Tales of a Backpacker

Atticus's hidden wealth

2009-12-16T14:49:00.002+08:00

I was scrounging around for leftover dollars when I found out I don't have leftovers. I have amassed unexplainable wealth worth $300, lying forlorn and forgotten in one of my old wallets.

Now I'm jumping all over my room like a monkey on steroids.

I'm spending Christmas in Vietnam. After that I'll move to Cambodia, then Laos. I'll be back after the holiday craziness in Manila has calmed down a bit and everyone's wondering what the hell happened and bitterness starts to creep in because of all the spending.

I think I can stretch this $300 to cover the three countries. Hmmm. Yep, I think I can. I've done this before.

Tip: buy dollars when it's cheap, put it in a wallet you've said goodbye to, then forget about it.

*jumps around the room again like a monkey on steroids*

Sabihin mo: Thank you po

2009-12-12T10:07:00.007+08:00

The eight year old was repeatedly whispering to his six year old brother : Pag ibinigay na sa iyo, sabihin mo thank you, ha? Thank you.

Their parents were away, and they lined up on their own to get the shirts we were giving away.

"Ang galing naman ni Kuya, tinuturuan ang kapatid niya," said Chloe.
The older boy smiled sheepishly, suddenly shy.

"Thank you po," said his little brother when we handed him his shirts. Yes, you saw an S there. You gave them two shirts each. Two shirts each for 160 students.

They were all planning to skip this school-wide affair on December 15, because they were required to wear white shirts.

The community leaders were so thankful that the shirts you my fellow bloggers graciously financed came just in time for that event.

Now's my turn to say thank you to you for helping me do this.

What is amazing is that most of you do not even know me personally, but you trusted me enough to chip in. Chloe is right: give every person the privilege to help, and they will. My heart now has this faith that given the chance, people will do the right thing.

Here's an accounting.
Money received:

Snugly - P2,000
Concon - P2,000
Scud - P1,500
Angel - P1,000
Nessa - P2,000
Incognito - P2,000
Friedwater - P1,000
Blogusvox - P2,300
Total: P13,800

The shirts, which were of very good quality and bought from Snugly's friend, cost P12,659. We have P1,141 remaining in the kitty. We will use that money for our next initiative, which is to train people in teaching kids how to read.

And there, my fellow bloggers, I will need your help again. I need volunteers who are willing to undergo the training to get that skill, which can be used in teaching your own nephews and nieces and kids in poor communities how to read. Of course, our first target is the community in Banaba, San Mateo.

Fellow blogger Pearl, a teacher who has had experience in this field, has agreed to handle the sessions for free. Please sign up in the comments section so we can include you in the headcount. The training will be held one weekend in January.

Here are some pictures of the kids who want to thank you for the shirts you gave them.

Analyn

2009-12-03T19:51:00.007+08:00

How many people beat you up until you were dead, Analyn?

How can they just dump your lifeless body on the road, waiting for you to be squashed by oncoming traffic?

What evil possessed people to do that to you?

When we were young, your presence completed our volleyball team that competed against so many other teams. And we always won.

As your captain ball, I always relied on you to chase each smash that came our way, and you didn't mind the scrapes you got in doing so.

You never took offense. You always belittled problems, big or small, and forged on.

You always looked for me, even when I was hiding to be able to read after lunch. You always managed to get the team together to practice even when we didn't have to. You cajoled people into lighting the plaza so we can play until late in the evening. In a barrio that knew little nocturnal amusement, we became entertainment.

You never left our little barrio, while we all did.

There, you found a partner, fell in love, adopted a kid, and in those very rare times I went home, I saw you were happy.

As grownups, you wanted to recapture the things we did in our elementary and high school years. When the team went home for the holidays, you got everyone to conquer the plaza to play volleyball at night. And the people watched and cheered, like they did when we were in high school.

You're the first lesbian I knew and understood. Your gender was never an issue. You were part of my team.

And now I see the image of a beat up girl on a dark road bleeding, breathing her last. Alone.

You don't deserve that, Analyn. No one does.

Your death is another blow to my humanity, as I still try to grapple with the death of colleagues and strangers in a place I once stupidly traveled to, to write stories about.

We are becoming so perverted as a nation, and your death is one of the many proof of that. One too many.

The shirt initiative

2009-11-28T11:03:00.002+08:00

Folks, just to update you on the project.

Scud has sent in his P1,500 and promised to help in buying the shirts if his sked will allow it.
Snugly promised P2,000 and help in harassing his businessman friend for cheaper shirts.
Nessa promised P2,000
Friedwater promised P1,000.
Angel promised 20 shirts.
Blogusvox pledged to help, he's still trying to find out how he can send money.

Chloe and I plan to buy the shirts on Tuesday to avoid the Christmas crowd. Will keep you posted.

