We’ve been watching the news non-stop. Ike is starting to hammer into Galveston Island. We don’t really know what to expect. We are on the northwest side of Houston but even now the wind is starting to pick-up. We have provisions ready but the biggest concern is power outage. We have one neighbor that left yesterday for Dallas and we have a couple of neighbors covering their windows with plywood.
We’ll see how it goes.
It’s Kareena’s first day in a real school environment. She’s been in daycare when she was a baby and she’s been going to Gymboree for some time now.
She’s now going to Little Lambs, a school run by a local church. The school really looks impressive and the teachers seem to be very nice.
in the classrom
Showing off her room
Rakesh and our neighbor, Diego, waiting for the school bus
Faye and I watch as Rakesh boards the bus
Last year, we (mostly Faye) took Rakesh to school in the morning and then picked him up in the afternoon. The elementary school is only a couple of minutes away from our house. Since he is now in 1st grade, he wanted to take the bus to school. This is his first bus ride.
It was our first time in Dallas, TX. We went to Dealey Plaza where President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in November 1963. It is now a national historic landmark.
A minimilist structure of four bare concrete walls.
A simple cenotaph tombstone in the middle of the structure.
The grassy knoll is a sloping hill to the front and right of the parade.
Elm Street from the grassy knoll.
A president was shot here more than 40 years ago.
1. source of wisdom: somebody or something considered to be a source of knowledge, wisdom, or prophecy
I’m guessing most of us have our own personal oracles – gods, prophets, people, events, works or things – that we reach out to during times of doubt and distress. I have several that I go back to from time to time to regain perspective and inspiration. Two of my Filipino oracles are Gary Granada and Conrado De Quiros. They’ve had a big influence on me probably because I encountered their work during my receptive days. I was immediately moved not just by the profound and honest truth of their words but the clincher was how they invoked and brought the emotion to the surface. The lyricism, the play of phrases, the wonderful stringing together of thought and words, of words and thought pulled me right in.
My brother introduced me to Granada many years ago and I remember watching him on Ryan, Ryan Musikahan which was Ryan Cayabyab’s weekly TV show. It was writer’s night and he sang his best songs with some narrative and back story to boot. I liked that episode so much that I asked my brother-in-law, who was working for ABS-CBN that time, to make me a copy. I had that Betamax tape for years before it finally succumbed to the elements.
As for De Quiros, I can’t remember if I read his columns or if I got a hold of his two books first. Flowers from the Rubble and Dance of the Dunces blew my mind away. I have a copy of the second book but to this day I’m still looking for a copy of first. Because publication of these books have stopped, I strongly feel that Filipinos, especially the youth, have been missing these resources on history and society and have been robbed of the chance to immerse in the artistry of the essays. It’s unfortunate that the books have long been out of print. It’s also unfortunate that he hasn’t done another compilation of this There’s the Rub articles.
One thing that has persistently bothered me about writing and journalism is its seeming futility. I worked for a media organization once and the experience gave me a natural high. Under a spell of magical realism, it felt like I was writing for my family, my friends and my country. But under the pangs of doubt and disillusion, it felt like I was doing it only for myself, for my personal indulgence, to satisfy my own myth. Back then, we developed and worked on a story for 1 or 2 weeks. The story airs for 12 to 15 minutes. At times it felt like such noble undertaking. But then the story quickly becomes old and is forgotten. The world moves on – unmindful and uncaring. I’m not exactly sure if it’s like the Olympics where athletes train for years to perform on the world stage and then it’s done in an instant. We’ll all probably forget most of it. Is it all futile, then?
I often wonder why people stop writing after a while. Sure, some remain prolific throughout their lives but countless just let go of the passion. The flame dissipates until it completely dies out. Song writers, essayists, poets, book writers and even bloggers cease writing after some time. Is it because all their essence have been poured out and nothing worth sharing remains inside? Is it because every topic seem to have been written about already that there’s little room for originality and creativity? It is because every form of love and despair have been assembled into a song that there’s nothing else to hum about anymore? Is it because these writers have succumbed to the feelings of futility and have decided to do something more pragmatic?
