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.

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:

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

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

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 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)

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 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? :-)
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    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.

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

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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.

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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)

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In the dining hall

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

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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.

A Long Friday

For the first time ever, I went home and the first thing I did was open a bottle of beer and smoke a cigarette.  I have never drank a bottle of beer alone, nor smoked a cigarette straight from work here.  This day is more unique than others I think.

I told you the last couple posts that I work with the elderly.  Some are nice, some are funny, some are hopeless and some are downright nasty.  You have to deal with different people everyday, it is given, but add to that the effects of multiple medications, time of day, weather, and whatever extra credit you can think of and it makes dealing with people less than appealing to the physically, socially and emotionally unprepared.  

Today I dealt with a patient who gives me a hard time.  He is in his 90's, with multiple pathology, multiple attachments, easily angered and basically deaf due to presbycusis.  This is a patient I have to talk to through sign language and a communication board or paper.  You can imagine how hard it is to educate, instruct or simply do small talk with that man.  And since he is very impatient, he just screams when you do something that does not please him or whatever. He is also dysphagic so speaking is difficult for him which makes it worse. It's a guessing game what he wants and you just have to grin and bear the sh*t you do to make him go to or/and do therapy.  

Today, I asked a certified nursing assistant (CNA), a euphemism for a caregiver, to get him up, dressed and ready for therapy by 11.  She complied.  By 11 I came to pick him up and the nurse told me he has to get back into bed so the wound physician can see his sores on the buttocks.  I asked the CNA to get him back into bed and she told me why do you need my help? And I said well I need help to get him back into bed.  She said I don't know why I can get him in and out of bed on my own, and I'm a woman and why you would need help doing so.  In my mind, errrr cause that's your job? Well anyway to make the long story somewhat shorter she did it herself and stomped out the door making me feel stupid and worthless.  I had to take it though it did pinch my ego.  Anyway, I scribbled on the board that I gotta leave and see some other patient while the he waits for his doctor.  Frantically, the patient scribbled back: Please don't go.  I wrote back: Well I can't stay here I have a schedule to keep.  He replied: Please stay. I want you to be here when the doctor comes.  I need you to interpret for me. U understand me.

It broke my heart.  This man, this man from hell, made me feel special, needed.  He didn't ask for his nurse, or his nursing assistant.  He wanted me to be there cause he trusts me I guess.  Cause maybe I did something that others who are involved in his care plan didn't.  It did make me proud despite the fact that afterwhich he screamed again at me when I didn't get his foot orthosis back on in the exact way he wanted it to.  Oh well, you can't win em all.

That afternoon, around 3 o'clock, I was scrambling to get more patients.  I still had three patients to see, the clouds outside didn't look friendly and talk of snow during the weekends abounded.  I had to get the three of them done so I can go home by 530 which around here is dusk.  On my way to my new patient's room (let's call the patient "A", patient "B" called me from across his room.  B is a Parkinson's patient who almost made me cry on my first day on the job.  I worked with him a couple more times and now we are somewhat good friends.  He called me in, and although my precious time is being consumed, I obliged.  He wanted to change cause he 'wet' himself.  I told him I will tell the nurse to get the assistance he needs.  The nurse pointed me to a CNA incharge of B.  I told her he needs help and she just told me: Oh I'm sorry but I'm just about to go home. Just wait until the next shift comes and she'll help him out.  Wow! I was mortified! I just couldn't understand why you couldn't help the man while you're still at it.  Anyhow, I saw the man, standing, trying to get his pants off to change himself.  He is a PD patient my God he could fall anytime! So i did what I think I had to do.  I told my patient on the opposite end of the room that I'll come back for her and went on to help B who wasn't my patient at all! I helped him change, wiped him clean, threw out the soiled clothes, etc.  I know I didn't do everything right and sanitized everything perfect, damn I din't even have gloves on.  But I did what I have to do eventhough it wasn't my job at all.  I mean, I am far from patting myself of the back and calling me hero, but at that time, it was the right thing to do.  As a consequence though, I lost 30 mins of precious time.  I had to cramp the schedule of the other three patients so I can go home by 530.  I did get their complete minutes but some minutes were overlapped which shouldn't happen cause it should be a 1:1 patient-therapist ratio.

