CJ update

This is how he looked when he was just a couple of months old. And I was so hungry for his pictures and my sister would not send me any sometimes just to make me suffer and force me to go visit them again.

So I missed the teething phase.


CJ showing off his two front teeth while wearing some weird Vietnamese hat.

CJ, now four. He's going to school soon. Dang. I missed his fun years. Here he looks like he did something naughty.




Tiger has joined the Air Force. Brian is about to start high school.

I need to be with them soon. Before they start getting married and make me a grandma. Damn. Why did my sister marry early?

Just write

"The first draft of anything is shit" - Hemingway

No one taught me how to write. (Which explains why I write the way I do - awful, just awful). Just like photography, where I have this mental image of the picture I'm going to take, I write because I think I have brilliant things to say.

The brilliance I'm threatening you with isn't always visible, but hey, I swear the intention was there!

And what the heck do I care if the punctuations are missing or are inappropriately placed, if the prepositions are faulty? All first drafts are shitty. I'm not going to get killed for mangling a language that's not my first. But I'll keep trying to learn it because I have to, it's the trade I'm in.

I am writing this because I've been getting a lot of "I can't write," or "I'm too scared to write for your group" lines (excuses) from journalists lately.

Writing is like life. Some are ahead of you and me in the creative area. Some are ahead of us in grammar.

The more crucial thing in journalism is getting all the facts, the documents, and presenting them simply. Even some UP Econ papers can be understood by dodos like me because they write it for dodos like me. Simple sentences. Complex words explained. Theories broken down.

Writing is like life. We need help from others who know more, and learn from them. We sometimes need to enlist the help of people around us in making an outline.

I badger our editor to tell me where I went wrong, both in grammar and story construction. Then I memorize the lesson.

But I remember too, with pride, when a story I submitted was praised for "fresh attack," or "new, better approach." Praises are vitamins that ward off those atrocious grammatical errors in those shitty first drafts.

Of course, the more (shitty) first drafts we churn out, the faster we learn.

I don't know of anyone who was given the Pulitzer the first time he/she gave writing a try. Kennedy got one, but he had a lot of help.

Just write the damn first draft. Enjoy the new things you'll learn.

Know what? It's so scary when you've stopped making mistakes as a writer, as anything! It means you're not doing anything new. You're not learning anything new. Perhaps you should give rocket science a try. Or cross-stitching. Whatever you find more challenging.

Lagi ko ngang sinasabi, hindi iisa ang araw. Noong 2006, 40KPH ang takbo ko sa NLEX. Nagbanta ako na "Bukas, mga hinayupak kayo, kasali na ako sa inyo!" Ngayon, isa na ako sa mga Kasmot (Kaskaserong motmot) sa bawat kalyeng binabagtas ko. At inaantok na ako sa NLEX.

Hindi nakamamatay ang shitty first draft.

Ang nakamamatay ay iyong kawalan ng lakas ng loob, at ang kawalan ng kababaang-loob.

Yes. Lack of humility. When we refuse to take on things that will make us look stupid, it is often because we are ensconced in our perfect little world with our perfect record of getting things perfectly right. We are so pretty we don't want mud on our pretty dresses.

Just write the damn (shitty) first draft and get it over with. Walang namatay dahil sa wrong grammar. Natututunan iyan sa kalaunan.

Lakasan lang iyan ng loob.

Gaya ng pagluluto ng adobo.

At pagkain ng adobong ako ang nagluto.

Tiburcio

Someone texted me last night asking if "Tiburcio" is my grandfather's name. I didn't get the question until this morning. The subtext was "Are you a lesbian?"

It made me smile the whole morning, and cheered me up enough to wear a dress and high heels to an interview. I haven't dressed up like a lady in weeks.

Galadriel's so right. People behave differently when you're wearing a dress. Even the tambays sat up straight when I walked past them.

Me. A lesbian. This sure beats being mistaken for a GRO, which I enjoyed, but it irritated Galadriel enough to ask that it be corrected. And pronto!

By accident, I grabbed a CD of my happy songs containing this piece while I was battling buses and traffic along EDSA corner Timog.

