Finity

Life is a plane, a train, a zooming of a carriage from one point to the next. I'm in it, I'm sitting still or maybe I'm standing against the wall or maybe jumping up and down, maybe I'm banging on the door to be let out. Sometimes I resent having each stop pre-defined for me; and that the motion is linear, inevitable.

Forever is hypothetical. Time is counted out like coins: half an hour before I need to check out; an hour to get to the train station; thirty minutes' buffer before the train leaves 17 minutes past the hour; almost three hours exactly until I'm where I'm headed; I'll be able to have a hot bath, watch some TV, check my email in an hour and a half. Yearning for that, or yearning to be home, or yearning for a different context, or waiting around until the alarm goes off and I need to start counting out the minutes again.

That's why I used to miss my flights. I flipped my finger and wanted to just be in a place, just be, for a moment longer and not have to worry about things that tend to sort themselves out. I believed in just-in-time manufacturing. In my charmed existence, cabs miraculously got me wherever in the nick of it, concerts started late, people forgave me, coincidences happened fortuitously, the kindness of strangers was dependable. Sure, I'd curse and scream when, on the odd occasion, things didn't work out. Like that time heading toward Seoul, or worse, that time coming back from Paris. Fifteen minutes, even five, were the difference between now and another 12 hours, between life and its opposite, between movement and stasis.

My mom lives in what we fondly refer to as her own time zone. Which is half an hour earlier than the rest of the world, whichever way you spin it. She'll be at the airport unfailingly ahead by three hours. Is it something about getting older, I wonder. You come to the inescapable age to put away childish things-- like subjective approaches to clock-watching.

I was doing so well on this trip I was on. To there and after there. Five train rides, responsibly early each time almost. Almost. But my resolve was all but depleted at the end. I nearly missed the last one for no good reason, really. Just as likely, in an alternate universe, I was still pottering around and packing while my oblivious mode of transportation dutifully arrived, waited with a respectful pause, and chugged forward just as indifferently as it came.

"And the years shall run like rabbits" What comes to mind suddenly is Ethan Hawke intoning the poem, imitating a recording of Dylan Thomas reading W.H. Auden's "As I Walked Out One Evening". And J. Alfred Prufrock, measuring out his life with coffee spoons. Me, I tally the March twenty-sevens.

I'm turning thirty-one next week. Come buy me a drink.




But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time...
In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

The Citadel (working title): Background Notes

In a city with a few million lost souls is a man who lives by his pen and his mind's eye. He is a celebrated artist. Monumental renderings of his sketches, colored in by his charcoal pencils and pots of black paint. The curvature of bone, muscle and sinew is drawn in sharp relief; his subjects often awash in the white of negative space. His craft resides in the shadows he casts on his surfaces, trapping movement within his frame. But the faces he does not draw. Although each elbow and knee, penis and vagina are drawn in all their distinctiveness, all the faces are featureless and smooth. On occasion, he wakes in the dark from a dream of a woman laughing at him. Colors and sounds, and the shock of rain--the dreams baffle him.

She is his lover. He was once fascinated by her and the scars written on her body. There are a hundred of sketches of her that decorate her otherwise bare life. The angle of her shoulder. The parabola of her spine. A leg extended. In repose, in action--she hoards these sheets of paper covetously. But even if there were a thousand of them, it wouldn't be enough to convince her that he sees her. She wants to be fixed and certain in his gaze. She resents his other lovers and wants him to be hers alone. In her youthful naiveté, she plots to have his child and keep it.

The year is 2031. Global nuclearization has successfully eroded international institutions following the accidental detonation of a nuclear weapon in the Middle East in 2009, forcing undeclared weapons to surface. The procurement of nuclear arms went virtually unchecked, develop capability or enter into alliance with nuclear powers. Defense and security budgets spiral upwards while social sectors and services get next to no funds. Democratic governments elect increasing numbers of military figures into power. The trend of suspension and deterioration of legal protection of civil rights, triggered by the wave of terrorist attacks at the beginning of the millennium, are exploited and new restrictions constrain basic freedoms. Borders are closed, immigrants repatriated, refugees turned away, populations divided. While the language of universal rights and democratic ideals has been retained, liberal democracy is generally viewed as a distant goal which would be nice to achieve once global security is again established.

