...antiquities...

Of late, I had been musing myself with the past – the have-been’s and the should’ve-been’s. I had been digging up recollections of what life used to be twenty long years ago. I had been transporting myself back into that time when khaki brown shorts, white polo shirt and white knee-high socks covered in black shoes were my daily fashion. The scent of a sweaty child freshly baked in the hot afternoon sun was my standard aroma. And the life of a child in grade school was what I was living.

Looking at that almost faded photo, I could only laugh at myself. How did I survive those years looking so scrawny and feeble? And along stride my then classmates, I could only laugh some more. It was just like yesterday, as the memories of the fun I had in grade school comes showering back like a faucet on a hot tub. It steams.

I went into grade one in 1984, which gives the math geeks out there a chance to instantly compute my age. I only have sporadic memories of that grade level, but I’m sure the stress of the first day in school was nerve-racking. I never went to nursery or preparatory school, so grade one was literally my first day in school. I was so afraid of being alone in a room of strangers that I followed my mom who was buying books at the shop four blocks away. How she was surprised to see me come up to her when she was thinking I was in class! I guess that was the first time I ever cut class.

Then I met friends. And playmates. And more.

Grade school was Tom and Michael, two kids I considered best friends. I never did understand what it is that brings people to be friends, nor did I bother if they’d consider me the way I’d considered them. Doesn’t matter now. Ours was friendship of developing souls, caught at a time when grade school mattered. I could almost swear we were always together, but that’s just me. They might have remembered things differently. Tom introduced me to Fra Lippo Lippi. I can never forget that. We were laughing at him for always bringing up this new British pop act that none of us had ever heard of before. Then, about two months after, the pop duo hit big in Manila. Séance?

Grade school was fear of third grade, where the teacher has a notorious reputation of punishing students, even to the extensive imagination of pre-puberty kids that she would do all wonderfully hideous things to naughty students. I can still remember how her voice sounded as she screams “you get out-chide! now!”, and that’s not a typo.

The rest of the grade levels were the awkward stages. I remember this was where boy met girl, and (probably) the birds and the bees, although I fought myself really hard to use that cliché. It was a time of first crushes, of second ones, and false heartaches. It was a time of misunderstood understandings, misdirected and yet innocent affections, the prototype of love. It was a time of stupid foundation days where someone with a handcuff pairs you with the one you have a crush on, upon paid instructions by your so-called friends who’d let you be dumped into the snake pit. It was a time of volleyball games and basketball tournaments on intramural days where one can show off to impress the opposite sex. It was a time of educational field trips where each would jockey against the other for the seating arrangements inside the bus, hoping one would get seated next to his or her crush. You might think that I had done all these. Yes, go ahead and think that way.

Sixth grade was probably the most difficult of all. It was a time when one had to make a choice – of staying a child, or facing the reality of growing up. It was this decision making time that defined us. It was a signal that grade school is over. And the fun that came along with it must also bid us farewell. Old crushes would give way to new ones and new friends would replace old ones in high school. And the memories of those I knew in grade school slowly drifted towards the back of my mind, as I had occupied most of my brain with the new challenges that beset me. New challenges – mature decisions, tougher tests, life itself – became my priorities. I had to live life now, not only as a mere spectator, a child with cotton candy on one hand and a G.I Joe action figure on the other, but as an active participant.

Then came the pictures, the silent frozen reminders that I was once part of grade school. I see them now, and I relive all the moments that I had unknowingly saved in the corners of my memories. I see my old friends’ faces, some of them I have no name to put on. But most of them, their names are still intact. I see old crushes; some of them have families of their own now, with loving husbands and a horde of squiggly kids. Others have remained single, yet blissfully content. Some have gone to greener pastures, as that stupid cliché goes, in foreign lands, where I hope they’re not alone. Still others have stayed in the country, either by choice or by lack of enthusiasm. I have stayed because of the former.

I have not seen most of them for twenty years. My last recollection of some of them was on that last day of sixth grade, the graduation day. All of them were smiling, happy to have conquered six years of childhood humiliation and utter academic terror. We had given each other our contact details, and the promise to stay in touch after grade school. Apparently, none of us was keen on fulfilling that promise, so much so that twenty years have passed and yet none has attempted to contact each other, save for some.

I will see my old friends soon. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology and that social phenomenon called Friendster, I had found some of my grade school friends. Soon, when the vectors of chance are again aligned in favor of us all, we shall have the opportunity to reminisce together the times we had spent in grade school. Because we have our own lives to lead, reminiscing is all that is left for us to do.

That is all we can do.

...too much of hollywood...

I have had too much of Hollywood.

I imagine myself saying the words so playfully coined by Ari Gold, his half witted remarks doubled up or tripled up, more than make up for the profanity that they actually convey. I imagine myself the beauty that is Vincent Chase, followed maniacally by hordes of pretty women like the Pied Piper of Hollywood, lulling the ladies with a smile.

