The Nine Minutes I've Lost

To quote myself, quite shamelessly, on an organized 16k run 6 years go:

Towards the end, I felt like I had so much strength left. I was sprinting towards the finish line and I was probably running a 4’00/km pace towards that stretch. I should’ve ran more with what they call “pure guts” and worked harder. I realized, this time I was enjoying myself more than working hard on a race.

I ran another organized 16k and some thoughts never change. But my body certainly does. I've been faster than the younger me before, but this time I'm slower by 9 minutes. And fatter, yes. 

I wasn't expecting to break my record 6 years ago. I finished exactly where I expected at 1:40:31. I suppose even a small amount of training allows you to gauge your own capabilities. From a qualitative perspective, I'm certainly enjoying myself more in this race.  I thought I did the race with a more relaxed efficiency: biking to the race venue, a pee stop before gun time, gels and hydration. I lost speed, but I felt good sense of control. It's as if this run is reflection of my overall mantra in life now:  navigating through life in a direction that's safe from the storms, using my experience to crack open those tiny holes where I find the purest joys. The angst has been long been depleted. Maybe we aren't even resolutely floating aimlessly anymore.

9 minutes slower. 6 years older. At least 12 pounds regained! If it's any consolation:

I wouldn't find my nine minutes if I measure myself against others. I found instead, that I've gained infinitely more than the nine minutes I've lost when I arrived home, among the scattered minutes and 27,000 steps I took throughout the day. 

My daughter, my son, and my wife were all waiting for me by the door. The feel of a gold, gold, gold medal finish. 

We're going to do a lot more than the 9 minutes I've lost. We will be eating pancakes, making coffee, doing the chores, lunching out with family, crashing in a staycation for swimming. drinking, meeting old friends, hanging out all day. I'll be up for more than 24 hours. I'm an electric car on full charge. 

And I'll be getting ready for the next race. 

Respeto

Cinemalaya was one of the festivals that was always ablaze with passion, raw talent and a soul of its own. We've seen many a good film together in previous festivals, when we were just dating. Until, for at time, it becomes swallowed by the mainstream, too commercialized. But perhaps these passions never really fade out, they were always just lurking. We were there and we felt as if it's survived its way out of commercialization and the mainstream. And here we are again, taking our 1-year old daughter along with us to a film festival.

When we were young, we judged our fellow youth as mainly apathetic, then pretentious when they tried to be artistic, or pseudo-intellectual when they set themselves out to become intellectual.  In our late thirties, maybe we've become slightly wiser, and now we say it's just thankfully energizing to be around younger people. We didn't even expect them to share any ideals, but many of them just spontaneously just do so.

The film was directed by a D.'s friend, and friendships are always a motivating hand to do something we would have otherwise passed on. I was curious, of course, but I haven't even seen the preview. It had something to do with Marcos, Martial Law, the "War on Drugs." That was enough.

My eyes wear teary all throughout this fiercely emotional film, moved by the sorrows mirroring our present society, and partly because of the guilt of my own political inertness. Respeto is a musical (hip-hop), poetic and artful criticism of Duterte's war on drugs, of impunity, this normalization of violence, rooted upon our own historical amnesia. Better than any academic critique, this movie is a poignant slap on our face. It doesn't just move you, it shakes you up as it tells you that violence begets violence. This dictatorship, this violence is intrinsically tied and traced back to the dictatorship that was literally still fresh in our memories. The movie is set on these streets, within the 2-kilometer radius of the city where I am, spot on, where the killings happen. We are all in it, we all let it happen.

When the lights went back, I saw that the theater was not just a full-house. Even the steps were occupied. The applause was thunderous. My eyes were still all moist against my glasses.

The woman beside me, a foreigner who smelled like cigarette smoke, complimented us on how our baby was quiet all throughout film. "I hope it didn't ruin your experience of the film." I said. We smiled and exchanged pleasantries. The cheers went on.

"21 dead in one night over 100.25 gms of shabu. While those involved and the names being dropped in connection with the 604kgs of shabu seized are enjoying due process that the govt deprives the poor and small players." 

On the way out of the theater, we our friend M. and S. We snapped some photos together, and they told us someone had and episode while watching. It might have been a severe panic attack.

We still can't stand to watch each other die.

Drunken Review

The Hundred Year Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared
Jonas Jonasson
epub, 404kb 350 pages

The title, very clever, should have been a forewarning. A venture of far-fetched possibilities in far-flung places. It still manages to guillotine our imagination, and sure it's a pure delight to read, if only to release or escape from our own daily realities.

It often sounds like a script, a very easy read, wrapped in a desire to be adapted into the big screen. It's more readable in an ebook, as if it already anticipated that the readers will consume it in their e-readers rather than a physical book.

The last time I felt like this was Robin Sloan's Mr. Penumbra's 24-hour bookstore. Although Sloan's book was also like a propaganda, or an outright advertisement for something. For Google, in particular. The Hundred Year Old Man...., on the other hand, seems like an outright advertisement for vodka. It lured me into buying a bottle each of British and Russian vodka. The Swedish ones are overpriced.

In Filipino, we have a concept called usapang lasing, "drunken-talk." The boastful stories armed with expletives, the claims of achievement, the inner secrets or verified gossips that only reveals itself when one is drunk. This book is just like that. A lot of often-fun drunken talk.