Transitions

From my desk at the office, I have a view of a mountain range that looks like an area graph, in dark green, mostly a steady horizontal, with one minor peak towards the rightmost end.

On beautiful afternoons, this range would be a picturesque background behind a sea of houses and a few buildings jutting upwards here and there. Looking at the contrast between the structures illuminated by the fast setting sun, and the green, almost black, background evokes warmth and respite.

These afternoons.

Strangely, they make me think of the red slippers I used when going to the farm as a kid. It is a thought to smile about but, it's probably just lack of caffeine most of the time. They also remind me of my black notebook where I would scribble notes from university classes. I liked how it had looked so worn and old, and how I would never have traded it for an iPad. I also remember, "What is essential is invisible to the eye..." It took me a long time to understand why the rose would cough when she was clearly not sick. I thought that was funny.

But I have to bring myself back to reality, where I read an email about rewarding the alcoholics in the office, or the one about a benefit that we have to pay for. On some special days, I have to urge myself to see through a situation that is deserving of judgment less than positive, explaining the basics of culture. And I have learned this by heart: it is difficult to have the best when it is impossible for you to state a logical understanding of it. Then, I wonder, how long should transitions be? 6 years? 

I suspect that somewhere between the rose, my black notebook, the pair of red slippers and the mountain range is an answer.

Breaking Through Forgiveness

The other day, I read about the former president's arrest, and I could not stop myself from pitying her. Then, came the shame of this involuntary emotion, reminding myself of how she had robbed the country for a decade.
I don't know if I should be thankful for the reflection that followed after what I felt about her being served the warrant. I just thought that maybe they should have waited a little longer or till she got better. "For Christ's sakes, she can barely move!"
But that had been long overdue. I waited years for her to pay for what she had done, for insulting my capacity to think, for thinking she could get away with anything, for making me realize that if it isn't about me not being able to do anything, it is about me being lazy to do something.
I am not really sure whether humanity should still be considered at this point. If I look at the abuses that she had done, my anger awakens.
I just thought that there could be something about my instinctual pity for her (perhaps, a very Filipino attitude?). I know she does not deserve mercy. I know that she had committed all these deceptions with full knowledge of what she was sacrificing and disregarding. However, how could I still feel sorry for her, catching myself silently telling everyone, "Let her get well!"

Justice over humanity is more of the rational choice here. Compared to everything that she had wrought while in power, where she is right now is merely an inconvenience.
I must never forget that.

Clothes line

It's as simple as taking a strand of hair from the keyboard.
It should not be more complicated than that.
To be able to choose what to do, to know what to be done next and to discover what matters to be discovered should be simple. There should neither be any fear nor apprehensions. There should only be a series of steps forward leading to an envisioned end.

It sometimes takes so long to know where to go. The destination is something always difficult to decide on. There are a lot of things to consider: is this place going to be cramped, is it going to be windy, will there be parties, will I be able to find a place to stay for three nights, will the bed be soft enough...
Things become blurry, and every day is an endless barking of dogs, and the weather flitting from sunny to cloudy. Then you worry if the clothes you hang will dry. There is always the gray or black or if people will notice the white.

She longs for simplicity. She longs for the joy of knowing that each minute leads her closer to a goal.
I long for the victories of doing things better than I thought I could, better than what has been set.

It is really as simple as knowing what should be desired.

Meanwhile, a blue dragonfly settles on the clothes line outside, and the sky seems to decide between rain or sun.