By 2018, the city had barricaded itself with rare and tightly-controlled flows through its walls. Procreation is now state-controlled and mainly through in-vitro fertilization. Doctors have accelerated gestation and harvest fetuses after 7 months; children are reared by the state; this system was perfected and implemented in 2014. Child-bearing has become a well-paid profession; in order to continue to grow the population, the state purchases children from abroad as well.

.....

The coffee cups grimed with the solid excess of what you tipped into your mouth. I am one with it.

I am the cigarette butts. The ashes. The excesses that you leave behind. The words postspoken. The unclasped fingers. The released embrace. I hate your women and I hate your men. Your shallowness. Your craveness. Your unhappiness.

How many hours have you spent with your eyes on my body? You trace the scars on my skin with your fingers, first, and then with your pencil on paper.



another abandoned project?

whois

I can see myself standing in the distance. But that horizon just doesn't get nearer.

Maybe that girl, that woman, that person that I wanted to be--that I want to be--does exist somewhere. Looping in eternal return, still smiling with a heart filled with dreams and a fanciful understanding of how the world works. Living with the virginal passion of one who doesn't possess the crushing knowledge of defeat.

Am I looking at who I could still be? Am I mourning over who I was?

it's been a shitty day

Orihinal na Pagkakasala

My only creative lit in Filipino

"Shit", pabulong na pahayag ni Angelita. Parang ulan kung dumapo ang mga daliri sa keyboard tapos madiin at puno ng ngit-ngit na binugbog ang RETURN.

"Asan ang files ko?" Patuloy ang pagmumura. Gusto na niyang ihagis ang walang silbing monitor na mukhang ayaw palitawin ang pilit niyang hinahanap.

"Lisa!", hiyaw niya, "Hindi ko mahanap ang files ko, damnit!"

Isang sekretariya ang nagsusumagsag na pumasok sa loob ng opisina at humalili kay Angelita sa harap ng monitor.

Lumabas si Angelita na umaapooy ang bibig at dumiretso siya sa kape. Yamut na yamut siya dahil sa dami ng dapat niyang gawin, hindi niya kailangan ang pagluko ng pesteng computer.

"Angge." Nagulat si Angelita sa tinig ng lalake.

"Ruben! Ano ba? Hindi kita nakita," na-iiritang tugon niya.

"Sorry--hindi ko sadyang manggulat." Sabay umalis ang Ruben.

Tahimik si Angelita na naiwan sa mesa ng mga baso't kape, sa gitna ng gulo ng opisina. Napansin niyang nanginginig nang bahagya ang baso sa loob ng mga kamay niya.

--

"Honey! I'm home!", dating gawi, magiliw na pagbati ni Angelita. Narinig niya ang matitinis na tinig ng mga bata, sina Ana at Lea. Ritwal na nila 'yon--pag-uwi ng ina, nag-uunahan ang magkapatid na salubungin siya.

"Ma! Mommy!", tili ng nagtatakbuhang mga bata. Halos matumba na si Angelita sa pagtalon at pagyakap ng dalawa.

"Akong nauna", pakantang sabi ni Lea pagkahalik sa ina.

"Okay lang!", sagot naman ng isa. "Ako naman ang nauna kahapon, eh. Di ba Mommy? Hmm?" Halik. "Mommymommymommy?" Lambing pa.

"Kayong dalawa, oo." Pinaghiwalay ni Angelita ang dalawang nagsimulang magtulakan.

"Pa 'Honey, I'm home, honey I'm home' ka pa. Ano tayo, sitcom?", pagbiro ng kabiyak ng kanyang puso, si Marco. Nilapitan siya nito, hinalikan at niyapus-yapos ang buhok.

"Loko. Hindi mo 'yan linya. Sasabihin mo dapat yung kung gaano mo ako ka-miss." May pait ang mga salita na hindi nabatid ni Marco.

"Kanina ka pa?" tanong ni Angelita.

"Mga... kalahating oras pa lang. Na-trapik ka ba?"

"Mm hmm. Bumper to bumper sa taft at España. Babagsak na nga ang katawan ko, eh."

"O, ako na ang magluluto. Kanina pa naman ako pa-relaks relaks." Hinalikan niya muli sa pisngi si Angelita at tumungo sa kusina.

"Teka, teka. Ikaw kahapon, di ba? Ako ngayon, ano?" angal ni misis.

"Sus! Magbihis ka na nga, ha. Mukha kang natalo sa sabunutan", huling hirit ni mister bago lulunin nang tuluyan ng kusina.

