losing my armstretch of sky

 Continuing to play the anti-outsourcing card, Democrat presidential front-runner Barack Obama on Wednesday said while America cannot “shy away” from globalisation, it would have to take measures to ensure that jobs are not shipped overseas.

“We have to stop providing tax breaks for companies that are shipping jobs overseas and give those tax breaks to companies that are investing here in the United States of America,” Obama said. [Source]
 

— We’ve always felt proud that we’re not a typical callcenter, that we’re a subsidized, off-shore location for this “big” American company; yet these market crashes inevitably led to retrenchment, even whole teams/depts were dissolved.

Here’s something I wrote a few months back, the good ol’ secure days:

If I leverage my chair I can see heads, foreheads, the ubiquitous red department labels, the green pillars, exit signs, fire extinguishers, lights, workstation nameplates, the uncloaked ceiling with the water and poo pipelines. I appreciate the fact that the workstations are a rich apple green. Otherwise, I’d be the very creature I feared when I was little.

Years ago, in Economics class, my professor objurgated Filipinos leaving the country because she was so passionately against human capital flight, commonly known as brain drain. Years ago, in the same class under the same professor, we discussed how bpo is a booming industry & that suddenly getting a college diploma does not necessarily equate to a high-paying job. In that same classroom, in the state university I attended, we were forewarned that graduating from AB Economics will not get us a good job; which was a euphemism for: you wasted four years of your life to ceremoniously up the unemployment rate.

The Exculpation 2.0

My 1-year old sis has OC tendencies in the way she wants to arrange flashcards into a row; whereas, when given a battallion of stuffed toys [mostly, sheep. One is named Lamborghini] throws them out of her crib like unwelcome guests.

When I was a kid, walking down the school corridor, I’d fit my feet inside the boxes made by the tile floors. I’d step inside one, skip the following box, then step and skip. Step & skip. The rhythm made me happy; but when people start to walk past you, keeping the pattern becomes difficult. Maybe that’s why I’m irascible when my routine is disrupted [like whenever Ate Tin asks me to bring food for her boyfriend who’s my officemate].

In a conversation with my brother he said each time he’d go for a bath, he hangs his towel first, slides it to the left, and then hang his clothes. He confesses it’s a routine he follows without apparent reason except that deviating from the action makes him uneasy.

Mama & Ate Tin are also o.c. in some way, I’m just not sure how. But while Boboy & I were taking about it, they happily chimed in.

Bantot with all his talk of badminton, confessed that he felt there was something incipient in him, something supernatural. Like a power, a non-human superpower. He knows it’s crazy but he just feels like there’s something torpid waiting to be stirred.

Papa does not figure in such conversations. I don’t know what he could’ve shared if he were there. I think his being pusillanimous is inversely proportional to his children’s audacity. When I come to think of it, this is the rootcause of my tenebrous childhood: my misoneist & callow father.

He spent only less than a month in Saipan, mother expected him to last at least for the entire contract. We were heavily indebted. From that point, my parents’ war never had a real ceasefire. He said the job was too exhausting, delivering 5-gallon bottled water. That was in the early 90s. Later on Mama said, your father’s afraid of technology. He worried he couldn’t use an ATM, or call from overseas, take elevators. That’s what scared him. The little things.

I didn’t know what to believe. But seeing him, observing his reactions to certain things, his take on some issues, his beliefs manifested in his words released here and there–I guess Mama was right. He’s a misoneist.

He is, after all, the seed of a bad childhood. A boy among 14 children of parents who favored a certain daughter, a certain son from among the brood–that can really corrode your confidence. My father, unfortunately, never stepped away from his family’s queer culture– a nebula of negativity and unpolished ways.

This is not entirely a disparagement, I’ve been doing that for years and it’s time to exculpate him. These are simply laying down of facts.

Mama could’ve gone a different way, but she chose B.
A. Prevarication. Protect us from the truth and measure her words to us, in creating an image: that Papa is a good father & we should all appreciate him.