Baryotic lessons in GMRC

2009-11-27T23:40:00.002+08:00

"Tuloy ba tayo?" Ferdi asks in his text message.

It's a few minutes before five AM. He didn't say yes yesterday but apparently we're on. We met an hour later and proceeded to the Candaba swamp.

I was driving, and all I remember was the mayor's instructions the previous day. Baliuag (or some town that starts with a B, I don't remember anymore), and then turn left when you see a flyover. We stopped and asked for directions before I made any major turns to be sure.

"Tatang, saan po ang Candaba swamp?" I asked an old man, who was sitting in front of a store.
"Ito, lahat ng ito, Candaba swamp," he proudly tells me.
"Saan po iyong maraming ibon?" I asked again.
"Dito, lahat ng ito, Candaba swamp, maraming ibon," he says again.
Difficult old man, I thought.
"Saan po ang Dona Simang?" I asked.
"Ah, doon ang mas maraming ibon, diretso ka lang," he says.

Ferdi and I had a good time laughing at the old man's reticence after that.

"Oh, an idiot I can bully," Ferdi said, mimicking the old man.
"And that idiot was me. Hahaha!" we laughed.

After our shoot, we decided to have lunch in the store where we encountered the old man. The road was bad and it would take us an hour to get to town and we hadn't had decent breakfast.

But the old man wasn't there when we got to the store.

Ferdi wasn't ready to eat corned beef right out of the can. I cajoled the store owner to saute it for us. I asked if we could have some rice to go with it, and the canned tuna flakes I saw on one of the shelves.

Half an hour later, we were invited to eat at small house's dining table, complete with an electric fan.

Ferdi paid for the food. We were charged P80 for the the tuna, corned beef, and two bottles of soda.

Ferdi wanted to pay for the rice and the cost of cooking the corned beef. He was rejected twice, the woman growing indignant when he repeated the offer.

"Hindi binabayaran dito sa lugar namin ang kanin at pagluluto," she said, proudly, and a little hurt.

Ferdi backed off, thanked the lady repeatedly, and bought two cans of pineapple juice he knows I won't drink.

I made him promise we'd go back in January, when there are more birds to shoot.

"Let's bring her a cake, then eat there again," I said.

I love old world civility and GMRC. Hah! We still have it.

(I also want to talk to the old man, more lengthily this time).

Help them stay in school

2009-11-22T13:24:00.007+08:00

Jilan

"Ate, ibibigay niyo na ba iyong uniform namin sa school," he asks me in an eager but conspiratorial, whispery tone.

I turn and see a cute kid with a smile that can light up your day, with eyes that smile.

A knot immediately formed in my chest.

Chloe, my social worker friend, asked me to take pictures of children in a community she serves. The donors want to see the children they are helping. What's two or three hours "para sa kabataan," for a bum, I thought. But being against what I call "poornography," I was focused on taking happy pictures of the kids.

And so there I was, taking pictures but saying almost nothing of significance because I don't exactly know how social workers process the acts of giving and helping, and I am terrified of the growing mendicant mindset of the poor these days.

And then that question.

His name is Jilan. He's almost seven and just started going to school last June.

"Bakit, wala ba kayong uniporme?" I asked him.
"Wala po, dinala ng baha ni Ondoy," he said.
"Ano ba ang uniporme niyo?"
"Puting pang-itaas po at tsaka red na shorts," he said. His friends began to join in in the conversation.
I asked them what they wear to school these days.
"Pang-lakad lang po ang suot namin, wala na pong uniform," said one.
He and the other children in the community are now wearing clothes they were able to dig out of the mud the flood left behind. These clothes are soiled, but wearable, so they make do.

The kids told me they want to wear uniforms to school.

Yes, if you're in grade one, you wear your school uniform with pride. I remember that feeling. That was so then, so it is now. It's like qualifying for grownupship. I'm a big boy/girl now. I have my uniform.

They were polite. I didn't hear cussing at all. They were just the usual kids, playing, running, but no rough words. This is unlike the people in some poor areas I've been to lately. Their elders, though poor, are organized and have created a kind, caring community.

I need your help. I want to be able to buy the 160 grade school kids of Banaba, San Mateo, two white shirts each. That's just the start. We can give them their red (maroon) shorts and skirts later. Let's help them stay in school, because apparently, they want to stay in school. The group Chloe works with has provided them with new notebooks, and is working on other basic community requirements.

Your contribution of P500 will go a long way.

Please.

Before I Forget: A repost

2009-11-15T22:43:00.005+08:00

I wrote this entry over three years ago. Angel reminded me of it this morning. She seems to remember even the quotes and the pictures I tried to paint here.

"Relish the small, pleasant things, and the stress will dissipate" he tells me.

