How does this go again?

We leave in three days for our Beijing-Tibet duo adventure. Knox lent me Pico Iyers’s Kathmandu Video Nights and Other Stories, prodding me to read the articles on Tibet. I dutifully did so, grateful for a deeper perspective on the land we hope to get a permit to enter, but as soon as I could, I raced to the back pages and settled down to wear a stranger’s perspective of 1980’s Manila.

Iyer painted a harsh reality of squalor, broken dreams, music and the Filipinos’ brilliant smiles.

I was mentally gesturing to myself that he writes about 1980s Manila. I was consoling myself that it’s been twenty years; we’ve grown as a people since then. But this morning, as I drive to work, I was shocked to see a deranged man, standing in the middle of the street, pointing a make-shift wooden rifle to an unknown target. Three other disheveled dirty men were holding up tin cans to solicit coins from the cars driving by. A woman does her laundry by the side of the railroad tracks while a little boy in ragged clothes plays with a starved-looking dog. Of course, at the corner is an ambivalent police station.

A few days ago, CCP gives a red carpet treatment to Imelda Marcos. An Aquino is standing again at the foot of Philippine Presidential elections.

It’s de ja vu with slight variations.

Michael Corleone: Goodbye my old friend. You could have lived a little longer, I could be closer to my dream. You were so loved, Don Tommasino. Why was I so feared, and you so loved? What was it? I was no less honorable. I wanted to do good. What betrayed me? My mind? My heart? Why do I condemn myself so? I swear, on the lives of my children: Give me a chance to redeem myself, and I will sin, no more.

I didn't think the sun would betray me and hide behind angry weeping clouds, but there it was. Early morning and I was going to get drenched. Then from my foggy windows, I saw an old gentleman standing by my car with a smile on his face and an open umbrella in his hand. It was the parking lot guard.

He said the umbrella was newly issued, just that night! His excitement to use it was so irresistible, how could I break his heart? So I climbed down even though it was going to be a long wet walk for my open sandals. And in the intimate hug under his umbrella, we chatted about the weather, his long hours, my resemblance to his good kumare and I think I've made a delightful new friend.

My friends and I used to keep talking about all the things we had to do before we reached the big 3-0. I vaguely recall talks of bungee jumping, sky diving, and other crazy things our parents were sure to ban us from doing and will probably have a heart attack learning about. It had a lot to do with celebrating the wonder of being human – of feeling the sweat on your back, the sun on your face and the earth in your hands. I hope kids still dream of these things, but in this virtual reality-obsessed nation our world has become, I’m sadly not sure if they like dirt at all.

I only have three years and a couple of months left to do my before-thirty activities. Don’t tell Mom but I do plan on doing those insane New Zealand adventures and traveling through Africa. But I’m realizing that seizing life is in the everyday. The most meaningful of experiences cost nothing but the willingness to let it happen to you.

Forgive the serious thoughts. Forced to stay home a lot the past month by my doctor left me no choice for company but my brain, but hoorah! I am free to loiter the streets and malls of Manila again. Oh, and no, the brain won't get left behind, of course.

Please welcome yourself to the world of musicovery.

I think it's time to wiggle your tush.

Come'on.
You know you wanna.

Although no one would dare admit, there is an unwritten rule that the language of Philippine literature must be in either formal Filipino, or English. In fact, most of the magazines in the Philippines that publish poems and short stories are English-language magazines. Meanwhile, colloquial Filipino is usually considered the language used by the masses. It's also the language used in what is considered "low culture" – slapstick comedy shows, noontime variety shows, tabloid sheets - in short, it is used practically everywhere but never in literature. - Zosimo Quibilan, Jr.

For the full interview, click here

There's always been dialects to the text language, hasn't there?

SPELL IT COZ I GOT QWERTY
They're swanky and hold a blackberry. And likes using T9.

SPELL IT COZ I NEED.YOU.TO.UNDERSTAND.ME.
Used for initial contact to assess dialect used by new textmate. Uses only the most common abbrevs to avoid confusion.

ALIEN SPEAK
Numbers are used to multiply repetitive syllables, but also uses numbers to represent...erg. Not sure. They need decoding.

I'M BUSY AND IMPORTANT
Minimalist. Replies plain Yes, Yup, or K. No smileys, no punctuations. Excuse me for bothering you.

MULTI-MESSAGE ADDICTS
Loooooooong messages, composed with not much coherence. Almost babbling to get their text done in one go.

Feel free to add more dialects I'm forgetting.

The absolute worst for me has always been this "ME NA PA-CUTE ME" dialect. I've had violent conversations with people who text me in this language. I've been called arrogant, discriminating and snooty for hating it so much. I thought I was winning the battle a little bit since those among my contacts who had the tendency to do it, have abandoned the language.

