Panalo ang Pinoy!

Gagawin kong Tagalog ito dahil nag-uumapaw sa yabang este, pagmamalaki ang dibdib ko ngayon. (Bakit parang bastos iyong linyang iyon? Ah, basta!)

Dahil nalasing sa kasaysayan ang isip ko sa nakalipas na ilang araw (at dahil na rin sa utos ni FW), nagpunta ako at isang kaibigan sa Maynila para silipin ang National Museum at ang Museum of the Filipino People.

Nag-cover ako ng Senado (na pinalayas ng National Museum mula sa 4th floor noong 2003) kaya alam ko kung nasaan ang NM.

Ang Finance Building pala ay siya nang tahanan ng Museum of the Filipino People. Kahapon ko lang nalaman iyon.

Sa parehong museum, ipinapaiwan ang bag at camera. Cellphone at wallet lang ang puwede mong dalhin. Kaya pasensiya, dalawa lang ang kuha ko gamit ang telepono ko.

Sentro pa rin ng NM ang Spoliarium. Pangalawang beses ko itong nakita kahapon. Noong una, noong uhugin pa akong reporter ng Senado, hindi ko kinaya ang emosyon na hatid nito. Marahas, madilim, at nakakahindik ang gawa ni Juan Luna.

Kahapon, iba naman ang epekto sa akin ng obra ni Luna.

Naisip ko na "Room of Spoils" siguro ang pinagmulan ng Spoliarium. At batay na rin sa ipinakikita ni Luna, talagang kuwarto ng mga nasirang buhay ang kanyang ginawa. Naging mas sentro rin ng atensyon ko ang babae sa kanan, at kung ano ang dalamhati na nararamdaman niya sa walang silbing pagkamatay ng mga mandirigma ng Roma.

Ayon sa iba't-ibang babasahin, ang Spoliarium ay isang silid sa ilalim ng Roman arena kung saan dinadala ang mga napapatay sa labanan ng mga gladiator. Kakaiba mag-aliw ang mga Romano kapag nababagot, ikamamatay mo.

Nasa NM rin ang mga gawa nina Felix R. Hidalgo at Luna, karamihan ay ipinahiram ng Far East Bank and Trust Company.



Pogi pero kakaiba ang ayos ng buhok ng Ilocanong si Luna, batay sa sarili niyang gawa at sa pagguhit sa kanya ni Hidalgo. Parang naririnig ko ang mga sosyal na tao na tumitili ng "Ewww, makeover, now!"

Bukas din ang NM sa mga batang manlilikha. May exhibit ng modern art sa isang kuwarto.

Sa MFP, naroon ang koleksion ng mga libingan, banga, plato, at iba pang gamit na natagpuan ng mga archaeologists mula sa iba't-ibang lugar sa Pilipinas, mula sa iba't ibang panahon ng mundo.

Makikita batay sa ukit at sa panahon na pinagmulan na ang mga Pilipino pala, mula pa noong unang panahon, ay may sining na at may kakayahang lumilok ng mga bagay na kailangan niya sa araw-araw.

May talino ang Pilipino, gumagawa at nag-iisip, kahit pa bago dumating ang mga higanteng butiki na may paa. Mayroon na rin siyang konsepto ng paniniwala sa isang Lumikha.

May mga patunay rin na bago pa man dumating ang mga Espanyol, may pakikipagniig (Teka, bastos yata iyon) at pakikipag-negosyo na sa ibang lahi ang Pinoy.

Malaking bahagi ng MFP ang naiahong gamit mula sa lumubog na San Diego, isang barkong pandigma, noong 1600.

Kung magkakaroon ka ng panahon, bisitahin mo ang dalawang museum at tulad ko marahil, lalapad ang dibdib mo na isa kang Pinoy.


Note: Sa NM, P70 ang bayad bawat tao. Pero isang pangalan lang ang ipinasusulat nila sa logbook.

Sa MFP, P100 ang bayad, pero isang pangalan din ang ipinasusulat nila sa logbook. Ang ginawa ko ay isinulat ko pareho ang pangalan namin ni Yowee sa MFP, at hiningi ko ang resibo. Hindi ito napupuna ng ibang nagpupunta. Tingin ko, dapat ay ayusin ng dalawang museum ang sistema ng paniningil, at huwag itong iwan lang sa guwardiya. Dagdag na pondo rin ito para sa ating museum.

Unable

I am still unable to write.

But let me tell you this:

I am still unable to wrap my mind around losing Alecks.

When I think of him, I am still unable to comprehend how he can be gone. Why so soon. Why good men die young. Why someone who took care of his health could die so young. Why someone who adored his wife and kids, and even an arrogant stray cat he called "Ser" and two rowdy dogs, is gone.

I am not gearing up for some Jobian debate here.

It's just that my faith is being shaken, and I am in pain.

And my eyes sting and tears flow just writing this.

Alecks, 1967-2009

Who in his right mind would agree to name his dogs Oingo and Boingo?

