The answer is in Acts 4:32-37

(Encyclical for the end-times? Nope, just an economic reading of Acts 4:32-37.)


The answer is clear to me, but just to clear things up, what is the question? Well, the question has always been clear too: Where have we gone wrong?

That question reverberated in the mind in the midst of the most unforgettable day in our most recent history, i.e., during “EDSA 3.” To me, at least, that was such a profoundly disturbing event in Philippine political history, one that was straight out of the pages of Les Miserables. Well, not really: The presence of so many crazed, drugged, and angry urban poor caught by media on film has a forced or even faked quality to it. But still, it drove every commentator in town and his pet askal nuts. It certainly drove me nuts. Where has my expert armchair-sociopolitical-economist's analysis gone wrong? When will this ever end? What is the right solution?

I believe that Acts 4:32-37 is the answer. Or therein lies the answer or one of the answers. Let’s take a look at that passage with Economics 101 in mind.

Bible passage:

"The community of believers was of one heart and mind, and no one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they had everything in common... There was no needy person among them, for those who owned property or houses would sell them, bring the proceeds of the sale, and put them at the feet of the apostles, and they were distributed to each according to need. Thus, Joseph, a Levite,..., sold a piece of property that he owned, then brought the money and put it at the feet of the apostles." (Acts 4:32-37, New American Bible version)

Economic (and socio-political) reflection:

How did we come to have so many poor people? And how could we just dismiss this reality as a natural by-product of hard economic realities when the world is really resource-rich and there are also excessively rich people around us? No question about it: We are doing things wrong. For instance: Why do we neglect the poor in our midst? The problem is desperate and pressing; what are we doing? Why are we not solving it overnight no matter how complicated the problem is said to be?

Are the poor really a bunch of uneducated, indolent, irresponsible, and good-for-nothing scum and scoundrels? Could it be that they have been driven to the brink and had no choice but to run amok and choose violence and communist revolt if all else fails? So the legion of squatters rob the land, but who would ever want to live as robbers sneaking into the colorectal labyrinths of the city, more wretched than a rat? Maybe it’s because they don’t have the luxury of choice?

But those who live in comfort have a choice. This is not meant to proselytize or win converts but, if we only seriously considered this passage from the Bible by looking at our benighted nation as a community of believers, at least united in thinking that we could live together in peace and harmony as one nation under the Southeast Asian sun, maybe our collective lives will be a lot better. I believe Acts 4:32-37 eloquently explains why so many people got attracted to Christianity in a way that they never did and never had been attracted to anything else, to date.

I could be wrong, but to me, this passage means legion if reinterpreted in the modern situation: true agrarian reform; stock option plans for ordinary employees; abolition of unfair labor practices, cartels and monopolies; affordable housing and rent; socialized tuition fee; a welfare system for the unemployed, the handicapped, the elderly; clampdown on the stratospheric pricing of basic goods and services; tax relief for poor employees and laborers; building of infrastructure that would also benefit the poor; a more efficient and equitable taxation equivalent to tithing (the more well-off giving a bigger share); and so on. (Note: Fellow blogger CVJ has this long-time suggestion, among other things.)

Today, what do we indeed see but a Pandora's box of tiring and seemingly hopeless social ills: education as big business; healthcare as big business; a tax system that burdens employees and consumers the most; casualized labor; price buffers to "protect" big business from their so-called "losses"; monstrous monopolies that mock and throttle the laws of a free economy; senators and congressmen who don't budge an inch to move pro-poor bills because obviously their interests would get hurt; a bankrupt, utterly corrupt political system that allows only the morally bankrupt and utterly corrupt to win; a justice system that only nets helpless fries and frees the big fish; the lack of aggressive, proactive programs that really make an effort to reach out to the indigent, not just piecemeal tokens that insult more than uplift; a Church that's not noisy enough about all these pervasive and persistent evils -- all national demons that find their most glorious expression in the metro's vilest slums. (Or are we all so blind that we can't see the evil that we have done staring at us in the face?)

Clearly, we have an answer to the vicious cycle turning cartwheels on us: the solution lies in the initiative of those who are capable to change the world for the better. Sharing the loot is the operative word, the overly wealthy taking the initiative of sharing what they have. (In the first place, viewed from the Christian viewpoint, all that they have is not wholly theirs if they only care to admit, but something given to them, a blessing. To put things in more practical terms, economics is mainly about work products involving so many people, together with their own private hopes and dreams, sufferings, nightmares, sweat, tears.) It is patriotism and love of fellowmen expressed not in corny and convoluted rhetoric in the Senate and Congress, but in concrete terms, in the day-to-day lives of common folk. At least a corrupt administration’s “Erap Rice” and “Erap Sugar,” etc. were concrete. To paraphrase Mother Teresa or Ghandi or some other good person, “To a hungry people, food means God Himself.” (Erap gave them food, so he had instant fanatics! Problem was he became a pseudo-god, just like the current president is acting like today.)

Who are we to say that the rich only deserve what they have worked for? Do we really believe that just because we work so hard, we have won the right to be wealthy? Who doesn’t want to work and move on in life, in the first place? Could it be that we were only fortunate we moved in a world that made us so? If so, then we really don't deserve our wealth; they were just gifts given to us. Why can we not allow others to partake of our gifts even if they don't deserve it? Could it be that we are too anxious? But we cannot carry our fabulous wealth to the grave. Could it be that we are greedy? No one among us chose to be born, and so we all have an equal right to a dignified existence, right?

The problem is that government cannot legislate charity. That’s the main dilemma in this issue. The law cannot mandate the heart to give, it can only hope and pray, and wait.

Plus there's the fact that not everyone buys the Christian point of view. And we have to respect that. (But if they'll benefit from it all, they might as well join in.)

Furthermore, the problem is far more complex because it is not limited to these shores. We are moving in a larger world that thrives on the same thing, the same old economics based on the exploitation of the weak by the strong. But the world is beyond our control. Surely we can do something about the things within our own corridor? Who knows, the world might take notice and once again follow suit? (Remember how nations aped EDSA?)

Simply put, what the Acts passage wants us to do is sharing. Leftists have failed because they have misread the writing on the parchment. They saw blanket equality when they should have preached the virtues of unity in diversity. They saw violent and homicidal confiscation of the possessions of the bourgeoisie when they should have seen the wisdom of giving freely in the name of altruism. But capitalists didn't fare much better, either, because they always divided the world into an equally nasty, bipolar reductionisms: the haves vs. the have-nots, North vs. South, East vs. West, etc. (It's as though there's such a thing as East and West in a planet that rotates and revolves and is an oblate spheroid.) Maybe we could find a middle ground, try a middle way? To be more accurate about it, Christ's better apostles have been applying the Acts-based solution from time immemorial up to this time (St. Francis of Assisi, Mother Teresa, Chiara Lubich of Focolare, etc.), but their examples have been continuously roundly ignored. (Update: Perhaps, except that of Tony Meloto and Couples for Christ's highly successful Gawad Kalinga. But that's just modeled after US ex-President Carter's Habitat for Humanity.)

From where I'm uncomfortably seated, I can see EDSA III, IV, V, VI, VII...ad infinitum. Our ills will never end like a refrain that never fades if the gentle voice of giving in the context of a loving and caring community is left unheeded. Look at the problem of pirated CDs: They persist because the legit ones are onerously, obscenely priced; which and who is being more illegal and immoral?

I hate to sound like Deepak Chopra or Tears for Fears for that matter, but that's what we need - a sowing of the seeds of love. It’s the end of the world, folks, or don’t you know it yet! The end of cosmetic changes (although Erap Rice and Erap Sugar were apparently effective). The end of the reign of pack-rat mentality. The end of “transactional politics” and the reign of an artist's sensitivity to the plight of others, the reign of compassion for those who have less in life, the kind that won't be afraid to take up the cudgels for them against all odds.

It will hurt, yes, but it won't kill all of us in the long run. We really will never recover if the same old feudalistic, parochial, personalistic, patronage-based, myopic mindset holds sway. There's no other alternative in sight. See, after 100 years, we have exhausted all experimental options, and everything has failed.

I know we are asking for the moon here, but in this day and age, even that is not too impossible. It's just that we can’t go on living with the status quo, where “it is convenient for the rest for the poor to remain poor,” to borrow a line from somewhere. Yes, there is a class war, but it's long been over, the poor and weak ending up the vanquished. Let's put an end to this by rebuilding our economic framework based on that seemingly innocuous and inconsequential Acts passage.

(Revision from a draft written 5.1.2001)

Hinduism-meets-Christianity

Perhaps, in the midst of a sentimental moment, you have thought to yourself as well, “Why are there a lot of good, honest, and hard-working people who remain poor and suffering all their lives despite everything?” Proponents of karma may say, “These people are paying for their forefathers’ debts.” Bo Sanchez may answer, “Because they are Filipinos: financially stupid, unlike the enterprising Chinese.” What about this answer, most likely coming from me and others who see the world through leftist and left-of-center eyes: “Because there are so many greedy people who have a presumptuous concept of entitlement?”

No matter which side you’re on, you will agree that this is where Hinduism and Christianity meet and kiss. In the eyes of the law of karma, the apparent inequalities in this world are the result of some sort of justice system ("cosmic balance scale") operating in the universe. “You sow what you reap.” That’s easy enough to agree with anytime. But I am kind of offended, though, by the judgmental tone of that view. After all, there are totally innocent people involved; why should they pay for others’ mistake even if they’re ‘kith and kin’? Besides, that point of view is a kind of view that won't inspire you to change the world for the better, to work for justice, because of the cryptic belief that "things are what they are because they are meant to be."

But then the Old Testament also has a lot of passages referring to entire progenies suffering the burden of their forebears’ sins up to the seventh or so generation. Nevertheless, unlike Hinduism, the expiation process in the Christian thought is not just punitive in nature but redemptive as well. There lies the difference. Everyone shares in the purification of someone else’s stupidity; everyone shares in the “redemptive mission.”

My problem now with the Christian thinking is this: If every form of suffering is somewhat redemptive, then anyone who suffers at all and not just those who suffer for a reason (now better called “sacrifice”) gets saved in the end. If you must suffer, it’s because you are thought to be worth saving. This is where certain people’s belief that all souls get saved in the end must come from.

But I tend to reject that thought nevertheless because, even if I personally believe in hope in the love and mercy of God, I am also sold on the idea of hell because without hell, what’s the point of virtue and all that striving? Everything will be illogical.

Secondly, does that mean people who don't experience a form of suffering means they are not part of the redemptive mission and are therefore... Disturbing thought.

Did I give you a new problem, or a mere headache?

I-Spent-a-Lot

(I forgot to tell you this story. It’s really funny. And it really happened to me. Don’t laugh at me too hard, ok? Or you'll fart.)

Along Pasong Tamo. Ext. in Makati, there used to be a little, wonderful shopping mall called Save-a-Lot, a thrift shop that gave us a first-hand taste of authentic American pie. The three-story mini-mall was just a stone’s throw away from the class-AAA subdivision Dasmarinas Village, not to mention our restarted-up office (which was an old BPO firm by then). I’m not sure how the store did its business, but there they all were: the array of goods that were not fake, including Tommy Hilfiger and Polo shirts, Nike caps and Nike basketball shorts, Hanes underwear, plaid polos by Ralph Lauren - all American size, hardbound children's books unavailable elsewhere, and high-quality home furniture -- regular American stuff, sure, but luxury items to us. Out front and near the street was a mini-Statue of Liberty, an el cheapo-looking but strikingly odd landmark of sorts in the area. From here, a few skyscrapers were not far from view, so it was not difficult to imagine that one was a true-blue New Yorker who really read something like the New York Times and the New Yorker everyday.

One day Jinky and I went mini-malling in Save-a-Lot even if we didn't have enough cash, even though there was something like a moving-out sale. Jinky was a friend other people were given to calling 'maldita' (or she-devil). We came over to look for a birthday gift for an officemate, but finding nothing affordable, we ended up repairing to McDonald's instead for some Happy Meal Combos. Budget meals, in short. So one moment, we’re in 'lookie-I’m-in-NYC' mood and in the next, we switch back to Third-World-citizen mode. Sure, it didn't help that the fried chickens we ordered were served with rice, and the spaghetti was of course a tad sweetish. I thought the shifting of the scene from First Word to Third Word was too abrupt not to be noticed by even the insensitive. Soon, we’d find ourselves doing that shift again and ‘back again.’

When we were about to go back to the office, it rained outside. Hard, as in La Niña hard. To make the story short, Jinky and I were stuck, together with all the high-brow shoppers. We were helpless and could do nothing but scan the crowd, whereupon we found a trio of boys in overpriced hip-hop get-ups, Marlboro Lights cigarettes clipped in their fingers; high school students from Assumption in their Maria Clara-inspired uniforms; Brent International School students; and some other Caucasoids. Wow pare, yeah, we're like, conyo kids na. But wait, wasn't that guy over there my algebra teacher in college?

Panic time. He didn't seem to recognize me, though. But I thought, if he’s really bright, he should have. If I came up and said hi, would he recognize me? I wasn't exactly the big man on campus, just a campus heartthrob, but hey, our school was too small (student population: 600+) to forget people and things just like that even after eight years.

I decided not to risk being embarrassed, so I denied his existence. But, darn it, I couldn't suppress images of lectures in UP Baguio, and the exams he gave which I flunked mostly. I couldn't bear my guilt, so I told Jinky about Sir Ramil's presence in the vicinity.

"Mataas ba ang grade mo sa kanya?" Ms. Maldita asked me naughtily.
"Hindi," I replied with an equal dose of mischief, although I remember accidentally topping the Algebra finals once. (I know: tsamba.)
"O, isnabin mo na lang siya," she said bitchily.

One hour and five inches of floodwater later, we were still standing at the lobby looking glumly at the downpour. We made about five trips to the nearest phone to inform the office of our situation. Jinky asked me to buy her some peanuts to while away the time but, like an ever-stingy tightwad at times, I refused adamantly, saying "Nagtitipid ako, pwede ba!" while mentally calculating the cash incurred for our McDonald's meal and that loaf of Gardenia wheat bread I had bought on the side earlier for the office.

