DOUBT

January 28, 2016 at 12:56pm · 

One day last week,—mind you, a very grinding week,—a pretty visitor from the Big City came to our workplace and requested for some public documents from the archives to be photocopied. From my very first glance I could not take anymore my eyes off her face since I was groping for some clear memory of where I previously saw those glittering eyes behind her fake eyelashes.

A few seconds later I never had a doubt anymore despite those extra baggage and extra large dark glasses that she was a former actress who also had a lead role in a critically acclaimed film by Lino Brocka, a brave, well-known Martial Law critic. She may now only be a shadow of what she once was but I’d still smell in her persona some traces of her past glories, after, as mere consolation by a movie star to a starstruck ex-fan of the old Philippine cinema, she engaged me in a brief tȇte-à-tȇte.

Last I heard she’s happily married to a very successful businessman after she decided that the lure of limelight she would shun. I must doff my hat for her, for I would have avoided marriage myself and had chosen showbiz instead had I been given a chance. But that was then, when all I saw in showbiz was glitz and glamour. When I had witnessed everything except sin, misery and rancor.

Truly, “all that glitters is not gold,” as goes the song from one of the popular expressions of the wise. Like what the young candidate Ruffa Gutierrez opined that life’s essentials are invisible to the naked eyes. Well, it’s because we tend to only believe on the things concrete and always put a doubt on everything abstract and unattractive. Usually, only through the things we touch with our hands and see with our own eyes that we start to learn to analyze and perceive.

Same with believing in Christ Jesus as He is, so many religious groups have a doubt on Him and on His deity, because even the dirtiest among sinners would He receive. They doubt that He is the only Way and means towards reconciliation with God and that no other name under heaven given to mankind by which people must be saved (Acts 4:12).

Many among us still think that to have faith, they first need an image, forgetting what to Thomas the Lord Jesus had said, “Because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed” (John 20:29).

SPIELBERG AND US AND THEM

[January 28, 2013 at 9:31am] · 

From the first time I saw his “E.T.” many summers ago when right in Miagao Cultural Hall its silver screen was also unfurled, I made a personal vow I’d always follow all the succeeding films by Steven Spielberg. Since childhood I kept on hearing, personally, that blunt word “ugly”---now, you know why I’ve always an eye for a beauty?---so Spielberg didn’t know how that movie helped me psychologically, as, by human eye standard, such creature was ugly yet everybody then loved E.T.

That real beauty is marrow deep, I think in such movie too that I had it realized, like Ruffa did in her Miss World tilt reply: “What is essential is invisible to the naked eye.” Likewise, through Spielberg, the world came to know the talented Whoopi Goldberg. Watch her again in her portrayal in “The Color Purple” where in drama she’s either superb.

I remember too watching Steven’s holocaust three-and-half-hour drama “Schindler’s List,” which when I first saw it, right then, I immediately repeated. I would have been the most callous-hearted had I not felt what they’d been through, they, the Jews, God’s most beloved.

And after watching Friday night the bootleg copy of his latest “Lincoln,” no, not the vampire-slaying kind, I also wondered why he was snubbed for best director award by the Golden Globe’s brilliant minds. I hope though he’ll bag that prestigious plum comes 24th of February, right at the Oscars where the ones bestowing honors are his peers and colleagues themselves in the Academy.

In “Lincoln” you’d see that it pays to have a decisive leader. When wielded responsibly and conscientiously, nothing to fear of absolute power. But if you give that power to the kind of legislators we have today, then I warn you, be afraid, be very afraid, absolutely. Most of them believe that the only persons capable to run this country are only those from their own family, the rest are definitely nuisance and insignificant as they presumed others to be.

Now, tell me, will you still vote for their offspring, sibling and progeny, though the matriarchs and patriarchs did nothing but pillaging and raping this country? That absolute power to get rid of those men and women and to prevent them from shaming us further will be in our hands a little later as we’re going to choose again our next set of legislative and local leaders. Choose not for those with “gutter” character, chief of which, or one of whom, after he’d been left, said he thought he had the love of his wife in his pocket. Of course, he was wrong, as wrong as his lifetime belief that he has the love of all Filipino taxpayers in his wallet.