Whoa, I thought. A lot of firsts in a span of 15 minutes. He's in the passenger side of my beloved Jiminy da Cricket, I am driving for him, and he's giving me advice. This oughta be an interesting day.

He's a lot older than I am, and he knows what he's talking about.

Years ago, we argued a lot. It was so stressful, for both of us.

Last year, with the position changes, we worked tentatively at first, then gradually the tension disappeared and we're a lot better now. I've begun calling him "Lolo" and he started using the word to refer to himself.

He excitedly fiddled with everything in my car like a kid. He was elated when he found out my AM radio was set to DZBB.

"I am happiest when young people around me begin acquiring things. I am so happy you chose this. This car really suits you," he says.

I told him I saved for almost two years for the downpayment, and I'm hobbling along with the monthly payments.

"Drive this out of town, relish the sights, just you and the road, and your music. That's what I do. It's bound to make you feel and work better," he says. Well, he should know. His job is more stressful than mine.

"Your Tita and I spend Sunday mornings just reading and having coffee. It doesn't cost us anything, save for the paper and the coffee. Cherish the simple things and remember how blessed you are," he adds.

"Sir, the difference between us is that you go home to your partner, your sounding board, your best friend. I don't have that. I go home to an empty pad and my laptop, and my silly plant is dying on me," I say.

"Well, that's a problem," he admits.

Then he suddenly looks stressed.

Then he taps Jiminy's dashboard and recaptures his cheerful mood. "This one. This one is your partner. Go out of town, have fun. Enjoy the open road."

He refuses to be let off the main lobby. He insists to go to the parking area with me. He smiles again when he sees the huge SUVs parked there.

"This one, this one should be your next car," he says. We go around it and inspect it and agree I'd be stinking rich soon and will buy one.

He thanks me for the ride. I thank him for the honor of riding Jiminy da Cricket.

I think that short ride from the stressful libel hearing made a lot of things better, more pleasant.

I am blogging this now before things get hazy. The earliest version of a story is the closest to the truth. I just want to remember this as one of those small, pleasant things that happened lately.

(I can now say that my passenger then was our anchor, Mike. This is the tender part of the man who people think yells a lot. He does not. He is a kind man, a bit cantankerous at times, but very endearing, generous and kind-hearted most of the time. Our arguments then, mostly about work, made me grow up and mature faster.)

Jologs version ni Lola Oriang

2009-11-10T13:44:00.002+08:00

Mga apo!

Kayong dalawa iyon. Psst. Ikaw babaeng nakapulang bandanna, at ikaw lalaking nakapulang t-shirt. Bakit ba pulang-pula kayo? RA ba kayo o RJ?

Mabuti naman napadpad kayo sa balay ko. Bihira ang nagpupunta sa bahay namin ni Julio. Tsk. Hindi na kami "in." Sabagay, sino ba sa mga bayani ang "in " pa sa inyo ngayon?

Ang dami niyo kasing bayani.

Nandiyan ang mga OFW, mahigit sampung milyon sila. Mga taxi driver na nagsoli lang ng porta moneda (wallet iyon!) na naiwan sa sasakyan nila, bayani niyo na. Di ba dapat lang isauli ang napupulot?

Eniway, ako ang Lola Oriang niyo. Gregoria de Jesus, Lakambini ng KKK, pangalawang asawa ni Andres Bonifacio. Siguro di niyo alam iyon, na may naunang misis si Andres? Monica ang pangalan ng unang misis ni Supremo. Pero namatay siya sa leprosy.

Menor de edad pa lang ako nang ligawan ni Andres. Anim na buwan din siyang nagpa-cute bago ko sinagot. Kung sa panahon ngayon matagal ang anim na buwan na ligawan, noong panahon namin, mabilis na iyon. Disi-otso ako nang ikasal kami.

Nagtambling ang mga magulang ko noong una, dahil hindi nila gusto si Andres para sa akin. Sosyal kasi ang pamilya ko, at bodegero lang si Andres.

Dagdag pa ni Mader at Pader, mason daw kasi si Andres. (Hindi in ang mga Mason noon). Takot din sila dahil nga sa leprosy namatay ang una niyang misis. Baka raw mahawa pa ako.

Taranta sina mader at pader. Inalis ako sa bahay namin sa Kalookan at ikinulong sa isang bodega sa Binondo. Panama ng mga soap opera sa drama ng love life namin ni Andres?

Alam niyo bang nag-SOS pa ako sa meyor ng Binondo para makalaya at maikasal kay Andres? Sus! Nakapagpapuslit ako ng sulat at naiabot ito kay meyor. Mga dalawang buwan lang naman, bago siya nakaaksion. Kita niyo na? Mabagal na rin ang serbisyo noon pa man.

Dalawang beses pa akong sumulat sa mga meyor ng Binondo at Kalookan, para lang makaalpas at mapakasalan si Andres.

