Peñafrancia
The last time I was there was almost five or six years ago. Human memory has its own ways of making you forget some of the few precious things which you would always want to remember, and this is not one of the few exceptions. The things I do recall, though, have something to do not with the when, except for September, but with the what. It’s that month of the year when the streets of Naga City turn into an ocean of humanity, and the people are proof to the idea that there’s more to life than mere living. The Peñafrancia festivity has always been something worth anticipating, something worth the wait, something worth going back to time and time again without ever losing sight of what it stands for, or getting tired of it. It calls upon the flock of local folks and draws the outsiders to leap straight into it, something that has been so decades of years before. Personally, I find it at the very center of my being a Bicolano, without which I would have easily forgotten all about from where I came. It’s enough to say that it is one of the many sources of regional pride that I have, parts and parcels of which have a lot to do with the countless things I have dealt with in the full brush of a young boy’s life.
Yours Alone
It must have been a bitter and sweet moment for Mar Roxas. He it was, or his supporters, who massively financed his television advertisements early on. With Mar on the pedicab’s driver seat, the ads attempted to send the impression to the general public that he intends to run for the presidency this coming national elections with the firm belief that he will fight for the common good of the people, if not drive them there himself. He it was, or his supporters, who sought to campaign the soonest time, fueled by no less than the prerogative of propelling his name above the din months ahead of time. That, of course, assumes that we will be having one in 2010. But that aside, he recently decided to throw the towel and give way to Noynoy Aquino. It was the first time that I was impressed with Mar for, over the years, quite a number of his gestures never appealed to me. It was the first time since Bathala-knows-when when I felt the surge of genuine and selfless politics running through the very hairs of my skin. And I certainly hope that it will not be the last of it, at least for Mar, and at most for the rest of the millions of us.
It must have been bitter at first. At the onset, it was too plain to see that Mar had his eyes fixed firmly on the highest post in the government. One could easily tell and yell that Mar was more than willing to seize the opportunity. Eventually, he had to sacrifice his personal intentions before the altar of grace, notwithstanding the support he has gathered from those who have already rallied behind his name and chanted his battle cry. You could only begin to imagine the feeling of having to lay down your personal dream for a cause that is far nobler than any one of us could ever begin to realize. Or if we lack the imagination, we could only begin to surmise how Mar must have heaved a heavy sigh before doing what he did, which was to surrender before something more powerful than friend or foe alike. That was to surrender before the enduring sentiment of the public. But it was only par for the course, or part of the cause to which we should now act upon. More to that, knowing when to step aside when you understand that there is no stopping the train is not only practical but also prudent, if not the wisest any brave man would ever dare do in his lifetime.
It must have been sweet the moment he let the words escape from his mouth. To say what one can hardly say at a time when the nation so calls for it, or at a time when the moment is ripe and when everything seems to fall into place, is to let nature, or destiny, whichever way they put it these days, take its course. That bold move carries with it all the iotas of conviction and integrity. It bears with it all the grains of humanity’s relentless pursuit for that golden opportunity to make things happen right here, right now. The long and short of it all is that Mar’s decision to brush his personal ambitions aside must have lifted a heavy sword that pierced his very, well, heart. It must be like plucking a needle out of the skin which it so deeply struck. In some ways, it is akin, perhaps, to Arthur lifting the Excalibur from the stone with the rest of the succeeding events already falling into place the very moment he did so. But certainly, Mar’s decision is only one side of the same coin. The other side of it belongs to Noynoy Aquino.
Learning from Cory Aquino
It wasn’t ambition which powered her to command the people and lead them like a shepherd would do to his flock. It was the command of the people that empowered her, thrusting them towards the ambit of their ambition, or dream, and to continue to draw upon that monumental legacy an infinite source of hope. She was a wife first and a leader second. But at the height of massive oppression, she was more than willing to exchange the first for the second without having to abandon one over the other. Some say she was at the right place at the time. Still, others say she was unprepared when the moment was ripe enough to seize. Others simply say she was the right one. Whichever way they put it, only the insane could see her not as a flicker of light in absolute darkness but as a nimbus that is out to wreak havoc on barren soil. She is gone. Like memories, there is the danger that she will be reduced to nothingness, or a footnote in history, when those who remember her today might forget her in the coming years, swayed perhaps by an already depressing state of affairs in this country. But like memories, her image will remain as vibrant as the day when she took the path where few genuine men dare to brave, so long as forgetfulness is not bound to swallow those who mourn over the loss of yet another rare gem.
