Bond 2012: SKYFALL

I remember when I learned that Daniel Craig was to play the coveted role of James Bond several years ago, my first reaction was: Daniel who? I never heard of the guy and when the poster was shown I shook my head and dismissed the actor and the franchise to ultimate failure.  Daniel Craig did not look like the former James Bonds. They all used to share Sean Connery's tall, dark and handsome features. All of them dashing, smooth, debonaire.  Daniel, on the other hand, is not even good-looking.  He is also shorter than the other Bonds, is bulkier and more muscular and has blond hair.  So as one of the earliest naysayers, my foot is stuck in my mouth as Daniel Craig rose up to the plate and became the most bankable James Bond in history, probably even outdoing the feats of Sean Connery, Roger Moore and Pierce Brosnan. 

This movie, Skyfall, is set to become the highest grossing in the 50 year history of the franchise, and not surprisingly so.  The movie is great, the script intact and the cinematography superb.  I would like to commend its director Sam Mendes for doing a wonderful job at the helm.  The cinematography was also breathtaking particularly with the train crashing towards Bond in the tunnel and the fight scene on a Shanghai skyscraper. The actors themselves were very good at showing their vulnerability.  The script was almost flawless with a good injection of humor throughout the film.  This, in my humble opinion, is the best Bond film to date.

Since the first installment of Craig as Bond, the production behind the Bond series have intelligently transitioned to a more believable and more human depiction of the famous fictional English assassin.  They have done away with invisible cars, exploding fountain pens and weird disguises that fool no one.  Instead, the director has used Daniel Craig's eyes and sharp-lined mouth to make the viewers realize that Bond is not immortal.  Bond is a human being who hurts, who feels, who gets tired, who gets old.  It is with Craig that we have seen Bond tortured, wounded badly and almost die.  It is because Craig, despite not being good-looking, can pull off the hero-who-becomes-the-underdog-to-rise-and-become-hero-again stint. What's more, Craig is definitely believable to play the part.

The other cast members also performed very well.  

I am in awe of Berenice Marlohe, a French actress, who looked and played an Asian concubine/employee of antagonist Javier Bardem.  Not only is she stunningly beautiful, she was able to beautifully project deceit, fear, loathing and hope in rapid succession during her conversation with Bond at the casino.  Her hand trembled at the thought that Bond wanted to meet her boss.  She shook with fear, her mouth quivered as she told him: Be careful what you wish for.  And her eyes shone with hope when she asked him: Are you gonna kill him? 

Naomie Harris in the film, I think was confident and played the her role well as Eve a field agent who was mistakenly shot Bond as he struggled with another assassin on the train.  At the end of the movie, she is revealed to be the returning character Ms  Moneypenny, secretary to M.  In the Bond series though, her name is Jane not Eve.  I didn't think that she was as good as Marlohe in this film but yes she does have the better ass.  Yep, ass as in behind.  Go Ms Moneypenny!

Another great addition to the film is Ben Wishaw who played Q, a computer wiz who is at the helm of anything computer related within the MI6.  He played his character very well too, looking all dorky and unkempt but with the sarcastic verbose nature that all high-IQ nerds possess.  He was also able to project very well the short but plot-decisive virtual chess game with Javier Bardem.  

Judi Dench played her last role as M and will be replaced by Ralph Fiennes (aka Voldemort) in the upcoming films.  Both actors played their roles well although at times I felt veteran actress Dench looked stiff.  She did have to play a tough role though, to play an impassive and cold director of the MI6 who calls the shots and carries the burden of dead agents or failed missions at her behest all in the best interest of England.  I did expect more from her especially during her confrontation with Javier Bardem and during the opening scene when Bond was inadvertently shot by Eve upon M's command where she looked more lost than impassive. 

The most striking of all the actors though, including Daniel Craig, is Javier Bardem who was marvelous in his portrayal of Bond's nemesis as Silva, a former personal favorite of M, who was disgraced and eventually let go by the MI6.  He was portrayed as a power-hungry evil genius attracted to power and strength which birthed to his homo-erotic scene with Bond.  Silva returned as a devious and ruthless cybercriminal, fanatical in his desire for both revenge and acceptance from M.  His brilliance and cunning always put him a step ahead of Bond and the MI6 as he unleashed a wave of cyber and actual terrorism.  His portrayal of Silva in this film proves that his talent as an actor and his Oscar recognition is no fluke.  Plus, having a Penelope Cruz for a wife is a prize in itself.

This Bond movie has solidified the idea that in the world of espionage and covert operations, the concept of you-snooze-you-lose cannot be emphasized more.  This was also relayed by Liam Neeson in Taken when he confronted his former French friend at the dinner table with: That's what happens when you sit behind a desk for too long. You forget things! Like having a gun that's loaded and one that's not.  The skill and the instinct may be there, but the precision, dexterity and reflexes definitely slow down.  In this particular film, for instance, Bond retreated to seclusion and alcohol after his widely perceived death.  He returned a lesser assassin, who looked and moved like the shell of his former self.  And since I love David Morrell's (creator of Rambo) Brotherhood of the Black Rose book so much, I would like to imply again that between two equally skilled and deadly assassins in combat, the younger one always has a higher percentage of winning. The reason is the younger you are, the faster your reflexes are.  Bond, in this film, was shown as getting old with not-so-subtle hints of having him retired.  But, of course, like all protagonists, he persists and eventually triumphs over Silva and his goons but at the sad expense of M.  

As for the assassins themselves, it is clear that emotions and feelings are considered a great liability and bad for business.  The has been well-documented in the Bourne series and in Mr and Mrs Smith. Assassins are trained to kill without remorse, without doubt, with indifference.  But, no, like in all the Bourne series, Mr and Mrs Smith, Taken as well as the books of David Morrell, Daniel Silva, Frederick Forsythe and Tom Clancy, assassins are not without heart and at times risk their lives for that split-second moment of doubt or surge of regret or love.  This is the very first time in the history of chauvinistic, womanizing James Bond to have seen him at his most vulnerable.  For the first time since his parents' death, James Bond shed tears for his boss, M, Mom, the closest thing to a mother he had.  He openly wept for his love of country, his love of M and for his freedom from the dark memories of Skyfall.

P.S.  It seems that this movie can do no wrong.  Adele, the British vocal behemoth, who has inspired multiple eargasms with her soulful and bluesy vocals, has sung the hauntingly beautiful theme song of Skyfall, named as such.  Sometimes you just wonder if they made the movie just so she can sing its theme song.  It really captured the essence of the film.  I recommend that you watch it in theaters.  It will not do justice to this movie's perfection if you just download it and watch it on the small screen. 