Dalawang beses pa nga kaming ikinasal ni Andres. Una sa simbahan sa Tondo, at pagkalipas lang ng isang linggo, sa Katipunan naman. Hindi sa Katipunan malapit sa mga Heswita. Katipunan, as in sa ritwal ng mga Katipuneros.

May isa kaming anak ni Andres, na pinangalanan naming Andres din. Wala pa kasing bakuna nang panahon na iyon, kaya namatay si Andres Junior sa small pox habang baby pa lang.

Lider ng Katipunan si mister. Ako naman ang tagatago ng mga dokumento at gamit ng Katipunan. Pag may raid, may I orbit Manila in my calesa with the documents and anik-aniks of the revolutionaries ang beauty ko.

Nagsimula kaming magka-problema noong laging nag-aaway sa taktika sa labanan sina Andres at Emilio Aguinaldo. Lalo pang lumala ang gap ng dalawa noong botohan para sa bagong Republika noong 1897.

Kasi naman, napansin ko at ng ilang Katipuneros na maraming mga balota ang may nakasulat nang pangalan nang ipamigay sa mga botante. Okinnawa Japan, di ba?

Noon pa man, may dagdag-bawas na, Hello, Garci!

Dito na bumagsak ang samahan nina Andres at ng nanalong presidenteng si Emilio Aguinaldo.

Kasi naman, Interior Secretary na nga lang ang napunta sa mister ko, may humirit pa na hindi bagay kay Andres ang puwesto dahil hindi siya abugado. Lalong nagmarakulyo si Andres dahil nadaya na nga, ininsulto pa. Grade four lang kasi ang tinapos ni Andres, pero edukado naman siya dahil sa sipag niyang magbasa.

At dahil insecure si Aguinaldo at natakot sa aking mister, ipinag-utos niyang patayin si Andres. Nagkaroon ng paglilitis kuno at sinentensiyahan siya sa salang pagtataksil. Dinala siya at ang kapatid niyang si Procopio sa Mt. Buntis sa Cavite at doon sila pinatay.

Trenta'y tres anyos pa lang si Andres ko nang siya ay pinatay.

Alam mo ba ang pangalan ng nanguna sa grupong pumatay kina Andres at Procopio? Lazaro Macapagal. Hmmm. Iniisip mo ba ang iniisip ko?

Nga pala, maraming kuwento na ginahasa raw ako ng ilang Katipunero nang arestuhin si Andres, para lalong mapahiya ang aking mister.

Bilang dalagang Pilipina, no comment na lang ako riyan. Ang payo ko na lang, mag-research kayo. Do your homework. Ambot kay Ambeth. Siya ang tanungin niyo.

Eniway, 21 anyos pa lang ako, biyuda na. Kumusta naman diyan, di ba?

Tuloy pa rin akong nagsilbi sa bayan. Naging close ako kay Julio Nakpil, na pinuno ng Katipuneros sa norte.

Noong 1898, hindi na lang kami close, tight na kami. Ikinasal kami ni Julian. Haba ng hair ko, ano?

Nakitira kami sa bahay nina Dr. Ariston Bautista at ng kanyang misis na si Petrona Nakpil.

Ito ang bahay na iyon. Dito na rin lumaki ang walo naming anak ni Julio. Sinuportahan din ni Dr. Bautista ang pagpapaaral sa aming mga anak. Tsokaran nina Rizal at Juan Luna si Dr. Bautista. Sila nga iyong tatlong boys na nakatitig doon sa babae sa painting na Parisian Life na painting ni Luna.

Alam niyo bang iyong painting na iyon, iniregalo ni Luna kay Dr. Bautista at dito sa bahay na ito naka-display iyon? May apo lang kami na nag-nenok noon, at bigla na lang na-auction iyon, at binili naman ng GSIS.

Nakikita mo ba iyong administration building sa UP Diliman? Oo, iyong QVEZON hall, pronounced Ki-ve-zon hall. Gawa ng anak kong si Juan iyan.

Tingnan mo naman, ang anak ko National Artist for Architecture. Walang nagsingit ng pangalan niya, ha? Pati iyong dating Rizal Theater na tinibag na, design ng anak ko iyon.

Nga pala, bakit ba ang hilig niyong magtibag? Pati iyong monumento ni Andres sa Kalookan, titibagin niyo na rin. Di niyo na iginalang ang kontribusyon namin. Oo, hurt ako!

Alam niyo ba kung bakit paikot-ikot lang ang problema ng bansa natin at di tayo umuusad? Kasi hindi natin pinag-aaralan ang kasaysayan. Nasa kuwento ng buhay naming nauna sa inyo ang mga problemang hinaharap niyo ngayon.

Wala kayong originality sa problema, ni-recycle niyo lang ang problema namin.