Running

I have not really seen the almost crazy connection between accompanying my father to the farm up the mountain when I was a kid to buying a pair or running shoes. Not until now.
Silly as you might think, but yes, I should have refused the Saturday hikes up to the farm, then. I would not have to lose precious money over a pair of shoes!
It is too late for that now.
It starts with how, when I was a kid, I loathed Saturdays. I would wish every day was Monday, not minding the walk to and from school (it takes 1 hour to walk from house to school). Mondays meant the start of a five-day non-negotiably school time, which could not be taken away from me.
Weekends, however, are associated with the unforgiving heat of the sun and the heavy 4 liters of water that I have to carry with me all the way to my father's farm. It is on a mountain, steep enough for me to think of faking a fall, so we could take another break, a longer one, on the way there.
Let us just say that in spite of the fact that the farm is everything serene you can imagine, it was one of those that I prayed would disappear from the face of the earth. It symbolized unfairness in that other kids were allowed to play, or watch TV, or just do nothing on weekends, while I was expected to be hiking under the scorching heat to learn how to plant coconuts, clear the land of unwanted weeds or to make copras.
On several occasions, however, when my father's mood was so good that even if I would repeatedly and annoyingly convince him of how we don't need water, he wouldn't mind, I would ask for a 15-min break under the shade of my favorite mango tree on the way to the farm. Even that happened very seldom.
Those hikes made me swear to myself I would do very well in school. When I graduate, I would just be in my office not minding what the weather outside is...

Twenty years later, I fulfilled that promise. I am nowhere near being a farmer. I am not going to be forced to hike up a mountain on weekends carrying four liters of water with me. Now, I sit at my desk in front of my laptop. I don't just not know what the weather is, but in most cases, I forget that it is a laptop I am having a conversation with. I spend hours and hours typing what solutions I could give, plans that need execution, excel reports, powerpoint presentations- basically running my departments.
For five years now, my weeks are all about Mondays. It is difficult to notice the other days of the week when I do pretty much the same thing every day. And the weekend? I can vaguely remember. I spend most of them in bed and making sure my place is dust-free for the next week.

They say the tragedy of human existence is when every day is the same as any other. I thought that if I do not do anything right now, I might as well be Sophocles, and write down my life for the greatest tragedy of all time. But I am not the kind that does something suicidally stupid by just dropping everything at the moment and head for the beach to go surf and not care about tomorrow. I could take baby steps. I thought about cooking. I could start with dinner.
Three attempts, however, and I know I was not born to cook. There was some improvement, but not the kind that could make me invite friends over. The pasta I made last weekend was almost edible, though. Culinary is not what I should get into if I want to feel good about myself. That is sure.

I decided to go running.
I would schedule this at least 3 times a week. On Monday mornings just before I go to work, Thursday mornings, and weekends. I thought this would be perfect. Eventually, I would also join fun runs or marathons that allow 70-year-olds to join as long as they pay the registration fee (which is a stupid idea by the way). I was going to start this two weeks ago, except that I remembered I do not have a pair of running shoes. And it has been two weeks that I am deciding among the many pairs out there. Should I get the expensive one? The cheap one? Which model? Which color? Which brand? I have been to the mall several times, and I still have not gotten a pair.

Now, I am thinking of picking up where I left off with my cooking escapades. At least there, I eat what I buy. I would like to believe that I am slowly getting convinced that to be great in something, I just have to be a little patient. Even beyond patient with this one.
But it's that farm that's to blame for all this. Had those weekends been spent on swimming at the river or playing marbles with friends, I would probably not have to be stuck in a job that makes me realize I am not good at cooking, forcing me to go running instead, which is giving me headaches about what pair of shoes to get.