Pictures II

Green Means Go

Shadow Over Apples

Orange Globe

Fruit of the Earth

Bounty

Shaded Beauty

Hiding from the Sun

And my favorite pic of the day:

Autumn Willow

Destination Anywhere

I have stumbled upon this documentary from one of the write ups of the opinion section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.  It's opening line is like an uppercut to the diaphragm: Imagine a nation where the #1 career choice is leaving the country. Yes, it is talking about us, the collectively heralded heroes of the present, the overseas Filipino worker. 

The Pen Artist

Funny, I only realized that after my puberty was over, there were only two things that persisted: (1) my acne and (2) the fact that my best days of impassioned writing was over.  Yes, I still do write poems and essays such as this every now and then.  But I know not how I managed to conjure up an obra maestra of letters and verses in one sitting.  Where once I could sit and write a love poem in less than half an hour inspired by the works of Edgar Allan Poe and Maningning Miclat, I am now resigned to squeezing my brain to write even a single verse for my wife or to type a blog entry that probably only a couple people will read anyway.

I did not know when I lost the passion for writing.  Its slow but inevitable death probably has started when my mom told me I will not take up Creative Writing at UP Diliman.  She told me poetry and short stories will not feed a family.  You will live and die by the poverty that the pen can only bring.  She told me to pursue my passion for the arts yet remain grounded in the fact that too many artists died starving before a Picasso becomes priceless.  Keep writing she said, but make it a hobby not a career.  Now that I think of it, she made sense but it did bring the near-death of my writing passion.  I don't think I would have been recognized as a great writer anyway, a good one yes, but not good enough to be great.  I don't think I can play with words as well as Patricia Evangelista or Conrado de Quiros.  My essays are pretty much decent, but even I don't think they are special.

Yeah, yeah and you give me the litany of believe-in-yourself-believe-in-your-dreams-keep-dreaming-and-someday-you'll-achieve-it bullcrap.  There are hundreds of thousands of people told to follow their dreams no matter what other people say or no matter the odds.  Almost all of them died with eyes wide open and skin pressed deeply against their ribs.  Those who didn't die chose a day job way different from their first passions.  To think of  it, how many people try and try again and fail to produce a Michael Jordan or a Michael Phelps or a Michael Jackson? There are literally thousands upon thousands of cabaret and bar singers who at one point in their lives really thought they stand out and that they would make it.  The world is hard on artists, that is a fact, and when the truth comes crashing down it dawns on you that you have been strumming that guitar for twenty years now, writing that novel for fifteen years now, or playing in some random rundown theater for ten years now and still the break that you were looking for is far from your grasp.  How long will it be before you realize that nobody listens to your songs anymore, or your graffiti which drew oohs and ahhs from way before remain that?  How long before reality breaks you down and poverty transforms your creativity to despair?  At one point in their lives, artists of pen or brush or song will struggle. 
Struggle and the triumph over it is what defines each artist and will engrave his legacy.

Ah, but how wonderful it was when I was an impassioned writer.  How I miss the magic that my heartbreak brought or my desire to save the world can do.  Pain is what drove me.  Pain of an unrequited love.  Pain of adolescent rebellion.  The passion that rages in your chest and flows in your blood to the ink of your pen.  Life seemed more... vivid then.  And now I just chill.  As I stare into this entry that wasn't supposed to be an entry, I wonder what drives me now.  Now that the pain is gone and the heartbreak has healed a long time time.  Where do I get that fire? Where do I get the itch to pick up a pen and write down a story or a poem so spirited my blood will roll again into my canvass of letters.  The moment is now.  The time is now. But like all has-beens do, I'd say nay and put off the obra maestra till tomorrow or until probably forgotten. 

GRANDMA

My former boss sent me a text last Friday.  She rarely texts me other than news about Grandma.  I smile when I remembered her.  She was my former patient at my old facility.  Her name is Marion Rapalee.  She was born January 20 or 21st (not sure) 1919.  She is ninety-three years old but claims to be two hundred.  It doesn't matter how many times other patients tell her that she can't be two hundred it's impossible.  She strongly believes that she is and that is that.

I never knew anybody who didn't like Grandma.  She was sweet and kind and always looks at other people with empathy.  I remember one day we were in the gym exercising, and another patient rolled in in a wheelchair.  Grandma asked her what happened to her.  She told Grandma that she missed the chair when she sat, slammed her butt on the floor and broke a hip.  Grandma came close and gave her a hug and consoled her: Oh you poor thing.  Later, we found out why she was so compassionate about other patients.  Grandma Rapalee was a nurse her whole life.  She told us (over and over) again that she had been a nurse for sixty-three years (this too cannot be confirmed but we all know she had been one for a long time.) 

Grandma was also a wonderful singer.  She told us she sang in the choir and in church.  Everybody would amusingly hear her singing her heart out along corridors or in her room.  When you don't hear her sing, it means she's sick.  She belts out Somewhere Over the Rainbow again and again.  Or Someday my Prince Will Come.  She also likes Elvis' Blue Suede Shoes, Love Me Tender and Can't Help Falling in Love.  But because of her dementia, she makes up her own lyrics to the songs, admit that she's making them up and we'd all laugh about it.  Something like: Someday, my prince will come; Someday, I'll find my love; And the moment that he comes to me; I will hang him up the old apple tree...

I remember the first few times we met.  We were in the parallel bars and I asked her if she remembered who I was.  She told me no.  I told her: Well, Ms Rapalee. I'm the mayor of this town. Her eyes widened and looking all surprised she asked me: You're not.  I said: I am, really.  She replied: Wow! Then suddenly looking disinterested said: If you say so! Then, we both cracked up.
What I didn't realize is that she truly identified me as the mayor.  And she would talk to the nurses and other residents about meeting the mayor.  In the dining room, she would loudly introduce me to her table-mates as the mayor of the town much to my chagrin.  The name stuck though and some of them started calling me Mayor in jest.  I started calling her Grandma when she told me she will adopt me.  Apparently, she told a lot of people she will adopt them according to her family.  I've seen her daughter and granddaughter visit her several times a week.  Both of them were attractive older women who are about as sweet as Grandma.  One day while she was doing her therapy at the gym, they came to visit her.  Grandma insisted that they take her home immediately without delay.  They told her: But, Grandma, you're too old to go home. Nobody will stay at home with you all day. We work.  You're two hundred years old remember?  To which Grandma replied: Two hundred's not old.  It's not like I'm two-fifty!  I burst out laughing again right then and there.