I roared in laughter, imagining you yelling out those two stupid names while scouring your little neighborhood in Tandang Sora when the two mutts exploited your open gate. You laughed when I told you how my imagined scene looked like.

You were needled by women all your life. And you probably were needled again by your wife and two daughters into giving those mutts those silly names.

And when we coerced you into writing about your life being the lone male at home and in the office, you hit back and wrote about "pushy females."

"When all seems too unbearable in the land of women, there are enduring standards for male behavior that men can always resort to: strength and silence. I, however, take more to the latter. Not because I am a stereotypical man of few words. It’s just that women find it annoying."

In the office, being the only constant male save for the part-time driver, you were often the center of jokes, thought not always helplessly.

Your deadpan humor and dry wit spiced our trainings and every day office life. I envied your ability to poke fun harmlessly at crummy people and the crummy things they do.

I often pushed you to meet deadlines.

Oh, those deadlines. Those many deadlines you never met.

"After the deadline, there's no more deadline," you once said. And I berated you for telling that to a young writer.

So I resorted to slapping post-its on your computer to remind you of your deadlines, which again, you never met.

You never forgave me for my crushes. And I never forgave you for yours.

"Crush mo iyon? Iyong negrong iyon?" you said, referring to a dark-skinned politician I had the hots for.

"Crush mo iyon? Iyong weird girl na iyon?" I said, referring to an actress you interviewed once, while you glowingly described how smart she was.

Sure, we had our fights. Some too petty to matter, some strongly clashing, like what we should put in the institutional blog.

For one, I thought pictures should be left alone to speak for themselves. You wanted an investigative angle to everything and wanted nothing light.

I teased you about your articles when they sounded so intellectual.

"It's so Fermat!" I complained, referring to an article you wrote about the mathematical theorem.

But there was always humor. Your brand of humor, kind and friendly and never offending.

I remember how you became tearful telling journalists we were training about how the piece on corruption in schools was worked on. "Books. When I was in school, each of us had one," you said, and you stopped, your eyes getting red.

In this country Alecks, the brand of journalism you've been a part of the past 16 years doesn't pay much. But you survived, you lived on the pay, you raised your family. Decently, without sacrificing your principles.

On that measly pay, you trained hundreds of young reporters, and many idolize you. Some even consider you their dad.

Siguro nga, sa langit lang. Sa langit na lang ang big payday.

At kung nasa paligid lang kita, as usual, bubuwisitin mo ako at sasabihan na tama na ang drama.

Hanggang dito na lang, Lecks. Kasi kung hahabaan ko pa, baka hindi maging kalmado ang piyesang ito. At iyon ang alam kong ayaw na ayaw mo.

I don't know what more to say. If I say more, I'd speak my mind and hurt those who hurt you.

Kasi nga, ayaw mo ng komprontasyon. At tuwing may aawayin ka, ako ang pinahaharap mo, di ba? Halos madurog nga ang puso mo tuwing may hindi tayo bibigyan ng certificate dahil hindi nila nakompleto ang sessions. Simpleng bagay, pero di mo kayang manakit.

Atty. Pen, as usual, had the wisest thing to say when I told him we lost you.

"Dapat i-celebrate ang buhay ni Alecks kasi marami siyang mabuting nagawa. Idol ko siya," he said.

Thanks Alecks. Two bottles for you.

Quiapo's colors

Kiyapo is a water lily. The kind you see floating in huge vats, for sale. I don't know if the plant can survive Quiapo's river water these days.

Quiapo is confusing. I can almost see Jesus wanting to wreck the stalls while yelling "heathens!"

This is where religious icons share space with Chinese lucky charms, vegetables, abortion-inducing herbs. This is where you can also have your future told by self-declared seers, while cult leaders with colorful robes wander in the square.

But its colors are lovely.







Thanks to Wella and Viebs for dropping me off.

Dream and redemption

I woke up screaming the other day.

In my dream, I was near the banks of a rampaging river, its water forming angry, hungry curlicues, gnawing, grabbing at everything that came near its path.

It was raining.

I chastised a child who came too near the edge of the water. She didn't listen, she was too curious.

Right before my eyes, the water leapt and grabbed the little girl, dragging her under its waves. The water was evil.

Horrified, I was hit with the finality of the loss. I can't live with this, I said. I can't forgive myself for not knowing how to swim.

"Iyong bata!" I screamed again, and then woke up.

I've been walking around the past two days with a noose around my neck.

My dreams often come true.

I began looking at every child intently, wondering if it is the one I failed to save.

Yesterday came my redemption, at the Moslem area in Quiapo, under the rain.

The siblings were barely three feet tall. They looked odd. They wore plastic bags on their heads, the black and yellow bag used to wrap pirated DVDs.

The older one, the brother, held his sister's hand and guided her across ditches, which was futile anyway because it was raining hard.

I watched them from a store's flimsy awning that offered very little protection from the rain. I marveled at how protective the brother was of his little sister, who's probably just three years old, guiding her inch by inch as they navigated the muddy street.

I was about to make a dash for the other side of the street where my friend was impatiently waiting for me when I saw the little girl fall.