10th Floor

Today, I was thinking about taking the stairs to the office, which is at the 10th floor. I thought this was a faster way of getting some exercise. These days, I either do not have the time to work out or too lazy to start one. An instant work out would be fantastic!
Before I reached the building, I had to think about this whole business of taking the stairs again. The practical side of me thought it was not something a normal, thinking individual would do. I realized, it was not clear to me what this ordeal is for.
I remember having done this a couple of times, days before my last hike to Mt. Pulag. It was necessary, then. The pay off was more than gratifying when I did not have any problem keeping up with the more seasoned hikers on the way to the peak of Luzon's highest. A hike to Mt. Pulag is not something that can be pulled off by just going around malls as preparation for the arduous trek. You have to be mentally and physically prepared for it.
I am not hiking anywhere soon, so taking ten flights of stairs is something to reckon with. Deeply.
I could be doing this for health reasons. There is, after all, a need to be healthy. This sedentary lifestyle and my apathy towards my diet will soon take their toll on me.
Problem is, I have not really accepted this.
People, the media, and everything else that bombard others with information about this and that are saying so many things about how we should all live our lives. They tell you what to eat and what kinds of exercises you should be doing. They tell you what you should not be wearing anymore and what kind of movies you should be watching. They even tell you that another color is the NEW BLACK. It makes me wonder really if I am the only one who does not seem to have any idea about what to make of my years ahead.
Once, the other day, I heard a conversation about giving service tips and the unwritten rules this practice accordingly has. There is the idea about the percentages, and if you are going back to avail of the same service in the future. In that case, it is a must.
In the pantry, I heard somebody talk about how the Filipinos need a dictator, someone capable of punching an errant sherriff in the nose without care of whether it's televised or not, or of whether the sherriff is, indeed, errant or not.
On the way home, on the jeepney, a woman was telling another how Kate (a colleague of hers) was so annoying that a fan page on facebook was put up to bash her. She thinks that if people do not want to be an object of cyber bullying, they should just be invisible or to be clearer, they should not annoy her. This woman reminds me of  recess in high school, which would always get me hungry. She must be 38, though.
I think the most interesting of all, is how one was supposedly told to keep her mouth shut over management's pulling a fast one on her. They told her to let it go, since really, the appointment paper issued for her promotion is just some piece of document that might as well be used to wipe one's arse with. After all, it is not really a contract, says HR (Don't worry, I also did not get this part). The clincher, she is part of HR.
If logic is something of a habit to you, you would probably think that if HR is able to do this to one of its people, just imagine what they do to other employees? Maybe, nothing.
They will do nothing. They think that it is best to be quiet.
I must really be missing something.

I did not realize that this musing over so many things that people say made me forget I was getting nearer and nearer to the office. I had taken the stairs even before a decision was made on it.
I wanted to go back down only to prove to myself that I was not somebody as gullible as those paying a thousand bucks to run under the heat of the sun.
Then, I noticed the sign on the wall in front of me. It read, "9".
Fuck that! I am not going back nine floors down to prove my independence.
This time, I say, taking the last flight of stairs to the office is the most practical thing to do.
And I do not really care what you think.

Taking Sides

It was exactly ten years ago when I started smoking. This was also the time I started to actively participate in sessions that require you to finish at least 5 bottles of beer, which, to me, was the same as driking rat's piss (though I had and have never dared try). At the same time, I vigorously asked questions that would later weaken the flimsy thread through which my faith in the divine being rested.
More than getting rid of my innocence, my 20th year was a time of personal quests for truths and for the Truth. So I allowed myself not just to lose my religion, but to lose faith, as well. I had to doubt what I had been led to believe, especially those that were not instilled in me through personal discoveries, conclusions and argumentations.
I became a skeptic, and did not start with something easier to deal with at that. I had to go straight to the age-old controversy of God's existence.
To cut the story short, it got me nowhere. If not fallacies, I encountered contradictions. And so, I decided I had to give it a rest.
Ten years later, I am introduced to the question once again. Now, however, I have phrased it in a more sensible way.

I would like to know what my stand really is on the concept of God. What is God to me? What does his existence or non-existence have to do with me?

I have no idea where this will lead me, but at least, this will give me something to keep myself busy with.

