12/15/2004

Writer

Two months into my job in advertising, and I am more artistic now than I have ever been in my entire life. It's not that the job provides me with venues for creativity. It does not: I am not in creatives, so I am not supposed to be creative. But I don't know. The whole working experience has somehow rekindled the passion for writing that I had long feared lost. And here's when I realize that there might be some purpose to me sticking out this job after all.

Every morning, before I step into the office, I spend an hour or so in a coffee place, scribbling disjointed words on the office-supplied intermediate pad that has become indispensible to me. Last week, my regular companion was a tall cafe latte in the Starbucks two blocks away. When my dad learned of this, he pointed out, in no uncertain terms, that it was not economical to spend, on a daily basis, that much money on a mug of coffee and a place to write my thoughts down.

Upon his suggestion, therefore, I decided to look for another place. I settled on this quaint cafe that is right across my office building. Jackpot. The ambience here is terrific. The tables are clay orange, and the bare cement floor is sprinkled with dull Mediterranean tiles. The waiter is attentive but not pushy. The songs, and there are only four of them, are Christmas-y and mellow without being annoying.

And speaking of songs, it's a bit ironic that I spend my mornings with melodies and my nights with rock. For the past how many days, I have been basking in Green Day's "American Idiot." Favorites there are "She's a Rebel," "Holiday," and "Boulevard of Broken Dreams." "Jesus of Suburbia" is cool as well, but I'm not quite sure if it's blasphemous, so I'm suspending my preference for that. But I digress.

On the coffee place again - the best seats in the house are mine. For two days now, I have been parking myself on a table for three that is right beside a floor-length window that allows me a full view of an almost quiet street. And the best part is that my ticket to stay (also known as the bottomless cup of coffee they serve) costs me just 50 bucks. Not bad at all for a place where poems are written and poets are born.

Well, I'm not sure if the poet in me has been born yet, but I have written a few lines. Mostly haiku (don't ask me why), but I've also started work on longer poems, as well as essays. I'll be posting them up here eventually or having them published (I wish!), but, for now, I am keeping them to myself. They're little children who can't stand alone just yet, so I've got to keep them close.

I am so glad to have finally settled on this routine. There's something almost romantic about playing the part, if not actually being, the budding poet who scribbles stuff down just because it feels right to her. After debate, this is the next instinctive thing that has inserted itself in my life. It's about time too. At this point, I desperately need something to look forward to.

Life does work in mysterious ways- in this most routine and uncreative setting, I am starting to realize that maybe, just maybe, I was born to be a writer after all.

11/25/2004

The Resurrection

For the past how many weeks, this site has looked woefully abandoned. That's downright sad, especially since I promised myself I'd write something here every week. Oh well. Times change, and so must my blogging routine. If anyone's wondering, Chica Teasa is to blame.

* * *

I wouldn't say that I'm having a blast at work, but I wouldn't say that it's been a total drag either. My boss, who I spend most of my time with, is very easy to get along with. My co-workers, although I know little else besides their names, are nice enough. And the job itself can get interesting. This week, for instance, I went to three different households to conduct interviews. I felt like one of those reporters on TV. I had a cameraman with me and a tape recorder to boot. So yes, the job does have its perks.

But still, I am hoping and praying for more non-working national holidays.

* * *

Not too long ago, my six-year-old cousin had a birthday party, and my sisters and I agreed to host it.

Because of that, I now know what Joseph Estrada was feeling when EDSA 2 happened. The young chimpanzees (a.k.a. cousin and friends) were howling, screeching, and chattering the whole time, all of them challenging me with fearless eyes and defiant expressions. Every move of theirs was meant to question my authority. Oh wait. Like Estrada, I never did have authority to begin with.

* * *

The party made me realize that I like kids. Specifically, I like listening to their questions. One of the better ones is this: when I was shouting instructions to the Statue Game, a young girl asked worriedly: "when we're statues, are we allowed to breathe?"

* * *

The party experience got me thinking about my teaching days.

When I was a high school senior, I spent a week in Baguio as a teacher for second-grade students. I felt like a clown then, dancing and singing and twirling around in order to make the class pay the least bit of attention. One day, everything was going fine until a girl used me as an example of an adjective. She said "Ate Sofia is fat." "And you are ugly" was the sharp retort I came so close to saying. Ashamed as I am to admit it, I did not retaliate.

The world must forgive me for letting the human cockroach live.

* * *

When I don't feel old, I feel incredibly young.

One time, the Goddesses and I were in Powerplant to catch a movie. Since we had time to spare before the movie started, we decided to stop by Toy Kingdom.

I asked the salesman, "Do you have a Harry Potter wand?" He showed me where it was, and I delightedly played with it for a few minutes. After which, I asked "Do you have a Light Saber?" This time, I couldn't play with it because it was in a box. The next thing I know, the salesperson was running towards me, saying "Ma'm, here's a He-Man axe and a Ninja Turtles sword."

He grinned at me, I glared at him, and my friends did not even bother trying not to laugh.

* * *

Another day of work tomorrow. I cannot say that I am looking forward to it. If you do something for half a day almost every single day, you'll inevitably start wishing you could do something else.

Such is the case with me.

10/10/2004

Earthquake, Job, and Concert

Last Friday night, I experienced my first earthquake.

I was in front of the computer when my body lurched and my mind started spinning. Confusion was my first reaction. Okay, am I fainting? Why am I fainting? I don't faint! I just sleep. And am I going to throw up all over the computer too?

I glanced at the floor. It was doing the wave. In a mild way, of course, but there was no mistaking its waving. I looked back at my computer. It was rattling now, as was the electric fan. Is there a ghost here or something? Will the lights start turning on and off now?

And then - Is this an earthquake? I was thinking of whether to crawl under the table or not when I remebered that my sister was downstairs. So I called her, and she answered, sounding majorly freaked out. I was bracing myself to go downstairs so that we could hide under the table together when the shaking stopped. As if nothing had happened.

I remember reading somewhere that the worst part of an earthquake is over in a minute. The shaking was over in less than that, but it took a whole lot longer for my experience of it to end.

8 October 2004 Earthquake. Richter Scale: 6.2. Duration: 30 seconds.

* * *

Technically, this was not the first earthquake that I had experienced. When the 1990 earthquake (i.e. Scourge of Baguio) happened, I was in the school bus right outside school. The bus started swaying, and we, the grade school kids, thought that it was the high school people shaking the bus. (There used to be this rivalry between the grade school and the high school bus riders before. Very silly. But, of course, I did not take part in this. Not for anything but because I did not start speaking or even socializing until I was in the fourth grade. Seriously.) And then the shaking stopped.

I honestly do not consider this to be an earthquake experience. The bus was shaking, true. But maybe, just maybe, it was because of a childish prank that those high school kids never owned up to.

* * *

Revelation of the week: I work in Chica Teasa, an advertising firm, now. I started last Monday.

No regrets so far. The office is an igloo (some glitch in the centralized air-conditioning system, I hear), but the people are very friendly. Almost everyone there knows my name already. I can wear jeans and sneakers all I want, except, of course, when I have to meet with clients. Plus, I have my own computer and a direct line. (If you want to call me, text me, and I'll send you my number.) Bad thing is that I think I'm getting addicted to caffeine. I've been having one tall cafe latte per day.

Oh well. There are worse addictions.

* * *

While the people in the office are very nice, I have not interacted with any of them in a setting that does not involve work. Specifically, I have not had lunch with any of them.

First thing is that the schedule in advertising is pretty unpredictable. The people my age who I think I would like to have lunch with are nowhere to be found when lunch break comes around. Second, I think I am not sociable enough. I mean, I am one of the friendlier people I know, but I have never been one to invite myself to anything. So those who are around don't invite me, and I don't invite myself. Poor uninvited me.

Don't get me wrong - I am not allergic to eating alone. I can do that, no problem. I find it a tad uncomfortable, true, but by no means unbearable. I have had enough practice in this in the five-day Ignatian silent retreat that I attended after my graduation.

I just think it would be a lot nicer not to spend my technically unproductive hours with a companion I will end up eating.

