Today is...

1. ...when I find out what kind of stuff my colleagues are made of.
2. ...when I find out if my hunches about where we're all going (in the broad philosophical and physical location senses) are true.
3. ...when I find out what kind of stuff I'm made of.
4. ...when I find out just what kind of person I've pledged myself to.
5. ...when I find out if I can still swim
   
6. ...when I find out if I still have a real reason to be working were I am.

Eline won!

Her story, Doll Eyes, was an entry for the 2008 Romeo Forbes Children's Storywriting Competition.

Let's grab a quote from these guys:

"We ended up with a very strong set of entries in the final round, but in the end the judges (singer/actress Lea Salonga, Tin-Aw Art Gallery owner Dawn Atienza, and Associate Dean for Academic Affairs and Head of the Graduate Studies Office of UP's College of Arts and Letters Wendell Capili) were unanimous.

"Congratulations to Ms. Eline Santos and to all the other finalists!"

Read the story, check out the other entries.

Chronology

I remember walking into a holy place carrying my usual burdens-- among them the rent in the core of me that is at once the source of my writing and the filter through which I see the world.

I remember the many times I played in this scene: once in 1989, many more times in 1990. A few times in 1991 and 1992. I seriously thought that I would stop-- and I did, for four years. I would sporadically return when problems with the wife would threaten to overwhelm me, or when I would wake up to find that I had been overtaken by my own stupidity.

When the wife walked away in '05 the Almighty had been generous enough to let this happen when I was trying to run--and later try to save-- a company. It kept me busy. Kept me focused on something other than myself. I thought I'd found some respite after I returned from my first and only trip to Japan. I would still visit those same holy places with the usual vain hope. By the time I returned from my first and only conscious trip to Cebu, I was back in those places, seasoning my jasmine petal offerings with bile and snivel.

Flash forward to '07 and I'm in Baclaran: the same baggage wearing a different face. Like the people I studied in my anthorpology and sociology classes, I too, knocked on the plexiglass case. I, too, appealed to the Nazarene and dared to hope that my pig would fly.

I was back in those holy places throughout September, October, November, December of that year. I wept without shame until one day the glands simply quit.

In the time I spent walking from shop to shrine, I had retooled and rewritten the Novena of Confidence to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I simplified it, struck out the statements that insulted the intelligence of the reader (the ones that said "This Novena has never been known to fail") and replaced the requirements (make 81 copies and leave 9 at the shrine for each day you pray this novena) with something less ritualistic, less taxing and more reasonable for someone who wanted to level with God, and who expected God to level with him.

It worked, amazingly. I got my friend back sometime late December or early January. And for a short while I was as close to happy as when--

• I realized I could truly care about another person regardless of what she was or what she did;
• I realized that I truly loved and needed my friend in spite of myself;
  
• I won first prize in that Talecraft competition in November

These days I don't go to those holy places as frequently as I did last year. This is partly out of disappointment. And partly out of an acceptance that I don't need to be there all the time, that He can hear me well enough regardless of where I am. I still feel the tug, though. The need to go there when the sunlight is slightly off in the mornings; when you feel a change you don't like or can't understand--manifested in the weird weather, or in how your body parts give out when they're not supposed to-- is happening even as you're helpless to do something about it.

When I finally went to the confessional I was able to resolve a few outstanding issues I had with my Maker. I somehow know that this latest snag is being handled by a higher power that means all of us well. I'm only asking that this time, once and for all, I be told that I can reasonably expect to end this labor when I push this rock up that hill once again.

Happy birthday, Tin.

Fringe Lifer’s Report

In the eight or so months since August of '07 I've written a sh!tload of stuff. The items below were supposed to come out tail end of last year. REPEAT: TAIL END OF LAST YEAR. I'm putting up a watered down version of this entry today.

--------------------------------

Lord, let me not begin my days with “If she is lost to me—“
My nights end that way, and I already spend my days with two dead men
Who whisper...

"All that goes around…"

I don’t really need the space I’m using if I can’t overtly work there. I lost signage, was harassed. I also feel that my control over the space has been compromised. Someone had to do something despicable, and I’ve had to eat crow about my situation every time that someone crows about the business. I do not like it and I do not like being nagged.

Granted, all of this grief was a product of my decision, which was sound— at least I felt that way at the time. I could have made a bundle if I didn’t channel more funds back into the business (But not to do that was idiocy).

Of course, I am bolstering my position with arguments that are founded on mostly BS. (I’ve learned to recognize it over the years. I’m mildly surprised to see it in myself). Fact is I can still work in that area; it’ll just be more difficult, slightly more inconvenient. And yes, I’ll still have to deal with the presence of pushy, if well-meaning, people.

(Rueful admission: Mom was right. Signage in an area like that is important. It can do more work than marketing with flyers will; cause less grief for me. Okay digression ends).

The issue I face becomes— Slow income due to hobbled marketing plus increased effort to offset this vs. Really slow income based on word of mouth plus increased effort to offset that vs. Income Uncertainty Elsewhere.

I am therefore copping out. And now I have to decide where and with whom I will throw my lot.

How About the Culture Club?

It’s still gossamer. Assuming they let me back in, I am not going to grasp that slender thread until I know there’s a chance of it even partially supporting my undead weight.

I left for reasons that likely still exist, as lost as they are to five years of limbo. The word is still Let’s Wait & See. (Meaning I can’t depend on this any time soon)

Eleptember Seleven?

When last I checked I still had co-workers and students who missed me. Though it’s very likely that they’ve outgrown me.

I have two main concerns.

One—

I will be asked to take one for the team again. Many ones for the team, And I’ll do it with a smile on my face and a song in my heart—which means, gentle readers, that I will be doing these things with little or no complaint, even if the voice begins to crack or the eyes begin to water and go cross-eyed. What made it easy the last time I worked there are my natural desire to help, as well as the subject of...

Concern Item Two—

Corollarily, the most important reason for coming back— well, she doesn’t want to share the same space with me much less breathe the same air. I did half the taking for the team because it made her work easier, because it made her happy.

Assuming they let me back in on the wings of my old performance record, my students' loyalty and my aggregate friendships… do I really want to go back when it seems as if nothing I do except perhaps for a sudden and untimely demise will make her happy?

"If You Build It They Will Come?"

I left a job, and inevitably--because I can point to this event as the beginning of the end for us-- a girlfriend, on the strength of the faith a friend had in me. His dream seemed like a good dream to work with, something that promised a modest profit...

Mindanao, East Timor, Hell Bee?

I could of course set up shop somewhere else. It sounds ridiculous: I am running away from a challenge into a bigger challenge. Whatever happened to the Marcosian dictum of picking the fights you can win?