My God
I am aware that in order to get to a more rational position on the issue, I have to stop thinking of God as a being of flesh and blood. A 360-turn from the anthropomorphic understanding of God is necessary to free myself from the clutch of medieval thought. I have to start from scratch, careful not to take in absurdities and contradictions.
As there are quickly two positions on the subject of the divine being, I would like to start by talking about them- God exists and God does not exist.
Of course, it does not take a 3rd grader to understand that saying, "I do not believe this or that exists" is enough to warrant a thing's non-existence. For it could exist without me knowing it (or whether you believe it or not). For all I know, there are other creatures in the universe that we do not know of, and saying that there is none is downright hasty for I would never be able to exhaust space to check if the Earth is, indeed, the only planet in the universe that has life. In other words, my position on God's existence does not have anything to do with His existence. In the same manner that my writing about it neither, in anyway, add to nor diminish the existence or non-existence.
On the other hand, the fact that we do not and will not know for sure what other things exist, thanks to our very limited knowledge and rationality, will never be sufficient to prove a thing's existence. It is absurd to claim that somewhere in the depths of the ocean, there is a certain kind of fish that has tentacles and glows like a thousand light bulbs. There is no way to verify the truth of the claim, and therefore cannot really be considered true. At least not yet. Until you find one.
Again, saying God exists or not is merely a comfortable assertion and no bearing on the truth about what it claims.
I do not have a hundred years to live. I am but a speck of infinity, whose signigicance is nothing compared to a dust in the breadth of time. I will probably not live to see the day when man finally finds the soundest proof of God's existence, so I will use whatever I have at this moment to see if my belief (should I choose to believe) in God is founded.
First, I see the sense in claiming that everything comes from something. This laptop that I am using to write this position paper with has been assembled from smaller parts. Cars are the same. Houses, phones, etc. Even the air you breathe is composed of particles that come from nuclear fission and fusion of stars. Let us not even get to the details of how come winds move.
Assuming that the Science we know is correct, then we know that this (the concept of something coming from another) is something that's as inevitable as birth (or perhaps, rebirth) in our universe.
I see God here. I see him as that which nothing else precedes, from which everything else comes. If it so happens that there are several of these, which nothing else precedes, so be it.
Everything has to come from something.
Second, though I know that to some extent, the poem, Invictus, makes sense, I could not completely say that I am the master of my fate or the captain of my soul. There have been countless events where there was nothing I could do that could alter their course. In these moments, I can only watch as things happen. This morning, for example, there was nothing I could do but hope the rain would let up a little, so it would still be safe to drive to work and then back home. It is the same kind of prayer that I mumble when news about an impending earthquake is believed to occur soon.
These events that I attribute to chance are easily clear manifestations of my inability to be the sole master of my fate. I could plan what decisions I would be making in the days, weeks, months and years to come. And though these decisions play a very large part of how my future will turn out to be, chance can never be discounted from it.

It should already be clear that I see chance as that, which, other than myself or people in general, causes events that help shape my future. Chance is that immemorial root of universal mechanisms responsible for making the planets go round the sun, for making the earth a habitable place, for gravity that enables stars to hold their centers, for the seasons, and for the rain, among many others. Chance is also a product of cause and effect, which necessitates a beginning, bringing us back to that which nothing else precedes.
Now, this conception of God does not really help. Depending on the perspective I am looking at it from, I could see myself still straddling two sides- that of the believers and the non-believers.
Chance and Alpha (the Beginning) merely reduce the unfathomable concept to lexical reprentations- words. I have proved nothing but that I could call these two concepts God alternatively. Worse, I think I have just opened this to another possible debate on how the truth of a statement could be dependent on how the words are being used. What is clear, though, is that by rationalizing what for me is God, I detach myself from the traditional conception of his being man's projection- physically, emotionally and psychologically. My God is amoral, limitless and and devoid of any form of desires.
This understanding of God, though rudimentary at best, enables me to act more freely based on what I think is right (Rightness is another concept that should be discussed independently, however). It does not inhibit me from growing, for satiating my hunger for knowledge, for being responsible for my actions, and for having some sense of self worth.
It is also this idea that allowed me, ironic as it may seem, to start smoking and trying that dreadfully tasting beer for the first time. I knew nothing about the world, and I was not just about to take others' words for it. This life has been given to me either for a purpose or without. Either way, I would not be giving my life essence if I am not ready to find answers.
I resolve that  even if it were just some accident that brought me here, I am determined to give it purpose if Chance is to be my God. On the other hand, if everything is predetermined by some grand design, I believe that by beguiling myself with established norms and beliefs I am not just being irresponsible, but also ungrateful for everything that I wake up to each day of my life.
So, now, ten years later, I still find myself staring blankly at something thinking about what is really God to me.