B. The Naked Truth. Bare all, denigrate her husband to her children. After all, she was just sharing sentiments and they have the right to the truth, no need to mask what is conspicuously a familial problem.

For a time I pondered that if Mom had gone on path A, then we would not have treated Pa the way we did, We would not have belittled him so many times–and for every alcohol-induced speech that kept us up on schoolnights, he kept saying “You all treat me like shit!” And that would only provoke a hidden smirk on my face because of course I felt, I still do only partially, that it’s all his fault, why shouldn’t he equate to shit? But after the vicious cycle of war & reconciliation you get tired and realize you have to take blame. We never respected the man when we were kids and so bent on that, the deprecation reached exponential levels that it hurt the man and prevented him from breaking free. I’m sorry for my father.

When I have children, they won’t have to ponder on these things. To sieve the truth or give them unadulterated facts. Because I’ll try, I’ve been hoping, to find a decent partner.

I had a high school classmate whose yearbook ambition said: I want to be a good father. I laughed at that. Now I understood. I understand him now.

third rock from the sun

How queer, when prosaic days can bring
both fugacity and protractedness. How
tedious, the deal of doing all things at once,
accomplishing little of each, but really, nothing.
Be careful not to exhaust all mirth nor tenebrosity,
the earth is finite and so are we. Little beings tethered
together by cells– abberant and normal.
Exiguous, with a kismet of repast after repast.
Restive beings told to do good
for the promise of paradise. Restive monkeys
gorging all bananas. Disgorge me from the mundane,
Lord whom I believe in, out of,
Fear.

give my gun away when it’s loaded

After I got hooked on House, I’ve lost interest on Grey’s Anatomy. But you gotta admit soundtracks from GA are really good… I’ve been listening to this really sad song: 9 Crimes by Damien Rice. Will upload it later on, so check the Audio tab.

*   *   *
Can’t think of anything interesting to say…

*  *   *
Except this afternoon, I dreamt of a large pail filling to the brim with water. As they say, water equals abundance.

*   *   *

We were all in danger of getting the pink slip, because of the retrenchment. [And seeing as I’m still blogging/procrastinating…] Good thing I wasn’t cut.

mr. postman never came so I guess I lost the dognamn contest

the promise of an attempt 

In the crevice of a pause
In a conversation with you, I suppose,
if you were looking for truth it’s there, in that
momentary silence of incalculable dangers.
How tiresome the human jungle of verbal squabble:
Subliminal messages in each word, gesture, and even
silence.
[     ]
And you wish, to spare you the trouble, she had the faculties to decipher:
I do not love you anymore.

*   *   *

5pm & 25 cents

Nearing the day’s end,
jeepney drivers are angry at shrewd passengers,
at traffic enforcers–
but really, they’re anger is for the monotony of days,
of roads, of routes.
And you, in that corner fishing out coins from
a purse & mouthing prayers against criminals
and road rage, and bad weather:
you are shuffling for a 25-centavo coin
to complete the minimum fare.
You are no different from the man
behind the steering wheel, struggling
for his boundary.
You, in the corner; a thought in the corner
of your mind: Where have all the butterflies gone?

never riffle the hangers if you ain’t got money

 I was shuffling through Maldita last week and found this really nice top:
 
But I was having one of those days when my otherwise fat paycheck is made slimmer by pre-determined allotments.

*   *   *

Tanginah naman, ang sakit pala kapag tumatama ang ingrown mo sa loob ng masikip na sneakers. Ganyan talaga kapag gusto mo ang disenyo, kahit wala nang size mo, pinipilit pa rin. Fashion podiatric suicide.