Three weeks ago, the same former boss texted me to tell me that Grandma is back on caseload.  She had bowel obstruction and they picked her back up after hospital discharge.  Grandma remembered the Mayor and the therapist (my boss) who's seeing her as my step sister.  I told her to tell Grandma that I miss her a lot and she better get well soon.

Last Friday, she sent me a text again.  She told me Grandma was on a decline since last week and they finally sent her out to the hospital in the morning.  She told me, Grandma passed at the hospital.  It broke my heart.  Funny, how that same morning, I heard Somewhere Over the Rainbow being played on the piano by one of the residents.  I thought of Grandma then, just as I am thinking of her now.  It is amazing how God plans our lives.  There are some people who stay in your life for a long time and not leave a mark at all.  And yet there are some who pass for the briefest of moments and leave an indelible print in your being.

I will miss Grandma so very much.  And I thank God for giving me her for even just a short time.  I know who I want to be as a healer.  I know who I want to be when I grow old and gray.  She must be making all the angels laugh up there and making heaven an even happier place than it's ever been.  So I bid her adieu, until we meet again, somewhere over the rainbow.

Click and View please

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oL4lzKCYDEw&feature=youtu.be

Certified Nursing Assistants

Today, Fiona, my boss who's an OT, and I went to do an in service for a pt who was referred by nursing for transfer training using a sit-to-stand lift.  This patient uses a Hoyer lift for transfers, meaning he is completely dependent in the transfer.  In attendance were maybe five or six CNAs (certified nursing assistants) (in the Philippines, we refer to them as caregivers) to check out the transfer technique.  After showing them how to do it, we were greeted by a straightforward response from them:  Transferring the pt through the sit-to-stand lift is cumbersome, inefficient and very time consuming.  It is not plausible, they claim, to use it on him cause it will just take too much time and there also would be a safety concern when they try to use it.

I understand what they are getting to.  They have to see many patients at a time and using the technique that we just taught is gonna take a lot more time that using a Hoyer.  In a way, I feel for them.  CNAs do the dirty job that the nurses don't do.  They are at the bottom of the pt care hierarchy: an RN is usually the unit manager and then you have the LPNs (licensed practical nurses) and then you have the CNAs.  The CNAs literally do the dirty job: clean up the pt, bathe the pt, dress the pt, change soiled clothes, feed the pt, get pt up and back in bed when needed.  They also get a measly pay, maybe several dollars more per hour than minimum wage.  What they do is physically taxing and I would not wonder why they would entertain thoughts of using the Hoyer on my patient right now because it is faster and convenient.  However, I also would want my pt to get better and that means I need him to have more active participation during the transfer which the Hoyer could not offer.

It is disappointing and sad when sometimes patients tell me that they have clicked on the nurse's call bell cause they need to go to the bathroom and nobody shows up until thirty or forty-five minutes later.  By then, they have already soiled themselves or have slid down on their wheelchairs from exhaustion.  Because of repeated instances, some of them no longer use the call bell and instead attempt to transfer themselves to the bathroom which eventually leads to falls and fractures.  They put the blame on the hapless and helpless CNAs.   Yes, like in every profession, there are good ones and bad ones.  But then again, maybe one or two CNAs are assigned for maybe up to ten beds at one time.  It is possible that while a patient turned the call bell on, the assigned CNA was helping another patient in the bathroom too.  But still they get the blame if they don't get out there and assist as soon as possible.  

It is a sad reality.  But we cannot always give the best care we want for our patients.  And, though, I would still insist on recommending the use of the sit-to-stand machine for toilet transfers with that particular patient, for now I would take time and appreciate the CNAs who were present there today.  At least they told us face front: We're not sure if we are gonna use it often with him, but let us at least try.  So for now, here is a hats off to my seldom recognized teammates in health care: the certified nursing assistants. 

The Bourne Legacy

Last year, when I learned that a new Bourne movie was coming out but Matt Damon was no longer the lead role, I didn't really care much for it.  But eventually, I wanted to watch the movie because it was shot in Manila, capital of the Philippines.  On the day it was released, I checked out rottentomatoes.com to see if it fared well with them.  It got a rating of 55%, not a really rotten tomato but not a red juicy one either.  It means that this movie seemed mediocre at best.

I just got to watch the movie today, more than a couple weeks since it was released.  For me, at least, it didn't disappoint up until the end when the conclusion of the film just came crashing like a sack of potatoes without warning.  I understand that they have to leave the movie hanging to keep the audiences expecting a sequel, but I really did wanted to have them pen a better ending. The rest of the film, though, was fast-paced, well shot and has gotten its act together so I highly recommend it.  

The new lead roles played by Jeremy Renner and Rachel Weisz were played very well.  It wasn't flawless but they did very well.  They also had the chemistry to match it with.  I did not understand why some critics say that their relationship was not established well in the movie.  I think they were able to develop the relationship at a good pace and did not seem contrived at all.

My main concern about the movie is that the plot is neither cohesive nor is it novel.  It almost resembled the first three Bourne movies without a new twist into it.  In the former movies, the CIA went after the tagged-rogue agent Jason Bourne and eliminate him to shut Operation Treadstone down.  Jason Bourne escaped and caused collateral damage in his path to save himself, his lover/wife and fight back against the agency he formerly worked for while discovering his identity and trying to stay very low profile to keep the agency off his back.  In this new movie, all Bourne-like operatives have to be eliminated inorder for a new set of Bourne-like-without-the-emotional-connection-aka-drama operatives could be set in place.  Renner, of course, survives the assassination attempt, was able to discover that he had his genes mutated by a virus to have permanent physical enhancement (increased strength, reflexes etc) and with the help of Weisz, travel to Manila to have his genes mutated again-- this time to have permanent neurological enhancement ( increase nerve regeneration, sensation etc).  Now, the CIA is tracking them down, wanting to kill them but because they are the stars of the film and there is a need for a sequel (with sarcastic rolling of the eyeballs), they manage to get out of it all, kill the lone Bourne-like-without-the-drama operative and in the end were sailing smooth along the beautiful lagoons of the Hundred Islands (this I am not sure of).  ---okay, just now I've been told it is El Nido, Palawan :-)

In order to keep the movie sequel interesting, Renner should have a real meeting or even a collaboration with  the real Bourne, Matt Damon in the movie.  They called it the Bourne Legacy, but Damon didn't even make a cameo appearance in the film.  I don't think the franchise will survive without Matt Damon, the face of the Bourne franchise, in the film at all.  