Her Kindly Eyes

I wonder if there was ever a time when she loved Emily D.
When she would "look back on time with kindly eyes". I wonder if she ever pondered on the imagery from each line, and be wary about what the enjambments mean.
But through her eyes, I see only survival, and though not very familiar with Darwin, she has the eyes of someone trying to be the fittest.

Just the other night I asked, "What do you plan to do about it?" 
Almost in a whisper, she asked, "What do you think?"

Then I hoped to find somewhere in my mind things that I could share. I thought about that rainy night, when I had to sleep under a tree, with two big bags full of clothes and books, hoping the rain would stop, and let me sleep for even just a couple of hours. What could I tell her from that? That the rain did not listen to my prayers?  And I had to run to a nearby church where, when I thought I had slept for a few minutes, people attending mass came?

I thought about Emily, too, and how she seems to hold the world with her words, how she seems to have something to say about the most banal of life. She talked about afternoons, about the breeze that makes the leaves of the trees rustle. Still, I was not sure if those were her exact words, but at least those images were the ones I remember. 
I also thought about the prince that concerned himself only about goals, believing the end can justify the means. 


I muttered, "Priorities".


She kept quiet for some time, and said, "The little one has taken a liking to him, too, you know? She even asked if he was going to be her new dad."


I thought, what would they say to that?

I told her that reminded me of one Christmas when I had to go back home, without a single centavo in my pocket. I only had my ticket with me. I got on the boat, only to find out two hours later, after the ship had departed, that I had lost my wallet, with my ticket inside. 

Then I told her about a time when I left home for the first time in my life to go to college. On the bus to the city where a ship would take me to Manila, an old lady gave me a cookie. I must have looked so terrified at what was going to happen to me in a place so far away from home that she thought a cookie would make me feel better.


"And?" she asked, not quite sure what my stories had to do with all she said.


I looked at her again. She was very young when her father left them. She raised her brothers and sisters. That she did in between her classes in school. She graduated, and found a stable job. She has always been her family's only hope, the father they never had. Five years ago, she became a mother, too. 

She does not care about what Emily has to say about the lillies of the pond or that the prince would kill for his goals. She gets up at 5, helps her daughter prepare for school, teaches at 7, begins her regular office job at 9 and gets home by 8 in the evening. I wish I knew what the exact words then. I would have told her something common, written in the most beautiful way possible, that she would...

"Look back on time with kindly eyes, 
 doubtless she did her best, 
 How softly sinks her trembling sun
 In human nature's west!"


Instead, I said, "And...I think you know what to do." 

Shifting Formula

But they are not married! They could have three kids but the fact is that their being together is illicit!, she exclaims.

I can almost hear desperation in her voice. It feels like whatever comes out of her mouth only means to say, Agree with me.
Then she tells me how it all started.

She had to ask him to fill in as their driver for a day...there was the conversation about his and her life...then some drinks...a hickey...her fury over his lack of self-control...things got muddled up and now, she thinks she loves him.

But life is never a simple story to tell. Saying, "a relationship" isn't really just a relationship. Concepts like that are always composite of so many things. So many that in the end you realize this word is something that will never be able to exclusively tell what you would like the other to understand.

He is not married but he has a family. The eldest of his three kids is 9. A few years back, she would not have even considered this kind of man. But now, she is looking for a justification for the feeling she has for him. She wants him, but she could not bear the thought of being the reason for the breakage of this man's family.