We should have more transport strikes

...if only because travel along Quezon Avenue, even for commuters like myself, was fast and relatively stress-free.

More I Statements

I really need flash functionality. Screw that, I really need web space and more than my current working knowledge of flash, java and html. There's so much I want to do, and so little time to even begin.

I need my friends; I miss them so much. But to paraphrase a fat money god: "That's not forthcoming, M'boy. Everyone hates a beggar."

I need to find a way-- barring the use of a choker, stiletto heels, push-up bras and a low cut black dress-- to get those stiff British Council people to give my student AJ that elusive 7.0 IELTS test score. AJ has been consistently receiving a 6.5. The dress and the generous show of cleavage won't work because AJ is a man.

The "Quickening"

Run Lola, Run

Jessica Zafra didn't like this movie. Lola (Franka Potente) predictably does a lot of running here. She has to run to save her life, to meet her boyfriend Manni's deadlines when the whole world is seemingly stacked against her. I liked it when I watched it on cable but I totally hated the local live version.

In the local adaptation, Lola feels compelled to run seemingly to save her psyche from the man who wrecked it. It's an intricate choreographed ballet where she hides behind her friends, changes bus routes and pounds the pavement. The result is always a stalemate between Lola and Manni: she flees to the safety of her apartment and a contrite Manni lamely wishes her good night at the gate. He does not tell her he loves her because it is the last thing she wants to hear.

Run Lolo Run

I've noticed that my own endurance has increased of late. I can run faster and farther than I used to, even when I was in martial arts training. Granted that my training did not involve running faster, but I did build some endurance, flexibility and muscle mass back then. I've ruined several pairs of shoes running to work the way I have, from the MRT station at Shaw Boulevard, up eleven flights of stairs everyday.

I've had to run for reasons less urgent than Lola's. I simply don't want to be late. And running up the stairwell is a good way for me to build wind.

I'm not training to run people down with a spear in a fit of blind frustration. But it's good to know I can conceivably better chase if I truly wanted to.

The Importance of Being Earnest...and Ready

Her Other Name is Earnest

I was at my friend Carlo's place when they showed her in. She was a coy one, fresh out of community college and a bus from Albay. She was carrying several months of assembly line work in factories under her belt. She wanted to earn more and I was already uncaring of the reason: I'd heard variations of this story so many times I could rattle it off myself in my sleep. The gist of it was that Frances (not her real name) wanted to gain entry into a call center. Any call center.

I was somewhat a call center vet, and Carlo was once a team leader-- couldn't we help?

Yes we could, and yes we did. I'm biased towards women, and I just happen to have a pathological need to be a good samaritan.

Her Other Name isn't Ready

We looked at her sparse resume, concurred that the best way to make it better was to push her education and her willingness and ability to learn on the job. When we finished with it, that pristine single page was full of marker tracks. Put this section up here. Omit this. No need to give them your eye color and the color of your hair.

And then I had to interview her in English, backtrack, and give the same interview in Filipino.


...No, she wasn't ready.

I wound up giving her tips about putting up a brave front, putting her best foot forward and rolling with the crazy questions.

It made me think about my students: university graduates who couldn't get what they needed because of a damned language requirement. I thought of myself, too, and the people I share this work with. Long hours, crazy scheds, neural system meltdowns. Hearts too: broken, bleeding, listing-- lost and chasing pavement in the seemingly eternal night. (okay, cheesy, but it happens).

There must be something more that can be done to improve our collective lot.

And this is how I know there is a God

...and that he has a sense of humor.

I put this thought experiment to a friend:

I'm going to lop off your arms and legs. I'll stick hot pokers in both your eyes. I'll soak you in napalm and then I'll set you on fire. I'll bribe some neurosurgeon fiddle with your brain so that you cannot turn off your pain receptors and neither can you take refuge in blacking out.

Now, tell me honestly if you can still claim that the happiness in your life depends solely on how sunny you choose it to be.

Then my mom sends me this video: http://www.wretch.cc/video/ritahsia&func=single&vid=2282608&o=time_d&p

And I am laughing and shaking my head.

Allahu Akbar.

Announcements

1. Wishing the Clavier Music School a happy birthday. I was supposed to be on-hand last Saturday to celebrate with Minette and the Clavier Alums. (I'll be around this week though, and I'll be bringing mudshakes or sommat similar). But I had to play superhero again. The stupid reflexes kicked in and I helped someone stave off insanity at the cost of more abdominal cramps and a possible developing ulcer for me.

God should stop making conflicted people with built-in messiah complexes. They're great fun to watch, but it's not fun when you're the conflicted person with the built-in messiah complex.

2. Wishing Arjayne a happy birthday, and congratulations too. Arjayne's been a little-sister figure to me since our time at our Japanese classes. We haven't seen each other since '05, but we've kept in touch. She's also finished high school, so warm congratulations are in order too.

Writers Suck

Because that's all they do.

When warm bodies are needed to stop the tanks, don't count on writers to be there with you. They'll be in their hotel rooms with their laptops and their notepads, writing. When you're busy making money the tried and tested way, yon writer will be busy wasting his time writing stories and filling his blogs: you're still saddled with the rent.

When someone is patently stealing your woman, writer, don't count on yourself showing up at their door and cracking skulls. You'll be at home, writing, adding one more neurosis to the ones you already have.

Cue the sound clip from American Sweethearts. Hank Azaria's Spanish character turns to a really barely-holding-in-his-psychotic-temper John Cusack and refers to him, derisively, as--

"You puth-thy."

You'll also have the bonus of showing your unwary reader friend that the bedrock upon which he rests his sanity doesn't really exist. And then there'll be two of you f_cking up the world by making everyone uncomfortable with life as they know it. She was right who said it best:

Keep only cheerful friends; the grouches pull you down.


The world doesn't belong to contemplatives, besides. Writers in general never see the fruits of their labor. For every Stephen King and Neil Gaiman there are thousands of frustrated writers married to their own misery and (in my Mammon stories) at least one who is dating his misogyny.

You may be the next Nietzsche, the next Kafka, the next Rizal-- but look what happened to them.

Nietzsche: nuthouse, couple of strokes, death by tuberculosis.
Kafka: nuthouse, tuberculosis, death by starvation
Rizal: exile, death by firing squad

And if you luck out and do a Thoreau ... well, okay, he didn't suck. He lived a full life, though he was felled by tuberculosis at age 44.

The point is very few writers ever live to see their legacy; fewer writers ever get to have one.

What's greatness if you never get to see nor taste it? I'm altruistic enough to care about my fellow man, but I've read all the books and seen all the movies: writers end up with the girl and the happy ending only in the stories they write. And I'm sick of watching everyone else's happys ever after.