The shots taken in Manila was surprisingly very good.  It really caught me off guard.  I was expecting a less than savory portrayal of the Philippines as a third world country.  The film, however, managed to showcase a picture of what Manila and the entire Philippines is all about.  It is about a nation who is rising from the clasp of poverty and is getting ready to take center stage as a booming economy that could no longer be taken for granted.  The film showed the high rise buildings along with the simple, old, tin-roofed apartments and they even have a shot of Renner losing his footing on one of those roofs.  (I was wondering at first how Renner could have run on top of those tin roofs without having one of those roofs crash down.  Well, one of them eventually did.)  The movie also showcased the people traffic along the overpasses of EDSA, which was also accurate especially if you pass there at rush hours.  The portrayal of a woman screaming magnanakaw (thief) when she discovered a stranger (Weisz) in her home is also accurate.  The same could not be said of the ensuing events that followed.  In reality, the policemen will be last to answer the call for magnanakaw and God-forbid by the time they get there, Weisz would've been beaten black and blue by the townspeople. Hahaha! It was good though, how the movie portrayed how industrious our factory workers are and even that pharmacy lady who opted to give out medicine for free to the foreigner.  That would surely have escaped the eyes of all movie-goers except the real Filipino patriots like muah.

All in all, I would rate the movie a 7.5/10.  The storyline was legit and I don't think the movie would have gotten fairly harsh criticism if only it wasn't compared to the original Bourne trilogy which is a classic.  It's like  nothing was ever as good or nearly as good as The Godfather trilogy until GoodFellas came along (and perhaps none since).  Furthermore, it was able to project my country in a new light, something full of hope this time not of despair.  It featured the Philippines and its people with vibrancy and dynamism, an economy that is growing and healthy and it did showcase the beauty of its islands for which it should be known for as it should be.  Kudos to the cast and crew of the film and I am looking forward to its next installment.

(P.S.  for the Pinoys who were in the film [I googled them, of course] we have Antonette Garcia as the landlady, John Arcilla as the security guard and comedian Lou Veloso as the fisherman/owner of the fishing boat).

Language

So here I am deliberately deciding to allot time for writing an entry into my blog.  I am laying tummy down on my bed and staring at the laptop screen with nothing to write about in particular.  I decided to type away anyway.  Random things, random thoughts, random people.

I read this from the net this afternoon. http://ph.news.yahoo.com/yes--some-pinoy-%E2%80%98languages%E2%80%99-are-on-the-brink-of-extinction.html

Many people I met here in the US wonder if Gemma, my friend and housemate, are related.  We tell them we are not and they would then ask from which country we came from.  When we tell them we are from the Philippines, many of them would ask as what part.  That is sorta hard to answer.  I am surprised many of the Americans actually know where the Philippines is.  When they do, it is usually because of WWII or the former US military bases here in the country.  Few of them know of our beautiful beaches and culture, fewer still know that we were once an American colony.

I have to tell them that Gemma comes from the northern island, where Manila, the capital, is located.  She is from Isabela, an 8-hour bus trip from the megacity but I don't give them the details anymore.  I also tell them I come from the middle islands.  I was even pleasantly surprised when two of my patients were able to know where Iloilo is: one used to be a navigator during the WWII and the other married an Ilongga who died from breast cancer some 30 years ago. I am amazed that my seemingly insignificant hometown is known to some people halfway across the world.

Some are taken aback if they learned that Gemma and I have been here in the US less than a year.  I personally think I speak good English.  God did not give me good skin, towering height, broad shoulders, athleticism, musical ability, a long penis, a penchant for numbers or business.  But He gave me a gift for languages.  So I would like to say that given time and adequate training I can learn a language and speak it well, at least to a level deemed acceptable with true speakers of the language.  When I tell my patients, " Pacencia, no comprende, me no habla Espanyol", some of the bilingual nurses would tell me I sounded like I did.  I wish I truly did.  I wanted to be fluent at least in these four languages: Spanish (spoken by everybody from Mexico to the entire South America except Brazil), Niponggo, Korean and Chinese.  That will be for another lifetime, though.

When I tell people that Gemma and I don't speak the same language, they are curious how we communicate with each other.  I tell them we speak the common language which is Tagalog so we can understand each other.  With more than seven thousand islands in the country, we have amazingly have developed many languages and many more dialects.  Hiligaynon, for example, is a language and Karay-a and Akeanon are dialects or sub-languages.  Karay-a is spoken by people from the western to the northwestern part of Iloilo and Antique.  Since Karay-a is mostly spoken by people from the fields and mountains, it is considered by the city-dwellers somewhat inferior compared to regular Ilonggo.  Therefore, although fiercely defending their heritage, the Karay-a speakers eventually transition to speaking the more conventional, more acceptable Ilonggo.  They would still speak Karay-a when speaking to family and friends from their hometown, but their intonation and diction transform to the more fluid and somewhat musical way of speaking Ilonggo.  That, I believe eventually leads to the death of a language/dialect.  People become socially intermingled and start losing some of their individualism.

I speak Ilonggo myself, but I can't stand listening to a Mass in vernacular.  I couldn't understand the words that the priests use.  Not being able to use many words in daily conversation eventually erode you ability to comprehend even your own language.  The loss of vocabulary will eventually be replaced by typical common words that does not reflect the distinction of your language.  I hope these endangered languages could be saved, if only for purely academic purposes.  They surely would bring light to our past as a people, united by a country of many islands and a horde  of wonderful, wonderful languages.

Yes, I am Pro RH because I am Pro-poor

We just moved to our new apartment after almost a couple months being holed up at Best Western Hotel and I just got my internet back.  I would have written more entries in the last couple months if only I got time and space to write everything down.  Today, I got both so here I go.

I am writing about the RH bill and the reasons why I am supporting it.  If you are able to read this blog entry at all, I assume you already have made a choice--you either support it or you don't.  Let me be the first to tell you that you don't have to read this to be informed.  The fact that you are reading this right now online I reckon means that you have access to the information you need on reproductive health, family planning and sex education.  If you say you don't, then your ignorance is your own fault altogether.

Let me start by saying that the RH Bill is not for you and I.  You are reading this entry, you are reading this online.  I assume you are educated.  Therefore this is not for you.  The RH Bill is for the millions of Filipinos who are poor, those without access to the right information on reproductive health and family planning, those who cannot read this entry just because they don't have access or they don't know how to turn on the computer and much less use it to be informed.  The RH Bill is for the poor and the poorly educated, not you and I.

