Falling Rain, Dripping Thoughts

It’s Sunday and I just woke up from a rewarding sleep feeling superbly rested. I’m beginning to crave these weekend rests. I vowed to myself that I will work like a workaholic (huh?) from M-F; but weekends will be decidedly quiet and uneventful. And I’ve been successful for the past months (insert pat to the back). So quit asking me why I seem happy and glowing (it’s not about the four letter word).

The weather is halfway agreeable. The rains over the evening left everything damp and cold. But a weak sunshine is now arguing with the still-heavy clouds. I survived the entire night without the help of a fan and I remember waking up to look for a blanket. It was unusually chilly. But I like it that way.

The bed is still invitingly cold (and I don’t mean that as a metaphor) so I decided to linger some more and read. I’m a third into an Anita Shreve novel and her prose really has a hypnotic effect. The story revolves around a reunion of college friends and it made me crave to be around my long-time friends. The ones who promote no animosity even if I barely see them in years.

Last night I dreamt that I was watching a movie with my Marketing buddies and then an earthquake struck. Pandemonium ensued inside the dark theatre. Surprisingly I remained calm and nailed to my seat. Like it was part of the entire movie (was it a 4D cinema?). I don’t remember what happened next but I wonder what that meant. Ever since the July 16 and Mt. Pinatubo days of my teenage years, I’ve been a little paranoid about earthquakes. But more thrilled than fearful of it. I may be a geologist in my previous life (which explains why at such a young age I know the atlas like the back of my hand and I can identify the tectonic plates and volcanoes...geek alert!).

The problem with rains and cold weather is that the small meals I take will not last as long; I am perpetually hungry. Also, since I am on water therapy, I feel the need to pee more often. This is really inconvenient during long drives (by this time the restrooms at gas stations materialize like oasis in the desert). Plus, the rains make me deviate from water and glug down a decadent amount of coffee.

The good thing about the rains is that it showers me with inspiration. I just want to stay locked in my room and read and write. Maybe if it rains for 40 days, I can write an entire book. Well, assuming it does not lead of a flood of Noah’s proportions.



Something in the rains also makes me listen to sad music. I’ve listened to Jeff Buckley’s The Last Goodbye thrice in the last hour alone. I’ll try Sarah McLachlan’s Mary next; to see if it can amplify the gloom. (Shoutout to A: You are not allowed to say that I am again sad and tortured. Blame it on the rains and the weatherman). Methinks the rains awaken the sentimental fool in all of us. Maybe, in wearing our pains in our sleeves, we wish for the rains to wash it away. R said it is because the rain represents our tears. Hmm...makes sense (forget that rain is freshwater and tears are saline). Alphabetically speaking, pain and rain are within arm’s length.

Wait...excuse me, I need to get food again. And pee.

Pensieve #4: Memoirs of 9/11

Exactly eight years ago, we witnessed the most horrific and striking terror attack of our generation. I am a thousand miles away from New York then and now, but still the mere mention of the numbers 9/11 gives me the goosebumps from atrocious memories.



Eight years ago, I came home very late from work. Only my sister was awake and I was having a late dinner in front of the TV. Suddenly there was breaking news about the attacks on the World Trade Center. The first plane has hit the WTC. I was confused for a while; I thought it was a freak accident wherein an airplane crashed into our own World Trade Center (the one in Pasay). Then the second plane hit and I realized that it was the Twin Towers of the WTC in New York. Terror attacks.

I remember calling my sister to watch the shocking news. My dad then joined us, probably woken by our alarmed voices.

The images of the planes hitting WTC are ghastly and horrendous; like an ugly B-rate action movie gone awry. But the exact science and choreography behind the attack brings it closer to a Michael Bay film.

It felt like the advent of World War III. I can’t believe it was happening in the United States, supposedly one of the “safest” places in the world (well, I had the same sentiment during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina).

Days from September 11, 2001, mouths are still open in shock worldwide. I remember news that the devil’s face was seen amidst the smokes of the WTC. And news that this was one of Nostradamus’ predictions.



I remember this freaky circulated email asking you to type in MS Word the supposed flight number of one of the fallen airplanes (Q33 NY), then change the font size to 48 and font to wingdings. The numbers will turn to images of a plane hitting two towers and symbols of death and the star of David. This is, of course, a cross between a hoax and a coincidence (because the flight number is incorrect). But a pretty creative twist anyway.