* * *

I watched the Alicia Keys concert with Cokelover and Comic last night. The three of us were the only ones in our area who were standing, and I thought that was cool. Alicia is a really good performer - Gloria Estefan, Beyonce, and Stevie Wonder rolled into one. She doesn't talk to the crowd that much, but Cokelover said that might be because doing so is a Filipino thing.

I don't know her songs like I do Alanis' (at least in the first album), but that girl sure does have style. I'll be getting her CD soon.

* * *

Much as I had a great time during the concert, I would have to say that the talking session that the three of us had in Comic's house, which lasted until four in the morning, was just as fun, if not more so.

Thanks for the great time, friends! And thanks also for the surprise. :)

* * *

If I am not mistaken, the last concert that I watched was the Stephen Speaks one in the Ateneo covered courts.

I was with Ollie and Dione, I think. And then Ollie went somewhere, so Dione and I were alone in the side area that was right next to the stage. We were just standing, listening, and occasionally screaming into each other's ears.

The people around us were shouting for one of the band players to throw something. I don't remember now, but I think it was either a pick or a towel. When the band player did throw something, Dione and I automatically stepped back to avoid getting hit by it. And when one of the band players started waving energetically in our direction, the people around us erupted into wild screams, but Dione and I just looked at each other. Of course, we ended up laughing about our absurd reactions seconds after.

Funny.

* * *

I am excited for my second week at work.

9/28/2004

Old School

About a week ago, a local news program was airing a feature on whether or not the identities of those politicians who had hired sexy stars for "escort services" should be revealed.

When interviewed, Senator Lito Lapid goes, "Ay, huwag naman. Bakit pa, eh nagbabayad naman itong mga politikong ito?" (Oh no. Why should we do that when these politicians pay for the services?")

Guilty much?
* * *

MYLK, Greenbelt 3

The food was decent, but the service was not. The waiters (except for one guy) seemed possesed with the spirit of Paul Bearer. They trudged around in somber faces that could have done justice to the Undertaker himself. I could not help but feel that Jac and I, with our pink shirts and sunny smiles, were imposing our presence in the white crypt masquerading as a restaurant.

If you're sensitive to this kind of thing, then I strongly advise you to stay clear of this place. If you're not, then bring a picnic basket to the cemetery instead. You'll get the same effect for free.

* * *

It's funny that I have been frequenting, sort of, my nursery-to-high-school alma mater. Apart from the training session that I already wrote about, I have gone there two more times: first, to get my high school transcript, and second to use the bathroom. And no, I did not schedule a date with the bathroom there.

Among the people I saw were:
  • Manong Lito and Manang Rita, who took care of me from nursery to prep. I was so touched when they both called me by name.
  • Mrs. Gracia, my Reading teacher, who has taken a break from teaching, which she told me she has done for half of her life, and now works in the High School Records section.
  • Mr. Nosico, who was the first male teacher my batch had and who thus had to suffer being teased to all the single ladies in the faculty. They've stopped doing that now, I hear. I wonder why.
  • Mrs. Lagmagdan. In Grade School, the former called me conceited when I couldn't stop giggling during a singing test. I've been scolded a lot of times for not being able to stop laughing, but I've never been called conceited for it. Okay, okay. In fairness, I was giggling at how horrible the girl beside me sounded. She was laughing at me too, because I sounded just as horrible as she did. Difference was that she was able to compose herself when the teacher started giving us the eye. I couldn't stop laughing though. Between the both of us, we made the Assumpta song sound like the dying cries of a newly slaughtered pig. The worst part was that we were really trying to sing in tune.
  • Mrs. Restor. In High School, the latter called me self-centered when I answered that I would not stop producing fireworks even if I knew it was bad for the environment. I answered this way precisely because I knew that this was not the reply she wanted (we were talking about preserving the environment). When you ask a question that very obviously demands a particular answer, you are goading me to give you the answer you don't want to hear. While I would have normally let this pass, something about that day inspired me to take the challenge. I answered as I did and got called self-centered. I got very offended, as she did not even let me explain my answer. Hence, I wrote her a strongly worded letter that night, and I gave it to her the next day. Needless to say, I was never her favorite student.
  • Ms. Water, Mrs. Fluffy Pancakes, and Mrs. Konye, all of whom now teach my youngest sister.
I miss that school. And this is the very first time for me to say that.

(Just for the record, I have only cordial feelings towards Mrs. Lagmagdan and Mrs. Restor. My paradigm of indignation has long been replaced with that of humor.)

* * *

I was out with my course friends a few days back. We had dinner in Bubba Gump, where we reminisced about the good old days and where we talked about jobs and relationships. And then we went to the pub to unwind. That was indeed an evening well-spent.

Written like that, I could be talking about middle-aged men with beer bellies. And this brings me to what I really want to say: I feel old. I told my course friends that I felt old, and that, furthermore, since I was the second youngest among us five there, they should feel old too. But none of them did. Except for me.

If I were on Oprah, and I had announced, like Nicole Ritchie did, that I'm old now, I'm sure that the audience would have given a collective half-laugh, half-groan. Especially because Nicole is a whole two years older than me. But, see, I never did understand why they had that reaction to Nicole's pronouncement.

That girl was telling the truth.

* * *

I will not be definite about this, but I think that my era of metaemployment (definition: employment so beyond employment that it is not even considered employment) will end soon. Next Monday, specifically. Well, I could be wrong. And, of course, I could be right. I'm not sure yet.

I guess we'll just have to see.

9/22/2004

Ateneo - La Salle

We lost to La Salle.

I screamed my lungs out and risked a serious throat injury during that game. No, really. The last time I screamed that loud, which was, incidentally, during another Ateneo-La Salle game, I was spitting invisible blood out for days. I almost broke my arms because I kept waving those columnar balloons that say Ateneo on one side and Moby Hotdog on the other. I have honestly never waved so much in my entire life. And this wasn't exactly the Princess-Diaries-wave that I used to do before I broke up with Prince William. I'm talking about the see-how-my-arm-jiggles-wave that Oprah did in her show once. And, as if that weren't enough, I was jumping up and down too.

Despite the spectacle I made out of myself, Ateneo just had to lose. By so many points at that too.

Sigh. Life goes on, of course. JC Intal is still my favorite Eagle, and Mac Cardona continues to surprise me because he really does seem to be cleaning up his act. I don't know, but I think that may have something to do with the King Eagle-slash-King Archer connection. After the game, the two were cuddling each other. (Those who saw the picture in the Sports section of last Monday's Inquirer will definitely agree with me here.)

It's an interesting development, to say the least.

To La Salle: Congratulations, guys! It was a well-deserved victory. Ateneo will get back at you next season. Or next debating tournament. ;)

To the Ateneo debaters: Don't let me down, friends! But, of course, no pressure.

* * *

I find it funny that some people get so obsessed with the whole Ateneo-La Salle rivalry.

Last Sunday's game, for instance, I saw two midle-aged people, one in blue and white and the other in green and white, having a go at each other. I wasn't near enough to hear what was going on, so I'm not going to provide an account here or judge those who were involved. But what I do want to say is that it's rubbish for people to start attacking each other, verbally or otherwise, over a measly basketball game. Save that violence for a debating tournament. Seriously, though: there is so much more to life than the Ateneo-La Salle hype.

There's Harry Potter too.

* * *

Do you know how the 6th man of Ateneo is always praised? The unbeatable crowd that propels the team to victory by their sheer energy and heart?

I've always believed that this praise was rightfully bestowed. For almost all of the games that I have attended, I have found myself in the center of the Ateneo gallery, where the battle cries of "One Big Fight!" and "Get that ball!" could have rivaled the nastiest bass sounds in both volume and intensity.

But two games ago, I found myself sitting right next to the La Salle crowd. And that was when I realized that, perhaps, those who praise the 6th man are biased because of where they sit. Where I was, all I could hear was "D! L-S! U! Animo La Salle!" (my favorite La Salle cheer) and "Go La Salle! Go La Salle! Go La Salle, La Salle, La Salle!" (what I refer to as the Mickey Mouse cheer). Their cheers were just as deafening and heartening as ours were.

Then again, maybe that's because the green drums were right behind me.