Si Angelita ay umakyat sa master's bedroom upang mag-ayos ng sarili at sinundan naman ng dalawang nagkukumpitensya para sa pansin. Kalahating tainga lang ang nakikinig sa pagkukuwento nila pagka't malalim at malayo ang kanyang isip. Wala namang napansing kakaiba ang mga bata.

--

"Marco!"

"Anooo?" Galing sa taas ng bahay ang boses.

"Ayaw gumana ng CD player!"

"Ha?" Bumaba sa sala ang lalaki at nakitang kinakalikot ng asawa ang stereo. "Kapapatugtog ko lang niyan kanina, ah."

"Eh, ayaw tumugtog 'tong Mozart. Ang sarap ihagis!"

"Cool ka lang, Angge. 'To naman, ang high blood," natatawa na sa kanya si Marco. Nakikalikot na siya sa stereo. "Kahapon naman, nasira mo ang microwave. Tapos, noong makalawa, yung aircon. Ano bang nangyayari sa 'yo?"

"'Wag ka nang dumada, ayusin mo na lang 'yan, puwede?" Nainis si Angelita na pinagtawanan siya.

"Sungit", maamong paglambing ni Marco. Nilapitan niya at niyakap, pero kumalas naman si Angelita sa nakapulupot na mga bisig.

"Wala ako sa mood pakipaglambutsingan." Nakakagimbal ng tahimik na boses ni Angelita.

Biglang nahawa si Marco sa pagiging seryoso ng asawa.

"Bakit, Angge?"

Tumalikod at huminga ng malalim, pinikit ang mata, naghanap ng sagot.

"Ang daming problema sa trabaho."

Minasahe ni Marco ang balikat ni Angelita hanggang lumambot ang pagtayo niya. "Kawawa naman ang career woman ko." Hinagkan siya sa tuktok ng ulo.

"Career woman mo?" May nahagilap na giliw si Angelita sa loob ng sarili. "Ang kapal mo! Kailan ba ako ari-arian?" Humarap siya kay Marco at sumikat ang ngiti.

"Ayan, masaya ka na, ha?" Marahang tumawa si Marco at nangurot ng pisngi. "Isama mo na sa listahan ng mga ipapaayos nating yang CD player. At 'wag ka munuang maghahawak ng gamit, ha? Nakakahalata na ako sa jinx mo. Baka maski ang mga haligi ng bahay ay magkanda-kalas-kalas sa hawak mo."

"Heh!" Wala nang kasamang iritasyon ang katarayan ni Angelita. Subali't sa kalaliman na ng gabi, nang si Marco'y mahimbing na ang paghimlay sa kanyang tabi, muling lumipad ang isip niya at muli siyang nangamba.

Saan dumapo ang isipan ni Angelita? Saan tumungo at saan nauwi?

Sa isang araw noong nakaraang buwan. Sa isang kuwarto sa third floor ng isang apartelle sa May nila. Kasama si Ruben.

Hindi niya pinigilang ang nangyari. Hindi niya nais ipigil.

Nguni't mahal niya si Marco. Asawa niya si Marco.

Bago siya nakatulog, sinabi niya sa kanyang sarili na mahal nga niya si Marco. Iba naman ang pagmamahal sa pagnanasa.

--

Pinatay ni Angelita ang gripo, tumigil ang maligamgam na haplos ng tubig. Nagtuyo siya ng katawan at ibinalot ang tuwalya sa sarili.

"Diyos ko po, patawarin ninyo ako," aniya. Humarap siya sa salamin. Pinahid niya ng kamay ang kaputiang parang sumabog na ulap. Nanginginig ang kamay niyang nakalapat sa salamin.

Pinagmamasdan niya ang kanyang sarili. Tatlong-pu't dalawang taon na siya nguni't nakukubli ito ng taglay niyang ganda. Ang makinis pang balat ay kayumangging hinagkan ng araw. Makapal, tuwid at malambot ang buhok niyang abot lang sa panga--"powercut" sabi ni Roy sa Eve's Salon. Sa mata lang naka-ukit ang bakas ng panahon. Maging sa katawan niya, bagama't hindi na hugis-dalaga, hindi malupit ang pagluwal ng dalawang sanggol.

Isang masuring pagmasid ang ginawa niya sa traydor niyang katawan na nagtaksil sa asawa niyang mahal, sa mga anak niya at maging sa sariling paniwala't pagpapahalaga.

