Tuesday, August 31, 2010

a major major drawback for filipinos

No one's to be blamed.

Although we would like to point our silly fingers to anyone just to satiate that feeling of "I-would-not-do-that-gosh-that's-a-shame-for-Filipinos" stance. In the first place, we would never know what would happen in case we were in that muddy pool where the hostage-taker was in. We could only blame because we thought we could do something but we couldn't. The media and the police failed but their situation could only offer as much as our minds were mangled in the thought that something better could be done. We sat there on the edge of our seats dumbfounded, grief-stricken, angry, repulsed by the thought that a fellow Filipino had done such but we could only air our concern, the retribution strategy we're planning, in front of the television. We could just sit there and do anything but help in such crisis.

Blaming the media for such an unwittingly airing of the hostage crisis will just slap us the fact that this is their job first and foremost. Although there was a major backfire, but everyone's just doing their job, the police on their part and the media on their own part as well. There is an issue of regulating the media coverage in cases such as this. But where will we draw the line? How will we draw the line? And then we will all return again to the blaming habit. It is the government's responsibility and we will all end blaming the Head of the State. But Pnoy can only extend as much help by excruciatingly uncovering a solution from the deepest recesses of his brain. It's not that nobody cared and nobody did something, but it's the fact that it's what the circumstance offered and all we need to do is to learn our lesson now. We can blame as much and care as less but this will not solve the problem. I hope this crisis will not escalate our sickening habit of blaming the likes of Rolando Mendoza, a fellow Filipino, even when issues died down. This would soon pass. But the shattered pieces of our faith to our fellow countrymen will take some time of mending. I hope that we can show as much faith as the other nationalities showed sympathy to us amidst this national tragedy.

Again, this will be a matter of choice for us. We can choose to blame or not. But the solution should always start from us. And this I think should not be a matter of choice.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

silence and my lolo.

This was once a story that I always tell my friends or whoever it is that I came across with (and whenever opportunity knocks). From this, I sometimes concluded that melancholy and silence were my close comrades ever since, although sometimes I was in denial. This happened when I was in my fifth grade, and somehow the memory lingered and the experience seemed fresh. During the time which I mentioned, my Lolo died. This was my first experience of death involving relatives. And though my Lolo was such, I never encountered the idea of grieving, or the idea of crying for someone. We were not that close, albeit I bought cupcakes for him and somehow rendered my service to him. I was contented with the idea of grandfather-grandson relationship but there was no fuss or involvement of love. I was just a grandson. But never a loved one.

My grandfather’s wake was like a closed-door meeting. If his death hadn’t been the reason, then probably his children won’t be there that time. My uncles and aunts were a mix brood of austere disciplinarians and probably advocates of boredom. Their grief was nothing but a poignant show of lack of interest. And with which I felt sure by that time was slowly crawling inside me and seem to echo in my mind. What was present in their minds and in that house was everything but silence. Drinks. Food. Some were playing cards. My cousins were running around. All seemed to be in a chaos. Chaos and grief mixed at the same time. I didn’t understand that well how this two could be mixed. I want silence. This is impossible inside the house but I’m too timid to go outside. And so, amidst this raucous scenario I decided to disappear, at least. So I look for a cozy place but every room seemed to be an accomplice to this ironic festivity.

I found a place. Finally. It was under the table, totally covered by a thick carpet-like cloth tarnished with old age smell. At least the smell was tolerable. But this table was not just a table; for on top of this, was where my grandfather’s coffin laid. It was there, a mute wooden casket which seemed to me the only witness of my unbecoming attitude. I respect my Lolo like the way I did for my father. But I respect my peace more. And if to hide under this table was the sole manner I could achieve what I ached for, then to hell with that coffin. And my Lolo seemed to like this idea. He was there above, inside the coffin. Silent. With the last glimpse of my Mom crying, I crept under and be engulfed with the silence I desperately wanted. The tablecloth, which appeared like gigantic curtains to me, was my sole cover and my wall to this unexplainable enmity. And for the first time after five painful hours, I silently lied down there on the bare wooden floor, smiling, closing my eyes. I was alone. I was with myself.

From then on I befriended silence. I was not a loner though. I hate to be alone. But I want some time to be left alone. And this is a matter of choice. And now, sitting here with a laptop in front of me with the noisy background of honking cars and beer-drinking people, I drank again the intoxicating experience of silence, of peace. But only this time, I chose it to be swimming across a sea of wonderful noises and sounds.

And I kinda like it.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

do not bother me. please.

drawn on a post-it, when everything's so boring.

Monday, August 2, 2010


Left to right: Ms Nholl, Ms. Eva and Ms. Elna
Ewan ko ba bakit wala akong nagawa ngayong araw ng Linggo - as in totally wala - except the usual routine of doing laundry. After that I slept, and the rest of the afternoon was a painful drag of hours coupled with routinized daydreaming and planning. These series of events carefully laid - that is - inside my head, yes, in my mind with my body on my bed. Maybe my mind was just so preoccupied with so many things that my body froze. Haha. Another excuse for another lazy Sunday. This was like one of those days where in being productive sucks both ways - either you're trying way too hard or you're doubting the credibility of your toil. There's no competition though - at least I believe. Anyhow, I don't want to feel any pressure, at least for the time being but I don't want to slacken also. Aargghh...

Better forget this.

Anyway, last Friday night, right after we had some Coke float slurping and senseless conversation, we headed to Ponce Suites to tour a friend. We deserved this - a just compensation, as I call it -to end our rough weekdays and to begin a hopeful-restful weekend. Yes, to my belief - and relief - that stress could just be sucked through that straw - and be finally flushed out as urine. How I wished it could be that easy.

The "sepia-toned" streets, as what Ms. Elna fondly called them, proved to be a good host for another array of conversations- at least this time they were sensible and dramatic, and funny. Contrary to the noises on the streets adjunct to these, our giggles were the only disturbing decibels on this neighborhood. Except, of course, for some few honking cars. We cared less though - after all this was our night - and their whims or concerns would just aggravate the reason of such behavior. We had a common purpose - to watch the gallery of Kublai. And this walk, our ticket.

This was like the fourth or fifth time I was on this place. And the works of art would just give me the same reactions- amazement, envy, and inspiration. The mute boredom inside me seemed to echo in those arts. Gradually convinced, I'd resolve to do a work like this. Again. And again I would forget it upon leaving the shadow of the eagle graced upon its entrance. Those monuments beside the streets just before the entrance were the silent witness of the visitor's purpose: to be lost in art or maybe just to kill time. In any ways or means, these arts will always leave something - and at some point - will be crucial to one's life.