Families and couples have the right to choose how large they would want their families to be. It is mostly subject to the availability of funds.  Yes, a big family is fun.  You have a lot of hands to help around the house, farm or business. You have a lot of support in times of crisis.  You will not run out of playmates and nannies to watch over the kids.  You have more people to help you with work, with projects, with assignments.  But common sense also dictates that having more people to support entails that you have to have enough resources to support them: basic necessities, education, healthcare, etc.  All of those things will put a strain on your resources unless you are enviably wealthy. A couple with a college degree for example with a combined income of thirty thousand a month would probably be able to support one child quite comfortably.  But even they would fall below poverty line if they have five or six children.  How much more a lavandera and a tricycle driver with the same number of kids? Or a saleslady and a security guard? Which is why I am saying that the RH Bill is not for you and I, the somehow okay people.  People who can get by.  This is for the poor.  When a lavandera comes to the government for help because she can no longer support the number of children she has, it is only rightful for the state to help her.  How? One way is to educate her on alternative methods of contraception.  Education is still the best way to set our people free from the chains of poverty.

The Philippines is the 12th most populous nation in the world. Now there would be studies claiming either population is or isn't what makes a country rich or poor.  I just find it so contradictory to common sense whichever says that a huge population doesn't equate to poverty.  We have a hundred million people cramped like sardines in a tiny piece of land in the Pacific ocean.  We have one-third the entire US population and one-tenth the entire Chinese population in a land of dwindling resources.  Note though, that China and the US are the third and fourth largest countries in the world respectively.  The Philippines has a hundred million mouths to feed three times a day. A hundred million mouths requiring sustenance and support pushing our land and resources to the brink of total devastation.  Add to that the fact that we are at the center of climate change with massive storms claiming lives, livestock and grain every so often.  How much more can our fragile land of diminishing resources take before we have a land left barren and unable to provide food, water and basic necessities?

Overpopulation, they say, is not the problem.  It is the corruption in the government, inequality in the distribution of  wealth and greed of the rich. They say that if they get these resolved first, then poverty will be eradicated. Yes, I admit they are problems. They are very serious problems indeed. I hope I don't sound so cocky and condescending but not even Jesus Himself, when He still walked the earth, was able to eradicate them.  Yes, they have to be addressed but as they are so deeply rooted on our beings, on our culture, on our society, they won't be resolved in a year or even ten.  That is a fact. We can stem them little by little but we can never eradicate them completely.  That, too, is a fact.

The barrage of anti-RH bill supporters finding all that is wrong and evil about contraception is now overwhelming.  They have researched thoroughly all the studies pointing to the relationship of contraception and cancer and diabetes and whatever there is they can find.  I would like to thank them for that.  Because if the RH Bill is passed into law, their information would be vital for couples to choose which one they would use, if they indeed decide to, based on their pros and cons.  I just hope that they stop implying that with the government supplying people with their chosen contraceptive, they are in effect giving them cancer. That is just so f****d up, pardon my French.

I am thinking of probably writing a second part for this entry as this is getting too long and long blog entries bore people.  Let me just explain one more thing before I finish this.  The issue of the being pro-RH or anti-RH is not just as simple as being left or right, black or white, up or down.  It is not even just about the degradation or preservation of our nation's morality.  Nor is it just about correct or incorrect management of the country.  It is more about choice.  It is all about choice.  If you think that using contraceptives is immoral and sinful, then don't use it.  If you think that it's a blessing to have many children in your family, then go ahead.  It's your choice, it's your right and it shall be rightfully respected.

However, if a couple decides they cannot support any more and they choose to use contraceptives. Respect their choice, too.  If they cannot afford to do so and asks the government for help, it should be the government's responsibility to look after them.  If you say, "but they are using my taxes to pay for their contraceptives", shall I assume that not only are you anti-freedom but also anti-poor?  Just a question to ponder.

Failing Heroes

We all grow up with our own heroes.  Hero: a person we always wanted to become.  As kids, we have always looked up to our parents.  Boys wanted to be big and strong like their dads and girls wanted to be beautiful and loving like their moms.  Boys wanted to be like Superman or Wolverine. Girls dreamed of being Barbie or the Pink Ranger.  We all wanted to become like our heroes.  What happens then if the heroes that we look up to fail?

The first hero (or should I say heroine) I looked up to was Maningning Miclat.  You probably never heard of her.  But I did.  She was an artist, a painter and a trilingual poet.  I have always written poetry even as a kid.  But it was my discovery of Maningning's work (as well as Robert Frost and Edgar Allan Poe) that influenced me to take poetry writing seriously.  I was in highschool then, with all my raging hormones to compel me with burning passion to write about life and love begotten or unrequited, it didn't matter.  I wrote with a passion the way Maningning did on hers.  I so adored her I would sneak into National Bookstore during the weekend to read parts of her Voice from the Underworld book.  It broke my heart, then, when I learned she leapt to her death from a campus building.  My heroine was gone. My heart was broken. 

I was, too, a strong environmentalist as a child, hence my vast knowledge of nature stuff and my profound love for nature documentaries.  I would rather watch a nature documentary than watch a film on TV for that matter.  But my nature-freak nature doesn't end there.  Until now I am never comfortable throwing anything not into a garbage can.  I rather bring a candy wrapper home and throw it properly into the trashcan than just flip it conveniently into the streets. And so when I learned that actress Chin Chin Gutierrez was a strong environmental  activist, I fell head over heels for her.  She is also unbelievably beautiful and ageless.  She became my other heroine, even more so when she grazed the cover of Time magazine in 2003 as an Asian hero for the environment.  My heroine though, is fighting a losing battle.  In my beautiful country, the Philippines, poverty and overpopulation is pushing Mother Nature on her back.  By the end of the 21st century, if people and our leaders will not act soon, the country will be but and empty shell of of bare rocks, our people starved to death and ravaged by war and hunger.

For the last nine years, the hero that I looked up to is Lebron James, the basketball superstar.  I watched the NBA again because of him.  I looked up to LBJ because he is everything I wanted to become in my next life:  Big, strong, athletic, unbelievably wealthy.  He is of the same age as I am, a month younger than me.  And I've always cheered him on despite all the controversies surrounding him.  I wanted him to win a ring so bad to shut all the haters up and have his place in history as one of the best players to ever grace the basketball floor.  It is his ninth season already, and he is almost 28 years old.  Not as young anymore. Still no rings.  It seems like he remains a promise, a promise that is about to be blown out again this year in the playoffs.  I am writing this entry while watching their game.  I hope they win.  I don't want another hero in my life to fail.  Not now.  Not again. 

