Sunday Reflections on a Monday (Part 1, maybe)

The Fate of Snowy; the Mark of Cain

Considering just how I was received last week, I'm tempted to think of Snowy as, well, dead. I know, I'm shocked and I'm shaking my head over a stuffed toy. I normally think that gifts, once given, are generally no longer the giver's concern. But it does tell: the way gifts are treated are sometimes an indication of just what the giver means to the recipient.

I'm drawing sick parallels (I'm very good at that) between sacrificing an innocent to appease an angry or indifferent deity and what I did in the last two weeks of May. If Snowy is dead or has been given away what do I do?

Should I do a Cain and metaphorically murder another innocent? I've a brother in the office where God works and I don't want to kill him just because She accepts his little sacrifices. I do not want to be a Lurker, waiting in the shadows; from Her silence I can only conclude that God still sees me this way.

Windows name names

It's a line from a Neruda love poem: I like it and it's apt for today's little entry. There was a time when I alluded to events and people out of some respect for things like privacy. Putting something in writing for everyone to look at is making a very public statement: people's reputations could be negatively affected if I wrote about them in a fit of pique.

After years of writing around a problem or person, after going through a crapload of contortions and inventing code words for all the people who significantly appear in the story of my life, I am two things. Tired and dissatisfied.

I cannot write around a person for fear of possible legal wrinkles forever. One cannot write something and not intend to have it read by an audience in any way. My writing already feels cumbersome at times, and the extra restrictions I place on myself when I write make my writing unintelligible to the audience I want to keep.

Windows name names the way I do these days. 'Cause I'm just too tired to write around people, that is, to not point directly to the people who vex, the people who give joy, the people who matter. I am still dedicated, in my way, to doing this with grace.

The people who vex vex only at the time of writing. The people who give joy , the people who matter, are assumed to do these things forever.

It's biased, but I think everyone will find it agreeable.


Weekends

I used to hate Mondays so badly that I would try to set it up so I wouldn't have to work on them. The rationale was that you spent Saturday recovering from Friday (or you wound up spending Saturday at work) and you spent Sunday on the obligatory --and often dreaded-- chat or outing with the family. By the time Monday came rolling in you still weren't up to working.

These days I am uncomfortable with Fridays; Saturdays and Sundays have been unfairly maligned too. If they didn't take so much out of the soul-- teaching and prepping for your students' needs-- I'd probably be working at the office on weekends, even on Sundays.

I don't want to have to leave the office at the end of my shift and walk that short stretch of road to the bus stop alone. I'm being woman-y, being sparse with context, expecting you all to read my mind and my raised eyebrow (got that from my granddaughter), and I'm sorry about that. But there are nights--too often-- after work when I feel terribly alone.

Clavieritis Summer 2008

Yesterday's recital (The Clavier Music School holds one twice a year) was, as all recitals are, a happy success. Yes, there were snafus-- I didn't like it when our nervous and eager first recitalist started playing before the announcement to turn off mobile phones and pagers was finished. We didn't have a five-minute intermission because most everyone was late.

But who am I to argue against the smile everyone was wearing after the recital was over? One cannot abandon duty, and when duty involves these kids--well, some of them ain't gonna be kids for much longer-- who am I to be disappointed?

In my lifetime I can only count maybe six things I've done right. Done right in the sense that good came out of doing them, and that the good persisted long after the deed was done. My involvement with Clavier is definitely on that list. Clavier teaches piano, we make it look good with slick recitals and other add-ons, and the kids and their parents take away from the Clavier experience something good, something memorable.

No matter what some people may feel about me, they're wrong: I'm not a monster who should be shunned.

And it was good to feel reminded of that when I ran into Raye, Jean, Joy, Maan and Tish (not my granddaughter, another post-Clavier student, one of the best: she pulled off Flight of the Bumblebee and that's saying a lot).