They're Likely Giving Me a Raise.

...so I celebrated it by sending some very special people something from Shakey's last night. Might as well, since it was labor day and all of us were working. I hope they enjoyed the meal.

Hangggggggggggggggg

Rast night, my mothel deed not ...deed not ...let me sreep. I wanteed to... to herp hel.

So, I editud her Powelpoint Plesentation so daaht eet would look good.

But, however, furthelmore, my brain expe- expe- expelienced system clash. I wus beejee murtitask. Trying to write novella and plan curricurum fol my Englishee classeis, not to mention think about head teacha.

So, I talk rike thees for half my crasses.

Eet was a good thing my schoo-dunt find eet funny. They think I am voice acta, have sclew roose.

But, I don't want to do thees agen.

Sisyphus is happy

...because he knows why he has to roll that stone up the bleeding hill. He can take comfort in the fact that he gave the Gods the dirty finger.

That is Either the Coolest Thing...

...or the best let-down I've heard this year.

My conference class-- yes, we have those, where I lead an on-line group chat and gorup voice call discussion with at least 3 students at a time-- was pulled out from under me today.

My head teacher pulled me aside when I came in, said that there had been a request to increase the class time from the original 30 minutes to 50 minutes. As that would have adversely affected my break (and it is still at least an hour long), the class was handed over to someone else.

I will choose to trust my head teacher on this.

So wonderful.

Dragons of Summer Pain

There's yet another fire in my QC neighborhood as I type. On one of my old blogs I noted that there has to be a damned fire here every three months usually because someone somewhere leaves a cigarette in the wrong place. Or maybe because someone thinks that the jury-rigged electrical system in the makeshift wooden structures can handle just one more electrical appliance.

On a Malthusian level, it makes sense that people take themselves out of the gene pool. (Insert sweeping economist jabber here). "That effectively decongests the neighborhood and allows for the reclamation of idle real estate that could propel growth and expansion in key areas of the barangay." Have you ever heard such BS?

ANyway it looks like they've done with the fire. I'm almost certain the volunteer fire brigade already has all the routes to this place mapped out. Reminds me, we should give 'em something for Christmas.

Hey Harvard

Nice try.

The next time you send your spooks to impersonate a colleague, get 'em to do it right. I only let him talk to me because I don't have much to hide that you don't already know. Sheesh.

On Poetry

Did anybody ever tell you that I dislike poetry?

I do. I hate it with all my heart. Because people turn to words, to satire, to reams of inutile academic discourse when they cannot act. Poetry, dear friends, is yet another manifestation of this kind of impotence: the writer feels so strongly about something that he cannot act, except to commit something to verse.

Maybe he gets lucky. Maybe the poem affects people who feel the same way but cannot articulate their feelings. Maybe the song becomes a hit and the writer becomes another Morrissey. Or maybe the writing is so potent that it helps kick-start the Civil Rights Movement. More often than not, the writer cannot taste any success beyond the personal "Hey, I got something written!"

Unfortunately, "Hey I got something written!" cannot by itself get you fed, clothed, housed, and (especially) laid. Your needs still drive you, and if you're as much a poet as I am, your automatic response is to write reams upon reams of (say it with me) useless poetry. I could have spent that writing time by actually getting me fed, clothed, housed and, yes, laid (Getting a better paying day job is often a step in that direction).

The awful truth is that nobody really reads, much less appreciates, poetry. Okay, some people do, but often, they're neither numerous nor rich enough to matter. The perception is that poetry is either--

1. nothing special as any five-year-old can break a long coherent sentence into lines and call it poetry or
2. it's so specialized that most people who have "jobs" and "real social lives" cannot relate to it.

Besides, it does not make us better people. Bin Laden is a poet. So was Hitler. A sensitive thug with literary leanings is still a thug, albeit a more sophisticated one. If you ask my ex, being a poet only makes people think of you as a smooth-talking snake oil salesman. Or a smooth-talking snake oil peddling thug.

(So before you run off with someone because he is an artiste do try to remember that the insensitive clod who's forgotten how to say "I love you" probably got that way acting --and not writing poetry-- to meet the needs of your belly and those of your kids.)

The point is, poetry sucks. When it isn't trumpeting your triumph to the world after the fact, poetry's like opium. It keeps you distracted writing when you could be taking action instead. When there is a venue for action, when one is empowered to realize his desires, there is much less poetry. I fear that there are quite a few of us who are lock-stepped into being nothing more than poets, forever writing about actions we will likely never take.

Still it's a beautiful activity, and one of the reasons why I write is that I am plugged into a higher power when I write my best poems, even when these are the most useless kind-- the interminable whining about aborted romantic liaisons.

The price I pay for loving poetry is that I hate it with a passion.

Reprint from Last Year

Amazing how you can recycle old blog entries, especially if they're apt. This is an old Words for the Week entry I dug up from my archives dated sometime February.

karoushi
(Japanese) occupational sudden death; death from exhaustion, stress or overwork.

I swear my friends will keel over from this, and will likely take me with them. I've also lately put myself under karoushi-inducing conditions. At least I'm getting paid.

satori
(Japanese) in Buddhism, literally "to understand."; a deep state of enlightenment.

It is something I so severely want to impart. Because I really want my students to understand that the "th" and "sh" sound in English is different from the "s" sound. More importantly I want them to understand that the means of producing the "s" sound is in keeping the tongue behind both sets of teeth, with the tip touching the bottom set. Because if they can get that down pat, they are guaranteed to beat that odious IELTS test.

I also want someone to understand that yes-I-meant-every-word-it-is-no-fluke I am genuinely fond of her.

Satori is something that I definitely do not have. If I did, I would quit this little dalliance and sign up for life in a monastery. After getting ordained, I'll get myself attached to an orphanage somewhere. I love kids, you see, and for some reason kids are the only people I know who do not find me creepy.

B.S.
(noun) contraction of the expletive "Bull sh!t!";

1. an incredible statement; an outright lie or exaggeration;
2. a ludicrous idea
3. an unacceptable situation or circumstance
4. something horribly unpalatable that I've had to eat in spades last year and the year before that. I am not eager to partake of this delicacy since I am at the same age someone else was when he decided accept a hot heaping plate of the stuff in Roman times.

synonyms: cow dung. caltrops. horse puckey. (see: spin, advertising)

satiety (sa-TIE-e-tee)
(noun) The state of being full or gratified to or beyond the point of satisfaction.

I can count with the fingers of two hands the number of times I actually felt this on multiple levels. Twice this month is a world-shaking record, and I'm still thankful.

I still owe God a date.

Market Day

I went to market this morning, bought a hundred pesos worth of chicken and two hundred worth of (really thin) steak-grade beef. It was at once scary and refreshing to have to walk to the wet market and look red meat in the proverbial eye in the elusive search for "quality."