* * *

I know that I said I was going to write more about the Batac experience, but, frankly, I've lost interest in doing so. This doesn't mean, however, that I'm going back on my word. No way. I will still post something up.

In a few years, maybe.

* * *

Jac, it was great watching the game with you! As always.

9/17/2004

Oh, Love!

Prologue

I was very excited for my trip to Batac. It was my first time to be going as far up as Ilocos Norte, it was my first time to be giving a Debate Education Seminar outside Metro Manila, and it was my first time to be spending an entire weekend with my Buffy group. (Yes, Cokelover and Comic, I have decided to call us that.)

Indeed, there was a whole lot to look forward to, and I spent the days prior to the trip in eager anticipation of it.

September 10, Friday

On my way inside the Ninoy Aquino Domestic Airport, I struggled with a hyperactive cart that, despite my murderous threats and curses, insisted on squeakily announcing my presence to all those who could hear. I checked in for the flight to Laoag in a counter that said Check-In for Bacolod. And then, free of the cart, the box (for the training manuals and CD's), and the bag, I strolled into waiting area.

The metal chairs, the marble floor, and the ceiling were all white. They were sparkling too, as it was that time of the day when the sun still accepted the "come in!" invitation of the floor-length glass windows. What a contrast it was to the Ninoy Aquino International Airport, which is little more than a functional museum piece.

I looked for Gate S07 and settled myself in a corner chair on the third row to the right of the gate. I took out the debate training manual and flipped through it so that I would be more or less prepared for the seminar the next day. (The definition of a meta extension was not there, by the way. I've heard the term used before, but I have long forgotten what it means. Literally, it means beyond the extension, but that means what? To my ADS friends, don't shoot me!)

I looked up just then and saw three mayas (small brown birds) chasing after each other, inches away from the ceiling. I thought that was pretty unusual. I shrugged and went back to the training manual. After a few minutes, I happened to look up again.

Imelda Romualdez Marcos.

And no, that is not an expletive like, say, Santa Banana! is. I saw her. She was there. Right in front of the gate. Really.

Low-pitched buzzing and a flurry of action told me that the other passengers had seen her too. I could not move. I was flying to Marcos country with Imelda Marcos. And, if she was to believed, I was a few meters away from Love personified. (The reference is taken from the film, Imelda, where Imelda said she wanted her tombstone to read "Here lies Love." This means that if you want Love to live forever, pray that Mrs. Marcos never dies.)

How overwhelming.

The first thing that entered my mind was that she was one tall lady. She stood inches above almost every man in the room. I bet if the Philippine president, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, were to stand beside her, they'd make a pretty mother and child picture: Mrs. Marcos, the mother, with a martyred and worried air about her and GMA, the toddler, with a self-satisfied smile on her face.

The second thing was that Mrs. Marcos was being ignored. No one was approaching her, much less mobbing her. Sure, people knew she was there. I, for one, was openly staring at her, and there were others who would, every five seconds or so, glance furtively her way. But that's all they did. Even the one bodyguard that she had with her was more preoccupied with his cell phone than he was with her.

I wonder how she felt about that.

The contingent of Mrs. Marcos, which included the aforementioned bodyguard and four ladies, settled in the tables of Saint Cinnamon. She was seated about 45 degrees and four meters from where I was. I could thus observe her more carefully. She had on orange slacks, orange shoes with inch-high heels, and a pink floral shirt made of that flowing material that you can drape on tables to make them look pretty. (Yes, I know nothing about clothes.) Her face was about two shades whiter than her arms, which were rather fair, except for the area near her jawbone, which was colored reddish-brown. Correct me if I am wrong, but I think that the make-up there is meant to make the face smaller.

She was seated there for about five minutes when a young mestiza (woman with Spanish/Caucasian features) emerged from the bathroom and started speaking with her. I thus got to observe Mrs. Marcos conversing. What I noticed was that she was very expressive: her face changed often, and, when it was her turn to speak, she tended to gesture with her hands. When she was listening, she would perch her left arm on the chair back, nodding her head every so often.

While Mrs. Marcos and the mestiza were conversing, I saw something else of interest to me. A janitor, who had been mopping the floor, had caught sight of Imelda and, upon doing so, had perched his hands on the handle of his mop, rested his head on his hands, and gazed at her reverently, much like a child on the street would stare at the window of Toy Kingdom. He was parked there for about a minute when this lady on the way to the bathroom happened to look at Mrs. Marcos. She never stopped looking. She was walking forward but facing backward, almost as if she were daring the proverbial post to appear right in front of her. When she was finally able to pull her gaze away, the lady encountered the knowing look of the janitor. They smiled candidly at each other. I just had to laugh to myself.

"Yihee!" I wanted to call out. "Two strangers brought together by Love!"

And then it was time to board. As usual, everyone rushed to the gate so that they'd be first on the plane. As to why that is somehow appealing, I have no idea. I stayed where I was, still observing Mrs. Marcos. At that point, the line in front of the gate had formed all the way to the tables at Saint Cinnamon, where she was.

That was when she was asked to pose for her first picture. She was asked to smile for about four more, and I do have to admit that she was very gracious about it. But perhaps her love for the camera, and not altruism, can be credited for that.

The photo-taking incident reminded me of the question-answer portions in open forums. Half of the time allotted for it is wasted because no one wants to ask the first question. But once the first question is asked, all the questions in the world wait to be asked. But, by that time, the speaker has to wrap the session up. As it happens in those cases, so too did it happen here.

I strolled into the carpeted tube that connects the airport to the airplane, finding Mrs. Marcos less than a meter away from me. Separating both of us was the Stateside and more horizontally challenged version of Vandolph and his Filipino-American companion.

Vandolph, as he will be known in this post, was the grown-up version of the noisiest brat in Head A. Whle we were waiting for our turn to board the plane, he cracked a lame joke about the plane running out of seats for him. Something like that anyway. It was the kind of joke that should never have been made and, when made, should have been abandoned as quickly as possible. But Vandolph, the simian, did not get the hint. Instead, he spent his time in the tube booming out lame follow-ups to his already dead joke.

As the tube was reverberating with his voice, I was torn between rage and pity: I was enraged that he would, with such audacity, threaten the personal well-being of at least a dozen other people, and I pitied him because, at the rate that he was projecting his voice, his pathetic sense of humor would be known by even those in Timbuktu. Poor me. Poor Vandolph.

Thankfully, we got out of the tube, and I got settled in Seat 9C. While I was sitting down on the narrow chair, I could not help but hope that Vandolph had been assigned a seat outside the plane. But, as he never bothered me again, today is the first time since then that I have spared a thought on him.

Then Mrs. Marcos passed my row. Sideways at that, as the plane had rows like a bus. She was so near me that I could have stabbed her with my pen, except that I didn't have time to tie a ribbon around it. (This is, once again, a reference to the film. When stabbed by an unknown man while giving a presentation, she lamented afterwards that the weapon, a knife, was too plain and should have been dignified with a ribbon.)

I heard her say that she was in Row 14. Row 14? She didn't even get the best seats in the plane. Why was she flying commercial anyway? Oh, right. Maybe President GMA had borrowed her personal jet on that state visit to Brunei.

I didn't have much time to think of anything else. Before I knew it, the plane was taking off.
I settled into my seat and smiled.

I was soaring to Marcos country, with no less than Imelda Marcos right behind me.

* * *

More accounts coming! Soon, I hope. But I'm being very careful not to promise anything.

* * *

To one of the two best sisters in the whole wide world: Happy, happy birthday!! Happy, happy birthday!! Happy, happy birthday to you-ooo!! Happy, happy birthday!! Happy, happy birthday!! Happy, happy birthday to you-ooo!!

My sister is 18 already! But that's okay. She looks like me, so looking old is not a problem.

9/14/2004

Bazooka

Note: The following is a short story that I wrote that was published in the Read Magazine (3rd Quarter 2004, Vol. 1 No. 2) of Powerbooks. It was the first time for one of my stories to get published. As Gigi and Andrea have requested to see it, I have decided to post it here and allow the rest of you the option of reading it.

