Rewind: My Peace

1/2 of my soldiers.

Amidst all the chaos that goes through my mind these days, I let myself sit down and realize that things are okay as it is. You can only ask too much from life. But, nevertheless, I am thankful for my one true confidante: Music. Thank you so much for a gift so profound- that all adjectives describe it. I am at peace. I am at home. (Me, April 24, 2006 on my Friendster blog)

My new thoughts...

On Chaos: I admittedly had it easy. Good thing chaos only 'resided' in my brain back then. Nowadays, there's actual literal chaos not just in my head, but physically manifesting in front of me! The upside is, I now have two very beautiful people who have my back. I could not imagine how I would handle this new and evolved chaos without them. I'd probably go insane.

On Music: I am so happy that absolutely nothing has changed about how I feel about music. I do tend to forget to don the earbuds every now and then, but when I do - magic. What seems like a lonely undertaking at first becomes a team effort - all with the right music. (Choosing the right music is in itself a tricky endeavor I struggle with frequently - but I think I'm getting the hang of it.)

Alternative Love (Playlist)

My enjoyment of pop and love songs is seasonal, and guess what - it's in season. To celebrate, I went through my library of stolen mp3s and managed to make a playlist that "tugged at the heartstrings" for those longing for love/inspiration, or perhaps want it filled to the brim until it spills over. I made sure this list was easily digestible, favoring instant gratification and shunning songs that take several listens before sinking in. I personally listen to a song or two from this list every now and then - but never lumped together like this. And strangely, it works! (I'm so proud of myself).

PS: I popped this in the car the other day and I've been singing my ass off ever since.

01. Everybody But You - Dave Barnes
02. Where You Are - Marc Broussard
03. Dream Catch Me - Newton Faulkner
04. The Way I Am - Ingrid Michaelson
05. Sweet Disposition - The Temper Trap
06. So Slow - Ari Hest
07. Waterfall - Gavin Degraw
08. Poison & Wine - The Civil Wars
09. Mine Again - Black Lab
10. Orange Sky - Alexi Murdoch
11. Dream - Priscilla Ahn
12. A Little Bit Better - Daniel Merriweather
13. Ordinary - The Alternate Routes
14. Colors - Amos Lee

Made a Youtube playlist to save you the hassle of searching for these songs. Enjoy!

If The Dead Could Talk

A dead and live person talk at a funeral:

Dead Person: Hi.

Living Person: Hello.

DP: Why the long face?

LP: You're dead!

DP: I'm so sorry about the whole "dying" thing. I just couldn't help it. Well... my body couldn't. But I'm fine. I feel wonderful actually.

LP: You're not fine. You're dead. You're in a stupid-looking casket and your skin is starting to decay from where I stand.

DP: Oh, you mean my carcass? Pay no mind to it. We all decompose into dirt at some point. It's all bound to happen. By the way, I didn't mean to just collapse in front of you that day - you know what I'm talking about - do you remember that day?

LP: What do you mean do I remember? Of course I do! Seeing your lifeless body slumped on the floor is not something that's easy to forget!

DP: I'm really really sorry. I really couldn't help it. I hope that wasn't too traumatizing for you. I'm particularly concerned about mother. She looked pretty upset. How's she doing anyway?

LP: None of us are fine. We're at your funeral. She's right over there in tears. Why don't you ask her yourself? She could use your company right now.

DP: I'll chat with her later. Right now I want to talk to you.

LP: Uh, okay. So... what are you going to do now?

DP: I honestly don't know. I'm still trying to get the hang of this being "dead" thing. For instance, did you know I could fly now? Also, it's been a week since I last ate, slept, and defecated. It's extremely liberating.

LP: I'm sorry - did you say you could fly?

DP: Yeah! Ain't it great? The very moment I collapsed, I felt my entire existence instantly pierce the sky. It was like being reborn with invisible wings.

LP: That... sounds awesome I guess.

DP: Are you kidding me? Remember when you were a kid pretending to be a bird or a plane? Remember all the Superman movies? Or being on the back of a motorbike with your arms outstretched trying to take flight*? Those are nothing compared to what's in store for you and everyone else in this room. It's seriously amazing. The only downside is you have to die. Make sure to write that down in your little notebook. "Death Equals Flight".

