanilang dalhin sa mga kalsada ang kanilang hinaing.

Ikinalungkot natin pareho na ang mga nagtatanim ng ating pagkain ay siya mismong nagugutom. Nauwan mo rin na napakarami pa sa atin ang magdurusa kapag nagpatuloy ito. Mahalaga na ipaalam natin kung ano ang nangyayari, ipaunawa ito sa mas marami pang tao. Marami rin namang gusto tumulong, at isaayos ang mga tunay na ugat ng ganitong pangyayari.

Sabi mo sa akin, na may halong galit at sigla para gawin ang tama: gusto mong magpaskil sa bawat pinto ng lahat ng tao, "Please share." Gusto mo ibahagi ang pagkain, at gusto mo rin ibahagi at unawin ang kwento ng mga magsasaka.

Madalas hilingin ng mga magulang na mas maging magaling sa kanila ang kanilang mga anak. Hiling ng mga magulang na mas maging mabuti ang loob ng kanilang mga anak, mas maunlad ang pag-iisip, mas maligaya, mas malikhain at mas masaya kaysa kanila. Pero hindi kita pipilitin maging kahit ano. Ginagabayan ka namin, pero hindi ka namin pepwersahin.

Sa ipinapakita mo sa amin ngayon, anak, kailangan mo lang maging totoo sa sarili mo.

Re-configuring

D. drew a sketch to reconfigure the Sniglar crib into a DIY co-sleeper. It would make breastfeeding easier by cutting down unnecessary efforts such as standing to scoop up the baby. With some online research, I imagine her mind doing full-scale process-mapping and analyzing the required improvements. She did it even more brilliantly. It saved us the trouble and expense of buying another piece of furniture, and it goes in line with our intentions to pursue attachment parenting. 

Re-configuring the Sniglar is the result of a symbolic reconfiguration of our lives. Our thought processes direct us to the stunning beauty of simplification, employing resourcefulness to lessen waste, re-cycling and restoring, spending less, and doing everything lovingly. I canvassed for materials, but it eventually cost us nothing. I ended up sanding and cutting a good, matching piece of wood. It was the stick from my roller-hockey days. Borrowing a tool or two, I manually drilled the holes to fit the screws.

Six years ago, I wrote about this same crib, of having the fulfillment of assembling something with your own hands, and anticipating the experiences that will flourish. We still keep rediscovering ourselves. We also trust ourselves more. But I also don't know how daughters are different. I suppose we will still surprise ourselves.

All things considered, it doesn't matter if you only sleep a day or two in this crib. These days, we worry less and rely on our sharper parental instincts. Holding you in our arms, that's what matters.

A Lannister in Manila

in 100 words 

He wore a yellow shirt that shrouded a massive chest, surprising for a man who appeared to be in his fifties. He came to see the doctor. It was strange for him to be in the clinic alone, the doctor being an OB-GYN.

 He wasn't sick, he said. He looked up our doctor to pay his debt, the professional fee for delivering their child 15 years ago. The doctor did not remember the debt, but she remembered the patient. "How is Gemma?"

 "She passed away last year." The man who was nobly paying his debt in this humble clinic, sobbed.

Still Slaving Away

in 100 words

I've never been richer in my life and all I can think of is how to get richer. It is as if I am conditioned to think this way after 15 years of slaving away, the way a slave feels affection, longing for his master. As a worker, I am driven to think that I do not deserve rest. Returning from war, a soldier will never feel as liberated. He fights the monsters in his/her head. The old man dresses up for work, only to find that he's retired. He longs to be tired again. I am Capitalism's damaged goods.

We Might Miss Sleeping

In 100 words

"You want more sleepless nights." Our cousin tells us, in good humor. She was feeding our 1 year-old niece during lunch at restaurant in Greenbelt that remained open for Good Friday. The city streets were pleasantly empty, so happily abandoned with a blazing sun that transforms everything into gold.

Photo by our niece, F.

Our children swam in the hotel pool. We had beer, nuts, and good conversation by the bar. And I've been sleeping a lot recently. Perhaps too much, knocked out by the summer heat. Perhaps we are preparing for the coming of V. Though I know we will not regret being sleepless.