And the post-recital ribbing and the tequila (thanks, Eric, Minette) helped too. I don't smile in my photos because I look stupid in them most of the time. But I think I can forgive myself for the smiles in the few good photos people took for this latest Clavier event.

The joke for the day was that I was surrounded by women I cared for and I wasn't in any kind of pain.

14

It was easy when I was in high school-- throw everything out the window for the sake of repairing the broken interpersonal stuff between you and the people you care for. You had cliches like "hormonal imbalance" and "folly of youth" and "growing pains" on which to lay blame. You were young, and therefore still resilient. If life and your own bonehead decisions threw you a curve ball you could reasonably bounce back and people would still be lenient with you.

It's not so easy today. There are no more cliches. The stakes are higher. And you cannot abandon duty.

Tomorrow I'll be tending to the needs of the Clavier kids, who have not seen their Kuya Dex since he implemented his mad scheme to return to work teaching Koreans English, so that he could earn again, and maybe bring back a semblance of balance into his life. The balance and self assuredness he lost when he lost his ex.

14
I love Tina. Everyone looking in my general direction will see it. She sees it too, but she no doubt has pat answers to that. Amazingly those answers parallel those served up by my other exes. They question the authenticity of my feelings, the purity of my intentions, the worth of my affection and ultimately pass judgment on my character and my intrinsic worth.

I'm crazy. I'm delusional. I'm evil. What I'm experiencing is a male fever dream, not the real, valid commitment that comes with cliches like "mature, authentic love." I'm "too weak" for them.

I hear variations of them so many times, there are days I believe them. I question myself (no surprise there, I always question myself) yet again.

But really, reduce everything they say to their core statement and what's left is that I'm inconvenient.

I'm not important enough to plan anything with, for or around... except when the plan calls for a rapid evacuation from wherever I am.

I've questioned myself long enough to find out that regardless of what my exes may have said, thought or felt in the throes of their fear, their anger, their temporary irrationality, I am important.

And it saddens me that somewhere between, what mistakes I committed and what blunders they made, amidst the babel of voices from our greek choruses of well-meaning friends, who I am has been lost from view. And more than this, that which is most significant has been lost from sight.

I never lost sight of it: all my exes were important enough, beautiful enough, intelligent and creative enough, wise enough--worthy--of the affection I had to give them. Worthy of my gift of self, broken toy that it is.

If you've ever wondered why I find it so hard to let any of them go it is because of that singular fact.

I love Tina. Among them all it is her laughter and the hours of talk, bus rides, her kisses that I miss the most. And if I write shamelessly about her now or in my Mammon stories it is because I miss her terribly and I can only uselessly write and write and write until Godot comes to bring her back.

Tina, I don't want anyone else. And if I can't even see your face then I'm screwed. I really will have nothing left to live for but myself ...and Mammon.

Again, Hotels

abandon all propriety, all ye who sleep here

I am probably the only man I know who goes to these places without someone on his arm. (Don't worry I don't do this often).

Still, it could be worse: I could be going to these places arm in arm with a big burly bald man with more than a passing resemblance to Wentworth Miller. The staff at the SOGO would start to wonder which of us was supposed to be the, er, woman.

Now that would be a real tragedy.

What drove me to this place the other night were the twin exigencies of being

1. spurned yet again (don't worry, she never stops by this space); and
2. the need to be close enough to the malls when I woke up, so that I could get something done before I had to run to work.

temples of commerce

The majority of my daytime-nighttime activity revolves around these temples of commerce (Worship of Mammon, indeed). I'm cutting through a mall, running like the Flash, on the way to work, or walking around one on the way home from work, or wishing I'd stay awake after my work hours long enough to go to one and buy the things I need or maybe catch a movie alone.

I've been unable to really see and enjoy movies in general since Ratatouille (no, I didn't see that one either; I was supposed to, though, with my then-girlfriend) and Ataul for Rent and Iron Man. There's a whole slew of movies out that I won't be seeing for the same reason I didn't get to see Ratatouille and why I occasionally sleep alone in motels.