LP: Hmm... that's interesting. Okay, I'll take your word for it.
(Writes down "DEATH = FLIGHT" on a piece of paper.) 

DP: That might have been a bit too early and too much information for you. I wouldn't want you getting excited about dying all of a sudden. You know - cos you're still alive and you still need to take care of my teary-eyed mother over there.

LP: I do not plan on dying soon. And I'm not exactly sure if I believe you. I'm not even sure if I'm hallucinating right now. But I'm glad that you're fine - and enjoying yourself, apparently.

DP: Pfft... I'm great. Don't worry about me... Hey. My coffin's starting to descend down that big hole in the ground.

LP: Yeah, look at everyone wail.

DP: Why's Hindi Kita Malilimutan playing in the background? I did not 'okay' this.

LP: It was between that or Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On.

DP: Ugh. Make it stop. Put on Chop Suey.

- - - - -

* DCFC

How To Excel At Being A Boss Despite Your Incompetence

If you're an incompetent boss and often find yourself sitting on your ass with a to-do list devoid of creativity, the quickest way to add fresh bullet points to your list- as well as eradicate idle time- is to call a meeting. Everyone knows this, but still- the power to call meetings on a whim is the pinnacle of manager ego-trips where you can effortlessly summon the ranks and have them drop everything they're doing for the chance to brown-nose you. Others won't be as eager, so the trick is to coerce them into thinking these meetings are in fact "serious business", and by that I mean you're taking it very seriously.

Being the incompetent, uncreative boss that you are, you might run out of stuff to talk about. To avoid this, set an agenda so broad you could literally talk about all day. The more tedious and boring, the better. (IMPORTANT: Be careful not to fall asleep during the meeting. It can prove disastrous to your image!) Luckily, picking an agenda won't take as much brain cells as you might think. It's a matter of setting the stage for a free-flowing discussion and see where your employees can take it. Keep it simple and observational- for example: you might remember seeing dirt in one of the rest rooms and say "I saw dirt in one of the stalls in the rest room the other day. I think housekeeping needs to be improved." Encourage everyone in attendance to give their 2 cents, have an open forum and let them share similar experiences. By the time the discussion has veered off topic and everyone starts debating who would win in a Pacquiao-Mayweather boxing match, you will have wasted a huge chunk of your morning (and everyone else's). Repeat ad nausea until you've had enough. Ready your memorized pablum to close the meeting with. (Always impart some sort of moral lesson to bookend your meetings- people love it.)

If you still have time to burn after the meeting's over, you might want to obsess about housekeeping a bit more. Take a stroll around the office park. Take into account mess, grime, clutter, etc. Be as meticulous as possible! This isn't only an effective time sink, but also shows you as a strict boss who cares about the little details. Any boss, competent or not, who's meticulous down to the tiniest detail often excels at what he does (in your case- lying). Before long, you'll be heralded as some kind of multi-tasking genius- especially when your on-site inspections are contrasted with your day-to-day "important" office meetings. Plus, you're getting your much-needed exercise during office hours!

Boy, he's been in and out of meetings all day and he still manages to check if there's dirt in the bathroom! He sure is one helluva multi-tasker!

By this time, you should approach an unsuspecting worker near the vicinity, confront him about the mess, and give him a lengthy lecture about how cleanliness is next to godliness until either one of you falls asleep standing up (again, try hard it won't be you). Remind him that your findings will be discussed in tomorrow's meeting.

Sometimes News Articles Are Comedians - Part 1

Sometimes news articles are comedians.

Armed men in camouflage stormed the grounds of the Gonzaga, Cagayan town hall during the flag-raising ceremony and killed Mayor Carlito Pentecostes Jr. at around 8 a.m. yesterday.

Police said the armed men scattered leaflets with a message in Ilocano: “Hustisya para iti kaaduan, dusaen dagiti utek ti dayuhan a minas iti Cagayan (Justice for all. Punish the brains of the illegal mining operations by foreigners in Cagayan).”

Pentecostes’ relatives and close political allies believe politics and mining could be behind the killing.

You don't say.


The full article can be found here.