Ipinikit niya ang kanyang mga mata at pinahintulutang tumulo ang luhang isang buwan niyang inipon.

Naramdaman na niya ang pagkamuhi at pandidiri na kanyang kinimkim, ibinaon sa pinakamalalim na bahagi ng puso niya.

Bakit ngayon niya pinakawalan ang libog niya? Bakit ngayon, kung kailan pa kapiling na ng pamilya si Marco na dalawang taong nadestino sa ibang bansa.

Hibang ka, Maria Angelita, sinabi niya sa sarili. Gaga. Simula pa lamang ng pagpasok niya sa Vicente, Lopez and Associates, dalawang taon pa lang ang panganay niya, nararamdaman na niya ang hila sa kanya ni Ruben. Pero hindi siya makapaniwalang may attraction siya sa lalaking hindi si Marco. Pinigilan niya. "Strictly professional" lang sila.

Kamakailan, nagkataon na hindi dumating ang klienteng dapat nilang kasama na maghapunan sa isang hotel. Naiwan silang dalawa. Mahabang kuwento. Sabihin nating "one thing led to another" at nalaman na lang ni Angelita'y dumadalas ang mga pagkakataong ganoon. At sabik niyang hinihintay na mangyari muli.

"Mahal kita", mahinang pahayag ni Ruben minsan. "Mahal kita".

Gusto sanang magsalita ni Angelita noon subali't makasisira ng mood. Gusto sana niyang sabihing: Hinde, Ruben. Iba ang pagmamahal sa pagnanasa.

--

Shit, ano ba 'to? Tanong ni Angelita sa sarili. Laruan lang ng bata, ang hirap hirap ibuo. Ito kasing si Marco, abala sa kung anong pag-ayos na naman ng appliance. Diyos ko at libu-libo na ang nagagastos nila sa pagpapagawa ng mga nasisira niya. Kahit ang mga bata, nagtataka sa pagiging "walking disaster area" ng kanilang ina.

Mahina pa naman ang loob niyang magkukukutingting ng mga bagay dahil, sa di mapaliwanag na katangahan, biglang nag-usok at (pakiramdam niya) muntk na sumabong ang answering machine (na 110 volts) na sinaksa niya sa 220 na outlet. Kung sabagay, ito namang inaayos niyang dollhouse ni Lea ay walang kuryente o kahit anong mapanganib na bagay.

Maya-maya't mainit nang husto ang ulo niya pagka't tatlong oras na, tang ina, at hindi pa rin magawa-gawa 'tong lintek na dollhouse.

Ano ba't hindi niya ma-kontrol ang panginginig ng mga kamay niya; maski sa mata'y parang may tumitibok na pagkalakas-lakas.

Napahiyaw sa gulat at sakit si Angelita. Napukpok niya nang malakas ng martilyo ang daliri.

Napuno na siya, nagwala. Hinagis niya ang martilyo at sumabog ang salamin ng bintana. Lahat ng mahawaka'y pinupunit, winawasak. Kung hindi masira, iniitsa.

Naririnig niya ang sarili niyang mga iyak at sigaw. Sumasakit na ang lalamunan niya. Humapdi ang mga mata--napupuwing siya ng kung ano.

May naramdaman siyang mahigpit na pagyakap sa kanya. Nakita niyang nagdurugo at sugatan ang kanyang mga kamay. Nanginig siya nang nanginig.

--

Nagbukas ang mga mata ni Angelita sa kadiliman. Nakabukas nang bahagya ang pinto at lululusot ang kaunting liwanag galing sa labas. Nakakarinig siya ng nag-uusap sa labas.

"Marco? Marco!", tawag niya.

Pinagmasdan niya ang pagbukas ng pinto, pagpasok ng liwanag, pagkilos ng isang anino--hanggang nasa harap na niya si Marco.

"Angge?" Nagtatanong ang mga mata, nag-aalala.

Naalaala ni Angelita ang sarili niyang repleksyon sa salamin. Nakikita niya muli ang pag-uusig sa kanya ng sarili niyang mga mata, pagbibintang ng sarili niyang anyo.

"Angge?"

Hindi na niya maramdaman ang gimbal na kay tagal nang nakalingkis sa puso niya. Namatay na ba ito o naghihintay lamang na magising at magpakawil-kawil muli sa buhay niya? Natanong niya tuloy sa sarili kung sino ba ang may kasalanan at pinalayas ang tao sa Eden. Si Eba nga ba? O si Adan, na nagkukulang bilang kasama ni Ebang nagaasam ng higit pa?