Therefore be reminded again that the fault lies not in the stars, dear voting Netizens, but in ourselves and in shading of circles that we are underlings.

POTPOURRI

January 27, 2014 at 12:57pm · 

When Dinagyang season, from opening salvo to its highlight end, hits Iloilo City with sunheat and not with rain, I could not help but remember likewise to sing my favorite chorus but edited version of a song from Asin:

“Hindi na masamâ ang pag-unlad at malayô-layô na rin ang ating narating; Ngunit masdan mo ang tao sa syudad dati kulay-asul ngayo’y naging itim.”

Yes, Virginia, ‘kulay-asul,’ it’s because Ilonggos are long considered to be brave and compassionate, without and within, a hallmark of true royal blooded but humble men and women. ‘Naging itim,’ it’s because of the Dinagyang organizers’ automatic road closure starting in the morning, people are forced to walk half of the city under their skin which the glaring sun would consequently inconsiderately blacken.

But who can argue with success? Dinagyang means gross riches. Riches from taxes, that is. But our paid tax, where is? Well, the price to pay—not in check or in cash—for progress naturally includes that. But until FOI is passed, no way we can ever trace that hardly paid tax. Again, where do our taxes go? This is where our taxes go: They say a big bulk go to some senators and such senators’ schemer, others go to their co-conspirators, bogus roads or foundations and a bridge to nowhere.

So, c’mon, taxpayers, this quarter, pay again your taxes. Together as one, we will fill again those thieves’ pockets. And come next election time, let us mindlessly vote for these senators again, so that when the ghosts of crooks past ask us if we’ve learned something, we can proudly say, “Never again!”

Never again, like the beautiful Maria Sharapova’s fate in this year’s Australian Open. I nearly wept with the dazed and confused dame after she lost the third set where she was badly beaten. No one can blame me for religiously rooting for her in any Grand Slam event. I’ve been following Maria and her grunt and swing like I do the sound of music since she was fourteen.

And speaking of fourteen, it was so frustrating too seeing Rafael Nadal failing last night to nail his Grand Slam Number Fourteen. It would have tied the Spaniard with the American great Pete Sampras for that magic number and inch closer to Federer with that win. But alas, his Swiss opponent was as sharp as a Swiss knife and so prepared obviously in denying Rafa another stab to history. Wawrinka’s balls were like laser-guided missiles in accuracy that his game-long brilliance melted whatever left in the World Number One player’s invincibility.

Well, the same with this thing called circle of life. We can never have it all, all of the time. The thing is, we should learn to acknowledge our God whether we’re on top of the world or half-buried in the ground. Just like the Apostle Paul who knew so well the highs and lows of life, showing his flexibility, knowing both how to be abased and how to abound (Philippians 4:12).

WHAT IF

(Authored on January 26, 2013 at 10:36am)

From the moment I chose my desired seat freely up to the time the bus left the terminal, I already kept myself busy. Busy in warding off buzzing and non-buzzing mosquitoes one of which thought she was a bee. That’s why those different folks of different strokes who got on board while we were stationary, not one of their faces did register in my mind initially.

Therefore I was shocked upon seeing a familiar face disembarking when we reached the town proper of Tigbauan. Yeah, I said shocked because it was exactly the same fresh face I often saw twenty years ago in “Pasahero Sosyal 1.” She too was a “suki” of the very first prototype of “Sosyal” during its introductory period. And she was always getting off at “Doctors” every morning with her variety of junk food.

For several times I had my eyelids pinched, just to believe what I saw, I quickly seized the moment. I scrutinized her pretty face looking for that unforgettable big mole near both eyes or between. I knew upon seeing it I’d start to believe that the fountain of youth is not a myth indeed. For how could one retain the same beauty and freshness after almost two decades?

When I saw no mole, I did suspect she had it removed through medical operation. Yet, would I blame those youthful curves, porcelain skin and baby face to an anti-ageing lotion? My problem was solved when after her, followed another woman looked a bit older but had still some shades of a stunner. She had the same facial features with the one much younger, except the mole between her glinting eyes, she was every inch her mother.