*   *   *

Meanwhile, a pig is lounging on my keyboard:

when expected apologies are routed back to you

 -Hi C. Are you busy?
Nope. Why?
-Nothing. Are you happy?
Wtf? What kind of question is that anyway? D, haven’t you had enough?
- I don’t see anything wrong with that question. Just wanted to know if you’re fine.
It’s not the question but what’s implied. Maybe you wanted me to be miserable? How bout this for an answer? My day was fine til you txtd, just as my life was monotonous til you happened. I wish it could’ve ended with my fist on your jaw. If only you were decent enough to apologize in person. But the bottom line is, I’m fine & i know you’re fine. Like a resilient roach.
-Damn right, Cathy. I’m so fine. Good night.
Oh my nights are fine, yours are dubitable.
-oo na.
See what’s happening here? I’m channeling anger from years ago. At some point I’ve forgiven you. Other times I feel I can’t. It’s just that you never said sorry. But honestly, without subliminal messages, I hope you are happy. Sleep well.
-wouldn’t bother saying hi & asking if you’re doing good (& reading your kind, friendly messages) if I’m happy.
That’s too bad. There will be better days though. Just sleep it out, or eat maybe.

*   *   *

Meanwhile, a frog is lounging on my desk:

*   *   *
These are my house keys, my locker keys, and my old drawer key which is useless, I suppose but a set of three would make for a good makeshift iron knuckles:
 

return of investment: a two hundred-peso expired giftcheck

     My workstation looks jaundiced with all the post-its strewn around… the best part of the day is when they’ve shed like autumn leaves ripe for the trash bin. But I’m not here to talk about the monotony of my job hub, let’s start off with last weekend’s badminton joust. Bantot & buddy Sep competed under Elite III, too bad they lost & failed to advance to the championships. The defeat was achieved [see how negativity can be mildly cancelled out by the right verb?] by a couple of factors: Sep’s nerves & Bantot’s temper. Given that, the game consisted of a lot of errors from Sep which resulted in Bantot’s lack of enthusiasm to finish the game. He literally dropped all agility to prevent the shuttle cock from landing on the court; I sat there shaking my head and he stood there catching my eye saying, “We’re done for.” In truth, and this is not just because he’s my brother, Sep is not a very good badminton partner. We regret not having sent for Notchanot to be Tot’s double for that tourney, but plans are underway for the November tourney.
 

Other things… Ooh, Marga lent me the ff flicks in exchange for my “The Jacket”
— Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind [something is seriously wrong about the Kauffman brothers. Wrong in a right kind of way. Watch “Adaptation” if you get the chance
— Memoirs of a Geisha [I’ve read the book prior to watching..& i prefer the novel]
— Wanted [For most people, it’s their first acquaintance of James McAvoy. But I’ve known him as the faun from Narnia…the   paraplegic   from “Inside I’m Dancing,” Anne Hathaway’s love interest in “Becoming Jane” and Keira Knightley’s in “Atonement.” So you see, Jolie isn’t his first high-calibre co star.

At morning, 08/19, Bantot decided to go home on account of the boring apartment, and in the afternoon he was gone. I ordered him to return with Notcha in tow and together they will conquer the metro’s badminton-dom, with stage sister doubling as water girl.

*   *   *

Word of advice. Never leave a half-finished grocery list on your workstation, your supervisor might do this:

insatiety, artificial intelligence, & economics [Wall-E: alt post title for gullible non-geeks]

Insatiety is our problem. Fastfood nation has reprogrammed our appetites to want, always, to want fries with your burger. And if you’re weak, there’s the danger of upgrading your drink to a Coke Float; and if weaker still, a sundae. When a student, a serving of pancit bato and a five-peso cup of cola will get you through the sleepy afternoons. When a child you were praying not even to be wealthy, but have just enough of the basic elements of sustenance. Your first cell phone has accessories amounting to half the market value of the phone itself. Upgrade is a word of this century. We never stop wanting, that has become the fad. If Pleasantville is happy with their sepia faces and monochrome world, we want color. We want multi-color, every single megapixel of our vision has a thousand shades of this and that. We are insatiable.