Violence in Malapascua

April 19. We were at a dinner buffet by the beach after a long day of snorkeling. People had already begun helping themselves to a second serving when we heard the first gunshot. We looked at each other and quickly faced the direction where we thought the sound came from. Another gunshot. And another. Then another. No one knew for certain that these were indeed gunshots, which sounded more like a set of puny, out-of-season firecrackers; but people were starting to feel alarmed. The noise ultimately came from a little scuba diving shop right beside the restaurant and the people nearby started moving closer to take a peek and see what was going on. Everyone else was paying attention now.

"Our manager is being shot!"

Chaos broke out. In a rush of panic, everyone frantically left their seats and scampered to safety. People were spilling their drinks, fumbling over chairs and tables; and those who had never used their legs to run in the past decade or so began running now. Some ran back to their rooms and locked themselves in, others took cover in the sand dunes, and the rest just ran off into the dark. In seconds, the place was completely deserted, but everyone kept a watchful eye from a safe distance.

Two or three more gunshots could be heard. Some fearless (or crazy) bystanders every now and then would sneak up close to take a peek only to run away seconds later. People in the shadows were now on their phones, trying to contact the police. All everyone knew at that point was the manager was being slaughtered inside his own dive shop and the police had yet to arrive.

After 15 or 20 minutes I saw the first policeman. He was dressed in civilian clothes and was carrying a rifle - which looked like an M-16. He took a glimpse from afar, surveyed what he could, always moving back and forth, and decided to move closer. I did not see anything else from my vantage point, but no gunshots were exchanged and no noises could be heard. A few moments later, one or two people came into the open and began flailing their arms to all the people who were watching at a safe distance, and when we got the message, everyone started moving back to the dive shop to see what had happened.

The gunner was already handcuffed. He was the security guard of the dive shop. A Filipino. Not a resident of Malapascua Island, but he allegedly hailed from Samar. He shot his European boss (I'm not sure of his exact nationality) using his standard-issue revolver. He emptied all eight (or six?) bullets, stopped and reloaded the remaining three bullets he had on him and emptied it again. He was out of ammo when the police arrived. He was drunk. And drunk he showed up for work. Apparently, the manager had nothing of it and fired him on the spot. He was handing over his uniform, and was also about to hand over his service firearm when he decided to shoot the manager instead.

The manager was carried all the way to the beach where a boat bound for Maya waited. He was still breathing. There were no hospitals nor clinics in Malapascua so he had to be taken to the mainland to receive proper treatment. The gunner, met by scorn from the multitude of onlookers, boarded the same boat together with the policemen and collectively vanished into the dark.

We would later learn that the manager died from his injuries before they could reach the mainland.

Rewind: The Sunset Through a Window

Ah, the sunset.  I take great pleasure from staring at that orange gob of light before the earth completely devours it.  It would've been better if it weren't for the neighborhood rooftops that block the display of warm colors at its grandest, when it starts to trace the silhouettes of the mountains. No matter, it works regardless, and my complaints are minimal. I lay motionless. A guitar within arm's reach. Here. This is my room on an afternoon. Welcome.

A few years from now, I will be leaving this place. And even later my family will follow suit. This room, this house will be deserted. It will be dirty with dust and cobwebs in every corner, floors will give in to the slightest weight, and windows will be host to vines that go in every direction in the midst of broken jalousies. The sound of crickets will be louder. The croaks of frogs, much easier to discern. All these new creatures and green foliage will marvel at this ancient man-made fortress while through its windows, the sunset will continue to paint it orange. Always.

This room will be an old storyteller one day. It will share a story of sadness & joy, of music & dissonance, of love, and of a boy, who once stared through its windows at that emanating gob of light to the west.

~ July 2008

Rewind: A Completely Pointless Dream about Ghosts

I had the weirdest dream.  I was 5 or 6 and son to an army chief and lived off in some army encampment in the great forest.  I couldn't really remember if we lived a normal happy life, but then the riders came.  They were clad in medieval suits, the ones you saw on knights in a period movie.  I heard the sound of metal banging against metal.  I could tell they weren't barbarians for I saw that their leader carried a certain valor to him.  But they killed swiftly.  They took the life of everyone I cared for, including mine.  I couldn't really remember that one swing of the sword that ended me, but I knew I was dead because I started to see ghosts.