I tell her, at least here is something that is not about why we don't include VAT in this or that invoice. She has to pee, and I have to smoke.

She could be looking for somebody to spend her whole life with. At her age, I would not be surprised if she considers that a priority. Her daughter is not getting any younger, and undeniably, it is difficult to bank on the hope that Antonia will forever stay with her. Kids grow and have their own lives. Parents (the real ones) really just guide and prepare children for whatever path they choose. Parents do not raise kids as some sort of insurance policy, or an investment. At least, that's how I understand parents to be.

But this man is lame!
He is right about telling her that he might feel small when he meets with us, her friends. Not because of what he does (he is a cab driver) but because he does not have enough backbone to fix his life. For ten years, he endures an abusive relationship with his wife (she throws stuff at him in front of his visitors on his birthday), making his kids an excuse for the torture.
But what the heck, it took me two years to finally see the stupidity of commuting at least 20 hours a week to get to work. The money I waste on this tiring commute had always been ignored by well-thought out rationalizations.  All that because I was too lazy to find a house near the office!

Oh well, this guy could really be great for her.

Well, if you really think he is fine, then go ahead. I don't know if I could give you the approbation you need now, but I am really just going by a popular moral formula that makes me believe this is wrong. This is wrong because the moment you push for this can leave his kids fatherless, and his wife without a husband. Wrong because you would be involved in a situation that could affect your job, considering that the wife knows where you work, and has planned on seeing you there. On the other hand, you would probably be giving this guy another chance in life. You also said, you loved him and they are not really married.

Whatever the case is, I have found a new place. I am moving in next week.

On Saturday Mornings and Sad Stories

   Yesterday's earthquake was long, the kind that you could use to show your Math teacher how minutes could be longer than a day, than a lifetime even. For the whole duration, I could not think of anything else but dying, and how painful this could be. 

   As my gaze fixed on the shaking glass of water on my desk, and the rest of my senses on the strange feeling of weightlessness, I had to tell myself that it was going to stop soon.  But it went on longer than the usual tremors I experience at work. Being on the 10th floor of a 30-story building did not help either. It's difficult to decide whether I should go down or up or just look for a sturdy table where I could crouch underneath. No food, no water, nothing that will help me survive should I get trapped.

   I thought, this is it. In a few minutes, I will be able to know what lies beyond existence.

   So, I was thinking about what is after death, and the irritating reality about how the country lags so far behind Japan in terms of buildings being able to withstand strong earthquakes. I am not even sure if architects and engineers in the country take into account the fact that the Philippines is part of the Pacific Ring of Fire, and therefore, geology, among other things should be an integral part of constructing buildings.

   From there, my thoughts flit to the memories of my dog, Zev, who recently died because of an accident. She was on her way home, crossing the national road, when a car bumped into her. What is sadder is she had already been dead for 6 hours when I found out she had passed away. It was the very first thing I learned after getting up from bed to get breakfast. The village guard told me that she was still able to run from the road to the guard house, trying so very hard to get home. He actually saw her fall dead just a few meters away from him.
I wonder if that is what I would become, a sad story one Saturday morning. 

Zevrana, a few days old. She died 9 months later, 5 times bigger than this pup.

   I noticed that my desk was still moving on its own. The glass, half-filled with water, still shook. This is really it. I thought, this cannot be. This is not how I imagined myself exiting from the world. I still have a lot of things to tell my parents. I have not told my father how I broke the tip of the wild boar's tooth he gave me. I had it with me, then, but I thought it would not help me in any way, as the tip is chipped off. I should have gone home last Christmas to ask my Grandpa to perform the ritual of letting it suck blood from a rooster (Whatever that means). I looked at my palm questioningly. I believed I would live for very long. This line right over here supposedly says so. 

   Then the movement stopped.

   I stared at the glass for a minute or so, and it was very still. It was over! I was ready to feel relieved, but I stopped myself just before I could start. Relief is useless. This, now, is merely a consequence of what happened, and what did not. 