I'm trying hard not to relate this experience with women, just so you know.

Bottom line: I want to do this again. Going to the wet market is a good thing, even if you no longer do it with a partner.

------------

*Giving poem a day a rest for a bit. I'll make up for them in a few days.

I am Engrish Teacha!

Teaching Englishee velee haard
It does to dlive-us away the baard
Especiary when styoo-dunt says eet best
that "praying sportsu relieves my stless"

You cannot-- cannot-- make to laugh
As teacha, must to do not make them cry
You must leally help your styoo-dunt learn
Even dough you feel like die

(Oh so solly Teacha, "Die-ying";
"Feel like dying")

The onry thingus keep you sane
When listuning Engrish cause you pain
are fact daht styoo-dunts are your fliends
and, daht "soon" is when bad rhyming ends

ESL is a priestly vocation and
you ain't alone in thinking this--
Us ESL teachers need a long vacation.


----------------------------

Poking fun at the job, okay? not my students.

Many of them are dedicated, disciplined professionals who want a better life in places where English is spoken as a language of power and commerce. And I do want to help them, with most of my heart.

Written for Poem a Day.

Zinger

I swear if I didn't need my friends to keep me anchored to the world of the normal, I would have left many of them years ago.

As much as they believe that what I think and write (therefore what I am) vexes them, they do not realize that what they do incenses me. I am always the basket case to them, always the weak one, always the wrong one. And what is their claim to their morality? Their success. Their money. The fact that they simply (stupidly) cannot imagine a world where people like me exist.

Leaving is often how they relate with the world. "You are of no use to me, therefore I will leave you. So f_ck off!"

I'm not them. I'm better. If they need my help I'll be there as much as my time will allow.

There is, of course, a limit to how much of their crap I will swallow. That I'm here at all means they're lucky: I still have a deep well.

Sisyphus

Remeber that rock I picked up last year in August?

It just grew to the size of a goddamned boulder and is now rolling down the bloody hill. I have to run down the fricking hill and push it back up again.

Jeeeeeeeeezzaaaaaas.

news to me (3)

I was going to post this last Wednesday. I never quite got to. Was too exhausted juggling wall-to-wall classes and my get-rich-slowly schemes. The messages will be dated. But I'm sure one message will stay relevant for many people over the next few years.

To see it, right-click the image and save it somewhere for your consumption.

Okay, back to work now. Greatness --and hopefully some decent wealth-- awaits.

High

My apologies to Ritchie Kotzen for hijacking his song. This isn't an anthem I want looped in my player. But it's pure oil-on-fire slow rock n' roll in the best of traditions. And sometimes, a little tweaked, it's apt. There are better songs from this guy playing in my head.

---

I am so innocent I swear to God...
Oh, but you pressure me
And I cant help but unwind.
By now you know I'm not the stable kind
But you keep on testing me
Until you make me cry

How long can... I take you?
You should know that... the only way I can deal--

--is to get high, so high
until everything is gone
And I can't say a word

I get high so high
Just to shut you out
so I can keep on working

I know you're lookin' for an end to love
But this thing ain't what you think.
I signed up for endless work

You think I'm crazy and my mind is thick
And that I'm blind to trust
But I can see right through you

How long can ...I take you?
You should know that the only way I can feel--

Is to get high, so high
until everything is gone
And I can't say a word

I get high so high
Just to shut you out
so I don't hear you laughing

Bridge:
When I am away from you my head is strong
When I am near you make sure my mind is gone

The only way to deal with you
is to get high......

I don't want I don't want I don't want to hear a word

Out of Sight, Out of Mind

If you ignore a problem, it'll go away.
You can keep running away from your problems forever.

Why people keep saying that these strategies don't work when they obviously do somehow-- else why would people keep implementing them? There must be some merit in keeping your problems at a polearm's length...

Jeezas H. Jones hijo de gorram patola. ima mada henji-shinai? Nan to iu no ka!?

When will you bleeding realize that I'm your problem? I'm also your friend. Stop hiding behind your Greek Chorus and confront me.

I ...won't go away.

Friends ...aren't supposed to do that.

To-Do To-Day

Meet with co-workers.
Meet Strahdeus.
Pick up my granddaughter's print.
Get intel on shirt printing.
Fete my Mader and my Brother.
Pay portion of rent.
Polish drawings for scanning and send relevant info to contact in Laguna.
Have gifts for granddaughter and currently blooming friend framed/set.

Full day.

"I was kidnapped by cops and driven to Laguna!"

Er. Well...

That was an exaggeration. Unlike Jun Lozada, I went willingly. My life was nowhere near being threatened. And their careers were on the line if they couldn't pass an English test. (Cue strident brass).

Another day on the job for your friendly neighborhood eigokyoushi.

There was no way we could cram two semesters of English Ed or one full reading of Strunk & White's The Elements of Style in the couple of hours they gave me to unlock the mysteries of English. I've been at it most of my life and I still can't say that book's closed.

So we did the next best thing. I gave em a crash course in "How to Beat a Written English Proficiency Test Without Frying Your Non-Native-English-Speaking Brain." Look for key words and phrases and make the proper associations without thinking too much about grammar.

They were appreciative. But I was dumb. I hadda open my mouth and say "These shortcuts can only be properly used if you practice. Our problem is time..." (music swells in the background) "Tell you what, let's schedule another class and I can come back with mock tests and handouts so you can have that practice you need before your big test day."

I'm a glutton for punishment.

English and Filipino (or, Why We're Screwed)

...The Filipino's unwillingness to learn something perceived as "difficult" or "unpopular" is what's going to doom us.

The average Filipino laughs at his countrymen who speak English well. He says we're too uppity. We uppity folk learned our English because we had the opportunity and because we found that the language is a good one.

Well, the Filipino is now scrambling to learn English only because it'll potentially earn him big money.

But why we learn something is as important as how. I love English, and that's why I'm damned good at speaking, reading, writing and thinking in it. It's why my Korean students keep asking for my classes.

Trust me, the only time the average Filipino displays his English proficiency is when--

1. he is watching Baywatch, Friends or porn; or
2. she is chatting with her Australian/American/Japanese/Dutch online boyfriend while planning how to stab her husband in the back

The average Filipino cannot hide under Rizal's overcoat and accuse us uppity folk of being traitors to nationalism either. If the Filipino really loved his own language he'd actually enjoy reading the Noli, or Mga Ibong Mandaragit. Hell, I have. But he can't even muster enough willpower to do that-- ask any high school kid.

He can't even write proper sentences in Filipino: "Nag-enjoy kmi, sobra!" does not make sense. Kung sobra ang enjoyment mo, hindi ka talaga nag enjoy.