Where function used to precede design, now is an entirely different scheme. You got hollywood celebs and Arab princes, oil tycoons, business moguls acquiring diamond-studded cars, premiere subdivisions built on the sea, units on the tallest & chicest buildings, making trips to outer space. This is the Law of Conspicuous Consumption, ladies and gentlemen. This is not normal, this is an irreverence to the Law of Demand and Supply and consumer behavior. Insatiety: When in penury, three square meals were enough; a pair of good shoes, plain white tees, a trusty old knapsack were appreciated. When coming into some wealth, you can’t pick a top from closetful of clothes. Clothes, gadgets, parties, videogames, online social networks, blogs, vlogs etc.: these are slowly becoming the main tabs in our life’s homepage.

The generation is getting angrier and detached. All this innovation supposed to keep our lives simple has brought forth an easily-angered multitude given to whining. And whining means being rude to someone, though the person you’re channeling that anger through gets a piece of that malcontent and consciously, or even, unconsciously passes it on, until the entire world is tapped by that neon green, or Hulk-green emotion.

I don’t know where I’m going with this, but this entire rant has spawned from watching Wall-E. The film gives us an entirely new perspective. Well, not really new, but a perspective we’ve maybe been ignoring out of fear. It challenges us to think about the future and see that the future they’ve set is very, dangerously, possible if we continue to live like this. Which calls to mind a slogan: Live simply, so that others may simply live.

Can you imagine the homo sapiens eventually having webbed feet and fingers since human touch and human contact has been forgotten, [just like the populace in the Axiom, where people are on reclined chair conveyors and have virtual people and holograms in front of them all day long]?

Five paragraphs into this narrative, and I still don’t know where I’m going with this. Let me steer you back to insatiety. It is a problem. But isn’t contentment also a problem? You know what’s frightening? That happiness in paradise would be fugacious. That it’ll be too perfect and monotonous and boring that the end result would be to revert to [title].

laws of vile extirpation [l.o.v.e.]

The sea suspires, inhumes the shore and
lets go, like a lover releasing from an embrace,
who looks into you
betraying the secret of noctilucent rocks.
Love has a closetful of masks, yet Deception
needs none and morphs at will.
Your smile shamed the morning, because
its mirth was defeated, we were
happy, weren’t we? Under the broken streetlamp,
challenging the public what to make of two figures
dimmed and lighted and hidden again.
How half-creeping, and half-sudden the birth of that non-love,
praetorian and easy to extirpate. Fate was soporose
and did not bend to my yielding.
In this pantagruelian world of loners and paramores and pariahs
the sea suspires, inhumes the shore and lets go,
lets go like a lover.

As a catachresis-free Senator once said, 5 words a day keep the dictionary away. So some time last year I started subscribing to this . I say one word a day will jumpstart you from keeping the lexicon away. Most of the words in the poem are from AWAD. I am, conspicuously, an unpolished poet so forgive the 50 or so rules I’ve breached in composition.

an onrush of a morsel, an angstrom, a microcosm of a promise of genius [phew]

There’s a famine of prose & poetry in my head, that being said…here’s a B  tongue twister that just came to mind. [Not that you can have much use for it, but be a darling and bear with me ’til the next lucid interval]

The bibulous bum blasphemed by bludgeoning the blabbering bishop in the blue Buick.

the pre-exculpation

“God is the color of water,”
said white mother to black child.
Yet your struggles aren’t the same, this is not about race,
But a bad father in the picture, not the absence of one.

the invincible bantot

Friday night at work found me in a run-down state. [My supervisor himself rose me from a nap on my workstation I was hoping to get away with]. I had a total of 4 hours’ sleep in three installments, phew, but was able to pull through ’til eod.The reason for such exhaustion is a badminton game which didn’t actually involve me as a player, somewhere in Makati. See the photo of my brother two posts prior? I wasn’t with him but was with my other, younger brother who’s got a strong addiction to badminton that last night with his daylong talk of the game I dreamt I was holding a racket and hitting the bushes with it. It’s that contagious when you’re around him. Since he set foot here with his dream of reaching greater heights, the fever has gotten to me.