Nocab

I would like to dedicate an entire blog post to one of the best things in life:

No, I am not talking about love between these two characters.  I am talking about what they are cooking.  Crispy delicious bacon!  Look at that orgasmic expression on that woman's face.  Bacon!  Bacon bacon bacon! You are so delicious to the taste.  You make my heart go pit-a-pat, literally and figuratively.  But oh how tasty you are.  And you know it:

The wafting smell of bacon cooking in the frying pan gets me high.  Bacon is my weed. My coke.  My meth.  It gets me high.  So does my blood pressure.  But I don't care.  Bacon. Bacon. Bacon.  You are my one true love.  You are a king among hypertensive foods.  I love you with all my heart.  I love you more than I love my heart.  Heart attack or cardiac delight? Bacon bacon bacon! You are mine!

I. Love. Bacon.

Old?

You're only as old as you think you are.  

It sounds like a cliche ain't it?  Age is just a number.  Or really is it?

Working in a nursing home made me realize that yes, this statement is true.  Among the most fascinating people in this world are elderly.  It is hard to picture them interesting.  Most people only see the elderly in two pictures: (1) the wizened old oak who will share the secrets of the universe before he passes and (2) the decrepit invalid who soils himself and you wish never to become.  Both perceptions are also inaccurate.  Not all old people are wise, I'm telling you.  Aging is universal, maturity is not.  This explains why you can find 40-year-olds living in their parents house cause they don't want to find a steady decent job to pay for house rent.  This also explains my dumbass 50-something year old schizophrenic uncle who gives tantrums like a two year old when he's not given booze.  In fact, maturity is a choice and is highly likely to be influenced by surrounding circumstances.  I mean, people in the Philippines grow up to be pampered and coddled by their parents.  This means it is not embarrassing or taboo to be 30 and still living under your parents' roof.  I was that person too.  Until I moved out here to the US where I realized at 27, I am still a baby.  I have to be mature or at least act mature so as not to look dumb. 

The second statement is also inaccurate.  Those who are considered bed-ridden vegetables are but shells of real people with real lives.  They are existing, albeit no longer living and have all gone to their tiny pieces of heaven without having their spirits cut off from the mortal world. Yet.  It's like they are waiting for their number to be called so they could go into eternity. 

Age really is just a number.  I have seen an elderly resident putting on makeup and mascara and makes friendly flirtations with the guys.  She calls me her little China doll and I playfully as her to prepare for our date.  There is also an elderly guy who calls all the ladies baby, cause he says, I wanna take care o' all o'em!  These exchanges are funny as hell when you meet them.  And the laughter it brings them surely adds years to their lives.

It may seem weird seeing the elderly act like youngsters but truly, fascinating it is  to see people with spirits that cannot be broken by time.  Whose enthusiasm drowns out all the negativity in the world and replace it with a smile.  I wish I will always have a spirit like that.

Three days ago, I worked with a patient who i expected would be b***h.  Turned out to be one of the coolest grannies I've ever met.  She is almost 90 and lives in an assisted living facility.  She told me: nothing scares me honey.  I have had three heart attacks, five strokes, a broken wrist, two broken hips, a broken rib cage and a broken leg and I am still raring to go!  I always do what I set my heart into.  I never consider myself old.  My spare parts are beginning to break down but what the hell.  I was skating at 75 years old!

Me: Is that why you broke your hip?

With a smile she replied: Yes.  And I broke my wrist and ribs climbing up a tree, too.  :-)

*********************************************************************************

Shock

It was warm this morning.  I woke up late, rushed through my morning routine of fixin' my breakfast and packed lunch and strode to work.  I strode with as much gusto as coffee can give you whilst listening to Fall Out Boy on my Ipod to work.  This day will be good I can tell.  Everything was going smoothly until I walked into the door.

I clocked in.  Several seconds later my boss told me the bad news.  Nope, nobody of importance died.  Nope, I am not getting fired.  Nope I am not getting sued.  She told me somberly, they want us out of this facility by the end of the month.  I gave her a confused look and a 'huh?'-face.  She said yes, you heard me right.  They want their own people coming in to replace us.  It took kinda long for me to digest what she just said.  Then I saw Curtis, a PT assistant, reach for the phone and called Lucy Corr if they got a position open for him there.  Yes, there will be a shakeup and we are definitely moving out.  It's not a rumor anymore.  We are being kicked out.

I am not losing my job.  I still have a job, I just don't know where.  And wherever that is, I'm sure it will be stressful.  It is a proven scientific fact, that moving to a different place and getting a new job are among the most stressful events in one's life.  It is a strong possibility too that I will get both by the end of the month.  I hate to relocate.  I hate to start over again.  But I have no choice.   It's not the work that bothers me, it's the adjustment that I have to make all over again.

Just when I thought I was transitioning rather smoothly to living my American dream, here goes the shake up.  I've worked here for four months and during that period I have learned a lot from the people I am working with now.  I remember several months back that the people there just come in to work, do what they have to do and go home.  It's like there is no personal connection among them, everything is purely professional.  But lately, we have been sharing some laughs together, stories, nonsense and we kid around all the time.  It makes work light and even the patients who do their therapy there take part in  the camaraderie that we all enjoy.  I would like to think that I have helped a whole lot in making this transformation by opening up and doing silly stuff around which made them think I am not uptight and reciprocated my playfulness.  I consider them now as a small family.

A small family about to be broken up even before we made stronger bonds.  And now I will be forced to make new bonds with no assurances that the people I will be working with next aren't a-holes.  That the place I will be relocated at will be as convenient and accessible.  Until now, I don't drive.  And that is an immense handicap I have to face. 

I don't know what the future holds.  For now, I will sleep.  Still confused.  Still in shock.

Exchanges

I have been here working in the US for more than three months now.  Three months away from family and friends, familiar faces and places, grinding daily on my own.  Yes, I have adjusted to the work and the workplace.  And no, I still am not driving which sucks bigtime.  However, let me share some of the lighter stuff with you.  I work with amazing people and though there are some patients who can be pains in the butt from time to time, most of them are funny, sometimes intentional, sometimes not, but I laugh my heart out nonetheless.  These small and big laughs I share with them is like a ray of sunshine amidst the gray clouds of loneliness and helps keep me going day after day after day.

To keep patient confidentiality I will not reveal their real names but I will name them with their initials.  But for one patient in particular, I shall call her Grandma as she is the star amongst these funny retorts. Grandma is hard of hearing which makes it even funnier. Here we go:

*********************************************************************************
Julie (Speech Therapist):  You are very likeable.
Grandma: I'm like a Baptist?
J: No, you are very likeable.
Grandma: I'm like a boy?
 J:  ...........   (facepalm)
*********************************************************************************

Julie: I live in Midlothian
Grandma: You live in the middle of the ocean?