But dangle enough cash in front of him and he will be motivated to learn Filipino too.

---

Visiting Kenneth Yu's site is becoming a bad habit. His whole site is the epitome of "writing-meta." (He writes about writing.) Most every entry is an invitation to a refreshing exchange of views about stories and how and why we come up with them. The sort-of rant above is an excerpt from a reply --all of them threaten to balloon into full-blown blog entries-- to one of his posts. For the full context, look it up here.

Who's Your Daddy?

Incidentally, this is what happens when your most effective knight returns from exile and you tell him in so many words that his sword's not needed, when oh sweet holy God, it is. You effectively hand him to another liege lord who'll likely pay him better. Consider that your knight would have worked for you for peanuts and the simple pleasure of your collective company.

---

As ESL Teachers we're usually evaluated towards the end of our teaching contracts with our students. In my current place of employment, we're evaluated with the following criteria:

• teaching skill
• whether or not we call our students on time
• our attendance
• kindness and empathy
• the level of background noise we prevent from seeping into our mikes
  

The second of my evaluations from my students just came in.

Full marks in all relevant areas. And I've never seen that happen before. I don't think it has. And Management knows it. Management hangs our evaluations on the walls so we can die of envy. I'm not dying yet, but management will want to watch me closely.

Because I'm a maverick. Because I can throw the rulebook out the window in the name of helping a student really learn. And because they know it's love that keeps me working here. Love of teaching, love of my students... Management would soooooo love to get their hands on the one person that keeps me tethered here, if they knew who she was.

I'd Like to Get a Print of This

And I think I will.

I took this shot with the cam I won from the Talecraft contest last November. The thing sucks taking pictures in low light conditions, and it has a built in motivation to thwart your attempts at making artsy shots.

Well, nothing a little Photoshop work can't fix. But even then there's only so much you can do...

Context. You're all gonna want context to explain the shot.

That's my grandkid at Art's art exhibit at the Assumption College (Yay!). She looks as if she belongs there. If you think so, you'd be right. My grandkid's an artist too.

My Lockbox Cubicle

The Stand

I meant what I said: I could quit all of this-- walk away and not come back. But it's just not the same without your friendship. At least that. Six months of being away from you proved it. I can't force myself on you if you're so determined to be afraid of me.　And as I said, in that sense, it's not my problem any more.

I do not have to sit still and take the platitudes and the palliatives being sent my way. The sources mean well, but they watch too much Oprah; read too much Cosmo. They didn't spend half a lifetime really watching people. I did.

I just wish you could look beyond the fear and remember.

My usual analysis of events like this doesn't paint a pretty picture of my hopes of some form of reconciliation. It tells me that you won't. But no matter how jaundiced (or likely, accurate) my view of humanity is, I can't help but keep to the view that someday you might.

I'm not the monster you think I am.

No matter how odious you may find this to be, I will always be your friend.

notitlrcan;trly thuinknofonerightnpow

my brain's on fire. i'm slated to do work that i haven't properly finished because i can't get this body to do what needs doing. feeling shamed. i got a grandkid who juggles more classes than i ever didand all i can think about is

at least i'm drnkkkkkkkkk
drinking water

at least i've touched the work

looking forward to going
see a friend

maybe stay in the water



hoping
see you againmissyounot choerentwill porbly regrget edit later clickpubnlish

Itinerant Mendicant

I had a wonderfully written post that the wondrous magic of cookies and internet security basically removed from existence.

The gist of it was that I had to refuse a young lady's request for the last of my money. She wanted to use it to get wherever she needed to go: home, presumably. Shutters slammed down on whatever it was that showed her humanity and allowed her to acknowledge mine. I remember feeling hurt by this, as I did want to help.

Of course there were valid arguments against it. I'd had enough money to only get me partially home. I'd still have to walk the rest of the way. And considering everything I'm juggling these days, I was going to need every calorie I was bound to lose by walking.

I wrote -- before the website hiccuped and removed everything-- that I felt the odious feeling of being... tested.

I wrote before that I didn't like character tests, because you walked into them blindly, not knowing the rules that someone (a woman, an authority figure, God) has often arbitrarily [and cruelly] set. These tests are usually stacked against you: they are engineered so that you'd have to defy your own nature to beat them. Ultimately you almost invariably fail.

Of course, I also thought about how God must likely be feeling: being presented with our needs day in and day out with each request being a pass-fail test of His character.

I'm surprised he hasn't tired of the lot of us.

I Miss the Carpet

The thing I miss the most about the old place of work (okay, one of the things) isn't just any single person or a group of people.

I miss the carpet. Really.

Because no matter how dirty and raggedy the thing becomes, I like lying down on it whenever (to quote so many Korean English students) "I get stress." We have a carpet at home and I like lying on it better than lying on a bed. I'm a tactile person, you see, and rubbing fingers or toes against a textured surface always settles me.

Carpets are great when you whisper secrets into them since they damp sound. They also absorb tears, so they're great for crying into as well. They can take your BS because they're always carrying your weight, with very little in the way of complaints.

I miss the carpet because of the way she always had my back.She was a warm refuge when the deluge of Korean or local voices clamoring for attention became too much to take. My carpet was my anchor.

Don't get me wrong, folks. I'm liking my new work environment, but there's nothing like a carpet to rest my back or practice waltzing on. I'm a disco guy, but this is one area where something else beats out all the vinyl in the world.

Sedate EDSA

And I'm glad about this. I got to work with very little hassle or unneeded fanfare. I was also able to swing by the EDSA Shrine and pay my respects. I often used to do this but for purposes outside of nation building. The shrine was one of the many sacred places where I spilled more than the requisite tears.

None of that today, though. Even if thoughts other than nation building still managed to preoccupy me.

I really thought traffic would be so horrible and the trains would be congested-- visions of people hanging from the rafters and such. When none of that happened it was almost a letdown. Had I known I would not have to fight the crowds, I'd have brought more stuff!

It's still so cold that the chill seeps into the fingers, toes and between the shoulder blades. Meantime the skies seem to be clearing. I'm asking "What do these portend?"

Oh Dear

The ship's run aground and it's sinking
And this in the midst of your constant thinking
You're losing crew and you don't quite see it
Oh wait, the captain's oblivious,
so that makes two of you

They're jumping ship, or you're driving 'em away
And the goons and mooks you're taking in are just
Manning the bilge pumps and eating paste.