I texted my boss about the incident and she told me I did the right thing and she will report the said CNA to whoever she called them.  I told her I don't want any trouble with anybody and I just want to do my work as peacefully as possible without any strife with anybody.  I'm sure if she finds out I complained on it, the CNAs will gossip amongst themselves how horrible, inefficient and stupid a PT I am, which I do not contest entirely. Bur argh the drama of this day makes it so unbearable.  And so...

For the first time ever, I went home and the first thing I did was open a bottle of beer and smoke a cigarette.  I have never drank a bottle of beer alone, nor smoked a cigarette straight from work here. Damn this was a looooooong day.

Journey?

It is one lazy afternoon here where I am now. It's been a long time since I've written an entry so I decided to write one this time.  I'm sure my followers, which number to errrr about 3, are curious to know how I'm doing here.  Let me get to that in a while.  Before anything else, I would want anybody reading this now to take a 5 second pause.  Think of where you are now, how far you've gone, who are you with through all of this and where you are going in this journey of life....Erm, your 5 second ain't up yet but well okay here we go.

I've been away from home for almost a month.  Even in that so short a time, it feels like years.  Gone from mind is the school I used to work in, the places I regularly go to, people I regularly see.  I haven't had a beer in almost a month.  Surprisingly,  I am not craving it.  Maybe, it's because of the weather. Maybe it's because I don't have anyone to share it with.  I wanted to buy a six-pack and bring it home, but I don't think I would enjoy drinking it here on my own.  You see, I live alone.  I live in a quaint and cozy apartment with a small swan lake behind it, surrounded by a cover of trees.  The place is as pretty as it can be.  Not fantabulous but it'll work for now.  I don't have friends to see, friends who live nearby or people I might consider friend material.  I don't want to be too clannish but I do want to have a Filipino friend over here.  Sadly, I don't.  And for now I have to grin and bear it.

It was naive of me to think I'm not gonna have it too hard over here.  I was wrong, I was dead wrong.  Everything here is just a lil bit out of touch from me, from what I know of, from my culture.  Everyone around here is just a lil bit colder than the people I am used to dealing with.  Every person here is so self-absorbed with their own lives, I don't think they make real connections with people they meet around them.  But that's about it, I probably am misjudging them just because I find it hard to get around the place, the people and the system.

I walk my way to work and to the grocery.  So you might say pretty much, I ain't goin anywhere. I don't have a car cause I don't know how to drive so I just do whatever it is I have to do.  So I walk.  I walk for about 15-20 minutes to work.  Here is a view of the trails I have to pass to go to work.

This is right outside of my apartment complex.

After going straight ahead I had to turn and make a shortcut through this trail over here.  And then I walk on the side of the highway precariously watching out for crazy drivers.



In the mornings, I usually bring a hot mug of coffee with me, sipping slowly to keep me a lil bit warm on the way to work.  And then after that I grind for eight to nine hours, go home and pretty much do the same things over and over again.  It is straining you know, you get to work, letting time fly by so you could get home and pretty much do nothing to do the same thing over again tomorrow.  You look forward to the weekends which is just about as dull as any other day, except that you can sleep longer and do no patients.   It is not fun here I am telling you.

I understand now that it is harder to have the world bend around you than you bending around it.  I have always prided myself that I can.  But in here I feel helpless.  I can't do much because I can't go anywhere without a car and without a real friend.  I am not sad mind you.  But I am somewhat lonely.  You know that feeling that you seem stoned and the time just passes by without you making real lasting memories?  You become automatic, doing things just because you have to not because you want to.  What I want right now is a cold bottle of beer and a nice light chat in my own native tongue and somebody worth sharing a drink with.

Life is hard, they say.  It is only now that I know what it meant.  Don't worry about me though.  I get by.  Just think of this as my incubation period before I release the true form of my virus.  Nyahaha.  Till then, America, watch out!