   I turned to my laptop instead.

Inbox (35).

   Those few minutes just got me busier for the rest of my day. I hoped the mails were nothing complicated, so I could go home in four hours. 

Hello, Vera!

Based on the initial report that IT sent me,...

Shooters

The last time the world turned around in a rather strange way was five years ago.
She downs the Jack Daniels and smiles.
It’s my turn. But the world is turning funny again.
There I am, showing the class how 1 could be equal to 2 through a careless use of a logical contradiction. She is still waiting.
My parents are both saying that it is all up to me. CHOICE...

     Think about it. We are not always able to choose. Do you understand me? I mean, you could be thinking of choosing to become a lawyer. However, could you choose to pass the bar exam? Could you choose to be rich and live a comfortable life of a student learning all this and that of lawyering- Miranda rights, reading nothing beyond what the law says…Hold on, I need to piss.
     I knew it. One way to tell that a bar is cheap is through its restroom. I held my breath for 40 seconds. I should stop smoking.

     I think I can’t do this. This drink may be smooth but it tastes really terrible. How could anyone enjoy this drink!

     "We are drinking hey! This is no place for rationalizing!". Oh great. She is telling me to shut off my brain. Oh shut up! Why don’t you ever rest?, I hiss at myself. It is this noise that prevents me from getting to that favorite spot I have in my mind. What was it? I can’t even remember.

     "It’s just a drink." She is saying something about destiny…

     He knows that in spite of the genial fronts that people display, they hate him. It is not even about familiarity blossoming into contempt. It is the first time they lay eyes on him, when they realize he is condemned to the gutters of being loathed. He is the personification of disgust, of everything detestable.
     Ah shrug them off! You should be you because that is who you want. If you live by the standards of others you don’t even care, then you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Humph! Putting on clothes not even yours. What, for show? If you think you could be better, then there are countless ways to leave the past and see what you can be in the name of love.

     We shake hands. "Thanks…ey get up! Ey!"

     "You ok?" I guess so. She says we had better get home. Five years back, I would have just tucked myself in bed. Now, I have to hail a cab and hope the driver wakes me up when we have arrived. I wish I could choose to say no to her, to them.
Really. CHOICE.
For one, I did choose to take the cab and not the bus.

Wild Boar's Tooth (Part 2)

I guess that is really how everything starts. Simple. 

Even the universe started with the simple causality of the center no longer being able to hold. The result? An explosion that fathered all the complexities we all know about life. 

I do not see why it should not be the same with love. It starts with facts, with something empirical. I see how water is being poured on to the rice pan and the sound it creates, then the warm glow of cinder causing the steam to rise from the pan. I, being the perceiver, complicates it to a degree that I could no longer grasp, then the aroma is the only thing that I can keep as the memory of this moment fades over time.

Or maybe, this is what I am doing now. I multiply the incomprehensible and elevate it to something poetic. There really was nothing romantic about my uncle's making coffee, then. It is just that now, I remember it distinctly to be a moment of joy.

But why?

That was just among the many things that happened in this litte village.

In the afternoon, just before taking the dreaded nap, I would usually sit at the balcony where I could see the river to the south and the other four houses to the north. It would always be a lazy afternoon. Almost everyone was out to the farm, either to till the land or to tend to the corns or maybe to harvest the crops. I would be alone with my grandmother or a cousin or two who had yet to have their afternoon naps.

The sun would have gone just past the sky's highest point, and I was still savoring what I just had for lunch. That would be either another vegetable or dried fish or something that grandpa brought from bukid (farm). It was not really difficult to take naps, but it was something that would not happen without my grandma telling me the importance of taking at least 2 hours of nap every afternoon. I did not understand why I would waste such time when there was so much fun to do outside. Besides, a few hours after the nap, I would be asleep again.