In the last line of Madaling Araw, one of Granada’s early songs which interestingly enough he wrote with De Quiros in mind, he says “..ngunit ang wika, nagbabagong kahulugan. Sa dalas ng bigkas, unti-unting nawawalang kabuluhan. (loosely: language changes meaning. In its repeated utterance, its significance gradually diminishes.)” This is one of the reasons I don’t read De Quiros all the time. I’m afraid that the repetition would weaken its hold on me, that an article would impress me less because I saw something similar a decade or more ago. I’m not saying that articles are rehashed. On the contrary, the few that I read here and there are fascinatingly fresh. It’s just that I get these feelings of futility reading about another political or social issue. Its like the names have changed but the events described are part of a rerun. It’s like reading from De Quiros’ two books except it has been 20 years hence and some minor details have changed. Quoting from Granada’s Balon, he says “..May bago nga ba sa mundong ibabaw kung ang nandon ay dati nang nandon. Lulubog at lilitaw ang araw at di mo maipangaw ang duyan ng taon. Inog lang ng inog lang ng inog, habang panahon. (loosely: Is there really anything new in the world if what’s here now has always been here. The sun rises and sets and you can’t restrain the rocking motion of time. It just spins and spins and spins until the end of time)”
Just last night though as I was poking around the web, I saw that De Quiros released a new book. Tongues on Fire is a compilation of speeches which I assume are all his. During the book launch almost a year ago now, he made another speech titled Worlds and Words. And my oracle has enlightened me once again with his poetic wisdom. Reading the piece felt like opening the bible and finding the perfect verse. I was bothered by the seeming futility of writing, of reporting, of journalism. Apparently, throughout the years he had been asked: “Don’t you sometimes get tired of writing columns given that things don’t seem to change at all?” In the piece, he describes the struggle and mentions the despair. Although I strongly urge you to read the speech which can be found in the Inquirer archives, I’d like to highlight one point made there:”..victory and defeat are not just determined at the end of things. They are determined in the middle of things. Or they are not just found in the nether regions of posterity, they are found in the hard-edged space of the moment…The human worth is not found at the end of a life, it is found in the course of it. Victory and defeat are not found at the end of struggle, they are found in the course of the struggle itself. “
It’s never been futile then because at the barest minimum, if no one else paid attention, the writer himself is made better by the exercise. I remember back when we used to console ourselves with the idea that if we are able to change one person, move him or make him think, by what we wrote, said or did, then it has been worth it. In the course of life, the value it adds to the human worth might just be immeasurable.
Time sprints. The world moves forward – unmindful and uncaring. We all try to stall, to pause, to look at the sky and the stars, to sit down and chat a while. As we run the race and keep our heads above water, we welcome the opportunity to engage in simple and sincere conversations that are even better over coffee and cake.
There’s this song from the Pinoy Ako CD that I really like. I’m not sure if it’s a filler or if it ever became a hit back home. The song is Cinderella by Stagecrew. The song is pervasive in its simple truth: Paminsan-minsan lang tayong magkasama, di pa pwedeng magtagal. Habol ang oras nagmamadali, parang si Cinderella hinahabol ang hating-gabi. I am not sure why they chose the Disney princess as the second object in the simile but I guess it does paint the image of fun ending fast as the clock races to midnight.
The unfortunate truth of reunions, of sporadic get-togethers, of chance meetings, of gatherings of old friends is that it is fleeting and short-lived. It’s like the countdown immediately starts and hovers as Death hovers over the dying. The song describes a familiar friendship, possibly familiar to us all. What’s interesting is that at the onset of the get-together, the song writer questions the friend, if not the friendship, wondering if he’s still the person he once knew. Again, this doubt is very familiar. It besets someone who hasn’t been in touch or hasn’t been around for a while. This awkwardness permeates as the parties try and feel each other out, try to see if much has changed, to see if old memories can break the ice.
The chance to re-connect is always fun, always a welcome opportunity. It brings a sense of past, brings to life a page in the memoir. The discussions on shared memories, current endeavors and future ventures are always a treasure trove.
The world does not pause though. It does not care for reminiscence among old friends. The meal ends, the cake is reduced to crumbs, the coffee is down to the last sip. What’s important though is that the conversation occured and the connection, however brief, has been re-established.
6/17/08
Flooding has been in the news lately. The US midwest was inundated while Manila and many other parts of the country experienced flooding once again. A flood is a curious thing. It seems unimaginable that a locale can be overwhelmed by a massive amount of water.
I grew up in Sampaloc, Manila and certainly not a stranger to the onslaught of storm and flood water. I have many memories of those days and I must admit none of them I would consider bad or traumatic. Those that I fondly remember are surprisingly vivid enough. Though I can’t remember the year or how old I was, I remember the excitement and the anticipation. I had fun when Manila was under water.