Perceptions

I went home last Monday night somehow tipsy after several bottles of beer.  I took a cab, and after I dropped my friend off, I struck a conversation with the taxi driver, as I usually do.  Ever since, I enjoy conversing with taxi drivers.  I always do, and in the short span of the fifteen or twenty minute drive home, every once in awhile I learn something I will never know from people in the upper echelons of society.

I am a teacher, so why you wonder, do I bother to talk to taxi drivers?  I talk to them because they are people you don't notice everyday but more often than not they probably notice you.  Nevermind that you will never remember them, their faces, their demeanors.  It is meant to be that way.  It's the same way you don't remember cleaning ladies/gentlemen in restaurants or malls.  They keep their heads low so you never notice them.  But hell do they know many things about people around them all the time.  You don't heed them listening (eavesdropping) or glancing over (spying) and like oysters under murky, nutrient or waste-rich waters they sift and filter through everything.  They know some things you don't expect them to mostly mundane daily activities, mannerisms and gossips.  In the workplace, it is always helpful to befriend low-levelled blue-collared workers as they are mostly loyal and helpful with things around.  They can be your eyes and ears to help you tread carefully within the halls of politics and personal agenda.

It is from a taxi driver that I learned how local fishermen in coastal communities know when a tsunami or storm surge is impending without direct information from authorities.  It is from a taxi driver that I learned that sardine and "tuloy" or Pacific herring are two different fish despite looking similar to my untrained eyes. This time around, I was schooled on the corruption in the LTFRB, how new taxi franchises are still being given despite the cut-off limit and how corruption cannot be curbed because with the bribe changing hands many times before eventually reaching the boss, and with everyone involved getting to wet their beaks, it is extremely difficult to trace the money.  But hey, this isn't the only thing I learned that night.  Here is a taxi driver, explaining to a university instructor, how a taxi running on LPG runs.  He mentioned about chemicals and safety nets to prevent leakage of LPG and subsequent conversion of toxic gases back into the taxi endangering drivers from overexposure to this potentially harmful gas.  He also explained to me how the initial run of the coal-fired power plant failed.  He told me it is highly likely that the dumbasses of corporate investors of that powerplant attempted to use a cheaper ,less refined and more toxic fuel which thankfully failed to function as well as the conventional although still environmentally harmful fuel.  The danger this powerplant and those taxis running on LPG, he said, is their ability to exhaust hydrogen sulfine which is very harmful both the environment and to living organisms. It was only then did he tell me he used to be a chemical engineer in the middle east who squandered everything he had on gambling and vices.  He was very optimistic that eventually things will get better and his financial state will improve. 

As he dropped me off, I gave him an extra tip (I usually do for taxi drivers who entertain me).  Yes, there are many taxi drivers who are of questionable character especially when I take the cab drunk or they think I'm drunk.  They try to weasel more from what I truly owe them using a variety of tactics to confuse me.  In that case, I never give them a single centavo more of what I owe them.  It's crap and though I believe most of them do it only because the operator's demand for boundary is really high, I believe it is always wrong to exploit people monetary-wise if you know deep inside that you don't really deserve their money. 

This lovely exchange served as a lesson of humility for me.  I was privileged to take that faceless man's cab and enjoyed a truly meaningful conversation with him.  I uttered a silent prayer for him as he sped away from my drop off point, eager to share what he knows to those who ask and eager to learn more.

Kulo

Yesterday, the Philippine Senate, predominantly inutile as they are, spent another working day on their grand but utterly useless inquiries.  Senate inquiries, aimed mostly for publicity and grandstanding and usually done "in aid of legislation" is 98% of the time an expensive and futile exercise.  I don't want to elaborate on the practices so save it for another day but just to make a point ask yourself whatever happened to the Hello Garci inquiry, the Eurogenerals, the C5 road extension scandal of Manny Villar, the GOCC heads, the ZTE-NBN deal inquiry and dozens upon dozens more inquiries that the Senate did, of which caused a temporary uproar from the people eventually dying a natural death when another controversy arises for new "inquiry".  But so much for the Senate and their mindless self-serving press releases.  I want to speak my mind about the topic of yesterday's inquiry.