*********************************************************************************

Julie: What did you have for lunch today, broccoli or green beans?
AT: Well I had broccoli.  But everyone else calls it green beans.

*********************************************************************************

 After lunch I went to see a patient in the dining hall to see if she was done eating.  I came down there as she was eating her dessert.

Me: Ms MS.  How do you like your apple pie?
MS:  Oh, it is wonderful dear!  Now get me out of here before I vomit!
Me:  (burst out laughing)

********************************************************************************

 MS: Ooooh those buttercups are pretty but mind you they could be poisonous.  One day I saw my pets eating them and oooooh those cats were as sick as a dog!

                        Irony, anybody? :-)
********************************************************************************

    Grandma watching people going out the rehab door..
Grandma:  Everybody in my neighborhood has a big behind.  (Looks at me with curious eyes)  Now tell me why is that?
Me:  (laughs) I dunno Grandma, ask them.

*******************************************************************************

Julie:  Oh, I feel dumb today.
AT:  I can tell by the way you look.   (hahaha!)

*******************************************************************************

Amy (my boss, rehab manager):  Grandma, you look lovely today! Who cut your hair?
Grandma: My grand daughter (she mistakes her daughter for her grand daughter often)
Amy:  How can I get a haircut like yours?
Grandma: I don't know.  You have to bring your head over there.

*******************************************************************************

Ambulation training.
Me: Okay, Grandma, remember! Walker, bad leg, good leg.  Ready?
Grandma: Okay.  (Stands up but farts loudly along the way)
Me: Oh, c'mon Grandma, you farted!
Grandma: There is no such word.  Try poop.
Me: Bwahahaha Grandma that's even worse.  Sit down.  (laughs uncontrollably)

*******************************************************************************

In the dining hall

Me: Grandma, where do you sit here?
Grandma: On my ass.
Me: ......

*******************************************************************************

Yes, our work as physical therapists is physically, mentally and emotionally demanding.  We earn our living by balancing being nice and stern.  But not everything that matters is work and earning money.  If you love your job, such as I do, and spiced up with this quirky retorts from people I serve, it seldom even seems like real work at all. Till next time! See ya!

Impulse

Tuesday it was when my internal conflict began.  It was warm outside 75 to 80-ish weather with the spring sun up high in the almost cloudless sky.  I hate the sun on my face.  I don't hate the sun itself, mind you, and I can deal with the heat.  But I hate the sun on my face.  It burns my face up like a dried leaf and fertilizes my face for new acne growth.  Acne which I should have gotten over with after puberty, but no.  It lingers on forever, a flaw I assume God Himself assured to make me human.  Without my imperfect skin, damn, I would be the perfect Homo Sapien specimen on the planet.  Oh yeah!

Well, anyway, at midday during lunchtime, I suddenly had a craving for ice cream.  Ice cream is one of the few sweets I love and I am craving for it now.  I wanted a Rocky Road or a Cookies and Cream right then and there.  That is when my internal strife began.  Part of me wanted to go to Walmart after work and grab myself an ice cream to satisfy my craving.  But then again, it was too hot outside and the sun will be on my face.  I hate the sun on my face.  And still I crave for ice cream and the only way to get rid of the craving to buy one from Walmart.  But it was too hot outside and the sun will be on my face.  I hate the sun on my face. And so goes my internal conflict about whether to get that ice cream or not.

It went on through the afternoon.  Me debating  with myself over the ice cream.  Not eating ice cream will not kill me and between want and hate, hate is a stronger emotion. And I hate the sun on my face.  So I decided, I will walk straight home after work.  No more trip to Walmart for a half-quart of ice cream which I probably will just leave inside the freezer for a long time before discovering I didn't really want ice cream after all.  So that was that, no ice cream, I am shading my face from the sun with my trusty stolen white folder going straight home. 

After my last patient, I logged my minutes out, locked the therapy room and headed out the door.  I had a cap on, my backpack, my Ipod playing James Blunt's I'll Be Your Man and my folder on one hand.  As I walked along the roadside, I realized how I no longer am the YesMan I used to be.  And that is a shame. When I was younger, I prided myself on the fact that I am one driven by my impulses and I follow them with much gusto I didn't really care what everyone else wanted.  I wasn't swayed by the crowd.  At times I even sway the crowd.  If I had the impulse to eat something from somewhere, by hook or by crook I will get that by the end of the day, no matter what it takes, by God, I will get that!  That was who I was.

I like to think that that is still who I am.  But, no, as I grew older impulses give way to rational thought.  There is nothing wrong with rational thought, of course.  In fact, it is a sign of wisdom.  But hell, it makes things predictable and boring.  Would I really give up my childish impulses which reminds me of my youth, to the convenience of rationalizing everything so I have an excuse to say no?  I don't think so.

So today my friends, I am young again.  I decided the ice cream was worth fighting for.  I still hate the sun but giving in to that one silly impulse, for a moment, gave my heart a sense of victory, something so remotely distant for people who are starting to forget how it is to be young.  For a moment there, I was young.  I was free.

Mother

It was a lazy afternoon when we spoke.  If I remember correctly, she was the last patient I saw for that day. For confidentiality's sake let us call her Ms S.  Ms. S is one of my favorites.  She is easy to be with, has a sarcastic sense of humor which is of course to my taste, and we often talk about silly things during therapy.  But what started out as a light conversation while she was on the exercise bike eventually led to something serious, sad even.  Here is Ms S' story:

Me: Ms S, you seem to have pretty eyes, what color were they before you got old and wrinkly?
                *we both laugh*
Ms S: Well there were blue, but now it's more of a blue-gray.  I also had rich blonde hair.
Me: You must've been beautiful back then.
Ms. S: I'm not sure about beautiful, but I think I was pretty.
Me: Wow talk about confidence huh?  *we both laugh* I'm sure many guys wanted to date you.
Ms. S: Well yes I did have many of them.  Until I met my husband.
Me: Is you husband handsome?
Ms S: Yes he was.  The girls were always chasing him.
Me: Even after he married you?
Ms S: More so even after he married me. Hihihi.
Me: Seriously? So you mean he had an affair?
Ms S: Oh yes he did.
Me: With different women?
Ms S: Not really.  He had this one woman for so long...

As Ms S shared her story with me, I can feel like she is holding back tears.  She opened up her heart for me, and out gushed her emotions.  Something she kept by herself for so long, to so few.  I must be one of the precious few she trusted enough to hear her story.