BAZOOKA

“Hi Mommy,” I said cheerfully, as I burst into my parents’ room that Monday morning. I was getting bored with my Disney coloring book – I couldn’t see the pictures anymore because I had colored the entire page black. My yaya was not helping me either. She kept singing and singing, and I told her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen to me. So I threw my crayons at her. And that made her mad.This was why I had run to Mommy’s room. My yaya would not dare yell at me when Mommy was around.

“Hi Mimi!” My Mommy said. She was getting ready to go to the office. My other yaya was there with her. She was shooting at Mommy’s hair, which was flying all over the place. Mommy was coloring her face. I had tried doing this to myself once, but got scared when I looked in the mirror and saw an ugly clown instead of me. Mommy sometimes looked like a clown too. And she knows that because I told her.

I jumped up the bed and pulled out a Bazooka from my pocket. I put the pink gum into my mouth. I was bored again, so I started swinging my feet on the side of the bed.

“Mommy, can I go to the park later?” No reply.

“Mommy, can I go to the park later?” I shouted.

“Yes, Mimi, very nice,” she answered without looking at me. “Inday, can you hurry up with my hair? I have to be in the office in ten minutes! Where is my blazer?”

“Mommy, I have an owie! The pencil pricked me!”

“Oh, very good, Mimi! Tell me about it later okay?” At this, she turned to Yaya Inday, said something, and the whirring sound stopped. She picked up the phone. “Oh, hello, Sir! Yes, I will be in the office in ten minutes. Yes, I am already on the way, Sir. It’s just a little traffic. Okay, thank you, Sir.”

Mommy then threw the phone down and started fanning her face.

“Inday! My blazer! Hurry, hurry, hurry! HURRY!”

I stopped chewing. The bubble gum had no more taste. I got the Bazooka Joe cartoon strip that I had thrown away. I started to spit my gum into it, but I stopped. I had a better idea. I put the gum in my hand and then dropped to the floor. I crawled to where Mommy was. Then I put my gum in her hair, right in the middle of it. Mommy whirled around.

“Oh Mimi, what are you doing there on the floor? The floor is dirty. There are germs there. Where is your yaya? YAYA!”

I started laughing because she didn’t notice anything. Then I laughed so hard that I started rolling on the floor. I started slapping it, even, because my tummy was getting painful already, and I couldn’t breathe, but I still couldn’t stop laughing.

I finally managed to say “I have a joke for you, Mommy!”

“Okay, you tell your Daddy the joke!” She said, while still making signs that I should get up from the floor and stay on the bed instead.

“No, it has to be you!”

"Why does it have to be me?”

I pouted.

“Okay, what is the joke?”

“I put bubble gum in your hair!”

Mommy’s face changed just then. She looked like my Ate when I showed her the fat orange fish that I had pulled out of her aquarium. Mommy slowly reached for her hair. And then she screamed so loud that I had to put my hands to my ears.

“INDAY!”

I laughed some more. “Don’t worry Mommy, it’s really easy to get out.”

I plopped up, reached for my gum, and pulled it. Her head snapped back, but the gum didn’t get out. I pulled again, harder this time, but the gum still wouldn’t get out.

“Uh oh…”

Yaya Inday shoved me out of the way. She had with her a bottle of my Baby Oil. She poured a lot of it onto her hands and then started shampooing Mommy’s hair with it. Mommy’s hair got shinier and shinier, but the gum was still there. She tried brushing her hair. I was starting to get worried. My Mommy was going to start screaming at me soon.

I looked at the floor and prepared my sorry face. Then I looked up at Mommy’s hair again. Now it was shiny, with pink threads. And there was a brush stuck there. The phone rang just then. I ran to pick it up.

“Don’t pick that phone up!” Mommy screamed.

I sat back down on the floor. Just then, the door opened, and I saw my Daddy. I gave him a little wave.

“Manny, your daughter just put gum on my hair! And I am late for a meeting!” My Mommy screamed at him.

My Daddy looked at me, and I thought he was going to get mad. But he started to laugh. I was surprised, but I was also happy. I started to laugh along with Daddy, but Mommy had heard him laughing, and she started shaking a comb at him. She was also saying something that I couldn’t understand. I had never heard those words before.

I just sat on the floor, staring at my hands. I had my sorry face on, but no one was minding me. Mommy was now running to the bathroom, Inday and Daddy right behind her. I looked around quickly. Then I stood up and ran to my room.

I pushed the door shut. Then I went back to coloring Snow White black. When Mommy would come in later, I would give this to her, and then everything would be okay. And then I would go to the park to play.

The End

* * *

Accounts of my extremely eventful weekend in Marcos country coming up!

Cokelover and Comic, I had a blast with you guys. As expected.

9/09/2004

Chica Teasa

As far as job-hunting goes, Chica Teasa has been one of the most, if not the most, memorable company thus far.
The First Call

A couple of weeks ago, at around four in the afternoon, I was awakened from my dreamless slumber by a rather frantic Lali, our helper. "Mil," she goes, "may tawag para sa iyo. Tihicha ata." (Translation: Mil, there is a call for you. It's Tihicha, I think.)

I thought the Initiative was calling me, so I forced myself to wake up. Let me tell you now that this is no easy feat for me (a.k.a. hibernation personified). Batugan talaga ako. My head was spinning, my throat was dry, and a person whom I wanted to impress was on the phone. I shook my head to clear it and willed my voice to sound normal. In short, I tried to do the impossible.

"Hello Ma'am," I finally managed to croak out.

Unbelievable. More than sounding like a frog, I sounded like a Jessica Rabbit who was bent on seducing Roger. I cringed automatically but hoped that the person calling me was either slightly deaf or that my voice sounded normal to all but myself. The latter is actually plausible, as my voice supposedly changes when I debate or give presentations.

No such luck. She was laughing when she asked me if she had woken me up. I didn't want to lie to her, so I just laughed along. When I realized that she was waiting for a reply, I said "Not really" in a painfully perky tone.

And that's true, technically. Anyway, I made her laugh, and she gave me a testing date. Things could have been much worse.

The Test

I was running late.

Actually, I would not have been running late if the traffic had lended itself to even a little bit of reasonable predictability. But then again, why was I attempting to do what even Nostradamus could not have done?

During the decade that I was in the car, a poem popped into my head:

Marching to a soundless beat,
mushrooms crowding on a street
soaking backs, rebellious feet,
crowns that are no longer neat.

Mushrooms on a city street.

Tell me if you can figure out what this poem is about. But I digress.

As I was saying, I was running late. Specifically, I was half an hour late for the test. This turned out to be perfectly okay, thankfully, because I was the only one called to take the test anyway, and even the HR person had no idea about my schedule. She asked no questions, and I told her no lies.

Before I knew it, I found myself in a square room with a square table with a bunch of papers in front of me. The test was upon me. As far as that goes, I would have to say that it was not so bad. The Math part was easy, as was the English. But when I looked through the questionnaire and saw that I had around fifteen essays to write plus a sentence completion test and a personality test, I felt like screaming.

Must I sit through the same tests for almost 3/4's of all the jobs I apply to? Why can't they have a standard job test anyway? Why? Grrr. I sighed out loud and stretched in my chair. Just then, the silly notion that there was a camera in the room entered my head; so much did the room look like an interrogation cell. I straightened myself immediately and diligently went back to taking the test, making sure that my lips curved upward in an endearing little smile.

After writing my sixth essay of the day, I stretched again. And no, I was not smiling anymore. Very loudly and precisely, I declared, "This test is so long. It really is too long!!!" I made sure to twist my body to all corners of the room while I said this, so that the invisible camera could get clear shots of me from every possible angle.

Of course, I knew that I was being silly, and I ended up laughing at myself seconds after. But if I was right, and there was a camera in that room, at least I had expressed my sentiments about the test and, in that way, made this world a much better place.

When I finally got to the one-hour personality test, I found my patience, and not my personality, seriously tested. As was the case in the personality test administered by my University, I had to answer questions that were asking pretty much the same thing. I relieved myself by shading those tiny rectangles with such force that it was a miracle that my answer sheet was not ripped apart.