So, to that someone who asked the question, here's the answer:



What else do you want to know?

What do you think?

Less details on the wings (Para hindi masakit!). More graceful body.

And most of all, a smile.

Hmmmm.

What do you think?

Haircut and profound thoughts

Had my hair trimmed a bit today.
Not a lot. You won't even notice.
What I really wanted was to cut a lot.
Leave just an inch. Or two.
Then I'll have a unicorn tattooed on my left wrist.
The unicorn must smile so I'd like it.
Then I got hungry.
Then I had seafood pasta. It was too salty.
But I was really hungry so I finished it.
It's Sunday but already I'm dealing with the next five days.
Had my hair cut. And ate seafood pasta. A very early dinner.
Wanted to cut more. A lot more.


I asked a girl friend last night but she said short hair won't look good on me.
Then I thought of Sneakers.
We both have long hair.
I'm sure she'd roar with laughter if I tell her I want to go semi-bald.
I'm sure she'd say something profound like "You'd look funny without all that hair."
Then more laughter.
Then something more profound like "What's really going on?"
"I'm so fucking special," Kermit, the naked green frog sings.
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.^



(^nods at Robert Frost)

A lesson on what's important

"We will have to rebuild," says my friend Boboy. We stand amid the ruins of his farm, the stench of 16,000 dead chickens permeating the air.

"Naiiyak ako," I told his wife, Che. They built the farm on borrowed money, and have just started paying it back by raising chickens. The steel posts and beams are twisted and mangled, a testament to Cosme's fury the previous night.

I was there to work on a different story, but on my second day I decided to leave to stop making a pest of myself as the townspeople began clearing their lives of the typhoon's debris.

I have been driving around town minus my happy songs. It felt improper to play music while they grieve.


In one community, an undamaged home was rare. The town was leveled in just a few hours.

Yet what struck me were the numerous tales of kindness. Of people huddled in small, leaking rooms, but welcoming those whose houses were already felled by the winds. Of people coming out of the safety of their homes to aide those who were outside, trapped by the sudden onslaught of wind and water.

Boboy spent hours in a culvert with his helper after seeing his farm demolished. He was on his way home to check on his wife and kid when the wind got even stronger.

"Spending time with my helper in that culvert reminded me how equal we all are at a time like that," he says.

When the wind became bearable, they sought shelter in a house they saw near the road. Their host was poor, but they were offered coffee and dry shirts. "Iba talaga tayong magmalasakit," he says.


Boboy too, is not rich. He's an office worker and a weekend farmer.

But he says he will rebuild the farm for the sake of the five families who rely on its income. "Wala silang kikitain, hindi makakapag-aral ang anak nila kung hindi ko lalakasan ang loob ko," he says.

In one part of town, people wailed as they surveyed the wreckage. Mangoes were uprooted. None were left standing. Replanting will mean five years of waiting before they can harvest.

"Pati iyong century-old kong mangga, wala na," says a 74-year old farmer.

Thousands of sacks of palay were soaked, as roofs were blown off warehouses where they were stored. The farmers were waiting for better prices before selling their harvest so they could save up for the planting season next month.

They tried drying them out in the sun, but the rains suddenly came again, soaking the grains. "Wala na, sira na ito. Ni hindi na ito makakain," says a desperate farmer.

Their stations in life were varied but they all had one thing in common: They were grateful no one died.



The resort where I spent the night had no electricity. No food, even. In a stricken town, who would find it justifiable to complain over something so trivial? I'm sleeping on a dry bed, surrounded by walls that still stand, the roof damaged but intact. Outside the resort, many will sleep with no roof over their heads, and the rains continue. Who am I to complain?

I braved the darkness and walked to a nearby store.

Over dinner of crackers, sardines and three-in-one coffee, I made up my mind. I'll put the story on hold.

Stripped of things we think essential, we discover the more important things in life. They are basic, yet spurned or forgotten.

I have just been taught a lesson.

Pull up, pull up!

There were dead birds at SCTEX on my way to Zambales last Monday. I began counting them when I began to have an eerie feeling about it. Twelve. Twelve dead birds in less than 20 kilometers.