Another hour later, we're still at it, milling around the foyer area. And to add to our dilemma, we found the Snubbed One standing several inches beside us! And top to it all, Jinky found Sir Ramil to be cute, so she couldn't restrain herself from looking. She reportedly noticed my teacher looking my way while I stood there unseeingly, stiff as a poker. It turned out I was pretty obvious.

By now, Pasong Tamo Ext., where Save-A-Lot stood, was flooded knee-high. Sir Ramil hurriedly took a pedicab miraculously showing up at the door waiting, and he fled before I got a stiff neck. Good riddance, I thought. But a problem remained: I wasn't at peace with myself. I felt bad about snubbing my former teacher.

And I wasn't at peace with the prospect of wading through a great flood. "God,” we despaired, “how are we going to return to the office with our dignity intact? How do we get out of here before we drown?" We only had one umbrella and Jinky and I were wearing pants, not to mention, shoes, and socks.

The solution proved simple yet took a lot of time to even consider: I parted away with my overstretched budget for next week to buy a pair of slippers, Nike shorts, and one extra umbrella which was surprisingly made in...China. The thing was loud red in color and had an embarrassing curlicued print which I wouldn't be caught dead carrying even if it rained for forty days. After not a few minutes of hesitation, we decided to change attires and emulate the Jews in the Book of Exodus. We laughed hysterically as we navigated the Brown Sea with the tentativeness of someone who's never experienced flood, one hand carrying an oriental parasol and another clutching a bag of used clothes and stuff. Of course, I, being no Moses, and Jinky, being no Jewish, the Brown Sea refused to part.

We pleaded with a guy who was about to drive a enviably cavernous van to please take us even just to the other side of the road.

“Oh God, may this potential Good Samaritan have mercy on us,” we prayed.

But the Good Samaritan turned out to be Bad, for he only replied, "Gusto niyong sumama sa Saudi? Papunta 'ko sa Saudi." ("Wanna go to Saudi Arabia with me?")

"Punyeta! Mean, mocking animal! Son of the devil! Saudi Arabia daw!?" The nerve! I don't think we looked like we're carnappers or we'd kidnap him or something. It was the time of my life when I loved to behead someone but couldn't.

On the road, at least three cars stalled, and I really hoped one of them was the one owned by the guy who wanted to be an Arab man. Meanwhile, every time a car dared to part the Brown Sea like Moses, waves of brownish-black swelled to our direction and it felt like having beach volleyball, except that you had to do it in a sea of dirt.

I insisted on us taking a pedicab to get to the other side of the road, even if it meant we'd still get sopping wet. But one pedicab driver we were able to catch asked us first if we could pay him 30 bucks. (The jeepney fare at that time wasn’t even P7.50 yet.-Y.R.) Of course, my head nodded against my will. When we made it to the opposite side of Pasong Tamo Ext., the driver took away P40 without even an explanation or a request. We couldn’t complain at the opportunistic horned, not to mention hoofed,… scalper.

Drenched to our underwear, fearful of filariasis and leptospirosis, and victimized by a ripoff, we were greeted by officemates who laughed and laugh like hyenas with a pair of horns each. But Jinky and I consoled ourselves with the thought that everyone else couldn’t go home because of the flood. We were all marooned in the office. Meanwhile, we never used Safeguard and Green Cross family rubbing alcohol in our lives more than we did that night.

When the torrential rain ceased by 10 PM, and everybody decided it was time to go home, there's not even a trace of the Great Flash Flood at Save-A-Lot: the streets sparkled under the neon lights like they were newly cleaned up by the street-sweepers. It’s gone, just like that, as though it came as an exacting punishment just for us, poor snobs: I mean, pathetic people who pretend to be rich and famous but can’t even afford it, not even to order a non-budget McDonald’s meal.

9.12.1999

Superstitious beliefs-turned-theories

(Ho-hum. Slow news day)

1. Insects take revenge when you kill them en masse. One day, I tried decapitating and incinerating ants the way Hitler sent Jews to the gas chamber in Auschwitz, and guess what: A day later, other ants fought back by biting holes into my favorite clothes. Must be the dead ones’ relatives. Another day, I planted poisonous baits for roaches in every strategic point in the house, and guess again: After all the poisonous pellets were consumed and hundreds of casualties lay immobile and upturned, as in the aftermath of the Hiroshima bombing, the vermin multiplied to the nth power (exponentially!) as though I baited them not with poison but with potent vitamin. My brother Rick, who alternately lives in Quezon as part-time farmer, observes how farm pests behave in much the same way whenever they are decimated by pesticides by the trillions to the point of extinction. You guessed it right: The damned pests turn up in double or triple that figure next harvest season. Now, who haven’t heard of mice fighting back?

2. If we verbalize our fears and pray that they don’t strike us unprepared, chances are, they won’t happen anytime soon. For example, we had a nightmare about a family member last night; to counter that, we need to tell about it to the person involved. If we disregard it, our worst fears strike just when turn complacent. It therefore makes sense to live, not exactly in constant fear, but in constant cautiousness. The trick may be in articulating our fears out loud and then offering them up in prayer.

3. To the scientifically inclined, how prayer works may be explained by quantum physics. According to an eminent physicist (failed to catch his name), our thoughts can actually influence the position of an atom so that it occupies two places at the same time. I don’t know what law or theory operates here, but the point is we can actually move mountains, perhaps even literally, just by thinking about it together. Worldwide prayer marathons, global consecrations, block rosaries, intercessory prayers, and other acts of praying and meditating together on a major scale make sense even on the level of quantum physics.

4. Beauty is not skin-deep, ‘tis true, but if you are beautiful inside, it will show on your face and overall look no matter how much your skin is defaced. People call this hard-to-catch-on-camera quality “aura,” and it is not exactly a New Age thing. Some people claim they can see people’s auras and that certain people have certain aura colors and even change in aural colors, depending on the mood. Weird, but more studies are, of course, needed.

These theories are not all-original or exclusively held by me alone. They are shared openly by others, and I hope I have not plagiarized anyone. Let me remind you, though, that theories being oftentimes wild conjectures, they are open to violent reactions. One request: just don't turn violent in my direction. Just focus on the ideas.

Editorial

Kenya’s tragic politics is one more reason you and I should be grateful to be Filipino. (This post’s target audience: Filipinos only, please.) Why? Because our tribes never got to be that violent with one another. Correct my Philippine History 101, but I think the Kapampangans, for instance, never fought as one war-freak tribe against, say, the Tagalogs. What happened was intermarriage, producing half-breeds up to this day that, in my generation, we’ve come to the point that we never look at ourselves that much along the terms of whether I am a Cebuano and you’re not. We were all half-halfs (or mix-mix) anyway. Or to be more accurate, at least one-sixteenth of this, plus one-eighth of that, plus one-half of this and one fourth of that. Maybe our respective loyalties, roughly speaking, remain strong, but these are more in terms of de facto provincial pride, which is geographic in nature, but not so much in terms of ethnicity. What is certain is that we are all supposed to be Filipinos.

Of course, intermarriage means migration, assuring each province an infusion of ethnic variety through the years. Of course, the case of Mindanao was a case of legal occupation, but that’s another story. I’m just not sure if the Vizayans really see themselves as Vizayans first and Filipinos second, but supposing there’s a war between Vizayans and the equally ethnocentric (well, relatively speaking) Tagalogs, how in heaven’s name would that happen with so many hybrids and in-between varieties (wild guess: about 90%). “Tagalogs” alone come in at least five varieties, and certainly, the Tagalogs of today don’t give a whit whether someone they are about to marry is Tagalog or not.

That’s the reality on the ground here in Manila. That’s the reality I saw when I lived in Baguio. And, as far as I know, not everyone in Pangasinan, my current home province, is expected to be Pangalatok. You’re Bicolano or Bisaya? Who cares? I don’t. It doesn’t even matter. Even the stereotype about domestic helpers and yayas being Bisaya is just that: a stereotype. Living with my relatives who can afford hired hands, I have witnessed a parade of katulongs and yayas from all possible provinces.

This “I-am-Ilocano-first-and-Filipino-second” mentality is really so appalling I don’t know what else to say. I think these grumpy, self-limiting regionalists should be thankful instead we’re not so insular and ethnocentric as these African tribes of yore and today. Or else we would be at each other’s throats today for the lame reason that we are Warays or Ilonggos. After all, time will come when we should also stop looking at ourselves as Filipinos first but instead world citizens first.

To repeat: The regionalist quibble that wants to overemphasize one’s “race” or “ethnicity” over and above the national identity is irrelevant in these parts chiefly because it is grossly inaccurate because no one is "pure" anymore. This is an issue that is cousin to the question, “Who is the pure Filipino?,” whose answer is, of course, “No one.”

**

It’s equally appalling and disgusting to know that these Indonesians bury their beloved dictator in an honorable state funeral. I think the dictator doesn't even deserve a mention.

Uncle Sigmund goes to Glorietta 4

(No-holds-barred thought balloons on a transvestite and his ‘boylet.’ No offense meant, so please don’t hate me. I’m playing a character here.)

Last night I was having dinner with a friend at Food Choices, Glorietta 4 when suddenly I couldn’t focus on our conversation because seated next to us was a transvestite and his/her (their?) boyfriend. I assume they’re a couple, because the pair fit the role to a T: the boy was artista-looking, young, slim, flawless-skinned, and attired and groomed in the latest fashion (tight-fitting everything). The “trannie,” a far older man, looked, well, a 35-year old who’s undoubtedly male, judging from the severe lines in his facial bone structure, but he’s clothed in fitting ladies wear. The trans guy must be taking hormone pills. The couple was having a dinner of Chinese dimsum or is it dumpling. They couldn’t possibly be cousins on a date, or else the transvestite would’ve dragged another female with him. I saw them come from opposite directions, but ‘she’ must’ve footed the bill. My eyes followed them, hopefully not too rudely, because I was very much interested to know about the unique dynamics of the relationship.

Was the relationship all about sex? Maybe. Gender role-wise, she must be acting as the lady and the boy as the man of the house. They must be having a lot of sex, but how do they do it? Can a boy possibly get aroused by… someone like him/her? He must be only 17, and supposing he’s normal, he must be imagining someone else while at it. And he must have come here to collect his dues, so to speak.

How did they meet anyway, considering the odds?

How’s the boy's self-esteem like? I wonder. Does he see himself as a sex toy or the usual paramour, an object of love, in which case he should feel strangely like a girl being pursued by a suitor?

How does his peers treat him? Do they taunt him, heckle him, or is he even given a chance to get close to their inner circle? So, is he like a willing outcast? Does he even care?

How is he being treated by his family? Surely, they wanted to kill the kid ever since they learned about it, but they couldn’t because, well, he's family whether they like it or not. Or could it be that he has no family or any caring support group that’s why he’s gone this far in the first place? Understandably, it's very hard to be very good-looking and very poor at the same time.

What about the trans guy? What does he think? How does he feel? Why did he switch genders? Can't he remain homo without the desire to have cheap sex change in Thailand?

And how does he regard the kid? Could the boy be the boy he has lost and is now trying to recover? The boy that he never was that he's now trying to have? Is he his stolen boyhood, the childhood snatched from him? He must be a child hurting then, his inner child hungry for love -- hungry for attention, affection, caring, support, and acceptance of his fellow boys, his fellow men, and especially his father. He must have an acute, unmet need for male affirmation. Was his father a distant kind of father? Or is his mother the domineering one (and the father the ‘soft’ one)? Could it be that everything is all about defense mechanism? But how did things got sexualized in the first place? Mystery.

Yet has he ever considered he/she might be in trouble? Does it even cross his/her mind? Or has s/he always known that s/he’s that way since birth? Would s/he be offended at the slightest thought? Would s/he think my thoughts to be malicious, judgmental and unspeakably hurtful?

Do they kiss? If he/she and his/her baby dumpling kiss, there must be love. You never kiss a prostitute, right?

They may indeed say they’re in love with each other, but is it love, really? Will they allow themselves to be interviewed on TV, in a talk show on prime-time TV?

Do they ever fight? What are the things they often fight about? Are the fights mostly about jealousy, infidelity, or more about money?

Do they go through the intricately dark and heavy emotional dependency and emotional vampirism dynamics that dysfunctional couples (straight or not) go through?

If ever they break up, how do they move on?

Wait a minute. Don’t they look like they could be father-and-son? Could their case be bordering on pedophilia pederasty or even ephebophilia? There must be a big difference somewhere.

I hope they become my next clients/patients.

**

See also: "Hi, I'm Vic" on bisexuality this time.

(Comments off please.)

Durkheim on suicide

(Don't mind these nerdy posts; for my own note-taking purposes only)

The father of sociology, the French Emile Durkheim, once found certain segments of society to be more predisposed to commit suicide than others:

a) men, b) Protestants, c) wealthy people, and d) the unmarried

versus

a) women, b) Catholics and Jews, c) the poor and d) married people.

He observed the following:

a. Societies dominated by men mean men are freer than women, but this also means more socially separated men and thus males being more prone to suicide.
b. Protestants are more likely self-sufficient than Catholics and Jews, who may be bound by tradition and rites, but also benefit from stronger social ties.
c. The wealthy have much more freedom than the poor, but once again at the cost of a higher suicide rate.

The key to these differences, Durkheim claimed, lies in social integration: Strong social ties = low suicide rates. High individualism = high suicide rates.

Durkheim’s analysis remains valid after 100 years, as per John J. Macionis, author of Society, the Basics (2005).

There are, of course, other ways of looking at suicide other than Durkheim's sociological eye: psychological, cultural/anthropological, and moral/ethical.

Freud, on dreams

“Dreams are our way to the unconscious mind. They sometimes reveal what we don’t think about or acknowledge during the day: Feelings that have been stored up and pushed to the side.”