The torture was horrible while it lasted, but it too came to pass. In this ordeal, two people made me feel slightly better: the security guard, who was very friendly, and the nice lady who gave me toilet paper when the surprisingly clean restroom there had not a scrap to offer.

The Second Call

Just three days ago, my youngest sister was shouting that I had a phone call. I asked her who it was and she bellowed, "Cham, it's the Tihicha something advertising whatever... basta, just get the phone!"

I picked the phone up, all prepared to deal politely but curtly with whom I had supposed to be a telemarketer. To my suprise, I found that it was Chica Teasa calling. And, once again, the lady on the line was laughing. She was calling to say that I had passed the test and could now be interviewed.

Interesting.

Epilogue

It was my first interview two days ago. I think it went well. I hope Ms. Tak thinks so too. Well, I have done what I can. I'll just have to see how this whole thing unfolds.

But whatever happens, there is one thing about Chica Teasa that I can say with absolute certainty: it sure has been a most interesting ride.

* * *

To the best brother in the whole world: Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you! (And in the fast tune now.) Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you!

And I am singing this while I am typing it, so he probably hears me, as he just in the next room.

* * *

Marcos country, here I come! Comic and Cokelover, here's looking forward to a fantastic time!

9/04/2004

Texting, Teaching, and Despairing

It is of great importance that you proofread your text messages before actually sending them out. Consider the following examples:

What was Intended

  1. I refuse to do that for as long as I am in the car!
  2. We will go to Makati. And then I will bring you guys home. (Not mine)
  3. Good afternoon, Sir! May I please see you at around three, for just five minutes?

What Appeared on the Screen

  1. I refuse to do that for as long as I am the car!
  2. We will go to Makati. And then I will bring guys home.
  3. Good afternoon, Sir! May I please you at around three, for just five minutes?

One word can make a world of difference.

Thank God I caught the last message just in time.

* * *

Speaking of text messages, I got a message from Head A two days ago that I had passed the basic test and could now take the advanced test. This refers to the tests that all tutor-hopefuls have to take.

Yes, that's right - I am applying to be a part-time tutor. I find that I like explaining things to people, and I figure that I may as well experience doing this, on a formal level, while I can. And also, Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe talked me into it.

While I was planning to teach English, whether Grammar (or Language) or Literature (or Reading), the funny thing is that I may end up teaching Math, Science, or Filipino instead. Keat, the girl I was texting with, said that these were the sections of the test that I had registered high scores in. The thing is that there were only two sections she didn't mention - Language and Reading Comprehension.

I was laughing when I read her text. I had found Language and Reading Comprehension to be the easiest parts of the test. In fact, when I was taking practice tests in review for the Law School Admission Test (LSAT), I'd always get the highest scores in the latter.

It's really funny how these tests go. But then again, it is nice to know that I still remember Math, Science, and Filipino so well.

And to those of you who noticed, yes, I am aware of the slight contradiction in the statement above.

* * *

While I have great plans of being a school ma'am of sorts for a couple of months, two of my recent experiences have made me question my applicability for such a noteworthy profession.

Taking the Basic Test in the Head A Center

When I was taking the basic test, a tutor and his pupil were right behind me. This is how their session went: the tutor would read a question out loud, and then the student would guess her answer to it. Sometimes, she would get it right, but most of the time, she would not. After one question, the student or the teacher would narrate some anecdote that would be totally unconnected with the subject matter at hand. Think electrons and the Philippine National Anthem. They would spend five minutes laughing over it. After the first minute, the laughter of the student would start getting strained, but she would keep on laughing anyway. She would start sounding like a hyena-toy whose batteries were slowly dying on her. Finally, she would stop, and the next question would be asked.

Sometimes, it was even worse. The tutor would ask a question, and the girl would not know the answer to it. The tutor would then translate the question to Filipino. I wanted so badly to tell both of them that, if the student did not know the answer to the question as asked in English, then translating it to Filipino would not increase her chances of getting the answer right. And second, even if the translation of the question would help her, all the standard tests here are given in English, and personal translators are not allowed. From what I heard of the questions, I could gather that the girl was reviewing for a college entrance exam. Well, more so in that case!

So, yes, I was eavesdropping on this pair while I was taking the test. I couldn't help it, as their voices seemed more suited to a crowded club than a relatively quiet review room. But that's not it yet.

At around lunchtime, the Center was invaded by nasty hobbits in khaki and white. One of them seemed determined to cause an earthquake with all the jumping he was doing. The other one kept slamming his Coke can down on the table where I was taking the test. I gritted my teeth every time he would do this and resisted the urge to dump the Coke on his head. I was so close to losing my patience with the lot of them, but I controlled myself because I didn't think throwing a spectacular tantrum would endear me to my potential employers.

If and when I do get accepted to tutor for this Center, I will make my one condition very clear to them: I refuse to deal with annoying brats.


Training my High School Alma Mater

Just yesterday, I went to my Alma Mater to train the club which I had headed when I was on my senior year in High School. This was my first time to do so in the five years since my graduation there.

I will not give a blow-by-blow account of what transpired during the two hours that I was there, but suffice it to say that I gave those girls (and yes, I am purposefully calling them girls instead of ladies) a piece of my mind. My youngest sister looked at me in horror when I informed her that I had told the club off at my first ever meeting with them, but I stand by what I have done. Those girls had it coming. And I, of all people, am not one to take rubbish like that from anyone. (Well, of course, not everyone was being rude or disrespectful. But the few who were compensated enough for the rest of them.)

I was telling a close friend of mine about this, and she asked, aghast, whether we were that bad when we were in High School. I replied that I was sure we were and that, furthermore, we deserved every bit of those lectures that our teachers would give us. I sympathize with them completely now.

In any case, I have nothing to ashamed of. Even when I was telling the girls off, I was very careful to stick to the issue and to leave out any personal insults, which I had no inclination to make anyway, as I didn't know most of them even by name. I hope they grow up by next week, when I might train them again.

I wonder if these two incidents are telling me something about my potential for teaching.

* * *

Last night, I found myself in serious despair about the world.

In the local news, I watched as Nestor Silang, who was believed to be high on drugs, jumped off a bridge in Quezon City (yes, the TV showed him jumping) with his one-year-old son, Nestor Jr., in his arms. The father survived, but the son did not.

In BBC and CNN, I was watching the coverage of the hostage crisis in Belsan, Russia, where militants held 1,200 people, around 840 of them children, hostage in a school. A lot had died from this, and I know that, in the following days, more deaths will be credited to this. The line that got to me was "And when these children sleep, what will they be dreaming of now?"

What is the world coming to?

* * *

This website will definitely see more of my rambling.

8/31/2004

Rambling

Last night, I was watching the Discovery Channel special, "The Real Olympics." I wasn't able to start it, but I don't think I missed all that much. Anyway, it was basically (What is it with this word? Had an interview a few hours ago with N Steel, and I caught myself saying this all the time! When I finally got myself to stop it, I found my interviewer infected with the "basically" virus herself.) about the Ancient Greek Olympics and how it really was. The second part was a juxtaposition of the Olympics then and the Olympics now.

It was extremely interesting.
* * *

A Japanese gymnast named Fujimoto was featured briefly. He competed in the Olympics a few years back. Apparently, this guy had gotten injured before most of the competition started. But he kept the injury and the pain of it to himself. He didn't want the rest of his team to be disheartened by it, and, I suppose, he didn't want to let anybody, including himself, down. The only time people found out about it was when, after a really good run on the hanging double loops (or whatever it is technically called), he collapsed on the mat.

There was also this story of how a Greek fighter swallowed his own teeth, as his opponent had punched them out. Turns out he didn't want anyone to know how badly he was beaten. Bloody.

These reminded me of Donald Geisler, the Filipino tae kwon do jin, and how he wanted to keep on fighting his Tunisian opponent, even after he had injured his ankle.

I hope that when my turn comes to do something like this, I won't disappoint myself.

On another note, can the stomach digest teeth?

* * *

I also learned about how the term "amateur" was coined.