And it's not about watching Letterman in between surfing the Asian and European adult channels.

the wood of suicides

The staff at the two drive-in motels I visited prior to the SOGO didn't want to let me in unless I was with someone. "Well, tough." I'd wanted to say. "I wouldn't be here if I was with someone in the first place, moron. We'd be talking on a bench somewhere overlooking parked cars and trees."

I miss those trees.

But I kept my mouth shut and just directed the cab driver to take me somewhere else.

The staffs of the two motels were likely afraid that I was going to pay for space in which to die.

...

I realize that the time will come when I will grow incredibly weary of this interminable hoping. I have been trying with the requisite gentility to stave this off. But the heart cannot feed on itself forever, even now when it cannot find the strength to face up to one more act of dismissal.

I have only to breathe and I know where she is. I will feel a tug, and sure enough she'll be where I am. But it is seemingly never enough, when all one seemingly elicits is fear. I can't bridge those final few meters that keep me from her doorstep, from that space I used to occupy in the hollow of her arms.

I cannot proceed, I don't know how to, not without a sign. And one day soon I'll do it anyway because I cannot keep this vigil. Not like this.

And then I'll fall and break and burn the way I always have, the way I always will.

And then I won't stop myself, I'll damn all of you. Because when you look at me you see only a cage.

Remembering

I've forgotten how much I love pop-jazz. And Cake. And Everything But the Girl.

I've forgotten that I have clothes that aren't ratty, black or handed up from my younger siblings.

I love the scent of brand spanking new electronics, new clothes, new art supplies: I especially love the earthy sweet smell of linseed oil. I love the feel of paint, especially when they build up, like plaque, on your work clothes, and under your nails.

I love churches and their history. The way your footfalls echo in their wide halls; the candles; the smells of wax and ardent prayer. The wood-varnish smells of absolution.

I love the sight of the sky-- I hardly look at it these days. I love the feel of grass underneath my feet. I love rainy days: I've forgotten how much I love getting rained on in a new place.

I love strawberries: the sight of them, the idea of them, the taste of them. I love strawberry ice cream.

I love humanity-- stupid, corrupt, mistrustful, greedy, vexing, disappointing humanity. And the women too--in spite of their judgments, their presumptions, their power.

I love the smell of books.

And though the heart yearns for the familiar smells of her perfume and her shampoo, the sound of her laughter, these other things rush to fill this void. And for today they're enough.

My heart swells with something it hasn't truly felt in months-- a sublime gratitude for little graces.

Sleep as an Alien Concept

It's not so alien, really. I do sleep.

I just don't share the usual hours. And I don't spend as much time asleep as I need. A lot of my downtime is spent thinking and writing when other productive activities would have served me better.

Stupid Questions

I honestly thought this would never happen again considering the grief we've put each other through at one time or another over the last few years.

Context: a common friend died ten years ago on 26 May. The foggy pink lenses of nostalgia may have colored my assessment of him, but I'll go ahead and say he was the best of us. 25 May 2008 had me sharing a ride with two people who swore on separate occasions that they would never speak to me again.

Yet here we were on the occasion of a friend's tenth death anniversary, speaking.

I am humbled and thankful by the grace that brought us back together even as I am mightily pissed off that it had to take two deaths for this to come to pass. Rey's, ten years ago (the excuse that brought us all to the same place), and mine (a symbolic death), last year.

No one really wants to sacrifice friends on the altars of their own fear or their own self-righteousness. No one truly wants to be the lamb, or goat-- the sin eater who has to die (exile himself). But it happens. It happens all the time.

I'm just one of the losers who perpetually seeks to understand, and perhaps one day, coopt and subvert the dynamics of this. Someone who bothers to talk about it outside the permitted occasions (beer with friends, funerals and bedside death watches) and put the findings on paper. Because seriously, it doesn't have to happen.

[Digression: I should have studied to be a thanatologist.]

