The Paostian Deal

It was my first time in Puerto Galera. Naturally, I was excited. We left Cubao 3am Friday, reached Batangas Pier around 5 (that was one cold bus ride!), and docked at White Beach around 8. Originally I brought three mini-luggages (haha), a kikoy kit, and a shoe bag; but the night before we left Manila, my companions felt the heaviness of them all--which I clearly didn't--and offered me ONE HUGE BAG. It was so enormous it looked like it should've been the one to carry me. That's Manay Nellie and me aboard La Natividad. Las puyatas en la vanca.

Anyway, we... err, I, thought that we had brought enough cash; it was during the boat ride to the beach that I began feeling this... chill. I had planned to visit my temple (the ATM) before we leave civilization, but apparently amidst all the excitement I forgot to do so. Heck, we all did. I SMS-ed a friend who had been to almost all vacation spots in the country and asked for ATM locations in the beach area. He said there might be some in the town proper, but he had doubts. And those gaddamned doubts were right. Not even gasoline stations exist in the town. The nearest shadow of civilization lies after an hour of tricycle ride in Calapan. Left pic: Where's Art? (CW from left) Angel the shy girl, Chars the hot mama, Nellie of the Cage, Pao of Munti, Marlon the Nescafe guy, Ian the drinker. Right pic: (L-R) Si antukin, si Excited, si Mas Antukin, si Angel.

So by Saturday morning, we plunged to poverty level. By noon, we were untouchables. I call that pic on the left, The frail and the cashless.

Sunday came and we were all supposed to go home, but all of us were having Fun (check out the braids!)--sans cash and any means of acquiring it. Everybody wanted stay one more day at the beach. After the votes came in, we decided to play crazy: One of us went back to Batangas to withdraw cash. Talk about effort. Nellie, you're the best. Pic: Banda-banda sa Galera; (L-R) Inay Angel, The Cute Pao, Papa Ian, Uncle Art, Auntie Chars, Manoy Marlon.

After four hours, our pockets were full again. Eat, eat, eat. Buy, buy, buy. Eat, eat, eat. Buy, buy, freaking buy. By Monday morning, my batteries went low again. After lunch, I only had 50 bucks in my pocket. All those cute souvenir bags and no cash to go home. Stupid Pao!

Lubog! (L-R) Ang buntis, ang legal na mag-asawa, ang Cute, ang legal-kuno na mag-asawa. Indeed I will never forget my first time in Puerto Galera. The sun, the sea, the sand, Island Tattoo's henna and braids, the 10-peso fruit juice behind Island Tatto, the cool night breeze, the tiangge, the sweet booze, the yummy bodies...

And all you need is a mobile phone with a snooze-proof alarm to remind you to bring extra cash before leaving Batangas Pier.

Thank you guys for that tasty soup. And my cab fare.

Galera, I'll see you later.

This post is one day late.

Last Sunday, I watched the premier of the TV show Pinoy Big Brother (PBB) Teen Edition. I was determined to enjoy the show for Monday eve's sake, until one of the contestants said:

In fairness, she made me laugh.

Perhaps it was her youth that made her say that. Maybe even naivety. Girl, you're on TV, in a show where you're made to do crazy things with a bunch of pretentious other people. That is reality to you?

Hey wait, she's right, that is reality! Everyone's. We live, doing shitty things just to please other people who, on the other hand, play politico and pretend to enjoy your company. Then we believe that we're fine and think about how to please them again tomorrow. So PBB. So TV.

Television recreates reality. That's the general motto. And the countless number of reality-TV shows takes it one step higher. I watch the tube mainly for entertainment. (Read: I get amused by the most trivia-ish of all things, and even laugh at the most teribble of news sometimes.) The "getting information" part comes only second. This is because TV gives me--heck, all of us--the chance to escape the manic life that is reality. It's something light I get to do after a consuming day. I get to laugh in front of the tube and momentarily forget that even if our company is now rat-poor. That's enough for me.

And now I hear this girl looking for life's realities in a TV show. Well, PBB is all about "real lives and real people", but still it's TV. No matter how much you dismiss it, you can't escape the fact that stories and lines written by man shape that world. It doesn't matter where it's based, it's still not real--TV only looks real. Expecting much more from it is pretty dumb.

May ilang milyong beses nang naitanong sa akin 'yan pagkatapos ko'ng magkuwento ng kung anuman. At may ilang milyong beses na rin akong naiirita.

Hindi naman ako taga-showbiz. Hindi naman ako politico. At mas lalong hindi ako ang kapitbahay niyong nangangaliwa sa asawa.