The "Kulo" exhibit of visual contemporary artist Mideo Cruz has drawn serious flak from mostly the religious of a predominantly Catholic country for a couple of weeks until the CCP eventually decided to close down the exhibit to appease the ardent protesters and probably save the artist from blind and fanatical violence.  As soon as the protests from the religious sectors rose to a boiling point, artists of different backgrounds came out to defend art and the supposed repression of freedom of expression by the Church.  They once more upheld the separation of church and state and that censorship of one's right to express himself through art is backward and senseless.  The verbal combat between the two parties never receded since then. 

For the artists, they claimed that art should be something that opens the mind to something new; it is provocative; it is transformative.  It is meant to change your view of the world, eventhough the change may not necessarily be in a positive way.  They argue that you should view the whole exhibit in its entirety and reflect on what the artist really wants to express and not just on the superficial material.  They argue that just like in anything in life people have choices and you are not required to go to the CCP and view the exhibit if you find it offensive.  You have freedom of choice, to view it, be furious and flirt with a cerebrovascular event or don't view it and spare yourself the stress. 

And so came to the artist's defense tour guide extraordinaire Carlos Celdran, brilliant filmmaker Jose Javier Reyes and National Artist for Literature Bienvenido Lumbrera.  Yours truly personally doesn't know the works of Mr Lumbrera for I haven't read any of them but for the former two, I quite have a little knowledge about them.  Jose Javier Reyes is a brilliant director and scriptwriter and for those who don't know it yet is also a rather an upfront and thought-provoking essayist. I have read some of his work and I personally am a fan.  I question though, his motive of fully supporting Mideo Cruz.  I remember years back when bomba films in the country sprout like mushrooms after a thunderstormy night and Mr Reyes made a softporn called Live Show.  The film was lambasted so hard by the Catholic Church and other civic groups prompting the MTRCB to scrap the film entirely.  Mr Reyes marched to the streets and called the act "a blast back to the Jurassic Era".  Yep, I agree, though I am ignorant of the law, that was censorship and that was wrong.  Next, Carlos Celdran brought the house down when he entered the Manila Cathedral during a Mass and called the priest Damaso to protest the church's interference in the passage of the RH Bill.  He stressed a point that if you don't want people to interfere with your religious activities then please don't interfere with the affairs of the state.  Mr Celdran was jailed and open-minded people like me cheered for him.  I still am a supporter of his with regards to the RH bill but with this Kulo thing, I think Mr Celdran has gone too far.  It's as if he just wants to oppose the Catholic Church for the sake of opposing it.

Now, let me put my two cents on the matter as this blog entry is getting longer than usual. I don't want to take sides on the matter.  On one hand, I consider myself an artist like Mideo Cruz.  And yes, I am proud to say that what I cannot paint with brush and palette, I do with words.  On the other hand,  I am also Catholic and I love my God.  To say it bluntly, I am offended by the Kulo exhibit. Yes, I haven't seen the entire exhibit and I understand that art is meant to provoke both thought and emotion.  But art that is meant only to provoke and nothing but is trash.  National Artist for Literature F. Sionil Jose thinks so too.  Veteran film, TV and stage actor Pen Medina thinks so too.  If Mideo Cruz wanted to express his dissatisfaction at the church or religion itself, he could've done so in many more ways.  Not this:

 And certainly not sticking an ashtray carved to the shape of a phallic symbol on a picture of Christ.  Nevermind the blasphemy, if you're not offended, but I will mind that it is downright irresponsible.  Why do it on the holy images of what Christians associate with the divine?  Why attempt to incite anger and hatred from Christians?  Because you think you can get away with it because Christianity is a passive non-violent religion?  I dare these artists exuding fiery bravado to do the same thing with Islam.  Will they be courageous enough to defend their art once jihad is called upon them?  Will they still claim unjust censorship when their exhibit is closed down to prevent escalation of violence towards the artists themselves?

In the end, you can be creative and yet preserve a sense of responsibility and cultural sensitivity.  Art is something to provoke, true, but it is also something that could transform.  But don't judge me, I know nothing about visual art.  I do know, however, that whatever and however the society may see it, freedom per se is something that is never for free.