It isn't easy when we have to swab the deck
or lean the ship windward and hoist our only sheet
and at the end of the day, we still kiss your naked feet.
I didn't mind-- your feet are lovely. besides,

for the longest time, I haven't gotten to kiss any

But the ship's run aground and it's sinking
(look there's a giant squid)
You're losing crew and you don't see why
Or maybe you finally do.
The captain's oblivious,
the solution is obvious!
and it takes just one of you

Better tell the captain--
he'll know what to do--
wait--
what's left of the crew's

got problems asking that of you?

Oh dear.

Oplan Zero Backlog

Oplan is a uniquely Filipino term. The cops and the military always have to call their little exercises "Operation Plans" or "Implementation Plans," hence the little sobriquets: Oplan Sagittarius and Implan Whatever.

Anyway, the Philippine Long Distance Telephone Company came up with their own OPLAN way back in the late eighties (I think). The monopoly had grown so bloated and inefficient that there was a long list of angry phoneless people waiting for some decent attention and relief. Oplan Zero Backlog was therefore launched by PLDT. The goal was to make sure everyone who had filled up the requisite forms and paid for them were actually getting the service they were due, i.e. an actual working phone.

I adopted my own OPLAN Zero Backlog several times in my collegiate and post-collegiate life. I had projects that were backlogged at those times, and I was determined to get them done. I'd even post a sign outside my door at the QC residence (back when I had a room) that borrowed heavily from the imagery of the OPLAN ZERO BACKLOG ads.

I'm feeling the need to start another O.Z.B., as I have at least two major projects that have demanded my attention since late last year, and my new job will require the same attention I gave my old one...

[digression begins]

...which was a lot.

Incidentally, this is what happens when your most effective knight returns from exile and you tell him in so many words that his sword's not needed, when oh sweet holy God, it is. You effectively hand him to another liege lord who'll likely pay him better. Consider that your knight would have worked for you for peanuts and the simple pleasure of your collective company.

Sorry, word vomit.

[digression ends]

As I was saying, I have other projects in the pipeline. I'll need to make room for them if I'm to have any decent amount of sleep within this year.

"Hi!"

Sometimes I think of these as life's little jokes. Someone's found me on Skype again and she-- assuming that it is a she-- is looking for some attention of the kind I'm not needing to give. I'm wondering, what, do I fit some sort of stereotype?

Nothing telling on my profile... heck there's nothing on my profile. So maybe it's just another one of the flukes that make so common an appearance in my life. To be fair, the sender's profile picture's got a really nice....

The Stairwell Is My Friend

Because I'm living a sedentary lifestyle and I'm a-hankering for physical activity. The stairwell's good if you want to build wind, to strengthen your leg muscles and put a major strain on your back.

I miss feeling my heart beat so hard I'd thought it would physically burst. Well, I don't miss it all the time but the rush of blood is a pleasant experience. When it roars in your ears like a wave you feel you're alive. Distressed, usually, (one normally gets this when being chased by predators) but alive.

After wind, we'll work on power and reflexes.Considering how far I have to go I'll have to get creative with how I work with the stairwell.

I have time.

Paying the Piper

If it isn't poetic, it's not scientific. For every action, an equal and opposite reaction. Like a poem or a movie. Like life. Pick your metaphors: everyone pays the piper, or reaps what he sows. Sometimes you defer payment or fiddle with the crops so their production cycle changes but you... ah hell, you get the picture.

I've been afraid of the repo man for so long because he always takes what's dear to you. My whole life's been defined by trying to out-think the devil when he offers me a deal. Stave off the repo man. I've actually done it a few times-- I'm a lot more like Sisyphus than I thought, and damned if I'm not proud of that. But I'm seeing several repo men soon. To settle up.

It feels good.

And it feels... free

Let Me Tell You a Secret

I'll tell you a secret.

Everyone's a designer.

It's just that many of us aren't good at it; aren't paid big money for it; or they don't consider what they're doing "design."

You plan a camping trip, that's design. Perhaps the art board isn't static because the art board is time. Perhaps the camping trip gets shot to hell for one of a million things we blame on Murphy. Nevertheless, you did the planning, you fiddled with the elements (angry kids, the broken RV, the road, etc.) and the camping trip still goes pffft.

Just means that for that one instance you were a lousy designer.

Happily opportunities to get it right are legion, and at least we can't really get fired for being a bad designer for a day regardless of how your bosses may feel. They can cut off your money because you did a lousy design job once too many, but you'll still be a designer.

Whose image are we made after in the first place?

They're Playing Our Song

As I type the Mass in support of Rodolfo Lozada on the La Salle Greenhills campus is breaking up peacefully. The difference is that they're... they're playing Bayan Ko.

I guess this won't explain the chills running down my spine to my younger readers as I listen to it. That song's gotta be what-- twenty, thirty years old? Point is they were playing that song when the people had simply had enough of Marcos's repressive government. That bit of theme music helped rally millions of people around Cory Aquino. They were playing that song when the tanks were stopped by people lugging flowers and rosaries at Camps Crame and Aguinaldo.

Sure, Gramps, you're telling me, they're playing a song nobody really sings anymore. What's that gonna do?

In '86, dearest, it did plenty. The fact that they're playing it now means that we're that much closer to the tipping point.

Everyone please stay safe. Times of great bullsh!t are also times of great opportunity. I pray that whatever happens we don't squander ours.

The More or Less Manifesto

ZERO

In honor of love month I'll be posting stuff as I count down to the 14th. It's hokey, it's corny, but you can look at it this way: it's better than nothing when you're somewhat creatively constipated. And if in case you are the mushy type, then maybe this might be what you need.

---

After All It's Done To You, Why?

The long procession of women whose names have now become horribly interchangeable; the long nights wasted writing poetry or making art when making money would have brought more respect, more favors. The ugly sensation of having to adjust over and over again to a new set of arms, new smells, new colors, over a period of months, your nerve endings perpetually raw and screaming for contact. To be told you are in some fundamental way inadequate and inconvenient. To walk nights in not-space while the world swirled happily around you.

After all this, why indeed? Why do I still believe in it?

Why do I simply refuse to take comfort in the arms of the usual misanthropy and cynicism that is expected of nerds who should not have been given a shot at inconveniencing the rest of us (i.e. existence)?

I've tried to answer this in my long and boring ruminations.

Actually as I write my hands are shaking. I'm in no mood for long boring ruminations so I'll give you the short form.

Beyond the sexual dimension and the expectations that go with it, there is no functional difference between the love between mates and the love between friends. Most human interaction fosters love. Eros works his insidious magic whenever any two human beings come together, to share a task, to share a space, to share a life. He doesn't always succeed but regardless of the tools he uses -- a common goal, a shared schedule, the fact that you're siblings, sex-- he works constantly to bring people together.

I am more sure of this than I am of God. Eros is in fact my one direct non-Biblical (therefore acceptable) proof (I'm sorry I proceed from a position of doubt) that God exists and gives a ding dong diddley about his idiot creations.