"Angge? Magsalita ka--", biniyak ng matinding damdamin ang boses ng kanyang asawa.

Nagpasiya si Angelita. Huminga nang malalim. Nagsalita.

Diliman, 1995

Comfort

Spent three weeks offline in Manila. Found a lot of old writing from when I was in high school and college.

"I'm... I'm leaving," she said, the words forming with difficulty. "I'm going home to mother--until I can come home to you." She picked up her back and went to the open door.

She stopped and turned.

"I love you," she said. And left.

He watched her through the window, impassive. He watched the sunlight turn her hair from brown to gold, watched it paint the leaves and the petals of the flowerbed she had planted. He squinted at the blue of the sky and the wisps of clouds that laced lightly through it. He looked again to where she was walking but she was gone. He drew in his breath and turned away. He lay down on the couch and closed his eyes. He had a hell of a headache.

He stopped going out of the house. He stopped answering the door. He subsisted on canned and dried food, rice and the cooking skills he learned during the guerrilla war against the occupiers. He lay down all day, asleep, and stayed awake all night, prowling around the house. During these hours, he would fix anything that needed fixing. He repaired the damage the bombings made on the roof.

Once, when working on the shingles, he hit his finger with the hammer. Swearing loudly at earth-dwelling demons, h e started to work but hit his finger again. He erupted.

Hammering and bellowing, he made a hole in the thin wall, pounding at first, then tearing at it with his hands at last--he hurled the cursed hammer at a nearby window, shattering the glass--he tore through the house, destroying what he could, destroying. He picked up her picture, framed for her last birthday, and smashed it with his fists. He looked up into her dressing mirror and stopped.

He saw that he was weeping.

...

"Bert! Stop!"

Her voice pealed like a clear bell in her head as he washed the dishes. "I'm going to shoot into the moon!" She had laughed. He laughed too, then, but went on pushing the swing. "Shoot to the moon!" he echoed.

Carefully, he rinsed the dish of its soap. He had to be careful. For some reason, he couldn't stop his hands from shaking. That was going on for days. "Lucing said that you and she were sweethearts", she had pouted, looking so young and fresh on the green grass.

He picked up another dish. "Lucing is crazy, plain crazy", he had reassured her. They were in Laguna then, at a class picnic. The shouts of the boys busy finding field frogs for lunch could be heard above the wind.

He soaped the dish slowly. "Then you're not?" she asked with studied innocence. "No," he said, swinging her around, gazing intently into her face.

Another image crept traitorously into his mind. The moon was high and the breeze cool. The whispers of the leaves were hushed and fireflies danced around them. "I love you, Bert," she had said. "I love you, my husband."

He blinked and saw that he had dropped a dish. His hands were still shaking.

...

"Bert! Bert!"

A shrill voice woke him; a hand that felt like a claw shook him roughly. Bert's limbs were heavy with sleep and it was hard to lift his eyelids.

He swore inwardly. It was his mother-in-law. He closed his eyes.

"Aling Flor," he rumbled, "go home.

"Bert! Come with me. Por Dios, por Santo, Marie is hardly eating anymore. She is getting thinner and weaker, Bert!" The small woman was frantically trying to get him to move, her hands flying about nervously. "Bert," she pleaded, tears streaming, "death will come for my child.

"Please. Talk to her."

Bert said nothing.

"She needs your love, now! Bert!" she wailed, collapsing on her knees in defeat. "Her condition is grave. She'll die--have you forgotten that she is with child?"

Bert's anger suddenly came to life.

"Devil's child!" He spat. "Child of a whore! It will be born with hooves and a tail, surely!"

He watched the old woman anxiously make the sign of the cross and watched sacred, holy words pass her lips. He wanted to bash her head in. He wanted to bash his own head in.

"How can I forget that she is with child?" He asked her this tightly and left her crying, slumped on the floor. He stamped up the stairs to escape, his mind in chaos. He didin't know what to do. Breathing was hard labor. What was he going to do?

The old hag chased him up the stairs, her voice rising. "What do you want to do, ha? Let her die? After all she has been through?"

He ignored her.

"Listen! Will you leave her to die?"

"Find the bastard's father. Tell him to save the whore." He entered his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. She followed and grappled with him.

She slapped him, hard. It jarred him for a moment.