Thief

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. So goes the saying.  I believe what other know-it-alls believe in, happiness lies in the self and not on others.  By that, you do not let others judge you, you ignore their presumptions, you do not bend to their will, they do not dictate who you should or ought to become. The key to bliss is to appreciate the good in what others say and forget about the bad stuff. So what if they think you're not as beautiful as you think you are? So what if they think you're cheap? So what if they think you're a loser? Hard as you try though, you cannot block everything out.  You can only be deaf, blind and downright insensitive just long enough before you break down.  You can never be that strong, that numb, just because like all of us you're human.  You feel.  You hurt. You break down.

Last week, I was informed about an incident of stealing in one of the classrooms.  A student lost 2,700 in cash, the alleged thief: a female classmate.Many of them believe this certain "classmate" was also involved in several other similar incidences in the past.  Without concrete, definitive evidence, her classmates who strongly believe she was the culprit condemned her, the air tasting stale and thick as they sold her out, ostracizing her like a leper, all forms of association and friendship thrown out of the window.

  I vaguely remember when one of our classmates was also stealing from others. It was sacrilegious,  the worst form of betrayal in a closely knit us-against-the-world family.  The illusion of security was shattered and suddenly everybody kept looking over their shoulders making sure he never leaves anything valuable while she was around.  Like the girl now, she was scorned, branded for life a thief.  However, she was not someone you could easily hate. She was nice, sweet and friendly with an unassuming personality and a somewhat adorable childishness. She started stealing when things got so bad she got desperate.  I felt sorry for her then.  I feel sorry for this girl now, too.  I do not condemn these people but I certainly condemn their actions.  I wonder, how can you survive for the next 2 semesters in an environment where every quick glance at you becomes meaningful, when every body thinks you're just waiting to strike again.  Can the bridges you burnt during the drama ever be fixed? Can trust be regained?

Ever since, I will allow people to call me and brand me anything they want to.  Call me anything you want, just don't call me a thief. A "thief" is a reputation that takes a long time to be shaken off.  It's something that you can just learn to adjust to but not completely erase.  It's something that you can ignore only for so long before the pain sets in.  You feel.  You hurt.  You breakdown

Jeepney Ride

Whatchalookin at?

When you commute on a daily basis, this scene is most probably familiar to you. People rushing, squeezing themselves through to get to work, school or home. The jeepney is an innovation from US Jeeps during the Japanese era which has so permeated  our culture, it is hard to imagine what a city and the entire country will be like without it.

I take it on a daily basis, an exercise of the hoi poloi and the middle class, to get to where I am.  That is a good place to observe the world around you.  And observe, I do a lot.  For example, since living here in Mandurriao, I only managed to ride once a jeepney full capacity, with only male passengers in it; thrice with only women passengers in it excluding the driver and myself.  You might think, this is a rather odd pastime.  I glance around checking the people inside, though not in a weird kind of way.  I'm just thinking: what are they thinking? What do you usually think about when you commute?

During the morning rush hour, do you see people sweating profusely constantly checking their watches and sighing at ever traffic stop? Do you see people catching up on their sleep? Do you see two students, siblings, the younger one sleeping, yakking endlessly or looking sick and ready to vomit?  Do you see people in their house clothes, office uniforms, barongs and business suits? Do you look at their faces?  Do you know their stories?

Are you one to plug-in your earphones and listen to your own choice of music?  Are you one to silently curse at the driver who stops after every few meters to pick up passengers who didn't even bother to wave them down?  Are you one who mentally calculates which seat would receive the most shade throughout the trip? Are you one who looks out the window throughout the trip, consciously or unconsciously ignoring the request to pass the fare to the driver?  Are you one to sleeps towards your destination, desperately extending your slumber on a moving vehicle? 

Perhaps you are one who plays out situations in his head, sometimes irreverently silently mumbling out exchanges like a fool?  Or are you one who doesn't do anything at all, doesn't think about anything at all, just taking the ride like a bag of potatoes with fare?

Are you one like I am?  Watching. Observing.  Playing out the stories of their lives, and perhaps my life, like a bard on the stage, amidst the morning smog and the easy chugging of the engine of the simple and humble jeepney.