“The troubles and events stored up in our unconscious mind cause dreams at night. It gives us closure and relief on what we have no control over.”

(Of course, there are other theories and theorists that offer other possible explanations.)

Take the "Real Friends Test"

(This is a new psychological measure/scale. From my friend code-named Drop-Dead Gorgeous, who's a real friend, I guess :p. Oh no, I'll be in trouble!)

1. A simple friend, when visiting, acts like a guest.
A real friend opens your refrigerator and helps himself and doesn't feel even the least bit weird shutting your 'beer/Pepsi drawer' with her/his foot!

2. A simple friend has never seen you cry.
A real friend shoulder is soggy from your tears..

3. A simple friend doesn't know your parents' first names.
A real friend has their phone numbers in his address book.

4. A simple friend brings a bottle of wine to your party.
A real friend comes early to help you cook and stays late to help you clean.

5. A simple friend hates it when you call after they've gone to bed.
A real friend asks you why you took so long to call.

6. A simple friend seeks to talk with you about your problems.
A real friend seeks to help you with your problems.

7. A simple friend wonders about your romantic history.
A real friend could blackmail you with it!

8. A simple friend thinks the friendship is over when you have an argument.
A real friend calls you after you had a fight.

9. A simple friend expects you to always be there for them.
A real friend expects to always be there for you!

Invite

(from Paolo Manalo; note the British spelling :p)

"You're all invited to a reading by fictionist Dan Rhodes on Saturday, 9 February 2007 at The Forum (4/F) in Fully Booked Bonifacio High Street in Taguig at 4:00 P.M. Rhodes has two collections of short fiction: Anthropology and A Hundred Other Stories (2000), Don't Tell Me the Truth About Love (2001) and two novels: Timoleon Vieta Come Home: A Sentimental Journey (2003) and Gold (2007). In 2003 he was included by Granta as one of their twenty Best of Young British Novelists.

"I met him in Edinburgh last year and discovered him married to my former student, Emmily Magtalas, a graduate of UP creative writing programme. He will be in Manila next month so I helped organise a reading for him. Fully Booked has ordered some copies of his books so if you go to their branches you'll see one or two on the shelves, but expect more in the next few weeks.

"He'll be reading from Gold (recently reviewed in the New York Times Book Review) and my personal favourite: Anthropology (which Maxim UK described as 'One hundred and one stories, all about girlfriends. They cheat, they die, they leave, frequently...The funny stories are all the funnier for being brief; the sad ones all the sadder for being sparse. Every one a twenty-second gem.'

"I hope to see you there."

Translation, please

(Question from G.)

How do you say "Ako ay puyat" in English? "I'm so sleep-deprived"?

Heath Ledger, 28

That obit headline looks odd, doesn't it? Other than sad, tragic, and unthinkable, that is. But honestly, all along I thought he's around 35 and above. It turns out he's a lot younger. Which is amazing, considering his achievements as an uncompromising artist, which normal people (i.e., sellouts) can't even hope to have by age 50. What a guy.

Herstory: history of domestic abuse

Domestic violence = a "crime of power and control."

Five types of Domestic violence according to the Domestic Violence source book:

1. physical abuse
2. sexual abuse
3. mental/emotional abuse
4. verbal abuse
5. financial abuse

I've encountered this other type of abuse in a public service ad in QTV11: "social abuse." Ex.: Not allowing spouse to go out and communicate or socialize with other people.

(What about "intellectual abuse"? For example: witholding information a wife should know.)

Timeline/History of family violence (selected events)

753 B.C, reign of Romulus in Rome: Law of Chastisement permits husbands to beat their wives for "physical discipline" using a rod or switch not greater than the girth of the husband's thumb (the "thumb rule")

202 B.C, the end of Punic war: Women are given more rights, including freedom to own property and freedom to sue their partners for unjustified beating. The abuse remains unabated, though.

300 A.D, Rome: The Church fathers underline married men’s “patriarchal” authority” based on the “patriarchal values” of the Romano-Jewish law. Constantine the Great burns his wife alive after thinking her useless.

900-1300, Middle Ages Europe: The Church allows the subjugation (?) of women, with the nobles leading by example and the serfs/peasants wholeheartedly following. Priests counsel battered wives to instead increase their devotion to their husbands.

1500’s, England: English jurist Lord Hale states that, when the wives consented to marriage, they "gave themselves to their husbands," and he interprets this, strangely, to mean that husbands cannot be punished for raping their wives. This interpretation eventually leads to the "contractual consent" theory.

1500’s, Russia: During the time of Ivan the Terrible, the State Church issues a “Household Ordinance” that allows beating one’s wife or even killing her, but not without a fierce relationship from the women. Women faced such penalty as being buried alive, “with only their heads above the ground, and left to die.” It was a time of double standard: wife-killing is legal, but husband-killing illegal.

1500’s, England: “The Golden Age of the Rod.” Disobedience to the man of the house means sanctioned violence against women and children

1721, Germany: A trial transcript documents lesbian violence, but the two women are punished (the defendant put to death!) just because they were in a lesbian relationship

1829, England: abolition of a husband's “absolute power of chastisement”

1861, England: John Stuart Mill writes “The Subjection of Women,” to appeal to Parliament to relax its divorce laws in favor of women. With Mill fearing negative public reaction, it is not until eight years have passed, though, that the essay is published.

1880’s, England: The law is amended to allow the wife to separate from her husband in cases of being beaten habitually to the point of “life endangerment”

1965, US: Congressional law is passed that prohibits gender-based work discrimination. The traditional marriage contract, however, remains legally binding.

1966, New York: A “sufficient number” of beating becomes grounds for divorce

1970, Scotland and Iran: Wife-beating made illegal

1980, England, Wales, Northern Ireland and Scotland: the National Women's Aid Federation established

1994, US: Congress passes the Violence Against Women Act

1995, US: National baseball icon O.J. Simpson acquitted of murders of Nicole Brown-Simpson and Ron Goldman

(Personal note: Note how the source of this list (reference books on the subject) make an egregious glossing-over of the long-standing crimes of overly strict Islamic states against women. When will the women of such states ever wake up? But, well, if that's their choice on grounds of religious belief, um, I guess we should respect that choice. And I'd add, congratulations, and good luck to them!)

Dear diary, I forgot

Dear diary,

I must apologize for all the things I forgot to jot down in your pages. I forgot to note that I watched with Malou Sakal, Sakali, Saklolo by Joey Reyes last Manila Filmfest. Some jokes are now quite stale and some of the acting excessive, but it remains to be a hilarious movie, although it received brickbats for being regionalistic. Well, it's a social parody, right? What do you expect, but a movie that pokes fun at our ugly biases, our social stereotypes, including (or most especially) the perpetrators of the crime? I also had a date with M. again at McCafe in Glorietta while Sugarfree and Hale were having a concert downstairs. They were interrupting our conversation, needless to say, but I certainly didn't mind. They became the subject of our conversation instead, in between our usual exchange. Oh, and I failed to note that the composer of Catholic liturgical songs, Fr. Hontiveros, has died. And so has the chess champ Bobby Fischer, who I only remember hazily. (He'd lived in Baguio with a lover back in 200_!? Without the media knowing?!) What else have I forgot to tell you? Wait, I think I also forgot to inform you that I've been busy listening to Switchfoot's first album, The Beautiful Letdown, which showed me that this band first came out in 1990 as a Christian rock group, and they seem to be annoyed at the tag, of late. I've also watched for the second time Fr. Bob McConaghy's talk (in DVD), "Our Image of God: A Healing Process." This is such a life-changing talk for me, and I am sure for you too. I am sure to watch it the third time sometime this week. I hope to briefly review both materials too. By the way, I heard from Ian that Fr. Bob is going back home to the United States soon. That'll be a major loss for all of us who often go to the Greenbelt chapel. I've never encountered a confessor who's better than Fr. Bob, a model of God's compassion, if there ever was one. Confessors should take a seminar from him.

Flip Idol

I just have to vent this off: That's the most embarrassing thing I've ever seen on TV since...what? I haven't seen anything on TV that's even half-embarrassing. Not even William Hung or any of those embarrassing Jackass scenes. So I'll have to revise my statement by saying, "That's the most embarrassing thing I've ever seen on TV!" Why? Because Renaldo whatshisface of Las Vegas (?) presented everything I hate about mainstream Philippine music, singers and musicians! He certainly made me NOT PROUD to be Filipino.

The silver cape costume would have made him just an interesting over-the-top character, but the song! And the way it was delivered! That's exactly the mark of the untalented side of Philippine music industry that manages to corner the market and control a large part of the creative and production processes despite years of churning out the same bad thing. No less than Simon Cowell, Paula Abdul, and the black guy recognized that they have hit a gold mine in that song, which sent the host visibly mentally groping for words and Paula dancing to it in high-parody fashion.

Here are Mr. Renaldo's crimes, which the three judges deemed to be beyond direct insult, so they had to resort to false hifalutin' praises:

1. Allegedly original composition that sounds a lot like the ungrammatical version of "We Are the World"

2. Overly sentimental lyrics

3. Too direct message

4. An embarrassing musical composition (The yellow-vented bulbuls and brown shrikes' bird-songs have better arrangement)

5. Nasty, foul-smelling vocals or vocal interpretation (sounds to me like a goat bleating)

6. The overall sound's utter lack of sophistication

I watched all that horror in front of me transfixed, unable to blink, anaesthetized by the thought that the monster on TV was unmistakably Filipino - I mean, the worst part of being one. I swear even the karaoke machine will refuse to give him a score.

Diary: People Power 2

(Report from my little corner of the universe)

It was the worst time to lose my TV set. It was the worst time not to own a cell phone yet. (I was one of the last holdouts in the office, insisting that it's a gadget that wasn't necessary.) Result? I missed the complete excruciating details of the "Trial of the Century" (i.e., He-who-should-not-be-named's impeachment), Miriam's "going ballistic" over two pretty socialites, the parade of women witnesses (Clarissa Ocampo, et al.) making a clown of the country's most expensive lawyer (Another-mister-who-should-not-be-named), Sen. Loren Legarda and Sen. Nene Pimentel in tears, Sen. Loren giving Sen. Drilon (or some other) a buss on the cheek, the massive throng at the EDSA and Ayala protests. I missed all that drama and suspense. The little that I could manage to catch sight of were snippets from a TV in our canteen in my Makati workplace and, worse, frozen images on the next day's paper.

When the second People Power Revolution came to pass, I never received any text message. I contented myself listening to officemates read their Erap jokes in between hyena giggles.

That's okay, though. It's good enough for me; I needed nothing more. I needed no one else to point out something was wrong. I knew something with us was terribly wrong anyway the day Erap, an unrepentant Marcos loyalist, won. It was the day I stopped putting my trust in elections, or believing in our style of democracy.

But the times called for second thoughts anyway, for thinking things over. I was willing to be open-minded again at the time.

Around that time, a couple of my high school classmates were getting married, an important person in my life had just died roughly a week before, and I was meeting with old friends in, of all places, SM Megamall for a little get-together.

But notwithstanding all three considerations, I ended up instead at the EDSA Shrine for two consecutive nights. The first night, I came shouting "Erap resign!" together with total strangers. I came with a different group of friends, but along the way, we lost each other in the impossible crowd. One friend had the kindness to lend me his other cell phone on the way there, but unfortunately, the shrine suddenly turned into a giant dead spot! It was a motley crowd that night. I spotted scriptwriter Ricky Lee buying a cigarette from an ambulant vendor. Where I positioned myself, two Portalets stank of urine. I also dodged Skyflakes (the biscuit) literally falling down from the sky (from the flyover above, actually). It rained tetrapak juices, too. I had to seek cover.

By the time Coritha was into her slow folk-rock classic "Bangon Na," I rushed back home to catch some sleep. Then, finally, somebody was on the cellular phone, frantic. "Where are you?"

"I'm on the bus going home," I answered. Then a stray thought occurred to me: The angry crowd (who were having fun being angry) - weren't they the very ones who made Erap win in the first place? Perhaps it was a guilty crowd out there, trying to repair a wrongdoing. I'm not sure.

**

The second night was the night leading up to Erap's day of infamy, his day of ouster. I came to meet members of my little community at Mercury Drug in Robinson's Galleria mall. The air in EDSA was electric. Cars honked in unison (four synchronic beeps that stood for "Eee-rap re-sign"). People in black and assorted political stickers and anti-whatever patches jampacked the MRT, if they did not walk the entire length of Magallanes to Ortigas. (That's how many kilometers?) The buses were filled to the brim, too, so to speak, and could not move an inch beyond Boni Serrano Ave. Confetti rained down from the tall buildings. I got off the bus and joined a thousand people in one night of walkathon. There was a brisk sale of mineral water, too, a 'sunshine industry,' you could say, sprouting in the middle of the night.

I failed to dress up for battle, but it's not for lack of trying. I did make a last-minute shopping, but black shirts reportedly became unavailable in stores as the darkest of nights drew on, so I ended up wearing my favorite blue stripes. I contented myself with finding me a sticker, but to my dispointment, I also failed to find any. Everything I needed for the rally, it seemed, got snatched up in an instant. The result? I stuck out among the crowd in my striped shirt, so I felt like the enemy.

At Megamall, I was surprised to find a large crowd of students from UP Los Banos, or so their extra-large banner said. Nearing Robinsons, I squeezed myself though a platoon of gun- and shield-wielding policemen whose number looked pathetically small compared to the crowd they're supposed to subdue just in case. Then something dawned on my inner wimp: Anything can happen tonight. It would take just one fool to ruin a gathering like this.

When I reached the main door of the Galleria mall, I began to fear for a possible stampede. I could die here without anyone in my family knowing about it. But there was no turning back now. I joined a crowd of similarly trapped mall rats who couldn't wait cooling their heels off inside.