"Listen." Her voice was heavy with intensity, almost a low growl. "My daughter is no whore." She slapped him again. And again. "Understand that first."

Dumbfounded, numb with the pain, he sat on his bed and stared at her stupidly. If she wasn't a whore, the japanese Captain's pampered whore, then what was she?

"Things were quiet in Laguna then. You were gone and Marie stayed with us. We had no problems. There was plenty of food." The mother's eyes glazed as if the images were burned on their surfaces. Her voice didn't seem to be her own.

"Then one day the trucks came into the schoolyards and the marketplace. And the children clinging to their mothers were kicked away by the soldiers, by those beasts!, as she.. they---the young women were forced into the trucks."

She turned from him and seemed to speak from farther and farther away. "I could see them from the window. I didn't know what was going on and I stared too long. I was just standing there." He noticed that her tears were drying. "I got a glimpse of her as they pushed her in. Her face was bleeding... I think I saw it drip onto the red circle on his uniform. I thought, where did it go, that drop blood? It just became part of the circle, blood against the white. I though... how much blood did it take to make that red sun?" He saw her move farther away, faster, dizzyingly fast. She got smaller until she became a dot, until he couldn't see her anymore.


Diliman, 1994

At night, flowers of corals bloom (illustrated)

At night, flowers of corals bloom orange and yellow--
branches of underwater cherry blossoms, heavy and ripe.
Soft sponges of tangerine and grape juice pad the walls
while their pulp carpets the low stair steps
that climb down deep from the sky.



Lionfish spread their gossamer tendrils
and take flight on their vermilion wings, mane aflame.
Thousands of eyes, more than their sisters in heaven,
shine light back and keep an unblinking watch over the evening.
Bright red fish with gashes of iridescent warpaint
that shout glances in insult throughout the day
sink like weary children into beds of anemones, at its end.



Feather stars languidly stretch their arms and curl back,
daintily skip home over oiled staghorns and antlers.
Spanish dancers that whirl their skirts in tempo
to the percussion fish beat on the reef,
slow down to bow and curtsy,
as the hush spreads over like a blanket.




At the heart of the sea
lies a little boy
who slumbers with his fists fast against his cheek
whose breath pulls the tide in
whose every sigh rushes it back to the shore
inexorably
again and again
until the dawn.

Heretofore Unwritten Rules of Geekhood

After almost nine years of living with a geek, I learned something one night. These code warriors live by an esoteric Bushido, some of which I hazard my life to make public:

1. Geeks do not share their notebook chargers. To each his own power supply.
2. Geeks may be slobs on the outside, but they keep their computer desktops clean. Desktop cleanliness is next to godliness.
3. Geeks religiously check for Software Updates. If your computer crashed because you haven't installed the latest OS update, it's your bad.
4. Geeks name their machines. And pick a gender, first of all.
5. Geeks use BB Edit for word processing. Anyone using MS Word is a pussy.
6. Nobody, but nobody, should go to a geek for tech support without the exact error message. "Something went wrong and now my computer doesn't work" will not cut mustard.
7. Never try to second-guess a geek when he instructs you on how to fix your machine. Instructions are sacred; the word "ReadMe" should be taken literally.
8. Geeks communicate in binary, prime numbers or Fibonacci sequences. If geeks had bars, they'd brawl over who knows pi up to a higher decimal place.



Maybe my next computer will be gay...

The Man in Burma

I visited Burma when I was still a student. It was a singular opportunity: the reclusive state was ruled then as it is now with the obsidian hand of the military junta but it was slowly opening to tourism and visitors from outside; an international gathering was possible for the first time in years. My research wasn't on Burma but I tagged along with my Canon SLR as my companions had the most fascinating interviews with former politicians (including a member of parliament during the early years of Burma's independence five decades ago), members of an ethno-nationalist movement as well as a visit to a monastery.

I remember the monastery in particular. The abbot was seated on a mat on the floor, with his legs folded in the customary way. As he spoke in a lilting voice that I didn't understand, I busied myself with my sketchbook and pencil, trying to capture each line on his face and the feeling of frailty and power that emanated from him. The young monks were clustered around us, their leather slippers scattered two by two outside the door. The slippers were so worn with steps that probably could be counted in years; the grooves of time had left deep imprints of the ball and heel of each foot.

The police had questioned the mother of a home that housed us, simply because we were foreign. One of our companions was interrogated as he left the country, simply because he was Burmese.