From where I sit and type, all of this pain was needless. None of us had to go through our separate calvaries, swearing that our paths would never again cross, just to find each other after a year or two.

No need for the self-righteous posturing. No need to make public declarations that the other person is dirt when you know he isn't. No need for the greek choruses repeating and reinforcing your own bullshit. No need to form your defensive barriers against friendships that need to be repaired. No need to take those courses of action to their logical conclusion-- another useless goodbye and good riddance.

People who love should not be made to eat of this pile of hot steaming horse puckey.

Look, guys, I know I should be happy, and I am.

But this theme is simply too important to me. Without the meaning I seek I simply can't let this go.

It's that X-Men metaphor again

The ride with happy Ron and Mylene had this question popping out of Happy Ron's mouth-- Dex, do you hate yourself? And the only truthful answer I could come up with at the time was "Yes." When who you are is not what the world wants and you want so much to fit in, how can you not hate yourself?

Tatagalugin ko na ha?

'Pag nagmahal ka, nakakatakot ka. 'Pag nagiisip ka, nakakatakot ka. 'Pag nagsulat ka, ang nagbabasa ng sinulat mo ay--

• natatakot sa 'yo
  
• natatakot para sa 'yo
  
• panandaliang nasisiraan ng bait

Ang skillset mo, hindi ginagalang. Sarili mong kasama sa industriya walang bilib sa 'yo.

Pero magaling ka daw. Mabait ka daw. Hindi lang ikaw 'yung kailangan nila.

I can't change who I am and damning the rest of the world because it doesn't like or understand me isn't the solution I need. Though it's tempting, sometimes.

Which brings me to my point: at the time, in the Ron-mobile, with Happy Ron and Mylene, I'd truthfully said the answer was "yes." Having had the time to think on this now, I realize that the true answer is "No."

I don't truly hate myself. I know enough about myself to know my worth, my place, in spite of the niche my friends want me to occupy (which is some place that won't inconvenience them). On my good days I don't hate myself. I'm just more disappointed in most everyone else.

I got my friend back

And I'm thankful to God and Rey for it. I'm not likely to be sharing a beer with her alone yet, but this is a start. There were unwelcome words between us: mostly hers. There are still some choice things to tell her, but it's enough for now to have this.

I do give a damn about her even now.

But my heart's firmly where it is: beating--perhaps uselessly-- in Tina's denim jacket.

Requiem for Rey Reyes

Attending a mass to celebrate the death of a friend ten years ago.

It'll be a cleansing experience. Another venue in which I can let go of more baggage. I've carried the "Kick Me, I was a Monster to My Ex" placard long enough, and God knows it's been a millstone 'round my neck.

I don't know what kind of miracle is supposed to happen, but I'm expecting one. Rey was a good friend to me. He was actually successful straddling the line between coolness and geekdom. He introduced us to the Sandman, the rest of the DC Comics Vertigo line, and Mobile Suit Gundam long before they became popular on the Islands. When he died he brought a bunch of us closer together.

Not holding my breath but I'm hoping for something similar this year.

I'll have to warn everyone, by the by, that my next few posts will be Dexterian in their emo content. I've a lot to say and precious little in the way of methods to say them in.

Yes, Mom, I'm really gay...

...and I'm living in sin with my married best friend. Oh yeah, I'm also his sister's boy toy. And while we're at it, I am also secretly snogging her yummy boyfriend. Yes, I engage in all sorts of sexual impropriety with all sorts of unsavory people every time I go out of town. I've got a long list of one night stands in my black book, which for some reason you haven't yet found despite your amazing ability to read off my blogs and my cel phone. I'm a closet satanist too. I stopped praying to Jesus a long time ago. That's why I've been out at all hours of the night. Why I don't sleep. Why I keep writing weird sh!t.





Smell the sarcasm?