Where's Mercury Drug? I wasn't sure where to find it. I crimped my forehead and squinted, adjusting my glasses. People moved every which way. Robinson's notorious elevators weren't of much help, either. I never got so disoriented in my life, and this was not my first time in Galleria. I've been to this place more than a dozen times before. I was in total shock to find the entire food court teeming with people in black! Only a handful wore a different shade, definitely none wearing the friendly shades of orange, the Erap people's favorite color. Or wristbands, for that matter. I felt guilty for wearing the wrong attire. There's a local term for it: Walang pakisama. It was a night democracy was actually fun, and it felt like I chose to forego the chance even when I was there in full support -- just because of not wearing the same black shirt.

Finally I made it to Mercury Drug. It was already about 7PM from the time I took the bus from my workplace near Magallanes. It must be about 9:30PM by now. No one in my group was in sight, and the store had closed. I began to panic. I won't spend this night alone again!, I vehemently swore to myself. I've gotta find someone at least, so I loitered some more around the shops.

At which moment came the call of nature. I didn't find using the stinky Portalets a bright idea so I gotta take a leak while I was still inside.

It was as difficult to find the john. When I finally found one on another floor (the third floor, I think), I had to join the beeline of bladders bursting. And I made sure I did my thing fast for a total stranger in black shirt was right behind me waiting. It was that gross.

Back to Mercury. Still no one was there. Momentarily a security guard opened the sliding door. I grabbed the opportunity to make an effortless exit. Extricating my way out through the maze of grocery items, I bumped into a familiar face: singer Leah Navarro. In person, her face had freckles even though she's dark.

Everything that came next happened painfully slow. I saw Ed, who knew where the others were. Our group found a strategic position near the left door of the shrine. We sat behind the Mary, Queen of Peace statue. The air reeked of nasty sewer fumes. We couldn't see the stage but someone was always singing when someone was not making a speech or working the crowd. We rubbed shoulders with movie stars whose names we had a hard time recalling. We spotted several newsmakers of the day. Socialites that hog society pages. Government dignitaries. Franklin Drilon. Raffy Alunan. Sedfrey Ordonez. Obet Pagdanganan. Even NAMFREL's Joe Concepcion. Et al. Someone gave me a bola-bola siopao. I ate it heartily even if I didn't know where it came from. Louie's daughter was hit by a pack of biscuits thrown from somewhere. Malou listened to a portable radio, waiting for a word from Malacanang Palace, a word that would never come until tomorrow. I borrowed said radio. A pretty woman next to me asked for the latest breaking news. I stammered. An enterprising man sold barely-cold mineral water and made a brisk sale. Leftist flyers (from Teddy Casino's group, as signed) rained on us, and we roundly ignored them. A preacher on stage led us into prayer in charismatic style. Then someone led us into chanting "Bo-bo si E-rap!" ("E-rap's stu-pid!") I chuckled guiltily to that. One must have wondered: "Is this a political rally, a prayer meeting, or a street party?" It's hard to draw lines.

We went home packed like sardines in Ed's silver Starex van - with the certainty that we would sleep well that night whatever the outcome would be. It felt good paying your dues. I honestly thought it was another Filipino people's shining moment, and this time, we're glad to have been there, unlike in the first, where we certainly needed television.

About two months later, I would return to the miraculous site like a pilgrim - to hear Fr. Soc Villegas say Mass. I tried to recall the spot our group occupied. I wasn't even sure where it was. It was as though no history ever unfolded. Everything was back to being spotless. But no matter, I couldn't be more grateful.

I now have my new TV set, and I am now a hesitant owner of a cellular phone. Now I can keep better track of things. I can be a better citizen.

But, please, I don't wish to receive any more text messages telling me to go to EDSA once again.

4.2001

I saw the enemy

(Semifictional account of real life; can also be read as a veiled jab at that infamous Estrada pardon)

I saw him. For the first time in years, I saw him. He's put on some weight. He's always been weighty then, physically, figuratively. How much does he register now on the Richter scale? But that's not what matters now. What matters - and I'm ashamed to admit - is that I haven't quite forgiven. I've always prided myself for my ability to be a survivor because I'm a serious forgiver. But it turns out there's one more person that I have yet to forgive. It's amazing how a chance encounter can reveal our hearts.

It's amazing how I haven't forgot. It all suddenly comes back to me now. He's a lawyer and I distinctly remember how he was instrumental in the filing of the case, a case we lost. It was a tremendous loss. We lost the name, the corporate identity, some properties, some cash. But the worst part was our loss of legitimacy. In the face of the law, which is supposed to be blind, we appeared to be the big loser. We were so down then. We were down not because we were wrong. What hurt so much is that we knew we were right and yet we lost.

We also lost almost all the connections that mattered to us then. No one came to our side except for one loyal friend. We were certainly consoled by that and by the thought that we're not guilty, or at least not that guilty as accused, but what a blow it was. Tremendous is the word. We were up to here in being dismayed. We were eventually able to stand up on our own, after the big legal fall. But it still was a major blow, an unforgettable humiliation - not the least because the ones involved are people we considered as family and friends.

And he had a hand in it, an instrumental one. And until now, I haven't forgiven and forgotten.

So when I saw him beaming after ten long years, I was shocked. How come he's not dead yet? I couldn't bring myself to greet him, so I did the most convenient thing to do: I snubbed him. I played blind. He didn't even exist in my contemplation, legal or not. Suddenly, the conversation I was having with another person I was with when I saw him got overly animated for no reason.

How do you forgive people who wronged you in a big way and yet refuse to say I'm sorry even after ten years? I know I just have to forgive even without the offender asking for forgiveness, but I just can't. Maybe intellectually I can, but deep down, I'm still hurting, I'm still waiting for a show of remorse, and I'm still longing for someone begging for pardon.

But I'm thankful I saw him, for I also saw myself, a hidden part of my real self.

Yet reconciliation would have been very easy. All he had to say was a sincere "I am sorry." Or better yet, "I did wrong, please forgive me. Can I make it up to you?" And we could have started anew.

Timeline: Evolution of International Law

Ancient Rome: Civil code of conduct encourages respect for competing or enemy nation and its leader.

Ancient China: Confucius' "Mandate of Heaven" puts leaders "under the humane consent of the gods." The idea spreads throughout Asia. -> Sun Tzu's Art of War (?)

Middle-Ages Europe: Code of chivalry first documents the moral and ethical conduct of a knight toward his competitor and in his own town.

1618, Europe: Protestants wage war against Catholics (which devolves into a war against the supremacy of the Roman Empire) -> Escalates into battle between nations -> “Art of war" elevates being a soldier as a legitimate occupation or profession.

1618-1648, Europe: “Thirty Years’ War,” where 30% of Europeans die -> Holy Roman Empire declines -> Age of Enlightenment dawns -> Rise of humanitarianism in nation-states.

1863, USA: Lieber Code passed to legally codify war rules, in reaction to the American Civil War. Dr. Francis Lieber's "General Order No. 100" includes 157 moral sayings on how prisoners are to be treated, the noncombatants' rights, and the handling of spies. -> Code is later developed into the Law of Land Warfare, which is upheld based on Rousseau words that "warfare is only legitimate in defense against an aggressor’s attack.” -> Notably, however, no mention was ever made of penalties for aggressive nations' infractions."

1899, The Hague (The Netherlands): Convention with Respect to Laws and Customs of War on Land is ratified by 19 European countries, the US, Mexico, and other nations. -> Modern international law is founded. -> The Convention fobids the "bombardment of undefended cities, explosives from balloons and poison or poison arms.”

1914-onwards, Europe: World War I -> Use of U-boats in war is criticized. ->Treaty of Versailles demands war reparation from Germany. -> Hitler rises to power. -> Rise of anti-Semitism -> Nuremberg Laws established to combat "undesirables"

1937-onwards. World War II

1945: The International Military Tribunal is established by the US and the rest of the Allied Nations to sue 24 criminals for different crimes against humanity.

1945-1949, Germany. The Nuremberg Trials influence in a major way the prosecution of war criminals and advance the definition and understanding of "war crimes," "crimes against humanity," and military tribunals. Nuremberg becomes a great precedent for future war crime trials and a model for military courts.

July 2, 2002, US: The International Law Commission asserts its authority and drafts several international criminal codes that will further prevent genocide, wars of aggression, and crimes against humanity.

2002, US: An international criminal court movement rises to exhort (?) the United States and Allied Nations into safeguarding the world from tyranny and oppression.

Subject: The Contribution of Filipino Catholics

This latest forwarded mail made me realize again that I'm not a typical Filipino. I'm the paragon slash epitome of the antisocial (partly or largely) Filipino, so help me God. :p

Don't blame me if this turns out to be yet another hoax.

__________________

Subject: The Contribution of Filipino Catholics


Finally, something positive about Filipinos.. Here's something very positive written by a foreigner named Steve Ray,about Filipinos. Steve Ray authored many best-selling books, among which are, Crossing The Tiber (his conversion story), Upon This Rock (on the papacy), and just recently John's Gospel (a comprehensive bible study guide and commentary). Steve is also currently filming a 10-video series entitled, Footprints of God. The first two videos are out: Peter, Keeper of the Keys, and Mary, Mother of God (now available here in the Philippines).

STEVE RAY'S OPEN LETTER TO THE FILIPINO CATHOLICS:

We stepped into the church and it was old and a bit dark. Mass had just begun and we sat toward the front. We didn't know what to expect here in Istanbul, Turkey. I guess we expected it to be a somber Mass but quiet and somber it was not-I thought I heard angels joyously singing behind me.

The voices were rich, melodic and beautiful. What I discovered as I spun around to look did not surprise me because I had seen and heard the same thing in other churches around the world. It was not a choir of angels with feathered wings and halos but a group of delightful Filipino Catholics with smiles of delight and joy on their faces as they worshiped God and sang His praises. I had seen this many times before in Rome, in Israel, in the United States and other countries.

Filipinos have special traits and they are beautifully expressed as I gazed at the happy throng giving thanks to God. What are the special traits which characterize these happy people? I will share a few that I have noticed-personal observations- as I have traveled around the world, including visits to the Philippines.

FIRST, there is a sense of community, of family. These Filipino Christians did not sit apart from each other in different isles. They sat together, closely. They did n't just sing quietly, mumbling, or simply mouthing the words. No, they raised their voices in harmony together as though they enjoyed the sense of unity and communion among them. They are family even if they are not related.

SECOND, they have an inner peace and joy which is rare in the world today. When most of the world's citizens are worried and fretful, I have found Filipinos to have joy and peace-a deep sense of God's love that over shadows them. They have problems too, and many in the Philippines have less material goods than others in the world, yet there is still a sense of happy trust in God and love of neighbor.

THIRD, there is a love for God and for his Son Jesus that is almost synonymous with the word Filipino. There is also something that Filipinos are famous for around the world - their love for the Blessed Mother. Among the many Filipinos I have met, the affectionate title for Mary I always hear from their lips is "Mama Mary." For these gentle folks Mary is not just a theological idea, a historical person, or a statue in a church -Mary is the mother of their Lord and their mother as well, their "mama."

The Philippines is a Catholic nation-the only such nation in Asia -and this wonderful country exports missionaries around the world. They are not hired to be missionaries, not official workers of the church. No, they are workers and educators, doctors, nurses and housekeepers that go to other lands and travel to the far reaches of the earth, and everywhere they go they take the joyous gospel of Jesus with them. They make a so mber Mass joyful when they burst into song. They convict the pagan of sin as they always keep the love of Jesus and the Eucharist central in their lives.

My hope and prayer, while I am here in the Philippines sharing my conversion story from Baptist Protestant to Roman Catholic, is that the Filipino people will continue to keep these precious qualities. I pray that they will continue loving their families, loving the Catholic Church, reading the Bible, loving Jesus, His Mother and the Eucharist.

As many other religions and sects try to persuade them to leave the Church, may God give the wisdom to defend the Catholic faith. As the world tempt s them to sin and seek only money and fame and power, may God grant them the serenity to always remember that obedience to Christ and love for God is far more important than all the riches the world can offer.

May the wonderful Filipino people continue to be a light of the Gospel to the whole world!

Gratitude corner

(Who says I’m too negative?)

JR brought back something nice from CDO: a dessert/pastry they call 'pastel.’ Actually it’s a product of Camiguin, or so the box packaging says. What exactly is a pastel? Well, it’s a soft bread with lots of yema inside. We quickly ate up all of it, just like Cookie Monster. It’s that good, and it should be very popular in Manila – just stay away from the health nuts.

**

I’ve been listening to Switchfoot’s second album (Oh! Gravity), which Ian lent me. My exposure to this band – half-industrial punk and half-Coldplay - is minimal, so I was surprised when I learned that their chosen themes are things a guy from the Third World could readily identify with: frustration over the age of extremism and counter-extremism (“Oh! Gravity”), the errors and excess of capitalism (“American Dream,” “4:12”), alienation with the pointlessness of repetitive and unfulfilling labor (“Dirty Second Hands,” “Circles”), realization of one’s calling (“Awakening”), the sense of confusion without a clear life direction (“Faust, Midas, and Myself””), the fear of oblivion and the yearning to live the moment and make one’s mark (“Burn Out Bright”), and the triumph of love in a world that’s fast falling apart (“Let Your Love Be Strong”), even when it’s a clueless kind of eagerness for love (“Amateur Lovers,” “Head Over Heels,” “Yesterdays”).

All these they try to convey with vocals that have the typical appeal of the prevailing white man voice and an overall rock sound that’s not too ponderous but fun to listen to again and again.

Trivia question: One member (a guitarist) looks Filipino. Is he? His name sounds like it too (Jerome Fontamillas).

(To Ian: Hey, dude, if you’re reading this from Cavite, pahiram nung first album mo!!! At nung Keane CD na rin! Saka yung book mo (Broken Toys, Broken Dreams) na rin. Thanks! :))

**

Latest thing I learned from Harry: Sighing and smiling are two ways that we mask our sadness.

Observe yourself. Don't deny.