Kungsabagay, sino nga naman ba sa atin ang tinigilan ang pagsisinungaling pagtungtong ng 20 anyos? Mangarap pa ako.

'Yun lang, kung iisipin mo, sa panahon ngayon lalo na rito sa third world, may punto pa ba kung magsisinungaling? Hindi ba mas nakakapagod lang 'yon?

O siguro nga naiinis lang ako kapag ang reaksyon ng kausap ko ay, "Talaga?" "Totoo?" "'Di nga?". Hindot. Bakit, nagsinungaling ka ba sa akin dati at kinakabahan ka ngayon na baka niloloko rin kita?

Nauso pa noon ang slogan na, "Magpakatotoo ka!" Pero ngayon, parang default na ng karamihan na "magduda" sa mga sinasabi ng mga kausap nila. Meron naman, baligtad: kapag may tanong, itatanong niya sa naunang nagtanong (punyetang mga tanong 'yan) kung ang gusto niyang sagot ay ang totoo. Na isa pang nakakairita minsan. Por ejemplo:

Siyempre never ko pa actually ginawa 'yan. Nang harapan.

Kung gagawa ka lang ng kuwento, manloloko, huwag ka na lang magsalita.

Kung kaibigan mo ang kausap mo, malamang totoo lahat ng sinasabi niyan. Mahiya ka naman; hindi lahat ng tao ay kayang mag-open ng sarili. Huwag kang OA. Iba ang gulat sa balita sa duda sa tsismis.

Kung ikaw ang tinatanong, kung kaya mo naman ay huwag ka na magpa-sweet at sabihing, "'Yung totoo?" Isipin mo na lang maigi kung ano ang isasagot mo at paano ka sasagot, lalo na kung wala kang tiwala sa kausap mo. Ayos lang iyon, sigurado namang pareho kayong nagpaplastikan. Huwag nga lang matagal ang pag-iisip, para hindi halata na wala kang tiwala sa kanya.

Amen.

We burned our deceased grandfather yesterday. It was the first ever cremation ceremony I attended, and it was the fourth time in my life that I experienced the true meaning of the word speechless.

Lolo was in his late 70's. He's already been weakened by his heart and lung conditions, and unfortunately it became harder for him to cope. That's the best I could understand of what caused his fairly untimely demise. Untimely, perhaps only to me it is. The last time I saw the old guy was summer last year, but the last time I met lolo was ancient history. I didn't know that he'd be ashes the next time I'd see him.

I arrived late at the ceremonies. On my own choice. The crematorium at the Manila Memorial Park was fairly small. It's just a little bigger than the chapel in our subdivision. I was sitting at the back--the introvert in me kicked in--when its size made me realize something: I didn't know any of the people around me. Two rows to the front I think sat my two sisters. My elder brother kept on walking about like my mother, the deceased's first born. Familiar heads filled the rest of the place. Familiar, but not quite.

They were supposed to be kins from my mother's side--people I used to meet and mingle with in family parties way back in kindergarten. The MSG level in my brain subsided by an inch, and so I readily recognized them: my uncles, aunts, cousins, grand-aunts, grand-uncles (cousins of my lola). But it was only physical recognition. I thought I felt sadness and self-disappointment, but the longer I looked at them the more I realized that I didn't know them--at all.

Then came the family pictorials. I was sitting on the other end of the back row when the grandchildren were called to the front. I was like, "Yes? Oh, right." Then I stood in front with the rest of lolo's grandchildren, a little clueless of what I was doing. Two, three shots, and done. Afterwards, my colegiala-beyond-repair sister, my nun-candidate sister, and my soon-to-be-wed kuya continued taking pictures with the others. Me, well I just stood by the chapel's door, blank-faced and all. There was this man--an uncle, I assumed--I caught looking at me. He tried to approach me, but I think he sensed that I was in my own world at that time and decided to turn back. I thought of making a move and saying "Hi!" to anyone other than my grieving grandmother, but it felt off. I felt off.

Right. It was because I distanced myself from my relatives looong ago that I feel alienated now; though, I can almost care less. Two worlds, fine. But lolo's death seemed to be the binding factor among us that time. I looked at him on my own way, everyone else knows an entirely different lolo in him; and yet we were on the same boat: We all lost him. Some were sad--prolly, still are--some still upset, some strong enough to keep it together, some happy because everyone came together again despite the reason, some maybe just as lost as I was...

Feelings. The long rainbow of them. It's a good thing they exist; after all, feelings are the only common thing we have with one another.

Well it's the least I can do to veer my head away from fury: pretend to know how to, uh, sing.