This pm we went to Galaxy Badminton in Ortigas, and Bantot [in the Sorsoganon dialect, means: mahambog–as he has been so named by our former neighbor slash uncle slash enemy whom we in turn call Lupin behind his back] …Bantot played against the tosser thrice, and thrice stood undefeated. He’s tuning up for a series of private  tournaments here in the Metro, whereas back then he was involved in only one tournament in Naga City. Bantot has several Governor’s Cup championships under his belt, and has been the first (in after a few years) delegate to the Palarong Pambansa from the Bicol region. He’s really no neophyte, as he’s started playing in the 5th grade and started competitive badminton when he was 13 or 14 and never stopped since. We’re banking on some tourneys here; and more importantly, he’s looking for that worthy opponent who’s gonna bring out the best in him…

He said, and I quote: “If you play with an equal, there’s no advancement in your game.”
I said, “And when you come across someone who beats you? And beats you twice or thrice?”
“The better.” — which actually makes sense.

Boy, did I sound like a manager there? Can’t blame a proud sister…

 *   *   *

And here’s why I extremely adore Nerina: 

topos + graphein

 In my hometown, there’s a vacant area beside an Iglesian church where they used to burn old banknotes. The lot has always been vacant for as long as I can remember. Most of the time there are cows sprewn on the meagre grass–for it was all sand. Twice or thrice we saw horses grazing there and it was a beautiful sight. I remember that part of town now because suddenly, somewhere in the million ziplocked memories & stills inside, I saw the Mayon. I remember a time when each time the jeepney passed that area, no matter what physical obstacle prevented me from seeing it, I’d struggle to catch a glimpse. I lived in Legazpi all my life [until two years ago] and yet I could never dismiss the Mayon like any other local dweller. It evokes a sigh that I can never give to anything else; it owns that sigh. And it amazes me how something massive, so ubiquitous in sunny weather can be hidden by clouds and fog and mist. On those days, I don’t miss it so much but I ponder on how something so familiar to us can be gone from sight, but nonetheless, stays. I don’t really know where this is going. Maybe I’m homesick. Maybe I wish people weren’t so shrewd. Maybe I wish I’ve never been too cautious in the first place. Maybe I wish I were more decisive. Maybe I think too much. No, I’m sure I do. Maybe I should stop.

*  *  *

Eto yung insidente na dapat naibahagi ko na kasabay ng mga litratong kuha sa airport, yung dalawang post nang nakakaraan. Takot siguro akong suriin ‘toh. Pero eto na: Kelan pa naging ganu’n? Na ang mga galos sa kanan at ang nabiyak na bahagi ng kaliwang headlight ng bus ay katumbas ng isang buhay? Kelan naging ganun ang ekwasyon?

Galing Legazpi yung bus at nasa intersection kami malapit sa PGH. Dala na rin ng antok at sakit ng pwet sa mahigit sampung oras na pagkakaupo, hindi ako masyadong bihilante. Ang alam ko lang pinaglalaruan ko pa yung digicam at nagpapa-cute kami ni Bantot na parehong naka-hoodie. Alam ko din naitago ko na yung cam bago mangyari yun–isang malakas na “bang” o “blag” at ang biglang pagpreno ng bus namin. Matapos yun, sa periperya ko sa kaliwang bahagi may sasakyang tumirik, pahalang ang takbo…Isipin nyo, hindi yung kanyang gulong ang nkapagdala sa kanya galing sa isang bahagi ng daan patungo malapit sa may railing sa tapat ng PGH–ang impact ng bus ang naghatid sa kanya dun. Nung una, hindi ko sigurado kung yung sinasakyan namin ang nakabangga sa pick-up truck na yun o yung sasakyan sa harap namin–yun ay kung meron. Ngunit nakumpirma nga na yung Cagsawa bus na lulan ang iyong lingkod, yun ang salarin sa pagkamatay ng driver ng pick-up. Pero teka, salarin lamang dahil ito’y malaki at hindi natinag. Sa kasamaang palad, kasalanan nung namatay na mama kung bakit nangyari ang aksidente. Sumugal siya. Hindi nya alam na ang simpleng desisyon sa pagitan ng oo: tumuloy ka kahit naka red-light na mahahabol pa yan, o hindi: maghintay at naka green-light na yung sa kaliwa…hindi nya alam na ang simpleng desisyon na oo o huwag ay magiging buhay o kapahamakan. Sana hindi siya nagmadali. Sana hindi siya sumugal. Hindi sana siya isang pisikal, materyal at marupok na bagay na napulot sa kabilang bahagi ng railing–sa sidewalk– at kinarga sa isang pedikab. Sa mga nakita ko galing sa bintana ng “salarin” na bus, hindi na maingat ang pagkakakarga ng mga tumulong sa katawang walang malay. Yun, yun ang nagsabing namatay agad yung mama.