Now, why are you so sad? That's where the hard work of self-questioning and self-analysis should start. And when I say hard work, I mean "difficult" and "long" and "messy."

But the reward? Self-discovery. Personal breakthroughs that are capable of changing your life for the better and without turning back again to the nightmares of the past.

Here's to healing and wholeness to all who've been broken.

Do try the psychospiritual way. It looks promising to me.

**

F. gave me a brand-new GianFranco Ferre pen. I'm not really into luxury pens. I'm already very happy with the nice green pen Jay gave me because it has the 'Google' logo on it. But it's very affirming to be gifted with something too expensive you'd rather look at it than ever use it.

**

James texts me hilarious Filipino inside jokes. Here's a couple:

MMDA guy (with pen and ticket) to a traffic violator:

MMDA: Name?
Foreigner Driver: Wilhelm von Corgrinski Papakovitz
MMDA: Ahhh... Next time be careful ah...

---

Hindi lahat ng positive, ipinagsasaya: HIV-positive.
Hindi lahat ng party masaya: 3rd party
Hindi lahat ng 13 ay malas: 13th month pay
Hindi lahat ng alak ay nakalalasing: Alak-san

(O, wag nang dadagdagan pa. -Y.R.)

Taguru’s imprecision

(An urban life commentary)

I still can’t forget how my half-Okinawan friend pissed me off December of last year. We were on our way to finding this tres inaccessible mall in Ortigas called Metrowalk (which turned out to be unimpressive, considering all that trouble) when our friendship was put to a severe test. Let’s call my tomodachi Taguru, for reasons of convenience and protection of privacy. (Mike or some other friends might refer him to this post.)

“So, Taguru, where do we meet?” I texted him, after saying yes to his invite to join some of our friends there for an affair.

“MRT Ortigas station,” he texted back. “I’m in a taxi. I’ll pick you up.”

“Huh? You mean I wait downstairs?”

“Wait for me at the taxi stand along EDSA.”

“Uh, ok,” I texted back.

I got anxious. “If the exchange is going to be like this, I’m dead,” I thought, because I realized my cellphone was fast approaching low-batt status and I don’t think I had enough load to call back, if ever. My fault. Bad soldier on the way to battle. And it looked like it was going to be a long day.

As I clambered down the stairs to EDSA, I noticed no taxi stand nearby. I waited and waited, inhaling all the toxic fumes known to man, when I noticed that that part of EDSA is practically devastation (the bus station, hehe). No low-IQ taxi would dare muscle its way in between those iron monsters. So I texted tomodachi Taguru again, “Hey, where exactly in EDSA?”

“The taxi stand in front of Megamall.”

“Ah, ok.” Patience, brother. But he could have said that a while ago, couldn't he? I walked and walked to Megamall, and after about a kilometer and 10,000 ppm of carcinogens later, there was indeed a taxi stand. He was accurate this time, but Taguru’s taxi was nowhere to be found.

“Where are you?” I was frantic now. “It would be hard for you to park here if you’re coming from the north.” I forgot to say the heat was killing me, and I just ate lots of chili sauce for breakfast.

“Ok, just proceed to Megamall,” he texted back with a decisive tone.

I nearly collapsed. You know how big that mall can be. The entire province of Pangasinan alone can easily fit inside SM Hypermart. “Where exactly in Megamall?” I asked, my temper causing my nostrils to flare like a hippo's (my body’s boiling point now = 10,000 deg F), my blood pressure shooting up to 1000/1000.

“What are the landmarks, please” I texted again, worried if there’s still enough cellphone load and whether my defective battery would last.

“The main entrance.”

We were running late for the affair, which was scheduled at 9 AM. As I huffed and puffed until I went up from EDSA to the one-time biggest mall in the world, I was suddenly reminded that we were talking about two big malls actually: Building A and Building B of Megamall. And until now, in all my years of living dangerously in Manila, I still wasn’t sure which is A and which is B. It’s like asking me what my blood type is: I can't tell for certain.

He said, “Building A.”

I supposed that’s the first building walking back south from the MRT, so I waited and waited there by the main entrance.

But no Taguru showed up. So I said, “Tomodachi, I’m tired of walking and walking from the MRT. And I don’t think this cellphone will last. Where are you?” I said with an unambiguous hint of protest.

“Main entrance?”

“Where? I’m here.”

“Main entrance. The biggest entrance in Megamall.”

He must be referring to Building B. Whichever. So I huffed and puffed again like an idiotic hippoppotamus until I reached the place. It felt like a mile-long walk, the longest walk I ever did in my life, topping even my Sagada and Banawe adventures.

When we finally came face to face, we were exchanging expletives, I in pidgin Spanish and he in pidgin Tagalog.

“I got off and walked all the way from St. Francis Square!” he complained accusingly.

"That's my fault?," I thought to myself. Wait, St. Francis Square? The place sounded familiar. And it turned out to be that nice square at the back of Robinson’s Galleria, which means he walked straight from a place that's one whole strip mall away!

Indeed, he looked like he came all the way from Japan.

**

“So where’s Metrowalk?” we chorused, after we regained our composure and our friendship.

“I don’t know.”

“Me neither.”

“Let’s go see. Let’s ask around.”

We asked the security guards and assorted passers-by. Another wrong mistake – for that’s like repeating what just happened – this time, with my battery completely dead.

**

To this day, Taguru and I avoid recounting what happened just so we preserve the tentative peace and harmony between Japan and the Philippines.

The prince of Jaipur, 2

Remember Jawie? Mr. Jawaharlalnebuchadnezzaralzawahiri, the prince of Jaipur? Well, I saw him again together with friends last weekend. And of course, he was a very bloggable subject. Here are a few things I caught he said. (It’s extremely hard to decipher English in Indian accent. I don't understand why the Americans aren't transferring ALL of their call centers in Chennai, New Delhi, Bangalore, etc. to Manila and other Philippine cities.)

Talking with Rey within my earshot, he said his people live in the north, and in that part of India, they have German blood, that’s why they have lighter skin.

“Oh. Educational.” Or so I thought. I never expected that India and Germany were related through intermarriage many generations ago.

“And people with your color live in the southern part,” Jawie continued his lecture.

By “you,” it turned out he was referring to me.

“OMG,” I thought. "I’m an untouchable to him! Or I'd be one in India! Somebody please help rescue my self-esteem."

I reacted that way because I happen to know how these ultra-bigoted Indians, even in this day and age, can be so status-conscious on the shitty basis of the color of your skin. And I know that Jawie could've pointed at Rey, who's also a bit dark-skinned. Hah, I think that's what really annoyed me a bit: Jawie himself is not as fair-skinned as he thought he is! Same difference of shades of brown. And yet look who's talking.

To add imagined insult to the imagined injury (all imagined on my part), I was reminded of another claim he made earlier that got me all riled up. He said, “Hindi (their language) is the origin of all the world’s languages.”

Hmm. Where's my lower jaw gone?! I thought the world’s people all descended from the "12 lost tribes of Israel." That’s what a recent commenter on the “Igorot and Inca”/”Are Igorots Chinese?” posts said. Which makes all of us Jews. And which complicates matters because I was taught in high school History class that China is the world’s oldest (existing?) civilization. I was so confused, so I kept my mouth shut. I might become a version of the “Filipino monkey” who nearly triggered WWIII.

I also had asked Jawie what the difference is between Sanskrit and Hindi, but I failed to catch his explanation because of the accent problem (and probably my partial hearing problem).

Meanwhile, Jawie has been inviting us to see him at their temple in Paco. Now there’s something deserving of full investigative journalism.

I think I’m a cow

(Or how to feed your pet right. Or really alternative food post.)

I'm no vegetarian and have no plans to be one, but I think I'm abnormal just the same. I think I'm a cow. Why? Because I appreciate certain vegetables that most people think aren't food. Yes, it’s shameful to say this, but I find certain weeds tasty where others might regard them with utter disdain or at least pure suspicion.

One personal favorite is steamed sayote tops (talbos ng sayote, in Tagalog) from Baguio – crunchy, delicious, succulent. I dip them in Kikkoman soy sauce or stir-fry in oyster sauce, and then munch them like a goat.

Another yummy, um, herb, is string bean tops, preferably cooked with other assorted lowland vegetables. Talbos ng sitaw is equally crunchy, with exotic, delicate flavor. Or maybe it’s just me, or my inner herbivore.

Yet another fave veggie is squash tops, cooked the same way as the above – crunchy, weird, and tastes like chicken (joke). I also love squash flowers (or zucchini flowers to New Yorkers), by the way, because they have this interesting texture and they partly taste medicinal in a nice way.

As you can see, I’m partial to crunchy medicine- and pesticide-flavored plants: coriander (except the yucky seeds), celery, parsley, green peas (the pods), broccoli flower (not the tasteless leaves), cauliflower.

I find certain flavors overly medicinal, though, that they are as borderline disgusting as chewing on chloramphenicol maleate: carrots, kamote tops (sweet potato tops), chesa, mabolo, durian eaten as is, tomato juice, carrot juice. I don’t like starchy vegetables, too, like squash (the fruit) and sweet potato used as vegetable.

You can feed me water spinach (kangkong), cabbage, and pechay, though, which are all equally okay, though not as appealing as the abovementioned. Coleslaw has never been a favorite, but nonetheless a tolerable eat just because of the Vitamin C. Of course, I also love the usual set of popular vegetables: eggplants, lettuce (all varieties), diced tomatoes (I also discovered sun-dried tomatoes are great), but where's the fun in discussing all that?

There are certain real horror stories that I was able to eventually survive, though. There was a time that you wouldn’t convince me to eat radish and mustard and ampalaya (bitter gourd) or malunggay and malunggay pods. I used to find the slimy saluyot equally disgusting, too, but now I find it tolerable, even delicious, perhaps consoled by the thought it’s nutritious. I like okra best when grilled because grilling neutralizes the slime while trapping all the sweetness (try it!). The same thing goes with patola if cooked in misua and ground pork. The slimy consistency of misua masks patola's own sliminess. The fragrant variety is especially yummy even though, texture-wise, it’s like eating pressure-cooked face towels.

There are two last items that are really the height of unfashionable because they’re a favorite snack of pigs. But I’ll admit to this dirty secret anyway. One is an extra-bitter yet delicious herb they call papait in Pangasinan. Sauté them in tomatoes, shrimp bagoong, onions, garlic, and deep-fried pork bits, and voila, gourmet grass.

The other one is what they call in Tagalog himbabao, which is a useless and butt-ugly weed flower except when thrown in a boiling pot of Ilocano veggies, all equally and singularly unappealing to the eyes. The resulting dish looks like a vampire bat's vomit, but what the heck, I will eat all of it gluttonously. Just don’t add grilled fish (yucky to me, unless done right, and it's salmon), just add pork bits with lots of good cholesterol.

I really think my favorite foods should be popular enough to be food fads. Not one item mentioned above should be costly because these weeds are often being rid as trash instead of being farmed as premium nature ingredients, which promise secret flavors to those palates that are really under-the-radar adventurous. They are the things I look for whenever I get home.

The Thais and Chinese eat assorted bugs. My folks and I back home are not ashamed to eat this wild assortment of grass.

But who will believe me? I’m a cow.

Meanwhile, I’ve been hearing for years a place in Tagaytay called Sonya's Garden, which has been feeding health-conscious folks with organic flowers, I heard. I’m not sure if I can take roses, bougainvilleas, gumamelas, and everlasting as dinner date fare.

Articles I'd greenlight if I was a magazine editor

Jego talks local sh*t in Coprolalia.

The naughty and mean journalist Frank Cimatu posts something that will annoy the heck out of old-school grammarians.

Jessica Zafra speculates on the what-could-be's in a place called Fucking, Austria.

**

Meanwhile, DJB is apparently annoyed that a visiting physicist didn't tackle the topic he was advertised to cover in La Salle. I, for one, would've been very glad to be updated on string theory, which I have once upon a time blogged about here and here.

Top 20 lies Brits tell

(Results from a survey for flavoured vodka brand WKD)

1. "Nothing's wrong - I'm fine."
2. "Nice to see you."
3. "I haven't got any cash on me."
4. "I'll give you a ring."
5. "Sorry, I missed your call."
8. "No, your bum doesn't look big in that."
12. "Of course I love you."

Other bare-faced lies oft-told by British liars, in no particular order:

"I'm stuck in traffic."
"What text?"
"I had no signal."
"Our server was down."
"My alarm didn't go off."
"The cheque is in the post."
"My battery died."
"The train was delayed."
"I'll phone you back in a minute."
"This tastes delicious."
"I'm going to the gym tonight."

Source: This Malaysian blog (via Bayi).

**

Another earth-shaking development worth noting:

Saudis Behead Indonesian Maid

Reflex reaction: When will the Saudis stop doing this?

What is real?

I had a very memorable Sunday reading Harry's copy of The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams (Avon Books, 1975; originally published 1922). It's one of those oft-quoted children's stories that are temptingly illustrated, like the much-popular The Little Prince and Hope for the Flowers. I didn't like Hope for the Flowers that much because I knew what it was all about even before it ended, and I didn't get The Little Prince at all because it is filled with symbols that I didn't get at once, having just graduated from college with a B.S. Bio degree and very minimal Humanities and Literature background. The Velveteen Rabbit, in contrast, I've read when I'm a lot more mature and a little bit more exposed to literary matters. At the same time, I've read it while going rough times, which can only strike a sensitive chord in me as it dares to ask, "What's real?"

Reading through its pages was an exercise in breathless flipping for me. Time simply stood still. And my reflex reaction was: "So this is where Toy Story got the idea!" (My review (just an attempt) at the time.) And: This children's story nicely reinforces the things I've read from a local psychologist's book (by Earnest Tan), the illustrated book Being Happy by David Matthews, and the lecture by Harry about happiness and getting real using John Powell's Why Am I Afraid to Tell You Who I Am? (Harry advised me to read all the John Powells and Henri Nouwens I could lay my hands on.)