I've been holding up for over 24 hours now. I'm wound up--way past it, actually--and right now I want to verbally murder two people.

And that's what I shall do now, but not to both morons. One I can give one last chance to clear my view before she pushes me to complete madness; the other, way too much for me.

For the sake of "decent anonimity", let's call the culprit... err... FTP. (It's what I first saw when I looked around my desk, so let's call the sanavabich, FTP.)

FTP is a 6-foot college dropout. We've been pretending to be friends for over a year now. It's fun actually, minus the part when we realize it's just a show.

Yesterday, FTP came to me with some sort of a problem--surprise, surprise. The sucker that I am, I lent an ear... despite the fact that I'm not comfy discussing crap like that especially when he says he'll be leaving. We're hypothetical friends, remember? And I have separation issues. Anyway, going back, we began whispering to each other... But we were still in the office and it's really hard to discuss shit like that when your neurotic company president is right behind you. So FTP said we'll talk about it later. Repeat: "We'll talk later."

It's almost rare, this chance that he shares me shit that bothers him. And I really wanted to at least listen. We waited for lunch. Oh wait, hold it--I waited for lunch, so we can talk. And where was FTP? Went out with another... bit-... sigh... character. That ticked me.

I SMS-ed him. Casually, like the come-what-may imbecile that he is, he said he's out to lunch and implied he didn't know I was waiting for him. I began fuming. You know the rest.

I would babble about how sad and angry I am because of it, but that's what I already usually do and I'm getting sick of it. So let me get on with the killing.

FTP, the grammatically-challenged gold digger, apparently also has very low EQ. And we're not talking about the perpetual battle of the sexes-type of EQ comparisons. He was simply born that way: an apathetic English-moron. Even my own indifference can't compete with that. And what's with the Joey de Leon attitude? I get that you're quite popular and all, but gimme a break: The world can and would live without you.

That would also mean a world less one pathetic singing. I mean, come on, singing is absolutely Not For You. Stop competing with your buddies who have more valuable talents than getting benched in a ball game.

I hope he comes into his senses soon. And by that I mean about the money he owes me. All thousands of it. It's not a big sum, but a debt is a debt. 'Nuff said.

Now, whenever he's around I feel like the world is a rusty car exhaust. One word: nicotine. Cigar smell is everywhere! I swear, one of these days all smokers will just fall dead and when that happens I want to be right next to him so I could look down on him, in the eye, and say, "Finally."

Oh wait, that's too harsh...

Nah.

I was raised by three main people: A frustrated nun mom, a sneaky dad, and yaya. Of them, yaya had the most influence on me, considering the fact that she's still with me. Oh don't get me wrong--she was never your nice guardian. All my teachers from pre-school to college--whom I was sure were to forever roam this world as spinsters, and I was almost right--do not compare to her. She's as vile as she can get, but I liked her anyway. A little too much, it seems, because she's still hanging around prolly because she has the impression that I can still stomach her ugly face.

Now I just want her to die.

Her name is Paranoia.

Here I am sitting five Pao steps away from mi amor mayor. And just like recently, I am laden with tons of indescribable feelings.

Which should not be. Or at least according to me, it shouldn't.

If anything, I should feel happy because he's here. Not necessarily that we're together, but he's just here and I am here. Too pointless thoughts? Told you they're indescribable...

And now he's playing and singing along to one of the saddest songs in my vocabulary, Biglaan by local band 6 Cycle Mind. It's a song about losing something as valuable as life so abruptly, something like losing a fight you didn't even know was already up. Oh for beefskates, here, just to make my point, are a few lines:

'Di ko man lamang nalaman na mawawala
(Nabigla lang)
'Di mo man lamang naisip na idahan-dahan
(Nabigla lang)

Oh yeah, it gets better in the second verse (virgin hearts listen up):

Hindi ba natin kayang magkunwari,
at sabihing 'sige na lang'?
Hindi ba natin kayang dayain ang mga yakap,
sa tuwing lumalamig?

Such a delightful song.

But Robbie, the forgiven but never forgotten queen of denial, and a friend, says it's already more than too much that I even listen to and extremely like songs like that. That I'm already "very sick" and that there is very little hope that I can be cured.

That I am not who I am anymore.

Really?

So tell me, Robbie, your diva-highness, is it time that I go back to my emerald throne up there? And forget about these feelings?

Robbie, is it really time to go back to not living?

it feels good. but it only feels good.

i can't even cry because it's not right, because i'm not allowed to.
i have had you where i wanted you to be, but i can't even look at you and actually breathe.

i hate it when "normal" people burden themselves with something that should be anything but a heavy, difficult thing. they have it, and they are free to live it. i simply don't understand why they're wasting the treasure i'd do anything to have.

unrequited love is surely tiring.