Internet access was unheard of in those days and one could only check one's email at the swanky hotels for a lot of American dollars; things improved in the last few years up until Sunday, when the military cut off the country's internet access.

Flash forward: 2007. After over a year of preparation, we finally organised a meeting on human rights last week in Cambodia. I had put a lot of myself into this meeting. It was, bar none, the most difficult project I've handled to date. I think it was because of the subject matter itself: freedom of expression. The freedom to think, say, paint, sing, write what one wants; and the freedom of accessing information particularly from the government--this is a fundamental right protected by international law; from which other freedoms emanate. The freedom to assemble and protest, the freedom of people to demand for the basic minimum standards that all human beings should enjoy.

And a thousand miles away, as we spoke and emailed and surfed the web and ate our hotel kitchen food, monks, nuns, students, activists, journalists, street vendors, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters were being shot at, clubbed and beaten into submission. As I write, they are probably being interrogated, tortured. Monks have reportedly been disrobed and hundreds detained. The monasteries are empty. Midnight raids of homes and abductions continue. Fear is the rhythm that beats in the hearts of the people; a threat hangs over Burma as the darkness of night spreads.

Throughout history we've seen this kind of injustice play out over and over with different faces, in different places, different times. Eternity spans and is indifferent.


Drawn in pencil on the back of a random envelope, December 2001.

He wrapped his maroon cloak around his body like a mantle from a higher power. Nearly six years later, his image presses itself to my mind's eye. I don't believe in prayer. But last week, I joined a few others in a Buddhist temple at Angkor Wat to pray for Burma and to be blessed by the water of belief... if just for the tenuous hope that my thoughts for him and his people reach the indefinable ether of collective human consciousness. For whatever that's worth.

Facebook Obsession in Four Easy Steps!

Wikipedia, font of all knowledge in today's online world, defines mental obsession as a condition that may cause mental, physical, or even emotional pain, associated with insomnia as well as other health-related issues, and may keep one from focusing on more important tasks such as work or social activities. Some examples of what people can be obsessed with are: music, shoes, coffee, gambling, fire, celebrities, drugs, health/fitness, plastic surgery, royalty, money, religion, love, fame, cleanliness, diamonds, etc.

This latest facebook craze has ignited certain levels of obsession among people. Obsession? Nay, you'd say. But I have a hypothesis that it is addictive because it pushes the right buttons of longing to belong and be noticed. So, employing rigorous sociological field and survey research, I've plotted out how it happens.

Stage 1: You Join.
You scoff, roll your eyes, raise your eyebrows, snort, shrug, do the hokey-pokey and turn around--why are people all around you talking about Facebook, you ask yourself. Whatever. Sure, you'll join to stop people from bugging you to. It'll be passé soon enough. You blithely and obligingly fill out the forms, select a photo, sit back and wait. You claim that you are just checking out the Facebook bandwagon. Yes, that's what you tell yourself. And it's probably true. For now (ominous laughter...).

Stage 2: Your inner Narcissus rears his egotistic head.
Someone has tagged you in a photo or video! Now things are getting interesting. Obviously, the Facebook people have read Dale Carnegie's "How to Win Friends and Influence People"--an opus of ego manipulation and instruction manual for sycophants. People love to see photos of themselves. When presented a photo, the first thing they search for is their own face. So, at this stage, you are now more seriously trawling through your friends' profiles, noticing strange and possibly interesting features of Facebook like publicizing what you like (or hate) about life. You begin to understand that this can be an outlet for your inner celebrity slash publicity hound. And you start to believe that people might care to know what your absolute favorite movie is, or--channeling Oprah Winfrey--what book you're currently reading. You also get to find out whether your friends think that you're most likely to get swindled by a couple of old ladies in Vegas or show up in a bunny costume for no apparent reason...

Stage 3: You have all these friends to poke and bite and compare and throw inanimate objects at.
Facebook requests for undying friendship come flying into your email Inbox unexpectedly. You start to log in more frequently, directed by those insidious little email messages. Why not ignore them the way you're used to ignoring Friendster, Multiply, Linked-in and other social networking messages? Well... it doesn't hurt that someone's bought you a virtual beer or compared your smile to someone (and thought yours was nicer). This guy or girl you used to have a crush on or go out with is suddenly back in your life; wanting to be "friends" again--you can finally be magnanimous, it costs you nothing; besides, he/she sent you the invite first! Plus, once someone's chucked a shaved monkey at you, there's no turning back.