All your questions of worth and why cease to matter when love takes root. Love empowers, love ennobles, even when it wounds. As many times as I've seen love fail because of someone's inner weakness, ill fortune, or bonehead decisions, I have also seen it flourish and sustain because people chose to make it work.

This is the reason I still believe in it so badly despite the bullshit it's put me through.

This is who I am, and I know of no other way to be.



Happy Valentine's everyone.

Don't Be

1

In honor of love month I'll be posting stuff as I count down to the 14th. It's hokey, it's corny, but you can look at it this way: it's better than nothing when you're somewhat creatively constipated. And if in case you are the mushy type, then maybe this might be what you need.

Or not.

---

I'll dispense with the metaphors as much as I can, just for today.

Don't Be My Friend

Because I can only count my normal friends with my fingers. If you want a simple, happy life uncomplicated by the burden of complex people then you seriously don't want to join my co-fraternity of misfits who include--

1. someone who has to put on an evil face over her pretty one, to make all the unpopular decisions, to take the brunt of everyone else's displeasure to shield her corporate bosses. She lives with the loss of friends who may never truly understand her. As much as she may want to be free to give her heart to someone, she is as married to her company as much as anyone else can be married to a partner.

2. someone who always has to take the moral high ground. You'd think he was the damned Pope the way he pontificates from his perch. But there's more to him than his near-unbending Chinese rigidity. I've seen his compassion. Part of his rigor comes from his desire to make the world a better place.

3. someone who takes principle so seriously that she'll puts too much stock in her word. It can't be broken, even under circumstances that scream "this is crazy." Even if her heart, the very core of her, screams against it. (No, dearest, this is not you).

4. someone who routinely stabs men (metaphorically) in the chest, the likely latest one being me. It's a scorpion's nature to sting, but it's testament to how much she can care about another person that she took so long to do it. I've seen that caring side of her, and I've always believed in it. Even when I called her an idiot, and even when everyone else was calling me an idiot for loving her.

5. someone who partially equates self esteem with the bedchamber. I can't pretend to be able to fully help her with this dysfunction-- I don't have the training and I certainly cannot be the surrogate she needs. But I've seen her at her strongest-- self possessed, capable, loving, earning more in a day than I could in a month's honest work.

6. a father who's had to plumb the depths of sleaze to feed and clothe his kids. An artist/inventor who's had to apply his genius to morally problematic causes. Love takes people on strange pathays and his has been stranger than most.

Conventional wisdom dictates that I chuck them all, because they can supposedly drag me down, despite the things within them that I find worth loving, redeeming staying around for. I've said this before: we are all such broken toys.

You're asking why I'm airing this and every other bit of dirty linen hanging on clotheslines in my head, knowing as I do that it can and probably will sabotage any chance of our being friends (or of any Human Resources Department looking at me favorably, hahaa!). You see, I know humans like the back of my hand. I'm hoping that in your case I'm reading you wrong.

Dark Places

2

In honor of love month I'll be posting stuff as I count down to the 14th. It's hokey, it's corny, but you can look at it this way: it's better than nothing when you're somewhat creatively constipated. And if in case you are the mushy type, then maybe this might be what you need.

The stuff will be mostly mine. If the piece isn't mine I'll say so. If you're going to copy and paste this at least please tell people I made it.

---

The places that I walk are often the same places everyone else inhabits. It's just that I seem to slip into a kind of parallel dimension where I can see everyone as they go about their business-- couples holding hands and contemplating each other, friends and officemates cheerfully making the first of their eager legs home. I could stand haloed in moonlight, or bathed in the artificial yellow of the city and they would never notice, never see me. That is, until I broke the spell, announced myself-- and then the party would be over for someone.

In the old days that would have been a welcome thing. Some of my talents lie somewhat in stealth, and there was a period in my life where I did make shadowing people and casing places a quasi-hobby. No, I had no assassin-wannabe aspirations but it was cool to play at being Batman, or eponymously, The Shadow.

None of that today, though.

Whenever I find myself slipping into that twilight subspace It's often against my will. I want to be seen, to be noticed, to interact. But I know humans like I know the back of my hand and the survival instinct takes over. The gates open, and I'm in, guts turned inside out and knees quivering in the bargain.

I become an unwilling member of the storied denizens of the night. I cruise with vampires and ghostly women dressed in white. Amorphous incorporeal things harrass me.

I follow people who swim in their spaces like so many happy fish. In my not-space I am hyper-aware of every nuance, every gesture. The little details more than anything really. Sense perception is diminished so that every other sense compensates for the loss of fidelity. From my not-space I observe in slow motion the fall of a woman's hair as she tosses her head from side to side, walking with her peculiar somewhat bow-legged gait. I observe a friendly kiss goodbye between her and a friend. A man and a woman: I notice the body language that atempts to hide the closeness that is already there, patent, for everyone with eyes, to gawk at.

From my not-space I know. And the knowledge brings bitter consolation.

+†+

I don't own this space. I only found it. The way was open to me when my heart first broke long ago.

+†+

I often find myself sharing it with vagrants, beggars, prostitutes and children selling flowers in the dead of the night. I know this because they can see me, as lost and sometimes as lonely as the rest of them. They reach out to me with arms covered in grime or sores, a pleading (or sometimes predatory) look in their eyes.

Comfort me. Need me. Feed me. Love me.

They take me back to realspace when they do this, as I suddenly have the power to banish them to not-space with their humanity savaged by just so much. It's hard, to acknowledge them as human beings and tell them I can't help them.

In the end we vanish into our not-space, becoming observers of a world that would rather forget us.

Somebody get me this book. Please.

I found it on Amazon.

On the author's website:

"DON'T LET THE PRESIDENT HAVE THE LAST LAUGH! Danielle Crittenden's hilarious collection of imaginary online correspondence between the POTUS and his "buddy list" is now available in a dead tree edition by Simon Spotlight Entertainment. You'll find THE PRESIDENT'S SECRET IMs at Amazon and bookstores across the country."


Online, George "Dubya" is kickass43. He spends a lot of time on his computer talking everything from US foreign policy to his situation at home with the world's bigshots. Including ben16 (Pope Benedict XVI) and sxybritguy10 (Tony Blair). Hilarious fun.

Bill Clinton, true to form, is ladeezman42.

Postscript to a F....

We've dismantled the Diliman shop. Part of the gradual tying of loose ends that has characterized my activities in the last quarter of last year. I saw the results of Project Yearbook and amazingly they came out well. Someone at the press managed to convince my clients that it was a boneheaded idea to change formats from letter-sized to legal-sized pages when the original layout (painstakingly done in blood and sweat by yours truly) had presupposed an 8.5x11 inches page size. The laid out pages looked good in spite of the start-stop horrors my client had me inflict on the poor project. I'm almost tempted to regret not adding my name to it.