There were more but I refused to count after that. It was beginning to look like a page from a Stephen King book.

I called a friend, a vet who works at the Department of Agriculture. Apparently they have a functioning anti-bird flu task force. They have an office in Pampanga, so a team retraced Jiminy da Cricket’s path and collected samples.


Early the following day I was told the birds didn’t die of bird flu, which was my fear. But I find several things really unfathomable, unimaginable, and bizarre.

1. I didn’t get pissed before I got attention
2. I didn’t get pissed before I could see action. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting action. I was just curious and worried about what killed the birds
3. DA Region III has a functioning lab to test for bird flu
4. DA Region III has a functioning (hurray!) scientific (hurray!) team
5. They had the result in 12 hours
6. They were nice to me! They didn’t want to get rid of me like I was a pest knocking on government agency Window 1978 with a half-moon hole from where I could feel the cool air inside while I sweat outside
7. It was explained to me in terms I, a dodo, could understand
8. They called me to tell me what happened. (Wow! Is this really a government office?)
9. They were intelligent, witty people.
10. And no, they didn’t know I am a journalist. They just did their job, which apparently includes listening to a dodo like me with my petty concerns for feathered, two-legged creatures

It’s not H5N1. It’s HBC - hit by cars - a term my vet friend coined.

If you’ve used the SCTEX, you’ll see that it slices through a piece of heaven on earth. It makes you wish there’s no speed limit that requires you to just zip through it.

I pulled over and stopped, in fact, to savor the view. A siren-sounding tollway patrol car stopped and the traffic guys asked me why I was stalling. I said, lamely, that my accelerator-assigned right leg was hurting. I knew they didn’t believe me: I was grinning!

SCTEX may have been a bird sanctuary before we humans intruded into their space. Again. It will take some time before they get used to how we rearranged their playground.

Meantime, more birds are dying. I wish they can read so I can put up a huge sign that says “WARNING: STUPID HUMANS BELOW! PULL UP, PULL UP!”

I am green-minded today

I love green things. I've kicked out planting trees from my bucket list in high school. I've planted a lot, and I saw some of them along the highway when I drove to Zambales last year.

My cactus is green.

But I've no green panties. Hmmm. I ought to set that right.

I love green things. Kermit included. Here he says things like "I am green," and "I want a perfect body."

And yes, he said "fucking." You're so fucking special.

I'm sorry CJ, Talia, Sage, Sabine and Sadie, this post just ain't for you. Yet.

Come back in 18 years. Maybe your dad will let you listen to the lyrics.

You know, there's something very wrong with the world when a naked, green frog with a bib sings a very sad song.

It just ain't right.

Art

There's a five-year old girl who sometimes visits us and draws to while the hours away. I encourage her by posting her work where I work. That makes her happy and she proceeds to create some more.


There's also a grownup I know who claims to be an artist, but the artistry is perhaps limited to his moods. (I apologize to artists for that sentence). I tried the five-year old approach on him but he just won't calm down.

A child, surprisingly, can be more wise than a grownup.

Growing old, as I say, is mandatory. But growing up, it seems, is an option ignored by those of infantile minds. (I apologize to infants for that sentence).

Before this day ends...

This year of Our Lord, 2008, Mother's Day, I'd like to announce that I got a bouquet for being "The Reluctant Mother of Three."

I was on my way to the basement parking to get my cellphone in my car when I thought I heard the intercom buzz in my room. I wasn't expecting anyone, and no one knows my unit except for a few people, so I shrugged it off.

An hour after I got back in my room, my door bell sounded. I looked through the peephole and all I could see was flowers. I thought the guard made a mistake.

"Para po sa inyo, room ____," he said.
"Ha? Galing kanino?"
"Ipinaakyat lang po sa akin ng guard," he said.

Then I saw the hot pink wrappers. OH, IT'S THEM.



Then the picture. OH, IT'S REALLY THEM!


May 2008

To Mommy Miranda,

Place this beside your bed so you can always have beautiful mornings. Peace Miranda. Happy Mother's Day.

The Beautiful Tres Lokas

Sige na nga. Na-tats ako. And my room smells like a flower shop. Salamat nang marami!