The ghosts ganged up on me.  They took me to a place where I "waited it out" for the next decade or so.  It was an old mansion.  I could still remember the carpet and the wood sculptures on the stairwells.  I could remember small rooms underneath its labyrinth, ones I had to crouch to see.  But the ghosts were the ones that really fascinated me. A select few never tried to scare me and some looked more like real people than ghosts. But the more grotesque ones scared me - one look, a glance, and you had the cliche idea of a ghost: pale, floating, scary-looking. I remember there was a flying ghost of a child with a body severed from the waist down, and he constantly tried to get near me like a beggar would in a street. So did the other ghosts. I didn't know what the deal was but I could see I was important to them. Like a prophet, or savior perhaps, the key to finally move on to the next netherworld, and I had no idea why.

So what did ghosts do each day in a cold dark haunted mansion? They wrote. All of them had notebooks, scraps of paper, the underside of a magazine cover--- anything really, as long as they could write on it. And they wrote all day. They would always come to me asking for pens, which of course I didn't have, and it's also probably the reason why I was so scared because I got to see every single one of them approaching me. At times I would turn back and run, but they would call me out and say they were not a threat and meant no harm. And I never did have any pens, but they would always find that last lead off a pencil somewhere and they would continue scribbling the day away.

One day I was among them whilst they were writing, they had all their heads down as if in deep concentration.  I peeked.  One wrote phrases I barely understood or remembered.  One wrote his signature over and over again.  Others wrote poetry.  And they all wrote on random areas on the paper.  I asked one of them "what's the deal with all this writing?" He said, "it's the only thing that connects this world to the worlds above".  I did not forget that. It was the only medium that could send out pleas for ghostly freedom to the gods. Most of them remain unheard, and I realized you had to be lucky. They pushed on anyway, like old people buying lottery tickets everyday hoping to finally hit the jackpot.  The "jackpot" in their case was a mystery. The ghost continued that they were writing even more now that I'm here.  They say I was a prophet and that I was the catalyst to all this mumbo-jumbo.

I couldn't really remember anything else except the return of the riders. Strange because they saw the ghosts. I don't know if they were ghosts themselves, but they looked battle-hungry, and they were all looking for me. I had no idea why. Their leader, the one that killed me, stormed through the entrance with a flail and immediately went looking for me and once he found my hiding place, he rammed the wood panels from which I hid underneath until he coaxed me out.  I ran, but I couldn't run as fast as I normally did. I was held by a strange wood-like figure. In no time, he was before me- and I was ready to die a second death. I waited for the death blow but it did not come. What he did though, he drew his sword and started sawing at something I had no idea was on my body before. I had chains just between my thighs and my butt. Thick metal chains. And he sawed and I cried.  It felt like I was the subject of a medieval circumcision. But once the last chain was off, he said to me... "now you're free".

Wild applause ensued. Including the ghosts. Then I woke up.

~ June 2008

The Procrastinating Couch Potato

He awoke drenched. It was a hot afternoon and the couch was damp with his own sweat. The electric fan was useless. Still groggy and half-naked, he began to recount his bearings- what day was it anyway? He made a quick glance at the calendar on the wall and learned it was a Tuesday. Just another Tuesday.

He had taken a nap on the same couch yesterday, and the day before that, and on Saturday too. Fact is, he had been napping for as long as he could remember; and the couch was beginning to smell funky. As with most couch potatoes, he was oblivious to the scent.

He turned on the TV and quickly leafed through the channels looking for something worthwhile to watch. He stopped at the Fashion Channel, like he did yesterday, and the day before that. He watched as one slender model after another pranced on the walkway, his eyes fixated on their breasts jiggling with each gallop. This semi-erotic ritual of his wasn't limited to the afternoons. He watched these exact same models gallop well beyond midnight.

God, these ladies are gorgeous. He thought.

Swallowing his saliva, he turned off the TV and slowly went back to a supine position on the couch. He cuddled to one of the couch pillows and made mental notes of the stuff he was supposed to do today:

Pay bills.
Run errands.
Do groceries.
Spend the rest of afternoon at the driving range.