Almost.

Now, as the last of these infernal strings are tied up nice and neat, I can look forward to the activities that will mark my ... moving on (words so easy to dish out when you address the apparent source of your inconvenience) ...to other more profitable ventures.

Ecce Homo

5

In honor of love month I'll be posting stuff as I count down to the 14th. It's hokey, it's corny, but you can look at it this way: it's better than nothing when you're somewhat creatively constipated. And if in case you are the mushy type, then maybe this might be what you need.

If you're going to copy and paste this at least please tell people I wrote it.

---

Ecce Homo

If you proceed from a position of faith, then "knowing your own worth" is a good enough basis of a healthy self esteem. The problem arises when you attempt to be totally objective about what you are worth. You must proceed from a position of distrust. You cannot trust your own assessment of worth until--

a) there is a standard to measure it against; and
b) you meet, or better yet, surpass those standards.

Sometimes I don't know what's worse.

The first makes you delusional; complacent, if serene, until you meet someone or something better, faster, stronger than you. Especially something that threatens to make you obsolete.

The second will never let you sleep.You are constantly and ruthlessly examining yourself for flaws and consistently finding them. There must be no question about your place in the Universe, your utility to your society and fellow man. Else, why do you even exist?

Quo Vadis, Veritas?

In a world where everyone can theoretically do what you do, think what you think, earn what you earn or more-- in a world where you are, in short, replaceable as employee, father, husband, lover, son-- in a world like that you have no real place.

God himself does not provide comfort within his abstract love of humanity, at least initially-- if he loves everyone equally then there is absolutely no difference between you and the depraved rapist who should be given the chair. You can't even trust the healing afforded by an abiding faith in the Christ-- how can you really truly tell if it's not another delusion? Another lie, another social palliative applied like band-aid to distract you from attempting to truly answer the questions of "What is my worth? Why am I here?"

The relentless search for the truth of your worth demands that you do not accept palliatives.

Those who take this second path path will most likely come to the same initial conclusions I have. That there is no meaning; that you exist to die; that your worth is a transient thing, dependent solely on chance and whether or not you picked the right skills and credentials and connections and bible study groups in your formative years.

Ecce Eros, Veritas; Ecce Homo

Absurdly enough, it's simple, naked love that answers the ontological and teleological questions of worth and meaning, by rendering those questions meaningless. Not the abstract love of a distant Watchmaker who "loves everyone equally." It's the love a Creator expresses personally through human agents-- friends, parents, someone you can share a well-lit bench with. Ridiculous as it sounds, the human psyche is apparently built that way.

I've thus come to accept that some palliatives are necessary if you still want to be a part of the human race. Acting out of faith is after all better, less stressful, than acting out of doubt.

I know what I'm worth. But I'll sleep better if key people can bring themselves to remember it.

True to Form

I got shanghaied into playing a bit part in a webcast. The same way I regularly got shangahied into playing creepy old geezers, or creepy young dudes in plays and video productions.

At least I'm acting again...

Requiem for Porky

I'll say I never saw it coming. Though considering how my government's been jumping at every sound, I should have. I really feel sorry for him. I saw the news footage and ex House Speaker and former GMA Ally Jose de Venecia looks like-- dare I say it? --crap.

But I guess what goes around comes around. Jose de Venecia was the consummate political wheeler and dealer. The baron of brokers and the king of compromise. And I will admit that I hated this guy for his continuing efforts to reanimate the rotting corpse of charter change long after ex-President Fidel Ramos had given it up for, well, dead. There were other reasons that involved keeping Arroyo super-glued to the presidential chair long after she should have been impeached.

Now that he's been fired on account of his son's feud with the First Gentleman, he's opened up the metaphorical bathroom to let the stink out, calling for a "moral revolution." Conrado de Quiros is right when he says that de Venecia is the last person you'd expect such calls from; that if de Venecia did something right, it's that he just proved how little the current administration values loyalty and the people it claims to serve.

Rina Jimenez David writes that we may see in the fall of the wheeler-n'-dealer, the possible rise of a statesman. My knee-jerk reaction is to be skeptical-- I know humans enough that if you give them the opportunity to do something stupid, enough of them will. You can yell your head off about how they're running the planet or their relationships into the ground, and all they'll see is a locust-lunching wild man man clad in camel hair (you) with nothing to offer them but sound and drama.

But the Universe is full of surprises and just when you think something's graven in stone, something shifts... So maybe there's redemption for Porky yet.

The clouds massing outside the Fandom Cafe where I'm writing this now, the "defrocking" of Porky himself and the resurrection of the ZTE issue -- these I take as proof that whatever it is that's keeping this magic-realist country interesting is at it again.

I'm smelling a change in the air. I'm praying all of us can meet it with courage, equanimity, resilience, resourcefulness, and-- as this is Kafkaed after all--

humor.

De.motion

Well I'm back to being a commuter and it feels... different. I'm going to miss the mobility afforded by a motor vehicle. It made a lot of things easier and more complicated at the same time. Of course I know this situation is only temporary. As soon as new money comes in and I'm clear of a few more finacial obligations I'm getting my license renewed. There will be more money to use for making the lives of the people I care about a little easier. Aaaaaand I'm gonna get my blue RAV 4 yet.

I am Salmon

And I used to be such a tuna guy. Wait, I still am.

There's something more appealing to me about the color, texture, consistency of maguro (tuna) sashimi than the salmon variety. The best tuna and salmon sashimi melt in your mouth, releasing unique flavors ably complemented by the right amount of wasabi and soy sauce. The difference is that--

a) Salmon doesn't have tuna's somewhat iron-bloody aftertaste (the taste of salmon sashimi can be described as somewhat sweet, creamy); and
b) Salmon melts in the mouth better

Given a choice, I'd always go for tuna, even if only for reasons of price and availability. Tuna can pretty much be found swimming our oceans without making a salmon's trips to fresh water streams for purposes of spawning. And cheap tuna can be just that-- cheap. Salmon is more prized, therefore harder to find or get to, and therefore more expensive.

But you're asking Why am I Salmon? Reasons exist beyond a pun on the movie I am Sam (good movie starring Sean Penn, do check it out. Incidentally the pun was also a conscious choice).

As I'm a creature of metaphor, nuance, meme and pop culture references, you can be sure that this post is not simply about fish.

A salmon's life is apparently more complex than his tuna counterpart: he's born in a fresh water river or stream, migrates to a big ocean and then feels an irresistible desire to return to the stream of his birth.

I am Sam. And I am Salmon.