The book simply says (spoiler ahead) that, when it comes to our emotions, what we honestly feel is real. The facts may be real, but only as facts. Emotions and the imagination are equally real, even when contrary to facts. And getting down to our true feelings, facing everything (love, fear, sorrow, lust, joy, jealousy, envy, pain, pride and everything in between), and dealing with each are the key to our own happiness. That's a very obvious thing, if you think about it, but we all know what we always say about common sense: pretty uncommon, even if it's within our brain's own reach.

Using the rhetoric of the children's story, The Velveteen Rabbit is effective in teaching us to be in touch with our emotions if we are to attain true happiness. It's required reading for anyone who wants to deal with his or her life's issues in an honest way in the hope of attaining elusive wholeness.

Howdy!

Howdy! How'd you like to be greeted like this first thing on a fine morn?

"nicola has left a new comment on your post "The Men's Room as a Vision of Hell":

"men are cheating,lieing racial bastards they deserve to be whiped of the panet along with there cheap lines cheap aftershave and tacky rooms that reflect there personality.if we didnt need there sperm an murder wasn't illegal id make it my mission in life to kill all man, uhhhhh every womens dream i am totally on board with hating the low life (lower then human waste) men. And if you really think about it they dont even have the rights to be called men more like animal or beast but even then its all insult to those creatures!!!!!Get this my half brother (cheating father) is 9 years old mum (ugly stupid hoe) spoils the little shit rotten and nobody does a thing about it!!!!And my ex boyfirend total dick i end the relationship and he calls me every name under the sun plus A BLACK PIECE OF SHIT!!!!!!im mixed race and could have killed every man i saw after that then the lieing racist (not to mention cheating) worm apologises after $ mounths he just started talking 2 me on msn and says hi like were bffs or something!!!!then he has the cheek to say I STILL LOVE HIM!!!!!!i may be a 14 year old girl but my views and points are strong and true!!!! this is my email for anyone who shares my views any one that is apart from men!!!!! my last words are men a bastards they are my sworn enemy and i h8 them thats y im making it my mission to make my little bro. the perfect boy and if he turns out the same i will be on the poor girls side!!!!!my email- nicolasobola2006@hotmail.co.uk"

Psychoanalysis:

Amateur misanthropy - 100% probability
Tendency to drink gasoline - 50%
Passive-aggressive behavior - 40%
Emotional dependency - 30%
Victim of sexual, emotional, intellectual, verbal and physical abuse - 101%

Nicole:

Darling, you need some counseling help. And please contact the nearest Trauma Center you have in your vicinity.

Btw, you want to avoid confusing the demonstrative pronoun "there" with the possessive pronoun "their" and the contraction "they're" (=they are). This is a very common mistake of Americans. Oh, you're British. Well, that only makes it worse.

**

This day's other real headlines:

Twins separated at birth marry each other WITHOUT knowing they are brother and sister

Kuwaiti Paper Satirizes 'Islamic Car' Project

Malaysia reverses Allah paper ban

Chinese couple tried to name baby "@"

9-Year-Old Girl In Pakistan Forced To Marry 35-Year-Old Cousin

Police say woman groped Santa: Danbury resident charged with fourth-degree sexual assault

Photographer captures trout's great escape

Older white women join Kenya's sex tourists

(Thanks to: Bayi News Service)

Igorots and Incas

Somebody in my post about whether Igorots are Chinese comments that the Igorots and Incas could be first cousins. Anyone who knows more about this unexpected connection will win a trip to Cuzco, Peru. :)

Update: More comments have been posted here. Attn. CVJ.

Paradox of comfort zone

(Cubicle culture)

Comfort zones - "mental models that keep individuals from wanting to make changes."

“When coasting in our comfort zones, we don’t grow. We continue to do more of the same… Maintaining a comfort zone can, paradoxically, lead to discomfort in the long run. If by being comfortable we avoid the important life issues, internal tension accumulates… Eventually, as both internal and external pressures for change persist, the ‘comfort zone’ ceases to serve us.”

- Eric Allenbaugh, in http://www.motivationalquotes.com/quotes/career-quotes.html

The missing pages

(Still part of the semi-fictional Vulnerability series/chronicles, a mosaic of emotional monologues from different people (addressed to an equal assortment of people) to tell the dark story of E.D. Here are the parts I forgot to insert much earlier here and there to help make a better picture of emo hell. Warning: These four posts should be read from the bottom up.)


Good boy

Am a good boy now. Am a recovering romantic of the ED kind, you could say. But am no longer misbehaving. I kept good my promise. I held on to every word I said on TV. Not! Okay, I’m serious now.

There are times that I betray myself, but at least, I no longer insist on what my instincts say. I won’t give in to temptation. No, I shall not place myself in situations where the devil can so much as wink at me. I admit and accept that I am frail. I’m horny as hell as the next guy. I will listen to what my pastor said about temptation: “I’m afraid of it. I will never say I won’t be tempted because I’m sure I will be.” I know myself. So what I’ll do is flee from it because I’m sure I’m powerless against it once tempted. It’s inconvenient to run away from your instinct, but I shall admit I’m weak so I will be brave facing the truth, so I’ll know it is best to run, away and fast. I will be a good boy from now on. And I will take it like a man: I will face whatever pain comes my way as a result of my decision.


You’re simply unavoidable

Okay, I lose. You win. I’m totally helpless about you. It’s hard to forget you. Not that I’m trying. I cannot not text you, not email you, not call you, not chat with you. You were damn right. “But can you make it?” Of course, I can’t. Hee-hee. You knew it, right? I hate you! Now I know I totally can’t avoid saying I miss you and I love you. Maybe some other wording and phrasing will do. But it’s painful not to say so. I’m so embarrassed. What to do now? I dunno. Please help me. I don’t trust myself. I’m pretty sure I’ll be back to falling – again and again. I’m afraid. I want to do good. I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to ruin the process. I’m open to suggestions now. Would you at least leave me some offline messages? I need you. Please don’t reject my friendship. I don’t want to make any more excuses or any more promises, but I promise I will keep this one.

I know you love me as a brother and you won’t reject me, but I am my own worst enemy. I always feel rejection at the slightest cues at the wrong place at the wrong time. And the love and the longing is still there so the pain remains. Oh, I’m so miserable. To give you a more concrete idea, there are still times when I can’t move, can’t work, can’t read, can’t enjoy the usual things I do – all because I’m thinking of you. There are times when I’m pushed into a corner, immobile and in anguish, all because I’m burdened with heavy feelings, feelings of loneliness, mainly over the love I lost.

Yes, the old signs and symptoms are still there: I feel like I’ve known you for so long even just we've known each other for just over a month. It was that incredibly fast. I feel like I want to be with you alone and constantly, and in case you’re not with me, I want to talk about you constantly. I want to burn the lines for hours on end. I wish to give you gifts even when there’s no occasion. I’m awfully jealous when you spend time with others, even if they’re your friends or even if they’re our mutual friends. I don’t know, maybe people can spot us already, how embarrassingly close I am to you that I don’t care, I don’t give a damn, about what they say. I’m not interested in anyone else anyway. I want only you. You may not notice it, but the little things you do affect me in a big way. Most often, they hurt me. Like when I eagerly await for you to text me back, and I become pleasantly or unpleasantly paranoid, always doubting, always longing, always fearful and worrisome. I've come to the point that I don’t know how to act without you or even have fun without you. Until now, I still fantasize about you in a way that shames even myself.

It’s good to know you’re there. I know you won’t be leaving me. Thank you. Am so blest. Where else can I find someone like you who’ll accept me and be as patient with me? Thanks so much. I will never forget everything you’ve done to me. Even if I lost you, in a way, I’ve hit the jackpot just the same. Oh, am so happy to have found you. I don’t know what else to say, so I better shut up for now. See you this weekend! I promise I’ll behave.

(Acknowledgment: Online and offline references were used to help create this monologue (or imagined dialogue).)


De profundis (Out of the depths)

(I was trying to have Mike guest-blog on this part, but no go. I had to do it myself.)

Why has the world not ended yet? Why is this happening to me? Why this? Why me? Why did the devil go out of his way to cause me harm? Multiple harm? Am I that ‘special’? Why do I feel like the ugliest and most unloved person in the world? Am I a cursed individual? Who did the cursing? Is it okay to curse him back? Don’t I deserve a little happiness? Why can’t I have what I want? I’m only pining for just one, so why can’t I have that person? Why does someone else have all the luck? What does he have that I don’t have? Surely I have something he doesn’t have? When will this ever end? Why am I so sad when she isn’t around? Why am I like this? Do others suffer the way I do? Why does it have to be this cross? Will I ever endure it, carry it even? What have I done to deserve this? Why is life so unfair? Will my being good do any good? Is there a God? Why is He so cruel? Can’t He see what I’m going through? Who am I? Why can’t I be happy being me, even for once? Why is God so silent in all this? Where is He hiding? Won’t He take all the pain away? What’s the deal? Can I make one? No? Then why am I even breathing? What’s the point of loving when the heart is dead?

But since you don’t answer this torrent of clichés, I won’t press for any more explanations. I wish I could easily say, “I decide to be happy, thankful, and contented right now -- because this moment is what matters now." I wish I could easily say, "I just wish to be pleasing to you, whatever and wherever I may be.” But I can’t. Oh, wow, may this suffering indeed turn someday into a beautiful sacrifice in your eyes. But at this point, it takes me a lot of painful effort just getting through it.


The fall

(An approximation of Y.’s agony)

God, what have I done? I’m sorry. Forgive me. I don’t know what to do. I violated her. I took the initiative. You can blame it on me. I did something that made her give in. I was too recklessly stupid. I’m a beast. I hate myself. I’m not very proud of myself. What face will I show God? I promised. I resolved that I shall be strong. But it turns out I’m weak. I’m such a maggot, a worm! What should I do now? I don’t know, I don’t know. Oh, God, what have I done? Depart from me for I’m a sinful man. What should I do next? I don’t want to lose You ,and I don’t want to lose her. I’m afraid I’ll go to hell. It was a mistake. I’m scared of punishment. How can I ever repair what I’ve done? How can I make it up to You, to her? What will I do? I will die of shame. I want to cease from existing. May this ground swallow me up whole and alive. I can’t face the shameful thing I’ve done. It’s so embarrassing. What will people say to me, think of me? I’m sure they’ll be terribly disappointed. I’m sure they’ll mock me. They’ll no longer think of me as this nice guy. What made them think that, anyway? I’ve always been not an OK kind of guy. I have deep, dark secrets. I have serious issues about myself. God save me. I don’t know what to do. I want to be at peace. What I’ve done is unimaginable and unbearably stupid. I know I won’t be able to contain this shame in me. I need someone to talk to. I need someone who’ll understand and console me and wipe away these tears in my eyes. Tomorrow, I shall confess my sin to a priest first thing in the morning. Lord, you have no choice but to forgive me, else I'd be condemning myself. Thank goodness God is also a person. There's at least one person left in this world who can understand.

Definition of war

War is “legalized murder of the innocent.”

Source: Somebody, 2008

Occupied

These are the things that have occupied and been occupying my mind lately:
The movies One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Grand Hotel, and That’s Entertainment 1 and 2. Raymond Carver’s beautiful and profound short story "Cathedral" and one online literary analysis. Two VCDs of Fr. Bob McConaghy's sermons. Five local music CDs for review. Encyclicals and other Church letters: 1. "Ethics in advertising," 2. "Dei verbum: Dogmatic constitution on Divine Revelation," 3. "Ethics in Media of Social Communication: A Matter of Choice," 4. "Evangelium vitae," 5. "Deus caritas est," 6. "Spe salvi." I discovered encyclicals are crafted with the most care using a most beautiful language. I still have to spot a single typo and grammatical error, I swear.

Minor writing matters (technical)

Dusting off my old stuff revealed a few things writing-related that I didn't know or should be reminded of.

"Consist in" is used when referring to abstract ideas: "Theory consists in..."
"Consist of" when referring to matter. "Granite consists of..."

"Continuous" ("never-ending," "unceasing") is used to refer to time, but a clock's striking is "continual" ("renewed and recurring but may be interrupted")

One walks "farther" but investigates "further"

"Whether" is preferred after verbs of doubting, seeing, knowing, etc. "If experiments prove the theory, construction will begin early next year." "It is still not clear whether the theory is correct."

"To be really understood" is not a split infinitive. "To really be understood" is a split infinitive." There is nearly always a better place to put an adverb than between the "to" and the rest of the "to be" verb. If it results in an awkward or too formal sentence, recast the whole thing.

Adjectives like "unique," "perfect," "circular," "everlasting," etc. cannot be compared. Not "more unique" or "less unique," but "almost unique" and "not quite unique."

"Neither" and "none" take singular verbs: "Neither is...," "None is..."

"Such as" already implies a partial list, so using "etc." is redundant.

"Transpire" means "to come to light or become known.: It is not a synonym for "occur."

You don't say "up until" (which is redundant), just "until."

"Usage" is used to mean "established custom." "Use" is for "application."

The use of relative pronouns can be quite tricky. Use "who" to refer to persons; "what" to things; "that" to persons, animals or objects; and "which" to animals and objects (not persons). "That" is more general" and "which" is more specific. "That" is for restrictive clauses and "which" is for nonrestrictive clauses.

**

I have questions in addition to the above:

Sometimes I struggle with choosing between "these" and "they" when referring to a plural antecedent. Is there a rule?

When do we use "especially" versus "specially"?

"Cannot" versus "can not"?