I still agree with my younger self up to now. When we die, we would be spending eternity as dead to the world as I was during those two-hour afternoon naps. But like I said, napping was not difficult if all you hear are the birds chirping, the rustling of leaves of the nearby trees. Sometimes, even, I think I could hear the river from the deep valley. As I closed my eyes, I would hear the distant conversations of some farmers passing by, or my Aunt Juanita yelling at her chickens, and the radio playing "Victims of Love", as it signaled the start of a drama program entitled, "Handumanan sa Usa ka Awit". In some cases, the DJ would play, "Love is Blind", and then she would start reading the love story of an avid listener. "Good afternoon to you, DJ and to your followers. It all started when..." She fell in love and got heartbroken.

Though I would have my afternoons unnecessarily shortened, I would be woken to the the delicious aroma of my grandmother's afternoon snack- grilled or steamed banana, bibingka, or lugaw. My cousins, Ramil, Gaga, Ludy, Dedet, Daylin and Rey would share the food with me if they had not invited me first to whatever food my aunts had prepared for them.

It was Christmas time, only it was something that would happen every day in Lower.

(To be continued)

Wild Boar's Tooth (Part 1)

This is not going to be about what I had for breakfast and how I rarely have it.

Just a few minutes ago, I was out there on the veranda trying to withstand the cold wind, smoking. I thought about a place that I would frequent as a child. This was in a remote town where people relied on farming to live, where my parents grew up. I thought about this place while trying to decide on whether I should just go back home and teach. It is difficult to understand how I would always be pulled into the memory of this beautiful town while I was in the middle of making a decision that would shape tomorrows in the most exciting yet frightful ways imaginable.

In the name of expediency, allow me to be a fallen leaf on a river that knows no bound, so I will go with the current and talk about this place.

From the city where I grew up, it takes 3 hours to get there. The jeepney (there weren't buses yet) would only get me as far as the last municipality (Pitogo), and from there, I would either walk or ride a horse, if I got lucky. Most of the time, it was a long walk to this beautiful town, which I would just call Lower (short for "Lower Panikian").

Back then, about 27 years ago, electricity was something that people were praying for, so that arriving late in Pitogo would mean an exciting hike in the dark to Lower. I was not aware of the dangers on the road, where rebels or soldiers were known to pass by after sunset. Yes, even soldiers were a threat. My folks had learned to live with this uncertainty, and they had done it so well that I thought of the hike nothing but fun.

I remember I would be given my own sulo- a torch made of dried coconut leaves tied together. I particularly liked this, as its light would never die out. I only had to wave it in the air when the fire went out, and it would be lit again. It has been many years since I last saw something like this.

Lower is a very quiet (I was tempted to say peaceful, but I would be inconsistent later when I talk about armed men) place, almost serene. I remember four houses in the village besides my grandparents': Aunt Juanita's, Aunt Annie's, Lolo Publing's, and another relative's house. They are about fifty steps apart from each other. Lola's (as we call grandmother in Filipino) place is at the highest point, with front and back yards covered with bermudagrass. Though this house is bigger than the rest in the village, it is still standing on stilts. The space under the house is used to store farming tools, chickens, corn and a rice grinder (a simple machinery that you push and pull to mill rice).

To get to the other houses, I would be running down a small hill, amidst coconut and Talisay trees. I would do this after breakfast, so I could invite my cousins to play hide and seek or to climb trees; my favorite is the Batilis tree at the back of my grandparents' house, overlooking a deep valley and a small river.

If I wanted to have some casava, I would go up the mountain where my uncle Titing is. I remember him having a lot of this root crop. He would cook some for me and my cousins, and allow us to have half a cup of some coffee they got from the "Sentro", a bigger town. 

It was fascinating to observe how the coffee was prepared. First, he would put some water into the rice pan that he would place on three rocks, and using the ember of some dried, fallen branches to boil the water. Then he would put the powdered coffee, then some sugar. The smell always brought a smile.

This is how I fell in love with coffee.