Pabasa

in 100 words

"Your grandaunts taught me how to pray." A middle-aged woman told me. She read the pabasa - the rhythmic recitation commemorating the passion of Christ.

The walls of the house in Laguna whisper along to these prayers. It is as if my long, passed-away grand aunts still sit there, praying fervently and becoming alive again. The tradition carries on as my father's panata (pledge). I wonder where he draws the energy. I've never seen him utter a prayer, but the effort elevates him as a man with a powerful spirituality. It must be an invisible strength passed on by generations.

The Sea is my Confidant

In 100 Words

Right before I ran, I confided to the sea. Something I picked-up from Che Guevarra’s Motorcycle Diaries. He says the sea gives the best advice. I stare at it late in the evening: ignoring the city lights, the dark horizon looms, an imposing emptiness. It’s beautiful, meaningful and mysterious as I imagine. I have the gift of time; it tells me. But I’ve been squandering so much time on worrying. Free yourself from the shackles of conventional thinking. Forget what you should. Run fast and strong, without demanding too much on yourself. Enjoy it. The sea will keep your secrets.

Gnothi Seauton

How to Use Your Enemies
Baltasar Garcian
Penguin Little Black Classics
54 pages PHP 70 

AGREED.

That was my glaring, two-syllable feedback to most of what was written in this little book. It's number 12 of the Penguin Little Black Classics: those nice, pamphlet-like ones with a perfect fit for the hand and pocket (literally for this size and metaphorically for seventy PHP). I always find a reason to go back to physical books and give the e-reader a break. My intentions weren't to utilize this knowledge against my enemies, because in the first place I didn't think I had any. Besides, there were no gory details on how to mangle enemies into pieces.

On the contrary, I thought this was a rather gentlemanly way of dealing with your enemies. Baltasar Garcia wasn't just a Spanish writer, he's also a Jesuit priest from the 17th century. It was a time when they already succeeded with the counter-reformation. It didn't sound as if he was strategically devising a new body of knowledge to crush the spirits of his enemies, but was really just giving out useful points that comes from the wisdom of the ages and sheer strength of character. Sometimes that's even better than logic.

A few favorites:

Quit while fortune is smiling, as all good gamblers do.
A graceful retreat is as important as a brave assault.
A greater exit is more important than a wildly applauded entrance.
Know how to be evasive. This is the escape route of sensible people.
Get used to the bad temperaments of those who you deal with, like getting used to ugly faces.
The fool is someone who does something foolish, but someone who, once this is done, does not know how to hide it. 

Not bad for a priest. It completely re-affirmed many of the decisions I made in my life and in my career choices.

To both my astonishment and disappointment, the reviews I saw from goodreads.com saw it differently. While I don't find the site trustworthy, I've got to examine the thoughts of other once in a while.

These quotes below are from this link.

"Its tells us how to exploit friends and enemies alike to thrive in a world of deception and illusion. " 

"I call it “How to be a conniving ass and manipulate people” by Baltasar Gracian. Does it sound like something you’d want to read? This was just so damn cold. I’d sooner listen to advice from my cat than this snake."

"I am not a huge fan of Machiavelli, his views seemed skewed to me, but at least he was trying to understand politics. This guy is an evil version of Machiavelli." 

"I feel like all newly sorted Slytherins should receive a copy of this." 

After reading five reviews, it dawned to me - I must be the fish. I take what most people describe as manipulation, deception and exploitation as a given. Not even just a given, I describe it as the wisdom of the age and genuinely thought of it as strength of character.

Forgive me for bragging but it would be necessary to say that to my self-knowledge, I've demonstrated compassion at several opportunities. I don't consciously take advantage of others. I treat people as my equals, and I've perceived that Capitalism not only brings the perils of greed and injustice, it is a system that enables the greedy to get to be greedier and it is the true root cause for poverty and injustice.

People tell me I'm a good guy. Now I have to re-assess if I've just manipulated them. But I won't have the answer. We really just try to keep discovering ourselves. I've started playing a little poker online recently. I realized I still fold just so I can avoid showing my opponents the bad cards, or if have no reasonable chance of taking the pot.