Ms S: I always knew he was unhappy with me.  We had three girls already and I can't seem to make him feel happy or proud of me.  There is a distance in his eyes and his arms that stops us from getting close.  And then I got pregnant again, and this time it was a boy.  I thought having a baby boy for him would make him happy, but I was wrong.  He grew more distant.  And though we lived under the same roof, I knew he didn't love me.  He loved his other woman....

And so it went on.  I learned that the other woman stayed remained until they got old and gray.  I asked Ms S., " So did you fight back? Did you fight for your husband?"

She said, "I wanted to but I didn't.  I didn't want any trouble. I was busy anyhow tending to the kids. But one day I almost did.  He took his woman with him to our home. Well she didn't come in but I saw her pickup truck outside.  I wanted to grab her and slap her.  But I was thinking of the kids. It would break them.  I'd rather they have an illusion of a happy home that shatter their lives by revealing to them that their dad is a cheat.  I'd rather keep the pain to myself than bear it on the children.  So I never told them.  Even until now, they don't know..."

"I kept thinking what made him unhappy with me.  It's maybe because I don't drink too much or party too much like he does.  I don't have his lifestyle.  So I can't make him happy.  But I took care of him when he got sick.  I took care of him until he passed. That woman never even came to see him"

"Do you love him that much?"

"I don't know.  I love my kids more. I was a mother first and a wife second. You can call it love, you can call it loyalty.  I did the best I could.  You know I never tell many people about this.  Not even some of my closest friends know."

"So I guess I'm special huh?," I smiled.  She gave a small laugh, "I guess, honey, I guess you are."

**********************************************************************************

Life is a matter of perspective.  You can call it unconditional love, unwavering loyalty or spineless martyrdom. Her story took a lifetime to realize.  She wanted to protect the unhappy marriage because she wanted to protect the kids.  Is this sacrifice a sullen form of idiocy, a sad and lonely state of passive aggression or is it because she wants to set him free?  Is it worth it in the end? Is your love worth fighting for after all?

Pikchoors

Just because I don't have an expensive camera and I  absolutely have zero know-how with photo editing doesn't mean I can't take good pictures.  And take note: I just took snapshots I didn't really focus too well on every detail. Enjoy! (as if you'll enjoy this hahaha)

Dusk Amidst A Perfect Sky

Light and Shade

Entrance of Colors

Arms Raised to the Heavens


And my favorite picture:

Cherry Blossoms

Shame

Today is the 9th of March, a couple of months has passed since I got here to find myself a more decent livelihood, perhaps a better life for me and my family.  In my two months, I've had a lot of fun learning experiences I want to share with you, if you still manage to read my blog.  Anyway, here we go.

Let me start by saying that I haven't cried yet since I got here.  Crying is supposed to be one of the stages I have to pass through being away from family and all.  But no, I haven't, although at one point I almost did.  I suppose I'm happy to distract myself by watching TV and playing computer games and drown the world out.  I am learning again how to work with patients, something I haven't done in a long time.  I am learning how to be relevant again in my chosen career and by the grace of the Heavenly Boss little by little I am regaining my confidence in patient care.

Today, the 9th of March, I felt so ashamed of myself.  I am a proud man most of the time.  But today I am ashamed of myself.

Amy is my boss at the workplace and Jenny is a PT assistant.  They were the first PTs ever when the facility I working in now opened more than a couple years ago.  I have great admiration for both of them.  I don't know if I can call them my friends, or what friendship entails in this part of the planet, but I admire both of them.  Not only do they have great ethic at work, they embody what a physical therapist should really be.  On the sides, while I'm working with my patients I steal glances and learn how they deal with their own.  I am amazed by the smoothness and grace of their patient handling, their efficiency and how well they manage their time with patients.  Most of all, my greatest admiration comes from their ardent desire to fight for every patient, to ensure that every patient gets the best care they need.  With Jenny especially, she has this tremendous passion to help her patients.  Now where does the shame on my part fit in here?  Lemme explain.

Several days ago I evaluated a patient with a bagful of complicated pathology including a viral encephalitis that he got from simple knee arthoscopy.  He looked like he was in terrible shape and that no amount of therapy would ever get him back to where he was before.  I told some people at the office that I didn't know why they even him to a skilled nursing facility when they should've sent him to hospice.  He clearly is gonna be a vegetable and it's pointless to even give him therapy.  It then surprised me during team meeting a couple days after when his name was mentioned and Jenny goes on a barrage of let's try this, let's try that on him.  And in my mind I was like Oh c'mon goodluck on your dream to have him get any better +2 max assist on everything zzzzzzz.  Jenny said, I am not ready to give up on him just yet.

I am not ready to give up on him just yet.  I am not ready to give up on him just yet....

Today, I saw the patient sitting on a good new wheelchair fitted for him by Amy and Jenny.  He was sitting with good trunk control.  He does look better.  I wouldn't really know how much progress he will make but yes he does look better.  He didn't seem as useless as I expected him to be.  I felt ashamed of myself.  Here I am calling someone useless, never gonna get better without even giving it a try.  I judged him based on that first assessment and condemned him to being an infirm, an invalid for the rest of his life.  I haven't given it my all.  I had given up too quickly.

I am not a religious person but I consider myself somewhat spiritual.  I will not say God-stuff just to impress people or what ever bullcrap you do with it.  But I know one thing.  Me seeing Amy and Jenny work their asses off to help that patient was no accident.  It was part of my Heavenly Boss' masterplan for me.  He showed me why I am a physical therapist, why He pushed me towards service for others.  Through Amy and Jenny, He showed me my purpose in life.  With that, the shame starts ebbing away and a new sense of determination slowly sets in. I may not be the best therapist there is clinically, but hell I will try.  I will not take the easiest way out each time I encounter a difficult case.

This is my mission.  God hasn't given up on me just yet and so will I to the patients I serve.

White

This is a voyage I took

Two hundred years ago

              to a land 

      barren of passion.

My last vision is you

In tears waving a white glove

        waving goodbye

Yes, goodbye

And the shade of your parasol

Hides the silvery drop of

Salty tears on your face.

This journey,

This journey is empty

 Without you in it.

Without your smile

         your mood

             Your white glove

It is empty.

Now is when life ended

And existence 

                    begins.

A life 

A life without you in it

Is a voyage I took

Two hundred years ago

   to a land barren

       of passion

To a land where there is no life.

No life

There is no life without you.

And so I stay on

       to merely exist.

11:40pm 2/20/12