Kaya salamat naman at nadalaw kayo sa bahay namin. Sana iyong mga barkada niyo rin, umalis muna sa harap ng Facebook at maglakad-lakad sa Quiapo.

Isang kanto lang ang layo ng bahay namin sa bentahan ng dibidi-dibidi na iyan. Silipin niyo naman ang bahay ko kahit sandali lang. Presyo lang ng isang pekeng dibidi na series ang bayad. Kalahating Starbucks lang. Libre pa nga kung talagang wala kayong pera.

Forty pesoses. Mura lang di ba? Pero ang history lesson, priceless!

Panalo ang Pinoy!

2009-11-05T14:05:00.004+08:00

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

2009-10-26T21:21:00.004+08:00

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

2009-10-07T23:30:00.009+08:00

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

2009-09-25T20:44:00.003+08:00

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

2009-09-24T12:33:00.004+08:00

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

2009-09-23T11:24:00.006+08:00

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

2009-09-17T14:22:00.008+08:00

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

Away nina hunghang at bargas

2009-09-15T20:51:00.005+08:00

hey atticus,

alam kong di ka matutuwa pero i'm already here in canada. i left last saturday. sensya if i wasn't able to tell you beforehand. photofinish lahat eh. i didn't even know kung makakaalis ako or not.

anyway, ill email you more kapag me free time.

regards,
FW

Atticus
i hate you
i really, really, really hate you.
FW:
i'm not surprised. im sorry.
Atticus:
no you're not. you didn't even tell me. not a hint
FW:
you're probably the 5th who told me that...ikaw lang ang vocal. i gave you a hint.
Atticus:
naiiyak ako sa galit. huwag mo muna akong kausapin
FW:
but i wont argue...mea culpa
Atticus:
eh bakit kasi?
FW:
malawak tanong mo
Atticus:
and a hint is not something we use. we talk like juveniles about things.
we debate and argue but we say what we think
tapos lalayas ka at pagdating diyan saka lang ... hello???
ginawa mo na iyan sa new zealand eh.
FW:
di ko alam sasabihin ko
sige pagalitan mo na lang ako
Atticus:
no. you talk.
you tell me why i deserve this.
why i deserve to be told that a friend has left for good AFTER he has left.
FW:
you dont. that's why im saying sorry
Atticus:
but why did you???
putang ina nasa cafe ako sa gym naiiyak ako sa galit sa public place.
FW:
ako mismo di ko alam na matutuloy ako. i had my visa pero my ticket was emailed to me the day before i flew
Atticus:
i don't understand. may facebook. may twitter. may email.
i kept posting on your FB pa, pero wala ka namang sinasabi.
FW:
yeah i know.
Atticus:
BUT WHY??? why nga?
why not a single text??
or phone call?
you said we were going to have coffee.
you said next time.
putang ina naman eh
I GAVE YOU TIME TO SPEND WITH YOUR FRIENDS THAT TIME.
pero ako, kape lang, ni hindi mo nagawa???
FW:
di ko alam sasabihin ko...
Atticus:
bakit nga? ano dahilan di ka man lang nagsabi? as a friend, why do you think you can do that to me???
FW:
kasi nga i dont even know kung matutuloy ako or hindi
Atticus:
BUT YOU HAD YOUR VISA!!
FW:
yup. with the global recession, no one is ever sure...even if you have your visa, ticket...me times na at the border you'll be rejected
Atticus:
AND YOUR RESPONSE TO THAT IS TO JUST LEAVE????
WITHOUT PROPERLY SAYING GOODBYE?????
TO SOMEONE YOU CONSIDER A FRIEND?
It's not something I will understand. I'm sitting here, seething in rage.
Putang ina naman...umiiyak ako sa galit dito.
ANO???????
FW:
eh di ko alam sasabihin ko eh
ill just let you talk...you have the right to say anything
Atticus:
you said we were going to have coffee..
lagi na lang kasi, puro ka next time.
until you ran out of time
FW:
jj, pahupain mo muna galit mo...i’ll chat with you next time...
Atticus:
alam mo, wala naman akong choice kundi suportahan ka riyan. but you should have said something before you left.
FW:
napangiti naman ako dun. salamat
Atticus:
you explain. baka sakali maintindihan ko.
explain please. email. explain.
i'm your friend and i will understand.
FW:
later na lang. jet lag eh. kaya pag inaantok i take a chance
i would understand if you blog yung galit mo sa akin pero please don't name me...hehehe
Atticus:
papangalanan kita. letse.
email. explain.
FW:
ikaw bahala. pero can you make my name John Bond?
Atticus:
baka i'll call you names na lang.
asar pa ako. huwag kang makulit.
nanggigigil pa rin ako sa iyo.
FW:
ask muna bakit john bond
Atticus:
sige, bakit john bond?
FW:
kasi meron nang james eh
Atticus:
letse. ilang taon ka riyan???
FW:
35 pa din. kaparehas nung nasa pinas ako
Atticus:
punyeta.
gaano ka katagal riyan?
FW:
2 years
Atticus:
umuwi ka rito at nang makakutos man lang ako.
saan ka sa canada? anong work?
FW:
farm supervisor
Atticus:
maraming tao riyan? hindi ka malulungkot? bigger town than that in nz???
maraming pinoy?
FW:
7 kami
Atticus:
malapit sa town? maraming tao? hindi ka malulungkot?
FW:
dami tao. mababait canadians relativey
Atticus:
okay.
then we're expecting a better situation there for you?
FW:
keeping my fingers crossed