Remembering a woman in Quezon

Driving back home today after another long breakfast with my best friend, I remembered her. For some unknown reasons, my mind drifts back to that afternoon when I met her, the lady who walked barefoot for hours to get to church to mark the day she got married.

I haven’t written anything about her, perhaps I should.

It was October 2001. I had four days to kill after a reunion in Malaysia with the journalist-friends I studied with in Sweden.

Two friends and I decided to go to Quezon, a trip marked by our collective lower backs' revolt, after almost 14 hours on a bus, a jeep, and a tricycle ride that trudged slowly on dusty, rocky roads. The mountainsides taunted us with their waterfalls, but the rushing water made their feet crumble.

We washed the trip off our hair but the first pack of shampoo failed to bubble. We had to give it another try, another pack.

We stayed with nuns who lived in a nipa and bamboo house, designed much like those you see in the countryside. But they had make-do gardens, and chairs they made with their bare hands, where I stayed for hours because it had the magical effect of emptying my mind. I was a child lost in nothing thoughts, surrounded by tall trees that shaded the whole place.

I slept outdoors alone, on a bench, and watched the moon and the stars and the fireflies, my mind still empty except for the buzzing of mosquitoes held at bay by Off lotion.

The following day, we went to a huge waterfall where my two friends almost drowned. They clung onto a rock, unable to fight the circular current made by the crashing water. I shifted to autopilot, and calmly waited for passersby who could swim.

We strayed on a beach resort owned by a politician. An old woman and her husband welcomed us and said they had no guests that day, and we can have the place to ourselves.

We bought gin and drank the sleepy afternoon away under monumental trees that must have seen half the province’s history and the entire life of the caretakers.

The previous day was their 50th wedding anniversary, she said. They had no money so they walked for hours to get to the nearest church. She took her shoes off and wore it only in church.

The husband said they marked the day by themselves. Their kids are all grown up and have kids of their own. The resort is where they let their days pass, earning their keep by keeping it tidy.

It must have been the gin but I wanted to cry. I think I did, a bit. When I hugged her at the end of the day, I think I really did.

We all deal with the things thrown our way. Sometimes we fight back with no strategic battle plans. Sometimes we fight to change a few things. Sometimes we just bow our heads and grit our teeth to survive the lashings.

Whatever we do, we deal with whatever life offers us the best way we know how.

I will not imagine her life and use factors like primary education, functional literacy, reproductive health, and women’s rights in the equation. When I think of her, those things make no sense. Like wood to tin.

I can’t imagine her life and say she did not have a full life. She probably did, under her life’s terms and conditions. She dealt with life her way, the best way she knew how, and had no complaints.

I just don’t know why when I think of her, I get sad. It gives me the feeling of long, silent afternoons with the sun unable to shine through several layers of leaves. And then it just gets dark. It’s suddenly nighttime. No sunset.

Mother's day

Florida, August 2003 - Nanay is watching the finals of Jeopardy. Biggest bucks for the year, and the winner is considered supreme nerd. Or something like that.

I lie down on the sofa beside her chair. The category is "two countries."

ALEX: Name the two countries that divided the world between themselves.
ATTICUS: Spain and Portugal.
NANAY: Looks at me. Looks upset. Looks at TV again.

ALEX: The final question: name the first two Arab countries to open diplomatic relations with Israel.
ATTICUS: Jordan and Egypt.
NANAY: (Stands up, angry). Bakit mo alam ang sagot? Siguro na-replay na ito sa Pilipinas, ano?
ATTICUS: Ha? Paano mauuna ang Pilipinas sa Jeopardy?
NANAY: Hindi! Replay na ito kaya alam mo ang sagot! (Storms out of the room).

That's my mom. What's yours like?

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO THOSE WHO ARE BRAVE ENOUGH TO HAVE KIDS.

AND TO ALL THOSE CARRYING AN EGG...MAY ONE BE FERTILIZED SOON.(ONLY IF YOU PLAN TO, THAT IS)

AND REMEMBER: YOU ALL OWE ME FOR NOT INFLICTING ON THE PLANET ANOTHER ONE LIKE ME.