In Ancient Greece, there was no distinction between the amateur and the professional athlete. Athletes were representations of the gods, and that was that. But in the Victorian era, the elites got into sports and started having competitions. However, being the elite that they were, they ruled out people who would be naturally good at the sport. For instance, in boating competitions, they ruled out the boatmen, and in competitons of strength, they ruled out the laborers. This led to the distinction between professional athletes and amateur ones.

Interesting.

When I was listening to this explanation, I remembered the Globalization class of Dr. Benjamin Tolosa, the chair of the Political Science department. I took this class as my elective, when I was a junior at university. Reality as a construct, he taught us. I'll remember that one until forever.

Now that I think about it, I am pretty sure that my readings for Mr. Michael Coroza's Filipino class, when I was a sophomore, had constructivist elements in them. They were about how the history of the Philippines, as seen by the natives, had been lost and replaced by the account of the Spaniards. But then again, when I was taking it up, no one explicitly explained what constructivism was.

I suppose that is why I associate the term more with Dr. Tolosa than with Mr. Coroza.

* * *

Other fascinating things were presented in the documentary, but I won't be writing about all of them here. Just watch it for yourselves. That is, if you're into that kind of thing, like I am.

Last interesting thing I'll write about (at least for now) - If you won a Gold medal in the Ancient Greek Olympics, you wouldn't need a wall to protect your town. For as long as you were there, no one would attack it. Why? Because the Gold medalist was supposed to have been favored by the gods. A demi-god, he was. Or, more accurately, a mortal one.

The essence of that is not too far from the saying, "The glory of God is the human fully alive." is it?

* * *

After this show ended, there was another documentary, also on the Discovery Channel, this time on terrorism. There were also two other documentaries on TV: one on a Filipino man having a sex-change in Thailand and the other on ways of life in really far-flung areas. While I find these topics interesting, I didn't watch any of them.

Sometimes, it just really is time to tune out.

* * *

Now that we're on TV, or on the subject of TV shows at least, allow me to say that books are still my favorite medium of instruction.

Don't get me wrong - I do value multimedia education. For instance, when I was a junior in high school, I reviewed for the Bioman's test in genetics by watching the clip on meiosis/mitosis on the Encarta CD. Actually, now that I think about it, I went through all the clips of that CD, from the features of the authors (Jane Austen was there!) to the more science-y stuff. They're really nice to watch. Entertaining too.

But then again, there's just something about seeing the letters on the page that you turn with your hand.

* * *

Speaking of hands, I replaced two of my tools with new batteries yesterday: my TV remote controller, which is now obedient, and my toothbrush, which is, once again, too jittery for comfort.

* * *

I have a feeling that my era of unconventional fruitfulness will end soon. When it does, my only regret would be that it could not have lasted longer.

* * *

Is there such a thing as a professional rambler?

* * *

It is with these thoughts that I live out the last day of August of this year.

8/25/2004

The Goddess

When we were studying Greek mythology in High School, my teacher, the best English teacher ever, asked us to write about the goddess we envisioned ourselves to be. I said that I was Pyrone (pi-roh-nee), the Goddess of Prevailing Persuasion. I thought it was a brilliant name then but have since realized that my sister was right in saying that it sounds like pepperoni without the pep. A couple of years later, the Olympians (also known as the Spoonful Goddesses) were given titles. Mine was the Goddess of Wit and Eloquence. When I saw this test, the divine in me just demanded that I take it. I am now also known as the Goddess of Dreams.

I love being a goddess.

Morpheus


Notes:
  • My essay on Pyrone remains to be one of my favorite pieces. Humor me by reading it, if and when I do post it.
  • The analytical entry I was planning to write will just have to wait. This parking space was too tempting to resist, even for a goddess like me.

My Favorite Quotes

These are my favorite quotes:
  • Only passions, great passions, can elevate the soul to great things.
  • The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.
  • Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss it, you will land among the stars.
  • A man who wants to lead his orchestra must turn his back on the crowd.
  • I would rather fail in the cause that someday will triumph than triumph in a cause that someday will fail.
  • Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.
  • The road to success is dotted with many tempting parking places.
  • Every job is a self-portrait of the person who does it. Autograph your work with excellence.
God's Little Devotional Book for Students.
United States of America: Honor Books, 1995.

8/23/2004

Reformatting

In the beginning, I adopted a puppy. It was friendly, simple, and neat. Its first owner, from Blogskins, called it Grey Matter. I did not give it a name, but I did give it a home. From the time that I made this puppy mine, I paid attention to nothing else. Day and night, I tended to its needs, researching on grooming techniques and painstakingly experimenting on the myriad of ways to make it achieve its potential.

At first, the puppy was endearingly cooperative. It was patient and encouraging, allowing me to learn from it and grinning at me when I made even the slightest progress. But the puppy soon showed its wicked side. It was like a chameleon in that way: it appeared perfectly healthy to me but painfully contorted to everyone else. Levi, Gigi, and Len exposed the extent of the puppy's betrayal.

That the puppy could do this to me is a most sorrowful mystery - my very own Agony in the Computer. Thank God that Cushee, my shih tzu, never hurt me in this way. Oh the pain! The sorrow! I felt that there was to be no tomorrow! But tomorrow did come and, with it, a most grave realization: the Taming of the Puppy is my job to do. In this life, it is one of my many burdens to bear.

While the task at hand is daunting, I take solace in the knowledge that I do not labor in vain. The puppy, now called Harbor, has been slowly responding to my efforts. While traces of its savage nature can still be discerned, its obvious imperfections are gradually fading away. Truly, Harbor is almost unrecognizable as the beast that it was before.

But the praise for this does not belong to me alone. Levi, who is skilled in dealing with impossible puppies, if not with bratty children, has been invaluable in this endeavor and must be credited for his efforts.

Indeed, I am confident of success in this. I can only wish that it will come soon. Very soon.

8/18/2004

The Nanny Diaries

The Nanny Diaries, by Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus, is a fictitious account of the experiences of Nanny, a 21-year-old nanny, with a rich family from New York. It reads, however, like a well-researched documentary, which cleverly exposes both the minutest details and the general feel of the American baby-sitting experience. Skillfully narrated with highly colorful but undeniably honest prose, it's a voyeuristic thrill you shouldn't miss.



That I may one day write a book like this!

Note: The picture is a link to the webpage source. I will be crediting my pictures in this manner from now on. Thanks to Levi for his tuition in this matter.

8/14/2004

The Shot

I shot myself once.

I think I was in Grade School then. My brother and my sisters and I were in a room, and I was playing with my brother's air gun. Since I was bored, I decided to put on a little show. I cocked the gun, slid the magazine out, and pressed the nozzle to my palm. Then I told my siblings to look at me. When they did, I pulled the trigger.



I ended up howling. Or roaring. Yep, if you guys head a Screaming Banshee on some memorable afternoon years before, then you heard me. I thought I had shot a hole through my left palm. (Not that it would have been the first hole there; that palm has actually been stabbed with a stake disguised as a pencil, just like that which Buffy used to kill a vampire once. But that's another story.)

Surprisingly, the tiny green pellet contented itself with leaving an equally tiny red mark that did not even last the day. I emerged from this ordeal unscathed. But I know I have been scarred.

I am not playing with guns again.

Note: I did not intend to shoot myself. I thought that I had rid the gun of all bullets when I slid the magazine out. Apparently, it does not work that way: the cocking of the gun traps a bullet and keeps it there until it is released with a shot. Sheesh. On the bright side, thank God it was just an air gun.

8/13/2004

My Element: Wind






Your element is Wind.
I wanted to get Fire. But I never get Fire. But at least I didn't get Earth.
And no offense to the Earth. I love the Earth! Really!
I j
ust don't want it to be my element.

You're light-hearted, carefree, kind, sensitive, and mysterious.
Yeah, I could be light-hearted. Um, no, I'm not really carefree. Because when I'm being carefree, I worry about being too carefree. Especially now. I'd like to think I'm kind. And sensitive too. And mysterious. But I think I'm the only one who finds myself mysterious.

You have friends who most absolutely love you.
I wish but do not fish!

You can be calm and soothing one minute and raging in anger the next, so no one wants to get on your bad side.
Yes, I do have mood swings. But I indulge this in private. I don't lash out at people, but I do scare them when I start laughing by myself. As for getting on my bad side, yes, you most definitely would not want to do that. Concentrate your effort on something less perilous to the self.