I remember I was then in my maiden year in the job, and the mother was a senior in nursing course she loved. I knew it because next to the windshield were her books I often saw, including the glaring one its title had the phrase “Iglesia Ni Kristo.” As my eyes followed the mother and daughter as they stepped down the bus holding each other, and walked away like sweet sisters, I couldn’t refrain myself from asking myself: What if I’d followed my previous plan to be a nurse chaser, and granting arguendo I became successful in having her, would we be getting the same daughter, or of lesser aesthetic visual more like her father?

Whatever, I’m certain I wouldn’t mind as I’m not a respecter of persons by any appearance they have. What I was scared of would be if I’d believe what they believe that the Son of Man is not God. And worst of all, I’d be told to isolate myself from eating the “unclean” like the ones crawling under the ocean. Therefore, I compelled myself to give up my heart’s desire to try charming a daughter of Tigbauan.

Besides, at the time, I wasn’t yet in serious search for “The One.” And I was THEN a sucker for “dinugu-an.”

A LONG AND LASTING LOVE

(Memories on January 24, 2014)

I think I’ve had mentioned in passing somewhere in here a story about her, many happy and sad posts ago which you did also endure, using for her another pseudonym even I could not recall anymore. I just remember her once more when Big Boss-A, not knowing I knew her for sure or that her path and mine crossed too in the not-so-distant past, nonchalantly talked about her sudden departure.

Let me liberally refer her here as Pretty Girl-C. Well, if I give someone a name I do make sure I give appropriately.

Big Boss-A, Cutie Boy-B, and Pretty Girl-C were classmates in a certain academic level one time or another but the last two were romantically closer. Long before Big Boss-A became a big boss even of an executioner, Cutie Boy-B and I were close roommates as only a thin pillow served as our divider. I came to know him only when I first arrived at our boarding house where I was assigned by our host in the same room with him where there were no open windows. In the beginning, I frowned upon his being too much in love with himself like Narcissus, but his enviable beauty and amiable attitude later made us no more strange bedfellows.

Cutie Boy-B was a bright boy but also a literal philosopher, or to be rude in a local dialect, “Pilosopo,” for the accurate term. Yet, to his antics, I would not squirm especially after learning that when it comes to love we’re both uncompromising and firm. Most of the time during the day he talked mostly nonsense or something hazardous to eardrum as we were both sorting morning chores while we would cram. But during the night, when the topic shifted to love, we’d always love to jam, seriously talking together at the same time as if tomorrow would never come.

And that was when I met Pretty Girl-C in his bedtime stories and in repeated emotional spins. Until her name in mind didn’t just ring a bell but it exploded well like “Goodbye Philippines.” Who would never know a girl totally inside out, when as you sleep and wake up it’s her life you keep hearing about? No wonder, long before I met Pretty Girl-C up close and personal, it felt like we were weaned together and grew up in time equal.

Albeit Cutie Boy-B didn’t reveal it to me in bed during the early stages of his tell-all tale and other fascinating gabs, I knew it right away in his first few words that his and Pretty Girl-C’s was just another story of the rise and fall of love. I did not bother to ask him anymore who was to blame between them for their bitter break-up, all I knew until he and I parted ways later too that Cutie Boy-B would be the one to suffer a long and lasting love.

And one Valentine’s day, when he requested me once and for all to deliver for him a bouquet of roses to Pretty Girl-C at her place of work in the city, I obliged with all my heart and saddled up to meet her in the flesh finally, knowing the loving feeling of a man who thought of nothing but one woman only. However, she didn’t accept herself the flowers which only on her table I placed. Maybe, some peace offering would not be acceptable in war even if they are roses. Maybe, some people believe some love lasts a lifetime, I just don’t know if hatred does too sometimes.

I felt sad of course when Big Boss-A did break the news Pretty Girl-C became another casualty of the Big C. I only hope Cutie Boy-B, who’s said to be based now in the duplicate land of milk and honey would find peace too finally.