Honestly, I just feel sooo sad and I'm dealing with it by being angry. Marami na rin kaming pinagsamahan ng hunghang na kaibigan ko. Sobrang lungkot lang ang layo na niya.

Ayan, naiiyak na naman ako.

Write me a poem, Jason

2009-09-11T22:28:00.002+08:00

Write something like this for me and I'd give you the good time you've never had between the sheets.
Shet.
Damn.
Why is it that guys who write like this are unreachable? Not fair.
Anyway, the first time I heard this, I was wondering why Jason would write something that sounds...Spanish. And so...romantic?
When I listened closely, I fell in love with the guy some more.
This kid is a genius. (Next to Sting, of course.)
Seriously, this guy can write.
Seriously, no woman would not want to be worshipped like this.

Bella Luna - Jason Mraz.

Mystery the moon
A hole in the sky
A supernatural nightlight
So full but often right
A pair of eyes a closing one
A chosen child in golden sun
A marble dog that chases cars
To farthest reaches of the beach and far beyond into the swimming sea of stars

The cosmic fish they love to kiss
They're giving birth to constellations
No riffs and oh no reservation
If they should fall you get a wish or dedication
May I suggest you get the best
For nothing less than you and I
Let's take a chance as this romance is rising over before we lose the lighting
Oh bella bella please
Bella you beautiful luna
Oh bella do what you do
Do do do do do

You are an illuminating anchor
Of leagues to infinite number
Of crashing waves and breaking thunder
Tiding the ebb and flows of hunger
You're dancing naked there for me
You expose all memory
You make the most of boundary
You're the ghost of royalty imposing love
You are the queen and king combining everything
Intertwining like a ring around the finger, of a girl
I'm just a singer, you're the world
All I can bring ya
Is the language of a lover
Bella luna, my beautiful beautiful moon
How you swoon me like no other

May I suggest you get the best
Of your wish may I insist
That no contest for little you or smaller I
A larger chance yet, but all them may lie
On the rise, on the brink of our lives
Bella please
Bella you beautiful luna
Oh bella do what you do
Bella luna
My beautiful beautiful moon
How you swoon me like no other, oh oh oh

The old man and the bus he never took

2009-09-11T00:57:00.004+08:00

The sun was setting and the old man looked longingly at the bus that passed him by. He often watches the dying hours of the day under a tree near the highway, his eyes following the people and vehicles he sees.

"I've never been to Manila," he said. "I've always wanted to see Manila, know what it's like," he said.

"You mean, all this time, you've never taken a bus to Manila?"

"I've never had enough money for it," he said. He was seventy at the time.

And that was the reason I swore I will leave Zambales as soon as I could.

The specter of spending the rest of my life in the province was a monster that always choked me when it entered my head.

And when I did leave, I rarely looked back.

I wanted to see, I wanted to know, I wanted to learn, I wanted to travel. I wanted to own, I wanted to possess, I wanted to live a life far from Zambales. I wanted to make my dreams come true.

I don't know if fear is a good motivator. It did prod me to leave and create a life outside of what I was probably destined, like others who stayed behind: be a wife, have kids, raise them.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. I just believed that I wanted a different life.

I don't even remember the old man's name anymore. I can't recall his face. But I do remember the darkening sky, the highway and how he looked at the buses that passed him by, and the fear he created in me.

I always remember that fear.

When (unstudied) arguments weaken the defense

2009-09-07T22:04:00.001+08:00

I was listening to the radio yesterday afternoon. A lady broadcaster and her male on-air partner were discussing Chavit Singson's latest caper.

I am not a great fan of the lady's intellect. I think she's all puff. The guy, well, I personally know he's macho, in the worst sense of the word.

The guy, of course, could not hide his glee that Chavit gave women a "sampol" of what can happen if you cheat on your man.

The lady broadcaster, despite her immense effort to articulate her point, could only say that it is against the law to beat up anyone. That Chavit may have abused his power and his office's resources in tracking down his common-law wife and her new lover.

Talk about friendly fire. Of getting a bullet from someone who's supposed to be on your side, but does not quite know how to aim and shoot. (Expletives deleted here.)