Napakarupok natin. Kaya’t kaibigan, hindi sapat ang mag-ingat. Mag-isip ka din.

*     *     *

by Dylan Thomas

And death shall have no dominion
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone
They shall have stars at elbow and foot
Though they go mad they shall be sane
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again
Though lovers be lost love shall not
And death shall have no dominion.

offspring no. 4 of 6; born 20 years past

Happy birthday NotchaNot!

nothing like butter

 So, flying wasn’t exactly slicing through the clouds like butter– more like knifing through an unthawed Sans Rival really, but altogether an experience I’d like to box up and toss right next to my first boat ride to San Mig islands. The take-off gives you a natural high [not that I know what an induced high feels like] and when you rise above the clouds you feel you’ve lost your mundaneness; and that alone should blur out fears of flying, living, dying…

It’s still a premature opening for NAIA Terminal 3. Chairs were just being set up, we were like refugees squatting on the floor. And Gate numbers were announced only a few minutes before boarding– bummer, because there’s an abundance of chairs there as opposed to waiting for your gate number while lounging on the cold floor. There were no large monitors that flashed your flight status, all they had was a white board and men who wait for radioed-in messages; and people would swarm around the board each time new info is posted. They had megaphone in place of the non-existent terminal-wide paging system. But again, this is for Cebu Pacific, I’m not sure what transpired with the other airlines.

Sometime between exhausting my ears with music, feeding my multi-colored cancer cells with Gonuts Donuts and boarding, I had a photo taken with the regal Ms. Calzado:

Meanwhile at home: my nephews are growing, and Eche’s as makulet as ever.

mom, look what tv did

 It’s been done countless times: the final scene, two liplocking figures as the camera zooms away just as the killer soundtrack kicks off. And yet, and yet… we fall for it. The kilig just gets to you. All these flicks messed me up irreparably. There’s always the undeclared desire for your own moment. And what happened to me these past few days is mediocre–a series of scenes with an eerie similitude to high school days, and no semblance at all to that dreamy air enveloping Cusack & Beckinsale or Ruffalo & Garner. Which brings to mind a Liz Phair song that’s been a soundtrack favorite for romantic comedies…

Why is it so difficult to find a good conversationalist? Someone you can have dinner with once, and then every single night for the rest of your life thereafter.

* * *

The guy who was ignoring me on purpose? I lost that battle, I made contact first. What that says about me is I’m a sissy. I can’t stand it when people are mad at me.

* * *

I’m flying to Legazpi later, first time to “slice through the clouds like butter” as JTT said in a flick, I’m not sure which one. Whatever happened to Jonathan Taylor Thomas? I digress…

First time , and I’ll have a taste of the finally-completed NAIA Terminal 3.

Ciao!

p.s. Ciao reminds me of Italy, naturally. Italy reminds me of Roberto Cavalli, which reminds me of Zein’s parents, which reminds me of Zein, and of her promise of a closetful of Cavalli tops… sigh…