Sometimes I am Turtle, relaxed, content with being behind the limelight of it all, and yet always the one everybody else falls back to. At other times I am Johnny “Drama” Chase, the boisterous has-been-television-series-star-turned-movie-hero-wannabe who is still running after his almost shinning fame. I have a few dreams that I’d like to see lived through, in this lifetime.

But often times, I am Eric Murphy. Loyal, trusting, hardworking, and always on the lookout for true love. Minus of course the fact that he can’t get laid without stringing himself up with the girl. Have I ever thought I could be Lloyd?

Never.

I am lost in my fantasy of living the highly strung life of Hollywood, the glitter that it brings, and of how easy things would be if your worries are when your next movie will be released, or which car dealer would you give in to today, Mercedes or Bohemian? It would be so nice walking down the streets of LA with an entourage of my own. And then I look down on my two feet. They’re no longer on the ground.

There are times when I think that there had been a mistake in how and where I was born. My intended birthplace is really Hollywood, but someone made a blunder and had me chopping wood instead. I feel I am comfortable with brushing elbows with the Dennis Hopper, or raising a glass to Steven Spielberg. I can easily fit in the clubs frequented by Paris, while throngs line up outside, envious of me. This kind of life, I was made for.

But then again, I fall back to reality. The closest I could ever come to this life is through the remote control.

I have had too much of Hollywood.

...a new evolution...

“…book me up a new evolution, ‘cause this one is a lie…”
Learn To Fly,
FOO FIGHTERS


I hate this world.

I woke up to the incessant nagging of a persistent alarm clock. 6:30 am it says, like it’s my fault time moves so fast. It seemed that I had just closed my eyes and bid everyone goodnight, when it’s already time to greet the sun for another day. I hate the world for it.

Moving around half awake, I finally managed to do my rituals faithfully. I had, of course, my usual cursing and cussing with an un-open-able toothpaste cap, or a door that would love to bump my elbow, or keys that elected to play hide and seek with an unwilling me. The heat is always attempting to kill me, if the humidity doesn’t do that first. I hate the world for all of it.

Driving around the streets of Manila, I find new reasons to hate the world. Everyday, I see poverty, pain, and reckless imprudence of stupid drivers, especially the public commute types. A little girl with a bunch of flowers which looks like it’s about to decay comes up to my window asking for change. She never even offered me to buy her flowers, and I thought this was taught to her by a sorry excuse for her mother. She couldn’t be more than 5 years old, and she’s spending her time trading her wares, instead of trying to be a child. I pitifully buy her bunch, and told her to go home. My words fell on non-understanding ears, and she happily hops away with her loot.

Further ahead, I drive past shanties by the railroad, and more shanties under the bridge, people living in subhuman conditions right in front of our fat rich eyes. I paste a grin on my face as I notice a black BMW X5 zoom past in contrast to the forlorn background of makeshift houses. An old lady guiding a blind fellow starts to work when the traffic light turns red, putting forward the empty tin can they carry for people in fancy cars to spare them a peso. The first three cars they tried had their tints very dark, and I doubt that the occupants even notice the couple begging. I doubt if they ever see anything at all behind that dark tint. I wish they’d just cross the railroad and let the train drag them to kingdom come. The light turns green and the old couple goes back to the island where they await the next chance to ask for a few salvation. I cranked up my window close as I drive past them, feeling sorry that the lights didn’t stay red enough for them to reach me.

I remembered the news report on the television this morning as I was hurriedly trying to finish my hot coffee in one gulp. It wasn’t good. It was about a crime that happened last night in some part of the city, where the lights are off and the eyes and ears of those nearest are miraculously shut. With a population density of about a hundred people per square meters, it’s such amazing to know that there are still places where your body can be dumped without anyone noticing. The deaf and the blind are everywhere there is crime.

I cannot believe in a god that would allow these things to happen. I cannot reconcile to my values the thought of leaving man to fend off for himself, and to defend himself against himself. I was brought up to the sole belief that everything happens according to the will of one heavenly divine being, and a good one at that. My faith came crashing down when I realized that pain, hate and all other inhuman traits are so prevalent, it couldn’t be his will alone. There must be some area of human activities that he has no power over, that man himself has overruled his dominion.

I reached my destination with a heavy heart, as I always do. I go through every day thinking this day is yet another forsaken day for the unfortunate. Life is only fair and wonderful for the affluent and the pretentious. I don’t belong to either. And 8 million other people in my country don’t either, the same 8 million people that wonder everyday when their salvation will come. I go about my work, unappreciated and unthanked, like the other 8 million laborers I share this city with, plus the others who carry faded flowers and small empty tin cans.