Let them celebrate those small wins.

Dazzling Anew

We were on the car en route to school, trying to outsmart the traffic with navigation apps, but we do so with more efficacy through our stories and conversation about Solar Powered Super Heroes.

Digital Art by I.

Where would you like to go on vacation? I asked him as a segue to one of the stories we were telling. His face turned serious, squinting eyes and deeper voice, trying to mimic a superhero's with a karate-chop gesture on his hand he responded: "Rebirth of the Golden Phoenix." Golden Phoenix was the name of the hotel we stayed at two months ago to celebrate New Year's.

Earlier today, he was spoke with a pseudo British accent while he drew dinosaurs with a C3PO pencil topper. It's just like that Scottish guy, he says, referring to the host of a BBC documentary on How to Grow a Planet. We played our maps game, and he was first to find Libya. He knew the countries and continents like the back of his hand. The sponge-like mind of a five year old beats me.

He has developed a fondness for David Bowie, and says he gets relaxed by piano music. In the next couple of days we'll listen to more Chet Baker. This summer, we'll start uploading videos on his YouTube channel, named after a pre-colonial burial jar (his preference). I'll also take him to another round of swimming lessons.

Except for when he does his digital drawings, D. and I really just wish he'd spend less time with the Ipad. He's also underweight and below the average height of his age.

Most parents think that their children are geniuses. In no way do we put this pressure on him, or expect him to be the next Aaron Swartz or Jose Mujica. While he never cases to amaze, we tried not to mold his mind into thinking that he is smarter than others. But I did proactively warn him about the dangers of corporate greed. Most of the villains in the games we role-play are from evil corporations.

Now is the only time when we can still go hand-in-hand in expanding his consciousness and getting acquainted with this world. Very soon, he'll be ignoring us an he'll want to be on his own.

There are some things I will never be able to tell you when you're a teenager or when you're a grown man. So there's never a better time to say it: let's never grow apart, anak. I imagine myself in the future, with this in mind, without breaking the silence. Fathers are like that.

Love takes on different shapes and sizes, but it's certainly infinite.

V.'s coming along really soon. We all get to do it in a brand new playing field. V., beloved V. Lovingly all over again.

Ravishing Afternoons with The Bad Girl

For weeks now, my main occupation is to drive I. to school, then take him home everyday. Perhaps my ambitions were less mediocre when I was younger, but for many reasons achieving this one is just as rewarding. Those reasons belong to a lengthier, fuzzier, web of reasons and stories. I'll introduce the the first one. It happens between the hours of driving him to school and driving us home.

It begins with the Bad Girl. Between the hours of 1pm - 3pm in coffee shops around the Timog Scout area. The bad girl soaks up the ravishing beauty of the afternoon. I consume it like an after-lunch love affair. I give it a loyal following the way maids, housewives, househusbands and seniors follow their afternoon soap operas. It was most delicious in the afternoon, when lust boils at its best and the surging heat fires up your life.

Llosa's book take us to Miraflores, Paris, London, Tokyo and Madrid. He drops heavy names: Lacan, Derrida, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, and Neruda in a story where so much cunnilingus happens. It sets pivotal events on the background - political, sexual and intellectual revolutions amidst this romance. With a detached main character who's an imbecile for love, I fell for it like a millennial getting free tickets to a music festival.

The critics will say that the novel has its low-points in terms of technicality. The reviews describe it's lack of psychological depth or dub it a second-rate Madame Bovary. I won't challenge the reviews, as my reading is often more emotive instead of technical. Perhaps I read it at the right time, at the cusp of positive developments in my life. It's 1pm and I'm in a coffee shop reading a book, liberated from so many worries. I truly felt alive. I read it in coffee shops, but the pervasive feeling was that the beach must be a stone's throw away and that drinks by the beach is in order late this afternoon until evening.

Except that I didn't even need to go the beach.

Love Does Not Remain The Same

During wedding anniversaries, we are obliged with online displays of affection. In our 7-year honeymoon, I reveled with what I thought a husband should be: to perceive what my wife desires, to earn her respect and trust everyday, to lavish her with affection. I am fortunate to be at the receiving end of this love from your incorruptible heart.