It hurts to remember how much pain was painted on her brother's face. My core aches recalling his pained look at how he failed to protect his sister.

I rushed to the little girl, carried her, held her brother's hand and led them both to a store where there was dry space for them. I told them to stay there until the rain stopped. They looked stunned at how fast things happened.

My friend had a worried look on his face when I reached his side of the street, my white shirt soaked in the rain.

"Let's go," he barked, and we ran some more under the rain.

"None of them cared, and they were one of their own," he said when we got in my car.

I remembered the little girl and her watery grave in my dream this morning.

The curse is over.

I am forgiven.

A party for Masky

The world revolves around me, so I’m writing this with me in mind. (Yes, you saw “me” twice in that sentence.)

A friend recently told me that she can’t imagine me shooting pictures of a bikini contest. Or that I am getting a tattoo.

A couple others were amazed I showed up at Masky’s fourth “birthday” party yesterday.

“Ganyan ba ang mga kaibigan mo?” one asked. I laughed. Yes, I am one of them, and I am like them. And I like them. We're all insane sometimes. And yesterday was one of those times.

You see, Masky is a dog. Not even a real dog. Masky is a stuffed toy.

It was even able to change its gender. Years ago, Masky was thought to be male. It turned out it’s a she, and the complete name is Masky Marie.

Somewhere out there, a restaurant is probably rethinking its policy of barring a party for a dog, one that’s not even a real dog.

“This is a unique party, and we’re glad to host it,” the restaurant-provided emcee declared.

“We’re normal people, really,” I said.

“Sa mga kaibigan kong narito, salamat! May sapak din talaga kayong lahat,” said Angel.

She looked gleeful at having pulled it off again, this time at a grander venue.

Among those who had “sapak” who showed up were managers, editors, writers, mothers, fathers,husbands, wives, and their children. Outside of the party, the adults are responsible people who pay their taxes and don’t take drugs. (At least I don't think so.)

Honestly, I dreaded coming to the party. Who the hell holds a party for a dog, not even a real dog, but a stuffed toy?

But Angel is a good person, whose friendship I cherish. Her idiosyncracies are a legion, (she can’t stand lint and would apparently die if it is not removed, pronto!) but all in all, she’s a good human package.

So I came, determined to enjoy it all. After all, I wore jeans and a blouse for the first time in over a month. Hello? Dressing up is tough.

It was fun watching the games. They were all having fun. I was having fun watching and taking pictures.

It also gave me the opportunity to catch up on the lives of people I used to work with. They are all growing up.

While I am growing old.

“May apo ka na!” the Tres Lokas said, referring to Pat’s beautiful baby girl. She has the most lovely eyes, and when she smiles, it makes you feel you too, are cute.

But my forehead hurt after the party. I was slapping it whenever someone said “Happy birthday, Masky!” like they meant it. Argh.

That afternoon taught me that whatever the reason, choose to be happy. Whatever reason or excuse you might find to have fun, never hesitate to take it.

Never take yourself too seriously.

Somewhere out there, a restaurant is probably rethinking its policy of partying only for human birthdays.

If we find reasons and excuses to drink, (like we need any), why not to party?

Even if it’s for a dog. Not even a real dog.

She manages to make people not take themselves too seriously.

Mercury the day

She putters around the house, trying to take her mind off things she should face. Those can wait until the last minute, perhaps she won't even care.

Nothing is important, she decides. She plays games until the sun sets. She meets up with friends when she wants to, if she cares to. She walks like there's no tomorrow.

Her mind receives a long, screeching jolt. An impatient driver down below honks his horn, not minding it is a hospital zone.

This street really has no soul. To her, the street symbolizes what the city has become: cramped, crowded, dingy, dirty, directionless, fastpacing itself to civil unrest, or hell, whichever comes first.

People, with real or imagined power, have become petty tyrants to get ahead. A collection of petty tyrants waiting for the chance to show fangs.

She has dropped out of the race a month ago, and yet has no plans where to go. She's hit dirt before and has dusted herself off, alone and not bothering anyone.

"I'm worried," says Madel.

Who isn't? There are a thousand reasons to worry in a place that knows no order.

Had Dvorak lived in the 20th century, he would have been a rocker, she thought, as Symphony Number 9 hits a crescendo. He'd probably create something like the Bohemian Rhapsody, probably an hour long, but never a second boring.

A chunk of ice makes a tiny crashing sound as it falls from the fridge's freezer. Defrosting has become a chore done only when the tiny door refuses to budge, the inside threatening to defeat the Arctic's collection of floes.

In the chiller she finds a huge slab of chocolate from New Zealand. She imagines hurling it into the face of the giver.

"If you do that to me, leave for good without saying goodbye, I'll find you wherever you went and kill you," said Angel.

Confused about being liked and missed and then threatened with death, she shut up.

The room suddenly turns gray. The window announces a bleak sky, like that liquid you see when you break a thermometer.

Yes. Mercury the day, and then wash it away.

And the sky did.

Taken from my window, September 17, 2PM