He had always thought himself classy, and, in his mind, being a golfer drove that point home. Everyone else was playing basketball, soccer, tennis. Not him. He played golf. If he had to fill out a form that asked for his sports or hobbies, he was proud to write "GOLF" in there every time. He felt elite doing so, the same way horse back-riders felt when writing "equestrianism" on the same form. He was convinced he was part of the social elite - the rich - since golf is not a typical sport enjoyed by common peons. Furthermore, being associated with the latter is essentially social suicide.

He wondered if any other "elite" people had been at the driving range today.

If only Benjamin did a bit of golfing we'd be the classiest father-son duo at the driving range.
(Benjamin hated golfing.)

His mind continued to wander off onto something else. He began thinking about how much money he had spent on those damn near-worthless lampshades. For a second he considered adding "return lampshades and make cashier wish he/she wasn't a cashier" to his itinerary- on a whim- but ultimately decided against it. He then thought of other stuff: one had to do with getting rid of rats in the house, another with getting a haircut. He continued to think all that he could within his capabilities as a sweat-soaked half-naked man in boxers in a hot afternoon. Then his eyes started to cave in.

And so he spent the rest of his afternoon sleeping on the couch; same as yesterday, and the day before, and Saturday too.

Bacon & Eggs and Cold Conversations

The seat sent shivers through him. It was morning, and he had just taken a nice warm bath. Benjamin was dried up and seated before the dinner table now- a dinner table with breakfast on it- still trying to swallow the drowsiness from the night and waking his sleeping appetite. The breakfast was the bacon and eggs cliché. It smelled nice. At least it did.

He kept his distance from his father. They both lived together for as long as he can remember but they seldom talked. His father was across the table with a couple of pills strewn beside a glass of milk. Father started scooping rice and made a delicious mess of eggs and bacon on his plate. Swallowed one pill and started talking.

“Doesn’t Joseph want to work in the same industry as you?”
A light shrug. Joseph was a friend, but more a drinking buddy than a friend actually. He worked in some bank.
“I mean, industries like yours should interest him. It’s managerial.”
Managerial. That word somehow sent a small puke in Benjamin's mouth.

A brief silence followed by the clinging of silverware.

He felt his father had always wanted to talk to him, but he always remained quiet, replying with no more than half-hearted shrugs and nods. It all comes naturally to him. At times he felt sorry for his father and wanted to at least make an effort to answer his questions properly. "How hard can it be?", he thought. But there’s nothing more awkward than taking five minutes to come up with a reply. In his mind being awkward was worse than being cold. It was the norm in the household after all.

After drinking his milk and taking his share of vitamins, he stood up. Wandered about the room and looked at the morning paper for awhile. He had not changed into his work clothes yet. His father was finishing his last slab of bacon when Benjamin started up the stairs.

“Do we have a small screwdriver?”, Benjamin was finally saying.
“What about the one you had in one of your drawers?”
“I couldn’t find them. I need to fix the mouse. It’s got dirt inside and it’s a pain to use.”
"I'll check..."

His father immediately stood and started to walk at moderate speed, likely headed towards his room to look for some tools he probably stored there. Benjamin could tell his excitement.

“Not now. I think I’ll fix it later. Maybe tonight.”
His father stopped, looked confused for a moment.
“Oh, okay”, his father said and headed back to the table.

Benjamin was all dressed up when he came downstairs. He had a white polo shirt, dark pants, and squeaky black shoes.
“I’ll be on my way now.”
“Okay.”
His father was still at the dinner table, chewing some left-over peanuts from the fridge.

The road was strange today. It had fewer cars than usual, especially during the morning rush hour. He was playing some Zero 7 and turned the volume to a good 30, drowning the sounds from oncoming traffic and the outside world. He stopped listening to radio a long time ago. Felt he had to be very selfish with his music. It was his brush and paint. It was his landscape.

He awoke when he felt something warm flowing from his neck. The impact had dislodged his jaw from its sockets and it had uncovered a fountain of blood. It was hanging now. He had not seen so much blood before. His neatly ironed white polo shirt was in shreds, dyed dark red from the newly opened faucet. A crowd was forming around the misshapen vehicle with a figure inside. A bloody disfigured creature. Benjamin could make out random buzzes of electricity. The throbbing of the warm flow of liquid. The sound of worried gasps and murmurs. All fading in unison.

He lay motionless. He felt no more.

Father was still at the dinner table, now with a set of screwdrivers before him.  He wondered what he should be fixing today.