As one song puts it, “A long and lasting love, not many people find it….” Unlike God’s love that never fails (I Cor. 13:8), a man’s love is always incomplete.

MY “MANINOY”

[January 7, 2013 at 9:58am]

A long time ago, The Preacher preached with these words so loudly which still hold true as they are being preached in the wilderness till today: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. . . . A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-6).

Truly, no event in a man’s life gives around so much pain than the one moment in time when there must be parting.

After faithfully serving the government for about three decades with all his best, last January 1st, effective immediately, my one and only known “Maninoy” in life finally called it quits.

Last Friday, I witnessed one if not the most heart-rending testimonial lunch program ever in sole honor of him, launched privately by his peers, wherein everybody in a sea of tears did swim. And it cemented my belief that all eloquence and mastery of prose and poetry would be poorly no match to the plain words coming out freely from the heart of the simple and the ordinary.

Had it not for “Maninoy” and his insistence to convince me to become a modern-day Philippines who’d do nothing but run and run, I’d end up probably in Erap’s allegory as someone who’d be “pupulutin na lang sa kangkungan.” When I imposed self-exile in Metro Manila more than two years after the first people power show, I vowed to myself never to return unless I’d be with me that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

But with his soft approach with the voice of an angel and gentle persuasion, I knew I had then to make once and for all a lifetime decision. Thus, “Maninoy” plucked me out of the planet of the unemployed, where wallets and pockets were like a newborn Earth: dark, without form and void. Of course, my Auntie Yet was reliable as ever and supportive of me together with T’yoy Nilo, but sometimes a man has got to do what a man has got to do.

Sometimes I wonder either, if comes the time of my turn to retire from service and retreat to my own sick bed, will there be tears too to shed by colleagues or they show festive mood and great revelry instead?

No words from me won’t be enough to thank you, yet, so long, “Maninoy,” farewell. May I’d be your living legacy in the service so well, someone who’ll retrace your blazing trail…

IT IS WELL

[Memories on January 10, 2013 at 5:52pm]

Last Sunday morning at the beach which is, from home, only twenty-five meters away plus a little more, while sitting on the pebbles along the shore, I enjoyed watching my little kids frolicking in the waters, in the sand, like we did exactly in the days of yore.

Initially, there were only the three of us, for it was already around seven or way past. Most of the regular strollers probably had left the beach early or still yet to dash. Suddenly my eyes darted again to the lone structure in a certain part of the sand area. To the unlearned, he would say it certainly is the Middle Earth’s version of a Straightened Tower of Pisa.

In troth and in fact, it is not. It is well, a condemned well. Not preserved by men but by time so well. The well looks as it is today because a big bulk of earth around it had been washed out to the sea. One could mistake it for a mini-lighthouse tower, a beacon for a seafarer, but it’s just a silent reminder for many unforgettable stories in our barrio in the past worth retelling over and over.

Back in the 60’s or much earlier, depending on whom you’re talking to, whether to a grossly exaggerated sentimentalist or a not sober gringo, that well was the lone source of water of residents in that part of Kirayan Norte now known as Zone Two.

I couldn’t imagine the many thirsts it quenched before it gave its final and last drop of water, the many bamboo poles and native jars it filled which the natives once used as a water container. But above it all, personally, to someone who still exists, the heart of the matter concerning the well is the matter of the heart it heard despite its deafness.

When I made a sign we’d go home by waving a hand, the kids were teasing each other and sprinting as they would come. I almost told them they must be thankful for some love that which had gone, else, they probably could be here in this world still but with a different mom.

So learn too to smile with the stories of life with memories of joy and the pain of past trials that anytime would come in part, in droves, in full. But you must be grateful more than ever to the Great Comforter who, whatever the tide, has taught you to say, “It is well with my soul.”