I remember watching Michael Moore’s Oscar-winning documentary Fahrenheit 9/11. The most memorable scene was the one showing President Bush’s face, who was then reading to elementary students when told about the attacks. Yes, he resumed his reading. Mastercard moment! Priceless.

I remember people saying that the reason Mariah Carey’s Glitter CD flopped was because it was released days after September 11 and it showed the Twin Towers of the WTC in its back cover. An omen perhaps. I remember various pop artists re-recording Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On as a charity single for AIDS. But post-9/11, it became a pop battlecry against terrorism. Music does soothe.



September 11 became one of the darkest days in modern history and forever changed the global landscape in terms of the politics of terrorism. I lost count of how many people perished that day (I think it was over 3,000 people). And I refuse to understand the sick agenda being pushed by the suicide bombers. How can these people think that there is dignity in the killing of innocent lives?

I always believed in finding the beauty in the disaster. But it has been eight years and I still cannot see the sense in all this. No silver lining. No Hollywood ending. Except that somehow, America woke up from its Bush-induced slumber and embraced Obama’s offer of change.

September 11 is a grim reminder of how quickly life can change. I have never been to New York so I don’t have fond memories that are massacred by this absurd tragedy. But as human beings, tragedy is something that connects us all. Like a strand of reluctant DNA. Tragedy also has a lingering power; maybe as a way of reiterating the lessons we have to learn.

Sad to believe that in these modern times where barbarism and primitivism are ancient history, violence and terrorism are still possible options. Oh, sad human nature.

***

Because war is not the answer
For only love can conquer hate
Picket signs, picket lines
Don’t punish me with brutality
Talk to me, so you can see
What’s going on

Pensieve #3: The I.Y.S.

Pensieve is a blog series which features short and often funny past-life captures. Dip your head into this Pensieve and revisit the murky waters of my memory.



I don’t know if the acronym means anything to you. It was a cool fad during the later part of my grade school years and lasted way into our high school years. IYS stands for International Youth Service.

Long before email and online friends, there was mail (now called snail mail) and pen pals or pen friends. I will use “pen friends” because “pen pals” is more colloquial, they are the ones you see at the back pages of comics and magazine, together with the want ads.

IYS is a paid pen friend service based in Finland. You sign a form requesting a pen friend, enumerate four possible countries (where you want your friend to come from) and pay 25 pesos (equivalent to maybe 150 pesos if you factor in inflation). A month after, you will get a name with a legit address and the rest, as they say, is juvenile international correspondence history.



I remember that to avoid the extra postal charge for sending money as payment, we will place the money between carbon papers so that the postal service will not decipher the pesos inside. And seal it with a prayer that the form and money will find its way to Finland.

There is even an IYS promo wherein if you get 10 people to sign-up (and pay), you will get a pen friend for free. Or sometimes, you will get a mail from out the blue. Meaning, IYS sent your name to someone who paid for a pen friend.

Other than books, writing to my pen friends was the hobby of my growing up years. It reached a point when I had ten pen friends at the same time, mostly from Europe. I even had two from Czechoslovakia; only because you get bragging rights for having a friend in a country most people cannot even spell. I can still remember some of their names. There is Renata Kabelkova (the correct spelling of her surname escapes me) from Czechoslovakia who sent me a photo of herself (in black and white glory) as a kid feeding a swan in a pond. There’s Liz Smith from England who will send me stick chewing gums (which I never ate, of course) in her letters and who gave me a UK calendar as a Christmas present.

Back then, we asked Santa for the possibility of our pen friend visiting the Philippines. I have ten chances for this dream to come true. A child can dream, right? I was under the impression then that anyone with blond hair and blue eyes are filthy rich.

I remember that some of my pen friend’s English are really bad. This served as my training ground for the editing jobs I will handle later in life. I also remember people saying IYS is a hoax and only a roomful of people are writing those letters. True or not, those letters became my elixir of life back then. I am getting letters almost every week and the distinctive roar of the mailman’s motorcycle infuses excitement onto the boring days of my pre-pubescent period.

Maybe one of these days, I will search for my old pen friends online and see if they still remember me. The boy from the Philippines (a country they often misspell; yes, like Czechoslovakia) who writes in almost perfect English, has nice cursive and loves to send post cards featuring beaches and mountains.