Stage 4: You're Hoooked
The first time you spend more than an hour on Facebook exclusively, you're hooked. By the time you start competing for Mogul status on Superlatives, you're doomed. If you were handcuffed 10 feet away from your computer, you'd gnaw off your hands and learn to type with your toes.



Your only hope is to live on an island. Without internet connection.

Spaghetti in Sol's Midnight Marinara Sauce

I found myself pretty hungry at around half past one AM. When I couldn't convince Junior to fix me anything to eat, I resignedly went downstairs to cook.

I didn't grow up in a family that expected me to learn how to cook. My mom didn't really cook a whole lot, but she has a number of "signature" dishes, cakes and pies. My dad, according to family legend, has some sort of onion and tomato thing; but that may have all been just hearsay. I have three sisters and May, the second, is a really good cook (but she's also always been the "girly" one anyway). Gay, the eldest, can bake great blueberry cheesecake. Anna, the youngest, who lives on coffee and cigarettes, at most knows how to boil water by microwave (or at least I hope she does).

My first kitchen foray happened one summer when I was about eight or so (my most vivid childhood memories seem to begin at eight). Gay and May had this idea for us to cook an elaborate lunch for ourselves, complete with a fancy menu for dishes like "sautéed zygotes" i.e. fried egg. I contributed the beverages for the meal: "nestea con hielo con sprite".

Take the tallest glass in the kitchen. Fill three quarters with sprite or a similar colorless soda. Add two teaspoons of lemon-flavored instant iced tea powder. Witness the Rootbeer Float Effect: the powder causes the soda to fizz and a light brown froth bubbles to the surface. Take a long and slim teaspoon and stir gently, taking care that the froth doesn't diminish too much. Add a few cubes of ice.

I tried baking in high school and I wasn't too bad at it. Partly because they taught it in "home economics" (I also had a "practical arts" class with the boys, where I welded a swan-shaped ashtray for my class project). And partly because I had, for a long time, secretly wanted to grow up to be just like my best friend Lille's mom (who was a cool, single mother with her own company; and she gave away baskets of homemade pastries at Christmas).

I never cooked even when I lived on campus throughout college. I only tried my hand at cooking again years and years later when I started living with Junior. As a grad student, I had a pretty free schedule. But I eventually learned to hate sharing a kitchen with him--he was really merciless when it came to my dubious culinary eptitude. He made fun of my lack of common sense (with cooking and life in general--but hey, who cares about details when you're a genius, right?) and rolled his eyes at my reliance on recipes. When he petulantly complained that I had made spaghetti marinara one time too many, I literally threw the towel in (and at him).

But then Gabby came into the picture. Finally! A captive audience! An uncomplaining customer... at least before he could talk; and it is pure coincidence that his first word after mama and papa was "no"! Anyway, on Sundays (the nanny's day off), I started to cook for him. An improvisational spirit that I had sort of learned from Junior emerged. I got on a diet earlier this year and started cooking for myself, too.

Which brings me to tonight. The height of my haught cuisine. After two years of experimentation, I've come to the conclusion that I have a specific talent for combining a few specific ingredients into lush, flavorful food nouveau: tomatoes in any form (fresh, peeled, puréed, sauced), shrimp, olive oil, pasta, and oregano. And I've written my own rule of cooking: you can never have too much garlic--just be prepared to keep your trap shut for the rest of the evening!

And tonight's dish was a product of imagination.

Cook wholewheat pasta in boiling water and drain; place in a bowl. At the same time, heat a sauce pan, add a dollop of olive oil; fry a little minced fresh garlic and a few fresh large peeled shrimp or prawns. Don't be shy about leaving in all the weird orange gunk from the shrimp heads for flavor. Add some chili flakes. Add a couple of heaping spoonfuls of taba ng talangka or crab fat (available from Filipino stores at Lucky Plaza). Set aside. In the saucepan, leave in the sea-foody residue and add midnight spaghetti herbs (available at Carrefour; they come in little flat bags with brown paper labels) with just enough water to submerge the herbs. Wait until the herbs/spices are fully re-hydrated, then sauté with a little olive oil. Add chili flakes and tomato pesto. Stir into pasta. Top with shrimps and "marinara" sauce. If I'd had any fresh orgegano leaves, I'd have used them as a garnish. Cooking & preparation time: 20-25 minutes


Junior offered me fifty bucks to whip up another bowl, haha!