Your beauty is inspiring and magical.
True. And here is me sharing a laugh with the stoic computer.


What's Your Element?
brought to you by Quizilla

Note: I took the liberty of editing the results, as it was originally posted, but I did not touch the content. Also, I replaced the picture in the webpage with that which is credited below.

Source of picture: http://milcrav.sitefantasy.us/fairy_art2.html

8/10/2004

Lynn Picknett's Mary Magdalene




Among other things, this book claims that:

1) Mary Magdalene is an Egyptian - and therefore a black - priestess of great power.
2) Jesus is a magician from outside Jerusalem who dabbled in necromancy.
3) John Baptist is the true Christ.
4) The Virgin Mary may have been an adulteress.
5) The Holy Grail is none other than the severed head of John the Baptist.

Note: The list is by no means comprehensive.

There is no doubt that this is book is interesting. And there are some parts that are historically credible, such as the discussion of the several dying-and-rising gods from Egypt and also the parallels between the Bible and the Egyptian Book of the Dead. But the majority of this book is pure sensationalism.

1) Lynn Picknett indulges in her personal biases.

Ms. Picknett seems rather proud of the fact that she carries a grudge against the Roman Catholic Church (i.e. the Church that disillusioned her and still wounds her to this day). Her subjective tone undermines, if not completely obliterates, her academic treatment of this highly sensitive matter. This personal bias may very well be responsible for the flaws in reasoning that are evident all throughout the book.

2) The logical process she employs is highly questionable.

From among thousands of equally plausible possibilities, Ms. Picknett picks the most sensational one and passes it of as the Truth. This is done without explaining either why the other possibilities must be dismissed or why the possibility she picked is the most objectively compelling. The effects of this flawed process are magnified, as she uses the "Truth" as part of her foundation for establishing other "Truths."

Seen in this light, her conclusions remain to be merely entertaining or insulting possibilities instead of the Truth that she claims them to be.

CHAMELEON SOFIA

This book explains the radical Christian, Magdalenian, and Johannite theory of Lynn Picknett, enemy of the Church and friend of aliens.


Source of picture: www.anotherbookshop.com

8/08/2004

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind





Neat: Everything that gets unpacked is packed right in.

Compact: Each character had a crucial role to fulfill.

Philosophical: Its subtle parallels to life welcome, if not demand, reflection.

Galing.

CHAMELEON SOFIA

I am capable of writing short posts.


Source of picture: www.allmovieportal.com

8/07/2004

Danger, Danger


I have found myself in dangerous situations, potential crime scenes, really, that could have very well featured me as the helpless victim. I will share three such instances with you.

Note: I do have more experiences of this nature (i.e. Oxford and the Sydney International Airport), but I've lost interest in this topic and will thus write about them some other time.

1) Melbourne, June 2002


I was in the tram with two other friends. But since the tram was full, I was sitting near the front beside an old lady, while my two friends were at the back. From right behind me, I heard someone cursing. Of course, I had to see who it was. It was this twenty-something Aussie guy (from the accent) with dirty yellowish dreadlocks (not the braids but those columnar things that look like bouncy snakes). He was standing behind me, looking at the floor, and cursing for all he was worth.


I was really scared. I could hear him clearly because the tram was very quiet. Everyone was eyeing him warily, thankful, perhaps, that they were seated where they could see him. I was seated in front of him, so I couldn't really see him. But I did twist my body around, not to look at him directly, but to keep him in sight. If I was going to be stabbed or hit, I wanted to at least be given the chance, however poor it was, to avoid the blow.

The old lady beside me nudged me and told me "Don't look." She wasn't Australian. At least, her English wasn't Australian. So I faced front again. The guy didn't stop cursing. I didn't stop praying.

And nothing happened.

2) Kensington Garden, May 2003

This was my second time in London, my first time in Kensington Garden. My courtesy call in the Embassy, with Tita Ubas, Ann Mara, and Milleo, had just finished and I was left on my own. I didn't want to go back to the hotel, which was just a block away from the Embassy, so I decided to explore the garden.



It started of well enough. The weather was cool, and I was happy to be walking alone in a scenic park. I walked farther and farther away, sort of keeping in mind the way back to the hotel. Then I saw the duck pond. I think the pond enchanted me (I don't know why, really, because I rather dislike large birds.) because that's where I got lost. Really. I was seeing the same things - the pond, the grass, the bikers, the walkers - but things were not where I knew them to be. In other words, the path to the main road, where my hotel was situated, was missing.

I kept walking and walking. It was around six in the evening, and I knew better than to hope that it would be like Cape Town, where eight in the evening feels like four in the afternoon. The sun goes to bed late there. At least, it did when I was there, which was on December 2002.

I felt slight panicky. Okay, I felt very panicky. Now I know how Gretel felt when all those crumbs she kept scattering behind her disappeared. Not that I was scattering any crumbs. Then just like that, I found my way back.

The day after, when Ann Mara brought me to the hotel for the Competition, I told him about what had happened. He looked at me, aghast. He said "Why did you go wandering off by yourself? Didn't you know that a young girl was killed there just last week?"

No. I didn't know that.

3) British Museum, May 2003

A few days after the Kensington Experience, I was in the British Museum with my Polish roommate, Woina Ajerack. Since we wanted to see different things (i.e. I had been there before, so I wanted to spend my time in the huge library, while she wanted to see the sculptures.), we decided to meet up at the entrance at five.



Well, I was there a couple of minutes before five, and she wasn't. Having been late a few times myself, I didn't mind her tardiness and so sat there waiting. I was waiting for a long time. The Museum was closing, and she was nowhere to be found. Finally, I arrived at the conclusion that she probably found her way back to the hotel because we went all "invisible Willow" on each other.

Which meant that I would have to find my way back there alone. This was a problem. My roommate was really good with directions, so I had decided to let her handle all that direction-business for the both of us. Bad idea. (In real life, do not do this.) I didn't know how to get back. I asked the guard for directions, but he had none to give.

He called another guard, a Morgan Freeman look-a-like. At this point, I was getting so frustrated that I had almost made my mind up to go outside and get a cab, even if I knew the hotel was five minutes away. Morgan was more helpful. He goes, "Follow me," and starts walking off. Of course, I follow him, happy to be getting somewhere. But then I get very nervous, because we seem to be going through all these dark corridors and secret passageways in the museum. I start preparing myself to run away at the slightest hint of danger. Finally, we arrive at the back entrance of the museum. And I feel stupid because Morgan points at this short street, across which I could already see the hotel.

When I get to the room, Woina is there. She exclaims "There you are! I was so worried."

So was I, Woina.

CHAMELEON SOFIA

There is a God.


Sources of pictures:
Melbourne Tram: www.electric-rly.society.org.uk/photos.htm
Kensington Garden: http://www.apl.ncl.ac.uk/coursework/IThompson/public_parks.htm
British Museum: http://home.online.no/~shammas/british_museum.html

8/05/2004

Two-Child Policy


I was originally planning to write about my close encounters - the times I almost found myself the star (i.e. the victim) of one of those horrifying murder-mysteries. Seriously. I'm still going to write about that, but there is something I just have to comment about first. And if you still don't know what that is, I suggest that you look at the title again.

That's right - the two-child policy. For those who don't know (and I deem it rather problematic if you haven't at least heard of it), the two-child policy is a move by the Philippine government to control the nation's population which has been spiralling out of control. The two-child policy itself is part and parcel of a wider program, which includes information dissemination on birth control methods. Specifically, what the two-child policy does is to provide incentives for couples to have just two children (i.e. if you have two children, you can avail of certain social priveleges, something you will not be able to do upon the birth of the third child onwards). Thus, it is a little different from China's one-child policy (and not just because one is different from two), where, in very simple terms, only the first child is free while the succeeding children are subject to an exorbitant government tax.

That's it, basically. I don't want to explain any more than I have to. If you have questions, you can either post a comment and hope that I'm in an especially patient mood when I get to read it or, and I think this is the better option, look it up in the Internet yourself.