I drive home seeing the same sorry things I see the morning before. I don’t think they work in shifts, it’s actually them again, or still. They work twenty-four hours a day because their hunger is a twenty-four hour thing. I throw them an I’m-so-sorry-for-your-state-and-I-wish-I-could-help look, and imagine whipping myself in the back as penance for my helplessness. I hate the world for this.

I go to sleep at night, tired and feeling abused. But still cursing and cussing over unceremonious things like the stupid traffic jams, late night bad news on the television, and that fucking un-open-able toothpaste cap. Lately, I had been debating if I should be thankful for being alive another day, or be so ill-fated enough that I should wish for this world to stop existing. I’ll open my eyes tomorrow to the incessantly nagging alarm clock, and I will hate the world yet again.

...the other man...

inspired by recent thoughts on The Love Clinic, with Dr. Love, Tom Alvarez, late nights on Monster Radio RX 93.1


Dear Dr. Love,


I imagine there is a lot to be said about the other woman. The hate-filled words and all the expletives that this indifferent world hurls at herm are more than enough to char her name. But I wonder, what does one say about the other man?

Jessica and I are teammates in our corporate world. Trapped in tiresome board meetings that stretch for ungodly hours, we would often find ourselves chatting on coffee-breaks, or after-meeting late night dinners. At times, I would give her a ride home when I would insist the streets aren’t safe for a pretty woman alone at night. At other times she would repay the thought with a hearty lunch.

We got so comfortable with each other, Dr. Love, that we shared more than corporate matters between us. She’s a mother of an insanely adorable one-year-old, and enjoys most of the same things that tickle my fancy. She is married, but whether happily is something I cannot say. She would oftentimes flood me with the problems of her troubled domestic life and of how she had patiently tried to fix them. What they were, she would not say, and I am in no position to elaborate.

In recent times, my empathy for her turned into something else. I think I am falling in love with Jessica.

Dr. Love, I foolishly think that her marital dispute is a window of opportunity for me to snatch her away from her husband. I am seriously considering ending her misery with him and start a new life with me. She seems to be more than willing to acquiesce.

I don’t want to be the other man, Dr. Love, the one who would wreck her legal home. I know is should be helping her sort things out and not encourage her to come with me. But I know how I feel, and although I still am with infantile emotions, I know I can grow into genuine love.

Help me, Dr. Love. Should I pursue my immoral endeavor? Or should I just walk away? Perhaps you could start by letting 38 Special croon to their sentimental words in “Second Chance” as my love cure song. She could have said these words herself.

Thank you and may your words of advice, or reprimand, strike some sense into me.

Yours,
Jem

...the first inquirer...

After a passing conversation with a butt-light carrying insect (an alitaptap in the vernacular), I made up the postulate of the first inquirer. With much inspiration from the big screen ad of some daily spread, I poised to ask: who was indeed the first inquirer? Who dared ask the first question?

Eve.

The biblical female who, in the book of genesis, is faulted with the first sin of god’s beloved man, is probably also painted in a demeaning light. Trains of thoughts have since took voyage in my mind after my sunday afternoon epiphany and as I would expect, also a lot of what if’s.

If indeed angels had the disability to compare their squalid state of blind obedience and their existence is oblivious to the popular human emotions of envy, greed, and insatiable desire, then the morning star would not have had the idea that man is favored over his kind (unless of course, he too has taken the bite of the fruit of the infamous tree. but where would he get the idea in the first place). He would not have started the heavenly Star Wars and there wouldn’t be any consequential temptation of Eve by the snake.

Given this highly presumptuous theory, Eve would then be imbibed with curiosity looking at the ominous tree in the middle of the Garden of Eden. The bible tells of how Eve offered the fruit to her companion (not spouse, as the sacrament of marriage then was still nonexistent) Adam. What prompted her to take the fruit, without serpentine influence, could be her mind asking simple questions about the irregularities of the premature god.

Why were we forbidden to eat the fruit of the tree?

Why was it in the middle of the garden, in plain sight, readily accessible to every animal ever created?

Why was it placed strategically where it can tempt the most?

Was it place deliberately to test how much I can take, or if I will buckle?

Why was I ever punished for exercising my greatest right – free will?

Eve’s brain must be a chaotic mess, and her heart must be pounding every beat as she searched for answers. And as the deity who made them only speaks to his male companion, Eve must be battling her wits moreover. To add to the temptation, the answer she seeks is right there in front of her, taunting her, begging her to be eaten.

As a footnote to this absurdly wonderful theory, the first and the greatest cover-up in history was also committed. Man was not to be blamed, as he is as the maker is, so is he also perfect. Free will was a gift not given by mistake, but instead a very vulnerable point in man, which can either cause him to suffer, or be rewarded. Evil was the cause of man’s downfall. Evil. An entity created when an unfeeling angel decided God stepped over the line.