If I have the lady broadcaster's number, I would have given her a call and a dressing down she won't forget. And it would start and end in doing your homework before having the temerity to broadcast your inanities and infecting the country with your low IQ and work ethic. (Yes, expletives deleted, again.)

The Chavit issue, while it may prod some to step on a soapbox and scream "immorality" is not just about abuse of power and violation of the law. (And yes, anyone who screams "immorality" will get a "hypocrite!" response from me.)

It speaks of how many men still regard women as their personal property. That providing for her, having the financial power over her, is key to owning her. And despite neglect, she should just be there on the shelf, waiting patiently to be picked up by her man again, which in most cases never happens.

The whole affair also speaks of the kind of men we have: A man who will bed a 17-year old and proceed to have five children with her, and another man who will seduce a woman at her weakest point in life for personal financial gain.

And Chavit's woman? Oh, lady, the things that happened to you when you were young are not insurmountable, and somewhere between baby number 2 and 3 until you reached baby number 5, you should have gathered your friends for a girl power powwow and put your life in order, instead of behaving like a delegate to an intergalactic convention of women who need men's attention.

You should have figured out that you were at the losing end of the equation when Chavit cavorted with starlet number 1 to infinity, for I heard there are many.

And for the new lover? No pity from me, despite reports from sources that you will never be able to rise to the occasion ever again.

You're a married man. Period. You idiot. Period.

And the lady broadcaster? Study. Interview experts before you go on air and spew out your inanities because the microphone has a multiplier effect.

You are another idiot.

Period.

Men!

2009-09-04T22:42:00.002+08:00

"My boyfriend's arm muscles are so huge but he won't even use them to open doors for me, and I'm carrying tons of books," a friend once complained.

I spend a lot of hours in the gym now, and I see men pumping iron furiously, already looking like "echoserong" bullfrogs.

I see fat men pushing and pulling heavy irons. Hence, they are fat in the middle but hugely muscled in the limb department. Why not hit the cardio area first and lose all that fat before heavy lifting?

Or why not develop a brain first?

The gym offers plastic cups and we are politely asked to write our name on one so we can reuse it and minimize our contribution to the dump site.

I see some men just crumple the plastic cups and use new ones the next time they need a drink.

Hay, men. I don't get you sometimes.

But really, why do some men want to have muscles that look unnaturally huge? What's with the huge biceps?

I like men who look lean. Like Piolo. The guy looks like he has outlawed fat. He probably has 10 percent fat, and he looks so sexy. He doesn't do any heavy lifting like the other guys.

Guys with huge arms and legs look, well, weird.

Hay, men. I don't get you sometimes.

Teachers

2009-08-31T11:04:00.008+08:00

"Yeeessss. You have your subject, and your background. Simple. Yeeesss. Keep it simple, sweetheart," she said.

It was our second day, and already she was declaring her pride at how well we absorbed her lessons in composition.

"This is why I teach," she said. "I feel great when my students learn." She looked at her small class, her face lit up with pride.

Her name is Cecilia, and she has been teaching photography for decades now.

She must have been a student activist. When she took her students to Makati to shoot the Christmas lights there, they were told by the guards that it was forbidden. It being a public place, she quizzed them on who ordered the ban and why, then instructed her students to run in various directions and shoot what they can. She can be a handful.

She reminds me of another teacher, a zoologist who was recently honored by Time Magazine as a hero of the environment.

"You journalists always spell scientific names wrong!" Ms. Jurgenne thundered at us during a seminar on population and the environment. "Italicize the whole thing, and only the first letter of the first name is given an upper case!"

Then the kicker: "If you forget all the lessons here and remember only how to use scientific names correctly, then I'll be happy!"

We all snickered, but understood her passion for her field.

Then she showed us a photo spread of a male model in briefs hugging a mangrove. "See this? There was even no mention of the fact that the mangrove is alone in a vast beach and that it is almost a century old!"

Of course we were all focused on the model's crotch, which unfortunately or fortunately, can really rival the mangrove for attention.

But I remember her, the teacher, and her passion, and the awards she reaps while she toils in mangrove areas, teaching local fishermen the value of planting and nurturing mangroves.

Good teachers teach us crafts. But the great ones make us see the things we do in a different light, and this time, with passion.

And passion is not an easy subject to teach, and cannot be taught unless one has it.

Three cheers for teachers!

Life in the fast lane

2009-08-30T14:40:00.004+08:00

Swish

A friend's father died. He lost consciousness all of a sudden, fell, and hit his head on the ground too hard that it damaged his skull. He passed away two days later.

Life. Here and then gone in the blink of an eye.

Being socially inept, I didn't know what to say. So I said nothing, ignoring the elephant in the room that is called grief.

For what can one say to lessen the loss, the pain? Do I even make the arrogant assumption that something I say can make her feel a bit better?