For the purposes of this discussion, I will be focusing on the two-child policy itself. I will be setting aside the information dissemination campaign that accompanies it because, firstly, this is something that has been done before and, secondly, while controversial on its own, it's an issue that I do not find particularly interesting.

CHAMELEON SOFIA

1) Birth Control: Is government intervention justified?

The main opponents of this policy argue that the decision about the number of children to have falls in the private sphere and, therefore, beyond government mandate.

False.

The government, the ideal government anyway, has the responsibility to protect people from other people, which is why it has been said that "your right ends where your neighbour's begins." Also, the government has the right to protect people from themselves, which is why suicide is technically a crime.

In this case, the danger to other people is clear: more babies = more citizens = spreading the already thin resources of the government to a wider base. In other words, the standard of living of the nation will forever be limited by the mismatch, to say the least, between the resources of the country and the people who can legally claim a right to use them. The danger to the self of too much children is also clear. Despite the economic argument, which I find particularly weak, of how children equates to economic resources (i.e. the more the merrier), I posit that more children pose a drain to the resources of the family. This is especially the case when the nature of economic resources, as influenced by globalization, is characterized not by the number of people but by the quality of their education. In other words, there has been a shift from a manual perpspective of people to a service-oriented one. In the former, where resources are procured by mere reproduction, the logic of giving birth to an entire barangay may hold ground. But in the latter, where investment is necessary before the end goal of service-proficiency can be arrived at, the logic does not hold ground.

Indeed, child control is not a private matter. Because it affects both the self, the family, and the entire nation, the government has both the right and the responsibility to step in.

2) Effects of Government Intervention

To say that the government has the right to step in is not to say that the government should step in in this particular way. That much is clear. So the nature of the policy itself, its effects, should now be discussed.

For the purposes of this discussion, I will be putting aside religious objections. While I believe they should be considered, especially in a country where 98 % of the population ascribes to the particular religion that is so noisily objecting to this, I also believe that, at the end of it, religious considerations are secondary. And I don't say this because I am an atheist or an agnostic. I stand by the principle of separation of church and state. The Philippines is not, after all, a theocracy. Whether this is good or bad falls beyond the scope of this discussion.

The main effect of this policy is clear to me: the commodification of children. Children become an economic good with a corresponding price attached to them. This, basically, is what the policy does.

Well, that way of putting it was scandalously harsh. But I think that this effect has been around for a long time. With the advent of Adam Smith's free market, everything has been subsumed in the totality of economics. Everything, even people, now have a price. To say that people are removed from this is completely absurd. Economics has to be considered when having children - after all raising children cannot be done on pure will alone. The physical realm is necessary for this, and it just so happens that this physical realm now operates according to price.

Besides, I think that what should be given importance to is the quality of life. Once again, I am not saying that, in order for people to turn out good, there has to be the presence of an environment characterized by so and so materials. Of course not. As an avid reader, I am well aware of people who rise up from squalid conditions and achieve greatness. And I applaud them for it. But I also believe that it is important to be reasonable. For every person that is able to do that, how many people aren't able to do that and instead go on the opposite path? The fact is that the environment has something to do with how the individual turns out. That's the old equation of nature + nurture coming into play. And because of that, I think economic consideration are very important and should be considered in this.



Indeed, I have no problem with using an essentially economic equation to look at children. I think that this would be better for them, as it would introduce the consideration of factors, formerly ignored, that determine the kind of life they would have. And I think this is important, as there are some kinds of lives that are essentially dehumanizing.

3) Alternatives

It may be argued that the two-child policy is a rather extreme measure and that other policies may achieve the same goal without causing as much as ruckus as this.

To that, I ask: what alternatives? I think everything has been done before. Information dissemination, on its own, is not new. It has been undertaken by non-governmental organizations, even if the Church has been against this since forever. No tangible effects have been seen.

I am more than willing to be proven wrong in this. I welcome new ideas. But I am not delusional.

Don't expect me to praise an alternative that does not exist.

Conclusion

And so I end this entry with a clear, albeit not that sophisticated or inlusive, stance to the two-child policy.

The Chameleon will make additions when she deems necessary. Or when her interest in this topic, which has been temporarily exhausted by her recently concluded non-stop typing marathon, is piqued again.

Source of picture: http://www.univie.ac.at

8/04/2004

Heroism


What is heroism?

I first asked this question when the Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) were proclaimed the bagong bayani ng bayan (i.e. the new heroes of the nation). If I remember correctly, this was at the height of the Flor Contemplacion period, complete with the movie starring Nora Aunor. Soon after this initial questioning, the Chameleon acted up, and I found myself pursuing other interests.

Then Angelo de la Cruz happened.

For the American and Australian politicians, he is the man who should have died. For some Filipinos, especially for his relatives and the media, he is the hero who lives. And for others, he is the reason why the country's head now lies in the guillotine of the merciless world. These descriptions do carry with them grains of truth - and, by implication, grains of untruth as well. But I am not here to philosophize on his many titles - his heroism is what I question.

But first, the original question must be answered - "What is heroism?"


CHAMELEON SOFIA

The essence, the eidos, of heroism is twofold:

1) The Intention

The benefit to whatever the hero is a hero for or of (i.e. hero of the nation) should be intended. This intention should be primary in nature, with all other concerns, most notably interests relating to the self, becoming secondary in nature.

This means that there is no such thing as the accidental or incidental hero.

An archer who aims at a deer but hits an eagle instead deserves no praise for downing the eagle. Why? Because the said archer is a victim of fate and not the master of it. The downing of the eagle, while an action performed by the body, was not intended by the mind. And it is this intention, this direction of a subjective action to an object, that is the condition for us to claim responsibility, and therefore credit, for a particular action.

If there is no intention, then the actor, in any particular case, ceases to become a subject and instead becomes an object of outside action. In the example that I gave, the archer is happened to, just as the eagle is. Fortunately for the archer, this brought honor. Unfortunately for the eagle, this brought death.


Indeed, there is no heroism for being at the right place and that right time. For if that were so, heroism would be based on luck and not on merit. Which means that trying to be a hero is futile endeavor. Which is a scary thought, not only for the individual but for the collective.

Why? Go figure.

2) The Action

The heroic act should produce results that, at the very least, approximate what the subject intended by it.

This means that there is no such thing as destructive hero who meant well.

Imelda Romualdez Marcos is not a national hero. The self-proclaimed incarnation of love and beauty may have intended (although this itself is dubious) to spread love and beauty to the Philippines and then to the world. But if she succeeded in spreading discord and ugliness instead - and it may be noted that she succeeded remarkably in this - then she is not to be credited for her noble intentions.



Pure intentions are the property of the self. It is only when they are acted upon that they enter the public realm and can thus be adjudged as either heroic or not.


That her actions were so different from her intentions can only mean two things:

a) That she was not discerning enough or heroic enough to translate her intentions into actions, often compromising them in destructive ways; and
b) That her intentions themselves, when brought down from their loftiness and made more specific, were downright questionable.

So is Angelo de la Cruz a hero?

Is the lucky archer a hero? Is Imelda Marcos a hero?

I know my answer to these questions.


Notes:

1) I am not degrading the profession of OFWs or Angelo de la Cruz and, in fact, hold them in high, albeit not heroic, regard for what they do.
2) I assert ownership over all the contents of this blog.
3) I am not a philosopher. Yet.

Source of picture: http://deseretnews.com

7/31/2004

Alpha


I have finally gotten around to it.

For months now, I've been postponing setting up a blog. And after hiding behind every excuse in the world - some of them really good and believable, some of them not-so-good but plausible nonetheless - I've finally done it.

Well, setting a blog up is one thing; putting something interesting in it is another. I've done the former already; I intend to do the latter some other time. But because I don't want to end my first every entry with such nonsensical lines, what I will do now is explain the title of the blog.

I've called it Chameleon Sofia because this will contain my take, my own bit of wisdom, on anything I find interesting. And as I've got an interest in just about everything (some people call me fickle or unfocused for it, but I prefer to call myself the modern-day Leonardo da Vinci), this blog will definitely undergo chameleon-like transformations not so much in its form as in its matter.

You'll see what I mean soon enough.