YET.

What's on your wall?

COMMITTEE CHAIRMANSHIPS

JJ – Committee on Anthropology and Historical Facts Preservation
TIFFY – Committee on Panic and Crisis Management
DANZ – Committee on Gender Issues
MIKE – Committee on Women Affairs (16-19 years old)
MADEL – Committe on Breast Concerns & Naughty Affairs
VERA – Committee on Psychological Concerns
PAT - Committee on Ethical Standards and “DINNER” affairs
KORYN - Committe on Fashion and Beautification
MADZ – Committee on Emotional Hang-Ups
VIEBSH – Committee on Hogs & Livestock & Boylet affairs
WELLS - Committee on Food Health and Nutriton
ANGEL – Commitee on Pre-Marital Sex Issues
JUNI – Committee on Work Standard & Majority Floor Leader
NOI – Committee on Mummy Preservation & Morbid Affairs
ROMMEL – Committe on Cults and Religious Affairs
KAROL– Committee on Silence
TESA - Committes on Senior Citizens and Veteran Affairs
BOMBIE – Commitee on Animal Husbandry Extra-Marital Affairs
KIT – Commitee on Dental Affairs
REX – Commitee on Husband-Wife Concerns
JOY – Commitee on Liquidation and Crew Management
ELLEN – Commitee on Complaints
JACK – Commitee on Fatal Attraction and Hopeless Romantic Issues

This made my day. Nessa sent me this today, an email that's almost four years old. It was written (after hours of hilarious brainstorming and debate) by my staff on August 19, 2004.

You can guess the personality of each person depending on the committee they made up for that individual. Or at least it showed the biggest issue the person was facing at the time. This "committee assignment" was on our wall for a couple of weeks.

Looking back, it makes me wonder: Didn't I give them enough work to keep them busy? How come they had time for this? Hehe.

Those days were tough. My team was the biggest among the weekly programs, and ours being on primetime, we all went through a lot of crisis.

The program is tough, and the focus was to sustain our being number one. I think it was why their sense of humor was different, their bond deeper. Many of them are gifted, each in various ways. The passing of years, the accumulation of experience, has sifted chaff from grain. The good ones are sharper, the best ones sharpest.

But I also had to deal with unimaginable nightmares, asleep or awake; of someone stabbing someone's hand with a pencil, making it bleed, in the middle of a meeting; of them having their own meetings while I was presiding over OUR meeting; of the girls sexually harrassing the boys (Eto boobs ko, oh. Hawakan mo nga!); of them asking me and other people at the gazebo for P20 because they wanted to prove they can survive a day without money of their own; of me trying to quiet them down as they hurl invectives at each other to prove a point (a lot of times there's none) about something so damn unimportant. Of Kit sounding so cool when he arrives: "O, ako lang ito, huwag niyo na akong pagkaguluhan."

Madel and Danz and a few others like pulling each other's hair. When they do that, I panic. It looks so...violent. And juvenile. I was always scared if one of them's gonna get pissed.

This was not the only thing they hung in our cubicle. Some of the girls photocopied their college IDs and proceeded to label each one according to their imagined reputation. Pat dated when she finished college. Koryn sometime during college. Viebsh in high school. Madel in elementary, I think.

They also posted their Christmas wishes, a yearly tradition. (Kung sino man ang nakabunot sa pangalan ko, gusto ko ng ____ ) And some nasty ones would write side comments like "Asa ka pa!" And someone would write a nastier reply until the paper's so dirty but so fun to read.

Madz, always the serious one, posted the Constitutional provision and the Republic Act dealing with public documents (in all areas of our small cubicle), as a way to prevent herself from pulling her hair while doing research for our special report on corruption. (They all hate me for wanting that episode)

Noli photoshopped Danz's picture, complete with a rubber ducky in one hand and a flower in one ear, and made it look like a poster for a movie entitled "Ang Pagdadalaga ni Danila." It was one of our PC's wallpaper for some time.

They got bored waiting for everyone to arrive during a brainstorming session and proceeded to make a short film entitled "Walang Liligaya." It had sex, a lot of moaning and sex, and a spurned ghost who killed people who dared to have sex. Oh, did I mention it had a lot of sex?