Media diet wish list

I've been skipping media lately. Dunno if it's just me but I'm terribly turned off by all that PR blitz masquerading as legit media content. Here are a few suggestions to lure me back: I want an artsy, philosophical take on that giant Gardenia bread loaf I saw along the NLEX last holiday break. I want stories about what real fashion trends the masses actually wear, like guys have been wearing military-fatigue shorts and pants last year, but all that gave way to checkered short pants from late last year to early this year. What explains the shift in trends or the introduction of new stuff? Oh, well, at least we can say the cargo shorts are dead. Men and women are still wearing fashionably expensive flip-flops for gimik nights, right? Also, I badly want a plasma ball; can anyone explain how it works? Note that, last Christmas, there was suddenly a lot of Rubik's cube on sale in the streets, and they say, blame it on Zaido, the local TV show that's a rip-off, or extension, of the '80s Japanese TV hero story Shaider. Also, will someone explain why Winnie the Pooh is hubo like a taong grasa, i.e, doesn't wear anything below his belly? Isn't he (she?) bastos kasi wala siyang salawal? And, hey, will you feature the excellent bakeshops of Sariaya, Quezon? I've tried a lot of goodies from the Villadiego Bakery (along the highway and public market), and I swear I tasted a lot of love in their products. Their version of pinagong , for example, is especially memorable. And things like that. Good day!

Erwin, Melvin, Y. Riskas et al.'s high school reunion in the old provincial town

Almost no one has been left in our old town in Pangasinan. I wonder, though, what explains the population explosion when everybody's gone. The town should be desolate by now because it's supposed to have been deserted, yet it's not. That is a proof, a wake-up call, to me that I really belong to the town's elite minority by sheer association whether I admit it or not. Most of my high school classmates, if I think about it, belong to the town's most prominent families - municipal leaders, top businessmen, academics, etc. So now the proof I'll be presenting to you is that this breed of people - or at least its second-generation - are gone, or are maybe at least on leave for now.

On a toy motorbike tour of the town, Erwin and I passed by the abodes of each of our classmates just like before. The quick tour was like a roll call on wheels. It turned out to be a happy kind of sad exercise.

I don't like repeating myself, though, so here's an old version of basically the same post-H.S. story.

I actually met a Sikh

(Or, Jawie, the Prince of Jaipur)

Will the so-called Fates ever stop making funny jokes on me? I spent a great deal of yesterday with a Sikh architecture stude (grad?) who's in the Philippines training as a pilot. I'll call him Jawie, for short, a nickname for Jawaharlalnebuchadnezzaralzawahiri. That's his official Indian name. He wore a tangerine turban, as expected, and he spoke English with a thick Punjabi accent. (Like I know the difference.)

All throughout, I was trying to delete from my mind that I once joked mildly about Sikhs -- with disastrous results. What if my new acquaintance Jawie knew? Would he kill me?

I met Jawie because a friend introduced us on our way to Marikina City for something. My friend didn't talk much, so I was left most of the time trying to interview Jawie, and Jawie was forced trying to know more about me. Yep, I seemed not to interest him, judging from his ho-hum questions compared to mine. He's a very intelligent guy and has an excellent sense of humor, though, were it not for his exotic delivery.

While we're inside 7-11, and then Jollibee, he offered some "potato cutlets" he brought with him. To be honest, it's a scary-looking oily thing wrapped in manila paper. I'm not exactly unfamiliar with Indian food, having eaten at Swagat once, but I know how spicy it can get, so it's out of courtesy that I offered to try.

And when I took a bite, lo, I almost died. The darned potato tasted like a nuclear bomb cocktail. I detected generous amounts of green chili, rhubarb, cardamom, nutmeg, cinnamon bark, curry powder, cheyenne pepper, maraschino cherry, iced tea and other radioactive substances. It's the anise, or is it something else, that did me in. Jawie said it's coriander seed.

I took the damn thing out of my mouth, saying, "It's too spicy!"

I hope his religious sensibilities weren't very much offended.

When I asked him the Indian term for his "potato cutlets," I could only catch something like "pajshhdrt." Tough.

What else did he put in it?

Oh, "some spices," he said. Apparently, 100 spices is just "some" to Jawie.

Soon, there were awkwardly long periods of silence. What else could we possibly talk about without ever mentioning religion?

Well, quite a number of other things, it turned out, if only we exerted more effort. Volunteering information now, he claimed that only aristocratic people wear the kind of head-gear he was wearing. I was like, "Oh, hoo-kay, shall I curtsy now, your eminence?" Haha. Bastard.

I also learned that Prince Jawie found life in the Philippines "a lot better" than India, although he said America and Australia "are a lot better, certainly" than our country.

"But everyone wants to leave this country!" I protested.

"Yeah, everything here is expensive," he said.

By the way, I've always regarded that gorgeous Sikh temple in U.N. Ave (Paco, Manila) with curiosity, and it turned out Jawie worships his own version of God a lot there. Cool.

"What do you do?" he asked me, perhaps out of curiosity too.

"Well, I teach English online so Americans would slowly ruin their own language," was my reply. Trying to find a common ground, I added, "Oh, I have a lot of Indian colleagues online, by the way. You Indians are so good!" The last one was a sincere remark. "If you need help with your English, I can help you, although I see that you're already good at it."

He didn't react. He didn't even thank me for the compliment. But he seemed to think deeply his next move.

Soon, after a period of silence, he suddenly said, "What do you call that part of the mango fruit that lies at the center?" "It's not called 'seed,'" he quickly added.

I was stumped. The nerve of this guy. Should I say "aril," "pome," or "rind"? Honestly, I didn't know the answer. Was he trying to shame me? I thought we're fast becoming friends. I didn't realize I was in the middle of a beauty contest.

Then he said, "And what's the difference between "aim," "purpose," "goal," "mission," and "objective"?

Now I'm in the middle of, as one joke said, a quiz bee!

"That's too technical already," I said. Then I thought to myself, "Is that the kind of question they ask in flight simulation classes? I'm beginning to hate you, Jawie, I swear to God."

Then he said, in protest, "You said I ask you when I have a problem with English."

Another thought balloon: "Oh, cripes, if I am going to have to talk to this turbaned guy for the next ten hours, then I better drink gasoline. Or finish his "pajshhdrt."

I tried to zipper his big mouth by saying that Tagalog has a few Indian- or Sanskrit-derived words. I gave "hiwaga" as example, but I sounded wrong, and he denied ever having met the word. He didn't get a nosebleed like I expected. Time for the next subject, please. :)

As you may have guessed, we walked around Marikina being discreetly ogled by people (if ogling can be discreet). (I pointed to him the funny decorative robots along the road and pointed out that this cool part of town is a lot cleaner and more orderly than most other towns because Marikina's mayor isn't stupid and has the political will.)

The kids were especially nasty. "Hahaha, Bumbay, Bumbay! Indian, Indian!" the morons cried like they're inosente. Somebody gave them a face that said it all: "Is this the first time you saw an Indian?"

I was vaguely amused at their use of the term "Bumbay," though. The 22-year-old Punjabi man being called "Bumbay" is actually from New Delhi, not from Bombay.

The worst one came from a woman with bad teeth carrying an umbrella. (Haha, misplaced modifier!) The annoying woman said, "Nagpapa-5-6 ba yan?" ("Gosh, does he, like, loan cash at usurious rates, just like Muhammad Yunnus of Bangladesh's Grameen Bank? In other words, is Jawie a loan shark?")

I shook my head vigorously.

"Ah, kaya pala wala siyang payong na dala." ("Oh, that's why he's not carrying a black umbrella like all card-carrying members of the local 5-6 Indian Mafia do.")

I tried to look at Jawie's reaction, and then made a face that said, "Is it a sin in Sikhism to strangle a nosy woman?"

"He flies a plane," I replied, "while designing buildings."

Shredding papers as therapy

(Semi-fictional account filed under the Vulnerability chronicles. This is Jed's account.)

I'm a human paper shredder. It feels so good. I've never torn so many papers in my life. I would like you to know how much I enjoyed tearing all your pictures, your cards, your love letters, your IDs, all the documents with your 1x1s and 2x2s and name.

I never thought I'd be bothered this way or ever do this in my life. You stole my life and fortune away from me. You've wrongfully taken what should've been mine. You took the promise of the good life abroad away from me. And you lied to me, you cheated me! How dare you, you selfish, lying bitch. All you think is what's in it for you. You never considered that other people could be in need just like you do.

But I'll try to forgive you. I managed not to tear up at least one picture where you looked really pretty and innocent and couldn't hurt a bug. There must be at least one reminder that you existed, that you've been a part of my life, even though you've been a major nightmare for the most part. At least I'm humble enough to accept that you have good genes, except that all that beauty belies the ugliness that's in you. But at least you can't abuse me again, ever.

Goodbye, and good riddance. You're no longer a part of my life from now on - at least not the way you used to be. I won't leave you any curses, though. I'm afraid of it ever backfiring to me. May you stay successful, happy, and fulfilled. May you end up whole, unlike the paper piece versions of you I've just shredded and dumped. I mean that with no sarcasm at all. You know I'm incapable of it with that kind of plain language.

I hope that, when I see you in the future, I can still relate to you at least as the mother of my kids. Since I may not be able to avoid you for their sake, I hope I can at least remain civil with you.

Meanwhile, allow me to exorcise my demons by being a human paper shredder. I need this important step to heal.

Auto-TRO-ed

(Semi-fictional account filed under the Vulnerability chronicles)

Is it over? Am I really over you? I guess I am. To prove it, I'll try not to text or call you the way I used to. I'll try not to chat with you or even email you the way I used to. Unless you do the first move. I'm giving myself a week. If I survive unscathed, then congratulations to me!

I know it will be tough. I'll try not to think of you. I'll try not to call you babe, baby, or love, unless I'm kidding you as a younger member of the family. I'll stop fantasizing over you. I promise not to attempt to kiss you again, except to give a brotherly one. It's partly your fault anyway. You allowed me to. Who was I to resist? I won't further covet what is not mine, what can't be mine. It will hurt, sure. But I'll be okay. I'll try to focus on the truth: You're just a sibling in Christ to me now. A part of my mystical family. We'll remain special friends, though. Wish me luck!

Finally, I admit everything was a big mistake. I've been blinded by your beauty and your beautiful love. You're not aware of it, but you have something in you that made me go crazy, an X-factor if you will. My knees wobbled, buckling under testosteronic pressure.

But according to Wency, that wasn't love at all. It's not even about sex, but all about emotional dependency. Alfonso said it's an "addictive cannibalism." Aye, I am guilty of enshrining "love as God" in place of worshipping the "God of love," to steal from another reference.

I want that love now purified.

Now, sigh... No more romantic dinner dates. No more romantic gifts. Hopefully, that'll mean no more drama and no more tears too. No more of the usual aches and pains, doubts and fears.

Harry adds a disclaimer, though: It's totally wrong for me to decide on avoiding you totally. I just need to transcend what happened. There's that word again. It turns out he meant "digging deeper for clues, swimming in the nether regions for the underlying truths." It turns out I was utterly confused because I've always associated the word "transcend" with an upward, not downward, movement. Anyway, just me avoiding you will still mean trouble, sure, perhaps even a new set of troubles. So now I'll try to figure out my next move. Will you help me with it, please?

Anyway, my promise to you is as much a tough promise to myself. We both know that.

I hope this is atonement enough for all my sins.

I'm giving myself a week. If I survive unscathed, then congratulations to me: I shall be a certified survivor of the dysfunctional complications of love.

Thanks, though, for all the love. I can relate now to all the silly love songs and tacky love stories because of you. Please forgive me for everything, though. Well, not everything but maybe just the things I've done wrong.

(Hi to J: Don't go to this site. You're banned. :) Hi to my amigo Alfonso of Mexico. Thanks, bro.)

"Offend everyone"

I absolutely have nothing to do with this evil forwarded mail. You can blame Mr. Bayi H. Borat of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia if you want.


----------------------
Offend Everyone - one liners.

What's the difference between a girlfriend and a wife?
45 lbs.

What's the difference between a boyfriend and a husband?
45 minutes.

Why is it so hard to find men who are caring, kind, and good looking?
Because those men already have boyfriends.

What's the difference between a new husband and a new dog?
After a year, the dog is still excited to see you.

What makes men chase women they have no intention of marrying?
The same urge that makes dogs chase cars they have no intention of driving.

What do you call a smart blonde?
A golden retriever.

What has a whole bunch of little balls and screws old ladies?
Bingo machine.

What's the difference between a porcupine and a BMW?
A porcupine has the pricks on the outside.

Why did God create alcohol?
So ugly people could have sex, too.

What did the blonde say when she found out she was pregnant?
"Are you sure it's mine?"

What's the difference between Beer Nuts and Deer Nuts?
Beer Nuts are $1, and Deer Nuts are always under a buck.

Why does Mike Tyson cry during sex?
Mace will do that to you.

What's the difference between a Northern fairytale and a Southern fairytale?

A Northern fairytale begins "Once upon a time."
A Southern fairytale begins "Y'all ain't gonna believe this crap."

Syllabus: Psychology 101

The fascinating field has been neatly simplified this way by Marc Bain in Newsweek (Mar. 27, 2006):

"Right or wrong, Freud's theories revolutionized modern psychology and changed the way we think about the way we think. Here, the impact of his influence on some of the major movements in the field:

What started it all:

Psychoanalysis (Sigmund Frued): The symptoms have meaning: Freud's legacy is the idea that, by observing a patient's symptoms, the therapist can discover their cause. Even today that notion lies at the heart of psychotherapy.

The major deviating branching-offs:

1. Analytical Psychology (Carl Jung) Breaking from Freud over their differing views on sexuality, Jung formed his own movement, asserting that people could generally be classified as introverts and extroverts.

1.1 Mythology (Joseph Campbell) Campbell's popular writings on the hero myth, like Jung's collective-unconscious theory, suggest that all people share a set of psychic symbols.

2. Individual Psychology (Alfred Adler) The first of Freud's inner circle to defect, Adler argued that neuroses arose not from libdinal forces but from overcompensation for feelings of insecurity.

2.1 Humanistic (Carl Rogers) Originally called client-centered therapy, the focus is placed on the experience of the patient. Rogers later used the term counseling.

2.1.1 Gestalt Therapy - Starting from the premise that the mind is more than a collection of its parts, Gestalt (German for "whole") encourages patients to relieve anxiety by releasing and acknowledging their emotions.