And then the most painful thing happens. Smart gives a nod to it and makes it an official part of the Pinoy language.

Eeeeaack. Pweh, pweh, pweh.

My campaign is squished, all hope is gone.

Yesterday, my Dad sends me this message: DITO NA ME. WAIT NA LANG ME HERE.

Bwaaaaaah. I kill you, giant telecom you. I kill you!

In the nearly 5 years I've had my trusty little car, I've had repetitive conversations as to why I keep it tintless.

Isn't it too hot?
Don't you get conscious?
Nagpapacute ka ba?

My defense has usually been (and it is true) that I feel safer that people can see any potential hanky panky inside my car. But the first real reason is that I was too cheap to pay the extra fees for the tint job when I got the car. Thankfully, it was also just plain prettier without the tint.

har har har.

The one drawback in keeping things clear is that street kids have always gravitated towards me. I mean, given equal distances between my car and another car, a little boy will make a beeline for me. I credit this tendency to their assumption that (having identified me as such) girls just have softer hearts, thanks to their maternal instincts and are much better targets for their marketing strategies.

Sige na, po, para makauwi na po ako.
Miss, parang awa nyo na po.
Maam, ubusin nyo na po. Bente na lang lahat!

But they meet an impenetrable wall of DEADMA when they knock on my clear window. See, I've mastered the art of steeling up the heart, clearing my thoughts to keep my resolve and yawning while they sadly cough their little lungs out. I justify my behavior by mumbling about syndicate groups and how giving them money is not really helping them.

Then I hit the gas pedal a little bit to move forward. The automobile's version of shoo-ing someone away from the window.

But when they do leave, I can never resist the urge to take a look at these street kids finally and wincing a bit. What if it was no marketing strat? What if it really was the only way they can buy their cup of rice to feed a family of 8?

Usually, I'm saved from taking it all in and turning into an embarrassing sight of mucous and tears by the traffic light turning green. But then, peeling and screeching tires can never take you far enough, fast enough from the hopelessness on their faces.

I've always found talking about our family business a bit funny. Almost like I'm sheepishly apologizing for invading that most holy of places in a home. I mean, most of my friends tell me they now think of me when they're doing their sacred business in the loo. To which I'm always rather at a loss if I ought to respond "oh, how sweet".

There's been no escape anymore. To most people, the comfort room is a place of, well... comfort. To quietly meditate in, to escape, get naked and relax.

Me, I sit on the throne, consciously "experiencing" the sensation on my butt to assess (no pun intended) the softness of the paper. Goodness, I never thought I would ever feel violated by myself. But mercy, mercy, mercy, I do now.

Passion burns out, leaving you with nothing but black cinders. But the thrill, the thrill. It numbs the pain of the ride.

Hi. I think today my name is Eleanor.

I've been thinking about the cruel habit life has of excluding.

Picking, selecting, alienating.

It does this at the worst time possible -- when you really need a good, belly deep, rolling on the floor, can't breathe anymore laughter. Where are your insane friends when you need them, ey??

I daydream:

I'll go up to a perfect stranger. We share a tiny smile that slowly widens into a grin. A tiny croak of laughter spills out to become a full-fledged  laughter. And we laugh, we laugh and we laugh. Then we settle down, nod to each other and part ways.

Sigh. Just never happens that way.

Usually, stranger's eyes widen and he darts away. Freako. Or stranger's eyes starts to move down to stare at my boobs. Freako.

I stay away from my rottie when I'm like this. I can sense his depression when I'm depressed and I get depressed even more that my own dog feels pity for me. A dog! Feels pity! For me!

Scraping the bottom.

Now that my office is in Taguig, I'm once again a 100% South Girl, with hardly any reason to venture into the congested, rat-packed world of Makati or Ortigas. I'm seeing more blast from the past faces in random familiar places. It's a little disorienting. When you see someone from your past, as in childhood past, you aren't just seeing that person, are you? You're seeing yourself in the context of when you last saw each other and you're also seeing all the years you've been separated and if what you've been occupied with life has been meaningful.

Or maybe I just really overanalyze things. Pfffft.

Anyway.

Probably because the same people tend to hang out in the same places, Alabang has a country club feel to it. The buddy you work out with at Fitness First is likely to have a business meeting in the same Starbucks you are wasting time in and will probably be shopping at ATC at about the same time you're heading there for a haircut. I love that, of course. If also a little suspicious that Ayala isn't herding us by the nose to a particular curious behavior they think is appropriate to the lifestyle they think we should be leading.

It can be a little manipulative.