I woke up one morning and as I was going down the stairs of our two-story house, I see everyone scrambling. The good old rattan furniture were afloat, newspapers and magazines were soggy and everything else was hoisted or hurled up the stairs. All hands were on deck carrying everything from the TV to our LP albums. Once the valuables were secure and out of danger, we then took turns scooping the water out in what seemed like a very futile exercise.
Of course, the flood water couldn’t keep me in the house. Miguelin st., inundated and all, beckons. I recruit my friends and we all meet up. We cheerfully glide and slice through the water oblivious to the murk and whatever waste and flotsam surround us. We never did anything extreme, though. We didn’t swim or splash the urine infused water. The best part was going to the corner of Dapitan where trucks and buses would sometimes brave the flood and surge ahead. The result was a ripple which to our fertile minds were massive waves. The waist-deep water rising gave an unusual thrill.
Needless to say, floods as I remember them weren’t devastating and catastrophic. They weren’t toxic, hazardous or downright repulsive. I’m not sure if it’s because I grew old or because the world just got nastier and dirtier but I can’t imagine myself wading cheerfully in flooded waters anymore. I’m not sure if it’s my perspective on the world that changed or if the world simply descended to a more deplorable state where floods are utterly filthy.
The reality of today is if I wake up and see flood water inside the house, instead of excitement and anticipation, I’ll most likely be panic-stricken and miserable.
Summer here does not officially start until June 20 but the season really starts when school ends. I remember that no matter how much fun I has in school, I looked forward, always looked forward, to the start of summer. Yes, it was hot and nasty. And yes, I got baked and burned by the sun (never used sunscreen back then but the the respite and the recreation were well worth it. Summer vacation is such a good idea that it shouldn’t be limited to school kids. Adults would really be in a better state of mind and would be more ‘youthful’ with a regular summer break.
I have a good feeling this summer would be a good and memorable one. We have little day and weekend trips and activities planned throughout that should keep up us entertained.
I was in the library last weekend looking for audiobooks I could borrow. Audiobooks help keep me sane during my everyday commute. I saw and grabbed an audiobook on the poetry of Robert Frost. I don’t remember much about Frost except for his haunting (and often quoted) Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening. I was listening to it during my morning drive and I was suddenly back in the classroom – freshman year, World Literature. I had a fantastic time and had a wonderful professor in Ms. Susana Macapagal. Literature became so real, so relevant. Literature became memorable and moving. I remember during the final year of high school contemplating what course to take in college. I was considering taking computer science or the humanities. I figured I could learn about software and code later in life but college was the perfect time to learn about life. I surmised that programming is a skill I could teach myself later in life but college was the ideal time to learn humanities and the arts. My freshman year proved me right. Call me crazy, call me a nut. During my senior year in college, I found some free time in between journalism classes. I approached Ms. Macapagal and asked if I could attend her class, sit down by the corner and simply listen. I remember the incredulous look in her face. I think she was a bit annoyed at the idea at first and might have thought she was a subject of a joke or an investigative report. I managed to convince her though. It was a sincere request and she agreed. I think I remember seeing a slight twinkle in her eye. So I took Ms. Macapagal’s lit class twice in my 4 years. The first time was because I had to. The second time because I really wanted to. I sat down in her class several times and enjoyed the reading. Going back to Frost, I wonder if poetry and prose still matter to today’s students. I wonder if it will be as real, as relevant to my children as it was at one point for me. I wonder if we have diluted and irrevocably reduced the magic of words and phrases with texting and blogging and other new methods of communication. Paying attention again to the audiobook and my commute, I realize I have miles to go…I have miles to go.
Nothing shouts Texas like bbq. Faye and I were invited to the BBQ cook-off party that precedes the Houston Livestock and Rodeo event. We have VIP invites so we rode a stretch Expedition going there and a stretch Hummer going back. It was our first limo ride and though it was nothing spectacular, it is a checkmark on the things to do before you die list.
The event was interesting because it was a showcase of culture. Yep, the cowboys were all there: blue Levis and Wrangler jeans; ten-gallon hats; shiny boots, belts and big buckles. The country music was playing and the smoke from the scores of grills billowing.
At the end of the day, we got what we came for…BBQ brisket, ribs, sausage, chicken, margarita and beer.
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