THE DRIVER

[Memories on January 11, 2013]

At the front seat of a city-bound bus with wide open doors, I was all alone there Thursday morning except its driver of course, when as we approached Baroc-Cabanbanan’s blind curve, the driver would still insist to overtake a jeepney thus steering us on collision course. I instantly expected an instant clash head-on, with anything on-rushing from the town of Oton. I was correct because as I gripped my seat’s backrest and paused, a private vehicle in front tiptoed along the left side of the road, and to sigh later on, “that was close!” 

From now on I promise I will firmly believe that most of the so-called vehicular “accidents” are definitely man-made. And I’m more convinced not only drugs and cigarettes kill, most fatally speaking, stupidity will.

I used to prefer a bus over PUJ’s in choosing my mode of transportation to and from the city daily because the latter, especially the “Sanwakinhin” or San Joaquin-route plyers, are most likely composed of Formula 1 winners and ambulance or firetruck drivers. Yeah, I’m scared of PUJ’s, that’s why. Riding on them I couldn’t have peace of mind. I couldn’t take either their words to live by: “Why go slow when you can fly.”

Everytime I meet drivers like the one in that bus who obviously knew nothing about responsibility, the more I heap praises and respect to my own father who drove PUJ for more than a third of a century. During my freshman year, when I skipped classes in my secondary course, after my mother’s signature in an excuse letter was forged, I couldn’t stay any longer in Tay Eking’s “bilyaran” with those gambling (“pusoy-bahig”) lords as someone would notice me and say, “Ay, dya bata ni George!”

It took me about two years or more in the town proper to be called by my name, as I was spontaneously referred to as “Bata Ni George” more often. Perhaps that identity crisis in life drove me to tread on the naughty road to “popularity,” since the academic excellence’s way was so overcrowded by the usual suspects from the celebrated and cerebral clans in our municipality.

However, I did it discreetly and within the ambit of minimum tolerance only. I didn’t mess around everywhere in the town openly for fear that bad reports would reach Tatay any time of day. Why not? Miagao jeepney drivers were known by and knew everybody then, besides, he was driving for the public eversince. He steered them all with the same diligence, from Armak to Cimarron which he both ran like a Benz, even all the way from the buses Master Mariner Express by Lolo Jose Nim’s and Tay Kasyâ Noviza’s Miagao Student Prince. 

My only goal at the time was to get out of the shadow of that tag, “Bata Ni George” with burning desire and strong will as if it was my ultimate dream in life to fulfill. As time went by, the more I realized I could never overshadow my father still, regardless of any achievement, even when he was later known as, “Tatay Ni Ramil.”

A BETTER LOVE

January 23, 2017 at 7:01am

Watching my mother in the emergency room as she slept, it was obvious her body was desperate to claim its much-needed rest. Perhaps the long years of toil and hard work were starting to send the bill, demanding swift payment from her, just like the rest.

As I continued to look at her pale face, I tried to re-trace the old beauteous image that impressed me through the years. I recalled too her particular photo from high school I failed to preserve, along with her other memes of joy and tears.

And still reverberated were the usual verbal comment of my friends and enemies, if any, too. From elementary to high school to college, the words were the same, “Gwapa Nanay mo ‘no?”

My palm on her forehead, I asked myself while sitting on a monoblock chair beside her bed: from the day I was born until I got married, how many times did she watch me when I was sick?

I could not forget those repeated nights when I had a high fever and “nagdediliryo,” and I saw a great ball of fire coming in through the window. How I trembled and yelled “Nanaayy!” on the bed made of bamboo, and only after she touched, caressed and embraced me that my fear would let go.

Truly in this world, no other human love could perfectly match, much less surpass, a mother’s love. No, not even the love of those women who swore to you theirs were the best you could ever have.

As what Agatha Christie wrote eloquently: “A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.”

In any occasion, a mother’s love would rise above. Nothing’s better than that, save for our Savior’s love.

A ROAD STORY

[January 23, 2014 ]

For the first time in a long time, I have traversed on official trip the widened highway leading to Central Panay last Monday, and so I got the chance once again to pass by and glanced at the long and winding road that led to her door yesterday. It was the road so familiar I knew I could still walk on even in closed eyes. It was the path in more than a couple of years I’d fearlessly trodden upon day and night.