(I) Envy Them
At four minutes past eight in the evening, it is raining. Outside, our neighbors are caterwauling, which is the least bit of comfort one can receive after another day spent trying to understand what the law says in letter or in spirit. Take your pick. With microphone on one hand and beer on another, I hear that song again, but this time the lyrics are sung far worse than the nights that went before. From where I sit, I can see nobody dancing but I speculate the guy must be gyrating behind plain sight. With no Katrina wiping the sweat off the edges of his skin, what more had there been one, or a close semblance to one. I wonder why they do not hold singing contests in this forgotten artery of the metro. You really have to wonder, too, how idle times transform ordinary lives into something more or less than what you would expect. At the end of yet another hectic day, it’s quite enough to reward yourself in your own liking
Freedom in Chains
Somewhere in the city, someone has to brave the callous deed of selling flesh and soul during the most unholy hours of the night. For men who have deprived themselves of morality or have endured a long dry spell, her meat is perfectly consumable, quenching the patrons’ thirst as water is to mouth. To excite the libido and senses of her midnight riders and to satisfy their phallic ecstasy thereafter is to live for another day. She is free but the oppression that she has to swallow, literally if not figuratively, binds her to a mesh where escape is anywhere near impossible. You call her a whore and she calls men names that can sanctify even the least honorable of all mortals. Aware that the future awaiting her flickers like candle fire in the middle of a raging storm, her free will is as impotent as those who have tasted her skin firsthand. Not surprisingly, her hope grows more elusive today than yesterday and the days that went before.
Balara
There are no fields of amber grain, no stalks of rice that bend with the wind, greeting you as you begin the day with the sun just a little above the horizon lines. Save for the trees that surround the neighboring houses and the few bushes that line-up through the narrow sideways of the road, this is the closest you can get to nature in this bustling city where the only things immaculate are the concrete jungles that spread towards the sky. In this small lot in a seemingly forgotten area in Quezon City, a wooden house with patches of cement blocks will be my home for the next four years. Four years at the least. At the most, Bathala knows until when. Professors be kind? I can only regress into wishful thinking.
Friendster: An American Footnote to History
Friendster used to be interesting. Decent people with decent taste, whatever decent meant at that time, used it for the very reason why it was created in the first place. I think it was not a time when every chance you have of opening your inbox you first have to sift through a pile of messages with content designed to awaken the libido from within. It was not a time when unknown women from out of nowhere, mostly deprived of sufficient clothing while sporting queer names, view your profile. It was not a time when the bulletin board became the trash bin of—surprise, surprise—trash surveys. But like any other John Lloyd Cruz flick, God forbid, it had to end. Well, it had to.
Milk on your Lips
He was loved and hated. He was in his 40s and California during the early 1970s was yet to have one of its greatest lessons in history. The rest of America haven’t heard about him, but the movement that he championed was slowly making its roots across the nation, recruiting a legion of supporters to a cause so noble yet so revolutionary that it threatened to shatter the walls of bigotry surrounding the conservative minds of those who oppose a shift in the status quo. For having been able to stare the malignancy of discrimination and look upon it like a Goliath waiting to befall on its knees, he’s got the biggest balls than any other man during his time. He is Harvey Milk.
And he is gay.
Slumdog Millionaire’s Genius
You don’t have to be a genius to know the answer, Jamal says. That certainly sparked a flame of insight into his life. He was nowhere near to being a genius, let alone someone who knew all the answers to life’s toughest questions. Maybe even the simplest ones. But towards the end of the film, the point becomes clear as pristine water: indeed, you do not have to be a genius to know the answer; you just have to experience things in their candid and brutal forms to have something to say in the face of life’s most troubling questions. While the story reflects answers to some questions, questions to some answers, and even more questions to questions that not even Einstein would have managed to resolve, it turns out that the movie hid more under its sleeves. It was not only the story of innocence and ignorance of two boys and a girl living in the slum recesses of India. Neither was it simply the story of how a chaiwalla seized the final answer with a guess and seized twenty million Rupees even more. It was itself a story of India. Maybe even ours.
Desperate Dormers
They live right next door. Four of them, I think. Tonight they are attempting to reach the heights of drunken nirvana, and somewhere inside that room a guy is strumming his guitar to tunes that remind one of eye liners, razor blades, dangling hair bangs and all the sadness and frustration the world has to offer. That’s French for Emo music, one of the worst oxymorons since dinosaurs roamed the planet. At half an hour past one in this unholy morning, their voices can stir the dead back to life or, worse, can raise the sleep to a fit of rage. One of them tells the tale of how she is far too confused to give the boy the answer he deserves. Another speaks of the pang of being left single in this Earth where men are supposed to thrive in shapes and sizes. The same girl proclaims just as well that, push comes to shove, she won’t be kissing a frog in the hopes of the toad turning into a prince. Better single than having warts and all. Still, another recounts how her lesbian days are far from over contrary to popular belief—ah, but the intoxicating powers of alcohol, when taken in excess, can truly make your brain think sideways.