I've always liked my hands. Not as much as I love my crowning glory, though, but I like them still. Like having a pet.

I write with my right hand. From that you can say that I do pretty much everything with my right hand: combing, waving, dialing the phone, carrying small objects, eating, touching other people, covering my mouth when yawning or laughing like mad etc. She's like an unsung hero. Ever dependable, despite her showing veins--prolly because she overworks sometimes. She's still pretty, though; and man, when she dances, she does it well.

My left hand is a little darker and leaner. Having the supporting role, he is usually relaxed, but not at all useless. He likes having fun and at times be a little too carefree a soul, yes, but he can be very caring too: giving his counterpart a little massage when she gets tired, holds her close when she gets cold, supporting me when boredom tries to knock me off... He may not be a good dancer, but he's still cool.

All of this must sound crazy to you, me talking about my hands like they're real people. Well you can't blame me: I practically grew up with them. They have known and seen everything there is to me, and hiding shit from them is one of the last things I could dream of. That is almost the same as saying, they're all I got.

Well, in reality, they are. People have come and gone in my life. My hands have been there every single moment...

I really like my hands. They're as good as having beings you call "best friends"--beings who enjoy life with you and help fight your battles when you can't go solo anymore.

I do not have actual best friends anymore. I lost my third and probably the last one seven years ago. My hands were also friends with that person....

Right now, I am once again inches away from yet another loss. It has yet to happen, but I am already sad. On the other hand, I am also too tired to bother experiencing utter sadness. So, maybe for now, I'll lay off it and just let my hands do the crying...

I usually leave the house for work around 7 AM. For 18 months now I have been part of the morning road--in all its dullness.

I simply want to avoid the hideous traffic. A public transpo is not really my ideal sleep spot. Besides, my entire life has been led by 5-AM school bus pick-ups and 7:30-AM class lectures; I don’t see why joining the workforce should be any different.

The routine would be: I prep up, step out of the house, take a tricycle to the village entrance, ride a jeep to the shuttle terminal, take a shuttle to Greenbelt 1, then a six-minute sprint to my office table.

Doing things the same way all the time, every time is indeed tedious. I needed to shake things up a little bit, if only to slow the aging process. And since I have yet to assume director-ship of our office company, I am forced to find excitement somewhere else.

But where?

I turned to one of my neglected opportunities: Sightseeing. And luckily (well, not really), the shuttle’s route to Makati has been altered lately due to some heavyweight construction in Pasay. Hence, new, uh, sights. And here, my friends, is where I found an early victim.

The EDSA-Pasay area has many detours. It’s like the Juggernaut’s circulatory system there. Because of the road construction (and probably the sudden growth in street alligators a.k.a. police people), both public and private vehicles from the south take these detours going to the cities north.

The sight was too obvious to pass. We take this street just past the Philtranco bus station, and there along the bumpy, soil-road, lined up like they were being sold, are babies. Cute, tiny, and of course, innocent, babies. Or is the proper term, clueless?

They were being bathed in the sunlight, I presume. It is for their proper growth: early morning sunlight provides Vitamins A and B, and as new, growing creatures of this planet, babies need them. However, it seems they are getting more than what they bargained for.

Their carriers--presumably their parents or guardians--were also, well, aligned like they were the babies’ auctioners. Absentmindedly “rocking” the young ones like they were fidgeting and--wait for it--while gossiping among one another. And yes, the sun’s rays are a feet away--the groups are safe under the houses/buildings’ shade.

Cars, tricycles, buses, trucks, and what-have-you snake through that road. That virgin road—that is, no asphalt or cement covers it since it probably wasn’t intended for such use in the first place. So what do we have now? Nothing but good ole carbon monoxide mixed with road dust.

Looking around--and I do not mean any form of discrimination--I also see the other grown-ups surrounding these infants. Teenagers running around, yelling bad words like they mean “hi and “hello”. Mothers publicly yelling at their kids. High school students smoking. Half-naked men with unkempt hair and dangling earrings casually looking around. Probably haven’t taken a bath, too.

Forgive moi. I am not degrading on how those babies were being brought up, let alone who are bringing them up. It’s just that we’re already screwed as a people, but apparently its implications hasn’t hit us hard enough that we neglect proper care for the younger members of the society.

Those babies. The hope of tomorrow. Exposed daily to dust, vehicle smoke, gossip, and Tarzan wannabees with earrings. What a bright future indeed.