I could still see from the distance the door that had been so kind because it would never close on me. The door which I swear still bears the marks of my nightly knocking knuckles even until today. I asked myself what if I would care to decide to knock and enter in that same door once more for her to visit, would I still see that old angelic beauty and divine-like grace in her then sun-starved face? Would I still be entertained like an ordinary friend, just for old time’s sake, and talk to her again in private while taking all the liberty at once staring at the countenance that swept me off my feet?

Everyone undisputedly believes all things change, I know, but for me some things remain the same just for the sake of tomorrow. That when souls parted would be reunited later and met for a brief or long talk, both of them would totally agree that life is short but at the same time a long walk. That’s why I get it when some say wisdom is learned only when everything is way too late already. For in life, every lesson we learn from every mistake, would not be for us anymore but for our children to correct.

However, expect that out of a hundred children to whom you would share a story of your life and the lessons that go with it, only a handful would take it seriously like the way we listened to our World War Two surviving folks when they told it in the street. The next time therefore someone a lot older than thou wants to share a story, learn to listen and absorb every word he’d say as knowledge is not limited to school premises only.

Some are learned in the caves even in the uttermost part of the Earth, the way wars were fought in the mountains and beaches regardless of who gets hurt. If the warring people of the olden times were not telling their stories, how ignorant we could be today because we will never hear about peace. Every nation in the world is defined and sustained by her story, her road story from its conception, to its struggles, redemption and glory. I was told somewhere in Baghdad there is this inscription of something like, “Sown by the seed of a tale, thus the world knew Baghdad and fascinated by her stories in the city and in the vale.

It’s her story too that makes Israel rich and famous then and now universally especially when we speak about power, survival and bravery. It’s her story that did spread and heard all the way to an Eastern country and prodded wise men to go see the birth of the King Who came down from His glory. They were real wise men because they did fearlessly tread upon an unknown path, certain they’d never get lost because what they were seeking for was the One and True God.

Life in this Earth may be short but also a continuous journey. Go find that life’s Way that leads you through all eternity…

LIVING LIVES

[January 16, 2016 at 2:38pm]

A priest and a pastor stood near a sharp curve on a busy road holding signs on a big square plate. “The end is near!” read the priest’s sign, while the pastor’s warned, “Turn around before it’s too late!”

As he passed by, a jerk in a sports car yelled “Idiots!” and shook his head, blasted his horn, raised one finger and stomped on the gas. Moments later the clerics suddenly heard the sound of screeching tires, followed by a Tarzan-like bellow and then a loud big splash.

The priest turned to the pastor and said, “Maybe we should change our signs to ‘Bridge Out’.”

Just recently, there were two prominent persons in their field of expertise and skill that people have seen how much they were endeared so well when both for whom did finally toll the bell. One was Mr. German Moreno, a.k.a. Kuya Germs or Mr. Showman, depending on your preference of showbiz spiel, and the other was Ms. Letty Jimenez Magsanoc, journalist nonpareil.

Kuya Germs was said to be so kindhearted to those aspiring newbies in showbiz dreaming to make it big, so generous to the point that even in the bottomest part of his pocket he would not hesitate to dig. I smiled when I heard he’d a secret crush too on Ms. Dawn Zulueta, my teenage crush when I still love shindig along with Marianne Dela Riva, both are listed in my personal archive of local beauties’ league.

LJM? Well, each time she would be mentioned by her colleagues in her profession in some write-ups I read, I could always sense their awe and respect to the woman who, to me, everything in journalism had she perfected. At a time when so many men hid their tails between their legs at a mere mention of the word Marcos, to be buckled down too she did refuse, and she bucked the system with balance news and fearless views.

It’s really different when you live life driven by a specific purpose. You’d not regret a thing as you continue living it, win or lose. It’s truly feels different when you live life touching lives. No matter what happens, the passion, the joy, thrives.

Just like Jesus Christ Who came into this world neither for men’s praises nor for any world’s precious prize. He came not to call the righteous but sinners for repentance (Mat. 9:13; Mk. 2:17). He lived touching hearts. And saving lives.