A boy who saves his allowance just to buy stationary, post cards and postage stamps. Just to be able to touch a life on the other side of the world.



Update: I tried looking photos of IYS for this blog. It was then that I discovered that IYS closed down June of 2008. Internet killed the pen-and-paper star.

Pensieve #2: Where Were You On July 16?

Pensieve is a blog series which features short and often funny past-life captures. Dip your head into this Pensieve and revisit the murky waters of my memory.



I was in sixth grade and we were dismissed early (because of Daylight Saving Time, I think). I was the first to arrive at our service vehicle and to kill time while waiting for my servicemates, I decided to chat with my classmates in the next parked vehicle.

We were laughing so hard that the vehicle shook. Then I realized it was not because of our laughing. I shouted at the driver to stop rocking the van (I thought he was making fun of us). It feels like a basketball was being dribbled on top of the van. But the driver just gave me a horror-struck look of denial. And then it hit me...

EARTHQUAKE!!!

I confirmed it when I saw the other vehicles being shaken by a seemingly invisible hand. Then the girls in the nearby soda fountain started shouting, crying and scrambling to find a spot under the tables. The Xerox machine slid across the sidewalk and almost reached the pavement. I got out of the van and ran to the nearby empty lot, away from the nearest 1-story building.

The shaking was taking forever. I was already getting dizzy. I didn’t even have time to pray because my mind was already racing with a lot of thoughts. Like my third grade sister was still having her class on the first floor of our 4-storey building. Or if my Mom was already home.

After what seemed like hours, the shaking stopped. We re-assembled inside our service and hurried home, literally and figuratively shaken but with stories to tell.

Our road home runs parallel to a big river. I noticed that the river is muckier than ever, as if a witch has stirred it into a thick, filthy brew.

We will learn later how fortunate we were. Because in different places in Luzon, the damage was immense and horrific. A whole school collapsed in Nueva Ecija. Two hotels toppled down in Baguio. Churches fell on their knees in La Union.



I don’t know how many lives were lost when the ground shook that day. July 16 will forever be mourned as one of the darkest days in history.

The day nature showed us how insignificant we are in the face of its wrath.

P.S. I know at least four peeps whose birthday falls on this fateful day. Happy birthday!!! For the sake of pun...continue to rock this world.

Pensieve #1: Turning Japanese

Pensieve is a new series of blogs which will feature short and often funny past-life captures. Reading something, watching something or even just listening to something will usually send some sporadic elements from my past to come rushing back. Like my head was dunked into a Pensieve and soon I am swimming in the murky waters of my memory.



It was my second year in college and my curriculum required a foreign language. I wanted to try French just to sound cool. But rumor has it that graduates of my first course (don’t ask what) find their destiny in the Land of The Rising Sun. My eyes were seeing yen (ka-ching!) so I enrolled in a Japanese class.

My teacher was very friendly (because he is Filipino), in fact he was one of the coolest prof I had met in my college life. I had classmates from different colleges but the atmosphere in that class was light and very casual.

Later, I will find out that Japanese was doubly hard because we have to read and write Japanese. We had to memorize this crazy Japanese alphabet that I only see on those Japan-imported buses (the ones with English translations for “Pull button to stop” in various combinations of wrong grammar).



And I really, really hate memorizations. To me, memorization does not constitute learning or understanding. What am I, a robot?!

Back to my story...every session, we had verbal recitations on reading Japanese. Since I was seated at the back, I had a bright-bulb moment. Before my turn came, I already pencilled the pronunciation below the Japanese characters.

I waited coolly for my turn, even resisting the urge to whistle while my classmates recited one by one and stumbled on some of the difficult characters.

When it was my turn to recite, I breezed through the first two sentences. I summoned by best actor mode. So that my “cheating” will not be obvious, I used the tone of a nursery student who just learned to read. I even paused for effect, pretending to have some difficulty in reading.

And then I noticed that my classmates were laughing. So was my teacher.

Turned out I was reading too robotically that I forgot the silent syllables. In Japanese, syllables like desu ka are pronounced des-ka. Silent "u". So I was saying suka and suka in every sentence, complete with the accent that made it sound like vomit.

I wanted to commit hara-kiri right then and there.