As we speak of marriage, I am using my freedom to stand for marriage equality. I stand with everyone in the LGBT community in their legal and human right to marry who they choose as partners. Love does that, my D. says, it breaks walls, and it transforms us into becoming the best version of ourselves.

I love you, my D. Thank you for making me deserve your love.

Breaking Up with Whisky

I drink it alone. At first, because, D. has a child in her womb, and second, because I usually would prefer drinking by myself. It rekindles the familiar aloneness. I toast to being solitary knowing that when I will wake up in bed with the family I love.

Drinking alone also means I get to read or watch my programs, instead of obliging uninteresting conversations where I end up blabbering something stupid. So I read at least two JM Coetzee short novels so far this year, and enjoyed them both in evenings with whisky.

I enjoy whisky better than wine because while they both speak the truth, whisky says so straightforwardly and powerfully. You taste the aged malt, the barley and their dozen years of imponderable waiting in oak barrels. The flavor cracks itself open against solid, clinking ice. It's an appreciation of history and craftsmanship and you feel it in your face, instantly and slightly contorting, hitting that nerve that needs hitting. Gold gushes down your throat and you exhale with effusive satisfaction, like you don't need anything else. Except maybe for a bag of savory hot peanuts.

After two or thee quick double shots, my limbs soften and my get a bit too misty for reading. The bottle plays me with its coquetry, I'm tempted to maybe have another one until I let myself be caressed into sleep. It fills the empty spot just enough, enough to make sure there'll be another one for a different night.

So before the nights become too many and too often, I decide it's time for a temporary break-up. You've flirted with me too often, and too often have I fallen. Tonight, and at least 99 other nights, I will not have any of you.

In my heart, and upon my liver, I swear we will spend these nights again.

Due to My Late Musical Blooming

For someone who claims to understand Schopenhauer's line - music is the highest form of aesthetic contemplation, I am ashamed to confess this innocence. While it is my fortune to live in a generation not too far apart, I only discovered and appreciated Led Zeppelin in my early-to-mid thirties, about the same time I hatched a fascination for Freddie Mercury and David Bowie. This evening, I'm reading a back issue of Rolling Stone (a magazine I'm reading only for the first time in my life) and am especially embarrassed that I didn't have a clue who Pete Seeger was. Not that it was bad, but perhaps I did listen to too much chillout, grunge, alternative, jazz. The award for most-played song in our iTunes goes to Humpty Dumpty (546 times) succeeded by the second placer Incy Wincy Spider (489 times).

I've had the pleasure of listening to the up and coming local indie bands, but I don't widen my circles enough to be in music festivals with overpriced tickets or frequent local clubs with overpriced beer.

But why should I be so glum? Music is a wand that brings both magic and meaning to our lives without the aid of logic or explanation. The time and place when you open that portal of discovery is less relevant. Music, no matter where or when, elevates us anyway.

Music is an experience that tends to lift us to higher planes. In line with that, we are launching the kids off to an early start. 546 repeats of Humpty Dumpty should suffice, so a few days ago, I got little I. to sing the chorus of Bowie's Starman. Let the children lose it, let the children use it, let all the children boogie, yeah! When he was younger, I considered it a parental accomplishment that he can sing lines from Yellow Submarine.

It is also through music that we had one of our most tender moments so far, V. You must have been hearing all the music in the house, but we found time to take the wireless speakers and set it close to your mother's tummy. While your mother carries you and feeds life into you, I love you the way I know how. I made you a playlist. Here are the first songs you've ever listened to:

Spiegel Im Spiegel, Arvo Part
Piano Concerto in F Minor, JS Bach
Nuvole Bianche, Ludovico Einaudi

I'll be honest and I'll say that this world of ours can be often terrible - there's capitalism, apartheid, to name a few terrible things. But I also can't wait for you to come hear this world. In your first years, I'll rock and dance with you to Explosions in the Sky, Yo-Yo Ma, the classics. We'll take care of the apartheid and capitalism later on. 

For now I can boast that I am the first man to make you a playlist, and I will be the first man to dance with you. Beat that, future boyfriends.