2.1.2 Psychodrama (J.L. Moreno) Through studying how people interact in groups, Moreno devised Psychodrama, a technique that stresses role playing, creativity and spontaneity in reaching a catharsis.

2.1.3 Interpersonal Therapy (Harry Stack Sullivan) This hands-on system developed by Sullivan encourages therapists to actively challenge, guide and support the patient during the session.

2.1.4 Group Therapy This method, which was once used by Moreno to treat Viennese prostitutes and is now the basis for groups like AA, utilizes the shared experiences of the participants for both support and emotional release.

3. Active Therapy (Sandor Ferenczi) In direct contrast with Freud's nondirectional methods, Ferenczi helped develop Active Therapy, which allowed the analyst to play an active part in the session.

3.1 Birth Trauma (Otto Rank) Ranks' theory of the "pre-Oedipal complex" held that the trauma of being born was actually at the root of neurotic anxiety.

3.2 Social Psychoanalysis (Karen Horney) Responding to Freud's idea of 'penis envy,' Horney suggested that men are similarly jealous of women for their ability to give birth.

3.3 Self Psychology (Heinz Kohut) Kohut's practice recognizes the importance of empathy in development and highlights the patient's need for self-esteem.

3.4 Psychoanalytic Feminism (Nancy Chodorow) Combining Freud's work with feminist theory, Chodorow explained identity as a construct of gender awareness.

4. Behaviorism (John Watson) Largely influenced by Pavlov's experiments with his dog, Watson wanted a method based more on empiricism than subjective intrepretation.

4.1 Stimulus and Response (B.F. Skinner) Skinner followed Watson in ignoring unconscous motivations and focusing chiefly on observable behavior.

4.2 Behavioral Therapy - Behavioral Therapy seeks to fix bad behavior by providing rewards and offering reinforcement for good conduct.

4.3 Cognitive Therapy - Cognitive Therapy tries to alter thinking patterns that lead to troublesome or potentially self-destructive behavior.

4.4 Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy - Proposing that a mix of biological, psychological and social factors affect the way we feel and behave, REBT emphasizes individualized treatments.

4.5 Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (Aaron Beck) A currently popular method, Beck's CB borrows from both Cognitive and Behavioral Therapy to change the negative thoughts of the patient.

4.6 Rational Living Therapy - A short-term approach, it uses persuasive techniques, including at times Hypnotherapy, to make the patient more susceptible to therapeutic suggestions and treatments.

The Freudians:

5. Modern Freudian Psychoanalysis (Anna Freud) Anna Freud used free association and transference in order to uncover unconscious motivations and find the past conflicts causing current emotional problems. Reclining on a couch may or may not be involved.

5.1 Psychodynamic Psychotherapy (Peter Fonagy) This form of therapy is based in psychoanalysis but uses different techniques. Sessions are held only once or twice a week, and the relationship between doctor and patient is a more interactive one.

5.2 Psychodynamic Developmental Therapy - In Fonagy's system, the therapist facilitates the removal of the stumbling blocks that may impede healthy psychological development."

Traumas and boundaries

Hidden hurts, unexplained aches, puzzling pains... All these may have resulted from violations of personal boundaries when you were young.

I've learned about the concept of boundaries from H. and from Ian's copy of the psych book Broken Toys Broken Dreams (19--) by Terry Kellogg. Kellogg says that a child's personal boundaries are natural needs, and boundaries violated often means major trouble later in life. Violations of boundaries may fall under a number of types of abuse, including physical, sexual, intellectual, and emotional (or psychological). (I didn't know there's even such a thing as intellectual abuse.)

Among the group I work with as fellow variable-group guinea pigs, I've encountered people who had experienced all sorts of boundary violations that resulted in major and minor traumas. Here's a sampling:

- Being humiliated by one's own mother by telling others (her fellow wives) within the child's hearing distance what he or she said to her in private

- Not being granted a heartfelt wish for a birthday or Christmas gift (an encyclopedia set), then seeing her own father indulging in his favorite vices (smoking, drinking, and gambling) like it's his last day on earth

- Seeing one's own parent behaving in a shamefully childish manner. Ex.: Hearing one's own father grumble aloud too much about a discomfort (being hospitalized for amoebiasis) that the rest of the family has been stoically enduring

- Parents not meeting their children's normal expectations. Ex.: The father's absence in leading the family's spirituality may be a flaw that is easily glossed over, but not to a sensitive and highly spiritual child

- Being humiliated by being made embarassingly different from the rest of kids, whether intentionally or not. Ex.: Being prepared an extra-cheap vegetable dish by one's mother for a classroom Christmas party. Or not being given a new shirt for the party (like everyone else) without explaining why

- Having been scarred or physically defaced because of parental negligence or uncaring

- Not being informed of or consulted in major family decisions, such as when a new baby boy was suddenly given up for adoption

- Being shown porn, and a hardcore one at that, at the tender age of 4 to 7

- Being humiliated by anyone in public in any way

- Being sexually and physically violated in any way. I know someone who was made into a sex slave by the older neighborhood kids. The constellation of effects was simply mind-boggling.

- Being abandoned by a parent or being rejected in a major way

- Even the fetus is said to remember traumatic things, like attempted abortion, which to the unborn is simply botched murder in cold blood

**

Signs and symptoms (Or what to look for?):

- Puzzling phobias

- Panic behavior/panic attacks. Someone always panicked as a child whenever he felt he was being left alone. Now, he suffers from separation anxiety attacks.

- Unexplained hatreds

- Enigmatic neuroses, paranoia, other sub-normal behaviors or maybe even cases bordering on psychoses (?)

Loyalty check

(Press release)

"Happy 100th Anniversary. PUSH ON UP! Come celebrate UP's Centennial. See you at the kick-off parade and musical on Jan. 8, 4 PM, Oblation Plaza and Ampitheater. Fireworks diplay until 10 PM."

(via Malou)

Story in shifting points of view

(Semifictional account under the Vulnerability chronicles. These are Jojo's delicate thoughts re. a significant person in his life.)

All of a sudden, I find her plenty annoying. No, more than that. I don't remember ever hating this woman before, so this is a new big puzzle to me. I had to probe further. Maybe this is a subconscious thing.

I have suspicions, but I'm not even sure if they make sense. At her age and state of life, I dunno, I think I shouldn't be bothering with what I think or feel towards her. It's just that she bothers me so much.

Why do I hate her indeed? Why don't I relish the sight of her like I should? I am supposed to be the saintly one, but why this? Could she have something to do with something that should have angered me long ago but, for some mysterious reasons, haven't?

I don't know. Let me make a wild guess. Maybe she wanted me aborted when I was young. Maybe she used to be a slut and she slept around a lot, so now I am not sure where I exactly came from. Maybe she was an illegitimate lover, a kept woman. Maybe she was an ancient Spanish priest's mistress. Why, why do I hate her so much for no reason at all?

Please restrain me for she strikes me as a bitch, a hag, a witch. I hate her enough to wanna kill her. I wanna f*cking chop her head off and smash her face on the wall. I can't stand even the mere glimpse of her shadow.

And yet I am not so certain if she indeed has done anything wrong against me. In any case...

You selfish bitch, you old cunt! Fuck you! You opportunistic virus! Admit it, you only know how to love when you know you can benefit from it. Lunatic! You thought you had it all? No, you shall die with no one at your funeral! So it won't be too messy for me, why don't you go find a sharp knife and start slicing yourself thinly?

And, oh, speaking of death, are those obscenely big pearls dangling on your pot-ugly earlobes real? I hope so, so I could sell off your memory even before you die. I'll steal them from you in the middle of your agonizing pain. I'll only be rightfully claiming my just inheritance while wishing to erase all memories of you. Disinheritance in reverse! That's how much I hate you!

Cold war report, 2

(Semi-fictional account filed under the Vulnerability chronicles. Let's just say this is 'Anton's' testimony.)

I'm shocked. Looking around the old house, I noticed how all the Catholic icons are now gone. This could be her handiwork. (She's a Baptist.) How dare she impose her religious belief on the entire household when ours is the majority religion and we respected her, never forcing her to believe? She was free to practice her own version of Christianity. Maybe the sudden absence of holy things was really a gesture of charity by someone else in the house? Maybe my mother. Maybe my father. Maybe somebody else.

But still, she could have said she didn't mind out of respect for us.

I feel violated. I am offended that something like that could happen without the slightest regard for how the rest of us would feel. After all, no one of us has switched religions and the house is still our house. I tried to double-check where all the statues and pictures were kept, and, to my dismay, I found them all locked up inside a cabinet in one of the rooms upstairs, like they were wares on sale at the Catholic Trade Center. What profanity!

When can Protestants and non-Catholics ever accept that Catholic veneration is not, will never be, idolatry? But never mind that. What if it's indeed idolatry? When will they ever shut up and consider respecting other people's beliefs and their desire to go directly to hell?

Sigh. Here I am being very vocal about religious freedom and I don't find it at home.

And I couldn't even speak a word because I was too cowardly or that I didn't want to create trouble.

No stopping it -- I'm back :-)

I'm baack!! Which means this blog is back to regular programming in the coming weeks. (Sorry for the comments I wasn't able to respond to.) But I'm back to the old grind, back to the old things and new things, good things and bad things.

While I was away, I missed the city terribly. (Breaking news, huh.)

But I know I'll also be missing my family. I'll be missing my old friends in high school, home-made food, fresh and native (indigenous) produce, my father's special meat recipes nobody else bothers to make, my mother, the new baby (KC), our house, our yard and the trees in it, and the fresh air.

Meanwhile, I'll have to make do with, or make the most of, the urban life. Going back to Manila makes me see one thing: Material progress, advanced life, advanced civilization makes all the difference. Of course, this also means risking myself with exposure to the usual suspects. I mean, I'll be exposing myself with - and hopefully succeeding in not falling prey to - cell phone snatchers, thieves, scammers, swindlers, posers, pimps, prostitutes, hold-uppers, terrorists, exploding malls, stampedes, hijacked buses, election cheats, wet market cheats, LTO fixers, highway collisions, traffic altercations, neighborhood brawls, gossips, sex molesters, murderers, drug addicts, corrupt cops, red tape in government offices, bribers and bribees, water shortage, black-outs, work stoppages, lightning rallies, staged mass demos, coup plotters, communist assassinations, pollution of every kind, police raids, and all underworld people and things that make this world a piece of hell.

But, ah, city life, which is all about applied science, state-of-the-art engineering -- at least to me. I'm back to where all the action is. I'm back to enjoy and benefit from tollway plazas, landscaped gardens, modern architecture, state-of-the-art medical facilities, electric jeeps, gasoline station hangouts, MRT stations, giant metal sculptures, seafood restaurants and exotic dishes, parks and wildlife, museums, factories, late-model cars and SUVs, hypermarts, top universities, airports, piers, electric lines spanning entire expressways, neon lights, the latest electronic gadgets, gigs with exciting lineup of rock bands, call centers and other BPO firms, computer shops, control towers, food terminals, agricultural produce from the remotest corners of the country and the world, oil depots and refineries, chemical processing plants, media launches and coverages, show biz stars and celebrities, art galleries, giant shopping malls, automated flush, escalators and elevators everywhere, fitness gyms, spas, management conferences, company outings, skyscrapers, panoramic views, corporate restructurings and mergers, CBD offices, scientists, academics, fashionably dressed and drop-dead gorgeous students, sensurround cinemas, heritage houses and historic spots, TV studio tapings, churches and a bewildering variety of orders and charisms and charismatic communities, major egroup and blogger eyeballs, central-office banks, deluxe hotels, public phone booths, fast Internet connection, immaculately maintained restrooms, gourmet coffeeshops, regional specialty restaurants, plays, tourists and visitors of various nationalities, foreign and local dignitary-induced traffic counterflows and emergency lanes, top medical specialists, top foreign acts, latest theater runs, charity houses, rare-copy DVDs (pirated), tempting book sales, 24-hour convenience stores, and all the dates with someone special that I missed in all these places and with all these things.

On the term "extrajudicial killing"

'Christian B.,' a high school friend of mine who's a PMA grad and now serves Malacanang (hehe) has this to say about the term "extrajudicial killing": "The phrase is an unfortunate mistake because it implies that there's such a thing as 'judicial killing.' [In legal contemplation, that doesn't exist] because the death penalty has been abolished. The right term is 'unexplained killings.'"

Okay, let me put things in the right context. He told the above to me and two other old friends over a case of cold San Miguel and a plateful of dog meat adobo. But you can't deny he's got a brilliant point, di ba?

He also said something interesting about the Alston Report, but I was already too drunk by then.

Freudian slip on the social contract

(Old stuff that brought me to a smile)

"Published in 1930, when Sigmund Freud was already an old man, ["Civilization and Its Discontents"] was a psychological medication on the social contract: the surrender of mankind's natural instinct for agreesion and sexual domination in exchange for the security and comfort of civilized society. But in Freud's view, that is not an easy bargain. Those instincts are powerful and their repression creates unconscious conflict -- what [was] described as the 'core idea' of Freudian thought. And that is the source of the disease that we cannot name, and that we can never really cure, because it is built into the human condition."

Source: Newsweek, March 27, 2006, p. 49

On the road back to Manila, 2008

The colors of God

Your greens feed my eyes. Your blues make the world seem so wide. Your gold and silver bring light. Your shades of brown feed the greens and sustain them. Your whites are mostly a fast-changing surprise. Your blacks and greyscale are a fine reflection of everthing. Everything else in between is a bonus shade of each exciting spice of original creation.

Bird-watching

I learn that the most interesting birds hide the most terrible secrets. Secrets no known psychologists can ever hope to uncover. For these secrets lie deeply buried in the subconscious. Some of these may be too traumatic to bring out into the open. The most beautiful birds need some counseling help to sort out their issues about birdseeds. But only these birds can ever hope to interpret their bird-dreams.