I was really hoping that this was already behind me. In high school it was "Come out of the closet Dex so we can talk/beat the manhood back into you." In college it was "Stop doing your drugs Dex I know you're on something that's why you think weird."

Sigh. Makes me wish I did half of what they think I've done just so there'd be some justification for all the grief they're laying on me.

Another day in the interesting life of Ed Kafka. The Delicate Matter of the Truth About Dex: his life is as good as crazy fiction, and he just wants to be with his ex.

Celebrating Patient X

If you're seeing a shrink, chances are he's nuts. If you are seeing a shrink who is practcing psychiatry without a license (i.e. a friend) expect him to be nuts too.

Still, we work with the tools we have, no matter how poor. We can only pray for better ones we don't have to pay for.

So today I celebrate my friend and co-patient Patient X. Congratulations for staying on the wagon!

Help.Me.I'm.Manic

Sh!tsh!tsh!t Stupid full moon.

It's five in the bloody morning and I'm awake and feverish and my brain simply will not stop receiving messages from the Muse.

I just singlehandedly finished a slew of designs for some stickers commissioned by my sister. I flirted and networked with the crew at the bleeding McDonald's while I was at it. when I come back at the end of the week my office will have possible new recruits. My studio will likely have new clients.

Holycrap I just spent the goddamned night at McDonald's Philcoa because I don't want to work at home.

I just sang along to the whole Toto album, the assorted Jazz and soft rock stuff they were playing to keep myself awake and god knows the whole fast food joint was listening to the odd long haired guy who must have been high on something at least he had a decent voice and at least he looked like a forlorn rockstar god knows he swayed like Jack Sparrow.

stupid stupid full moon

stupid stupid missing my ex and my friends from the old goddamned workplace especiallyonfreakingfridasyswhenthey're out somewhere and I'm walkingwalking walkingwalkin g San Miguel avenue in the goddamned dead of the night alone


If I stop and I go home now I lose momentum and I'll never get this back goddamnit...

doing the draft of Mammon 7 then skipping to calling card designs and my curriculum for my police photography workshop tomorrow

sh!tsh!tsh!t

revising my idiot love letters writing this multiply entry while chatting with a freind and talking about her love life and working on my student's new curriculum at this virus-ridden i-net cafe that doesn't serve coffee...

god this is worse than meth and I've never even tried it


stupid amorous full moon

Almost don't care if my ex spots me in her damned bailiwick god knows I got better things to do than stalk her regardless of what her friends and roommates think been spending thelast three weeks avoiding her and everyone associated with her so she doesn't freak out at the goddamned sight of me brithday excepted of course and even then I left strict instructions to her officemates to not mention my idiot name regarding the birthday card.

I'm high on coffee and her memory. light headed. lungs feeling like they've got hot knives dipped in acid and anaesthesia piercing them. hard to breathe

the girls at the counter were cute. really


I'm goddamned dangerous on a full moon


godpleasedon'tletmecrashcsrashcrashcrash godthere'sa sun up

okay i've put all the ideas in my head on this page one way or another gotta sign out go home rest

surprised i'm still lucid but this is manageable now, enougfh for me to poke fun at myself by posting these stupid pictures and finally revealing to my friends just who that Kafkaed dude is.

almost glad i didn't have a paint brush.

would painted mcdonald's pink

first yaaaaaaaaaaawn. need to get outta here now...

Yesterday I...

1. ...found out my colleagues are generally good people, if possessed of the Filipino, nay, Asian caution when taking a stand. I've found out that I can more or less trust my bosses.
   
2. ...found out I was right about the interconnectedness of everything. The bosses of my company and the bosses of my grandkid's company have met, pledged cooperation.
   
3. ...my bosses just found out just what kind of knife my old workplace handed them when it would not take me back. They know enough to wield me wisely, I hope.
   
4. the jury's still out on yesterday's item 4.
   
5. ...found out I could still swim
   
6. ...found out I have a real reason to be working were I am. I'm just looking for a better one.
   

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?"