These are just some of the memories I have of them. I'm sure there are more but I'm happy enough now, recalling these things.

Rain on my parade

I was supposed to finish work on some article revisions yesterday, but I decided to give myself a reprieve (Fine, I was procrastinating) and take pictures of fiesta parades at the Luneta instead.

It rained. Hard. Complete with all the required sound effects to add to the horror.


I took home just one nice picture. Just one picture of this bird. You know how it feels when instinct tells you you took a nice one? Your heart beats faster right after the click. You can't wait to go home and look at it, magnify it, critique it.



I looked at the actual size of this picture and then I saw why I felt good: the bird is singing, its head facing the heavens. It has its beak wide open. No, you can barely see it here.

Here it is.


Wanna buy it?

Happy song at 3AM

I discovered this song while dealing with a flat in Paete. I didn't get most of the lyrics at the time, but I thought it contained a lot of "hapi tots," as I like to call 'em.

I thought "she" was the mad girlfriend (whose sentiment I totally understood) in the song "Rest Stop." I was wrong.

Rob sang this in slow mode, too, live. Both versions are good, especially if you consider that he wrote this in his teens while dealing with his mom who was having health problems at the time.

I honor good writers by not buying pirated music. I'm so dang old fashioned but since the music industry is replete with bad lyrics, empty sentiments, and brainless messages (think "Don't touch my birdie"), the best revenge is to buy only the good ones.

3AM

She say it's cold outside and she hands me my raincoat
She's always worried about things like that
She says it's all gonna end and it might as well be my fault
And she only sleeps when it's raining
And she screams and her voice is straining

[chorus]

She says baby
It's 3 am I must be lonely
When she says baby
Well I can't help but be scared of it all sometimes
Says the rain's gonna wash away I believe it

She's got a little bit of something, God it's better than nothing
And in her color portrait world she believes that she's got it all
She swears the moon don't hang quite as high as it used to
And she only sleeps when it's raining
And she screams and her voice is straining

[chorus]

She believes that life is made up of all that you're used to
And the clock on the wall has been stuck at three for days, and days
She thinks that happiness is a mat that sits on her doorway
But outside it's stopped raining.

* * * * *

Happy weekend everyone! May it be filled with your list of happy songs!

Hug the one you're with!

Christmas

I'm home trying to get some work done when I began feeling like Christmas.

The classical music CD I popped into the gizmo turns out to be one entitled "Hallelujah," a Christmas work by four choirs, one of Mormon variety.

I miss my CD collection called Classical Music for People Who Hate Classical Music. Yes, there is such a thing. I think it was one of those things I lost when I moved here. I have classical music playing when I write.

I enjoyed the feeling of being eight months ahead of everyone else so it's still playing.

There's even fireworks outside my window. It makes it almost complete.

Now this one is fiction. I'll probably include it in the book I will write in the future, which only my mother and loyal friends (there are two of them, so the book's sale will be a grand total of three), will buy.

A huge Caucasian guy introduced himself to me inside the elevator today.

"Hi, I'm Paul. I'm a bodybuilder," he said.
"Hi, I'm JJ, and I'm a girl," I said.
"Of course I know you're a girl," he said, and looked at my boobs.
"Of course, I know you're a bodybuilder," I said, and stared at his unnaturally large biceps. Those pills must pack a wallop.

He laughed and got the point. It must be State the Obvious Day somewhere in this planet and we were both joining the celebration in the 5 x 5 space.

Thus I shared the elevator ride with a genetically-modified organism, who asked me if I cared for drinks. I wondered if he'll turn green and crush the elevator doors like a tin can if I say something to make him mad.

I didn't. I just said I have some work to do, that I'm a maid and waiting for my masters to come home. I don't know if he believed me because he was looking at my short shorts.

I reached my floor and I turned right. When I heard the elevator doors close I ran to the opposite direction, jammed the key in, went inside, and locked the door.

It's May 1. Workers unite. Or something.

Don't pay attention to me. It's Christmas in my state of mind.