Sometimes I wonder if I am making each moment count.

Photo ooops!

2009-08-25T21:25:00.001+08:00

Sssssh. Nag-aaral lang akong mag-picture picture. Isang linggo lang naman ito.

Medyo napupuri naman ang ilang mga kuha ko, pero ang layo ko pa sa kakayanan ng marami. Dapat akong humabol. Dapat kasi, noon ko pa ginawa ito. Pero hamo na, at least ngayon, nagkaroon na ako ng pagkakataon.

Ang pinakamahirap na parte rito ay pag-uwi. Kasi naman, ayaw magsakay ng mga taxi. Na-trauma ako noong unang araw ko kasi ang babastos ng mga taxi driver. Paging LTO patrol! At ang mga nag-aalok na ipagpara ako ng taxi, (pero hihingi sila ng bayad) napaka-agresibo.

Kanina, nang pauwi ay nag-jeep ako hanggang Lawton. Nag-bus hanggang Welcome Rotunda. Tapos jeep ulit hanggang bahay. Maulan kasi kaya mahirap sumakay kaya kahit natatakot ako, sige na.

Lunes nag-taxi ako dahil di ko alam papunta sa iskul. Tapos kanina coding si Jiminy da Cricket.

Pero mali ang magtipid sa pamasahe at umasa sa taxi. Kasi ang laman ng backpack ko, matagal kong pinag-ipunan.

Kaya bukas, magmamaneho na ako.

Aalis ako nang maaga mula sa bahay dahil alam niyo naman, may nagbaon ng timba at batya nang magsabog ng katangahan sa direksion.

Ako iyon, huwag na kayong mag-akusa ng iba pa.

This ain't a (decent) food blogpost

2009-08-19T10:48:00.009+08:00

And so it came to pass. Three girls met up one late night and started talking about some serious stuff, seriously, over beer.

One just got out of the gym and was protein-hungry. It being a Mediterranean resto, she (the idiot) ordered some chicken and beef whatchamacallit.

Then her picture-crazy brain started going into overdrive. She saw a subject and took pictures of it with her phone's camera.

Her first try. A bit lousy and messy. She was given one whatchamacallit with one tomato. She (the idiot) divided the tomato and placed each piece well, where each should be.

The second one's a lot better.

She (the idiot) now thinks she can have a career in food photography.

The idiot.

"Now how can we eat this, after you played around with it?" one of her friends asked.
"Simple," the idiot said.
She got a knife and sliced the whatchamacallits in the middle.
"Aaaaaargh! That hurts!" the other two girls wailed.
The idiot slowly licked the whatchamacallit's tip, then put her lips over it languorously, before suddenly swallowing the piece.
"That is how you eat it," she (the idiot) said.

'Nuff said.

Jobless

2009-08-14T12:11:00.003+08:00

I quit my job last Friday. Long story. Oh, long work hours, 11 hours a day. And I resented being asked to work longer hours. So I huffed and puffed and walked away.

So here I am, with all my muscles and joints throbbing in pain. I hit the gym again (which I've long wanted to do but never had the time) and have been hogging the treadmill a minimum of 100 minutes a day. And I've begun pulling the lightest of weights but my muscles are making the worst of complaints. It feels so damn great!

I am enlisting on a five-day intensive basic photography class (which I've long wanted to do but never found the time) which begins ten days from now, and I still have to figure out how to get to Intramuros on public transportation from Tomas Morato. Finally, a class on how to do it right. It feels so damn great!

(If you're going to give me directions, be nice. Please make it idiot-friendly.)

What's next? I don't know. I was thinking of thumbing cars at Quezon Av. You get laid and you get paid. The kind of job where no one gets laid off, you're just laid down.

I'm thinking of writing my shit. You know Hemingway said the first draft is always shitty, right? So, I'm thinking of writing my shit and aiming to win my first Booker, Pulitzer and Nobel. Okay, a Palanca would be nice, too.

If you're my friend you should be worried, I might be writing about all the juicy stuff you've been telling me. Yes, be afraid, be very afraid.

(Don't grab the phone to call me yet, idiot. What makes you think your life is interesting? You're my friend. You don't have an interesting life because I don't have an interesting life, which made us friends.)

I'm thinking of jamming stuff down my backpack, flying to Vietnam, then take a train to Laos and Cambodia. Three in one. Lemme see. Tickets are cheaper if you buy months in advance. Yep. That will be September.

So here I am, jobless. But armed with tons of wisdom on how not to be a boss. Things I knew a long time ago but some older than I haven't learned yet, apparently.

But I choose to be happy about being jobless for now. I'm taking care of me for now. Four hours a day in my gym. Taking things slowly, not frantically working the machines. And I'm driving out of town and camping out with friends next weekend.

It feels so damn great!