Pagwawari-wari sa panaginip...

Napanaginipan kita. Nasa lumang gusali daw ako. Parang lumang kapitolyo nang kung anong probinsya. Hindi ko maalala kung saan ito, pero nandito ako. May banko sa isang tabi ng malapad na daanang nagtutuglong sa hagdanang paakyat at pababa...

Bahagyang pumapasok ang liwanag sa isang malapit na bintana. Maulap ang langit, pero maliwanag ang hapon. Nandun ako, nakaupo sa banko, naghihintay ng kung ano. Pagod. Di ko alam kung bakit...

Nakita kita. Pababa ka. Nagsalubong ang tingin natin. Napatigil ka. Ngumiti ka nang makilala mo ako. Nagkataon na parehong maganda bihis natin. May pormal na okasyon?

Naupo ka sa tabi ko. Matagal na tayong di nagkikita. Akalain mong dito pa tayo magkakasalubong? Nagkwento ka. Mahaba ang kwento. Maraming kwento. Ano na nga ba ang mga nangyari simula nang huli tayong nagkita? Naramdaman ko ang inip. Pero masaya ako nagkita tayo kahit papaano. Naisip ko, magkikita pa kaya tayo ulit?

Napatingin ako sa liwanag na banayad na pumapasok sa malapit na bintana...

Iminulat ko ang mga mata ko. Bumalik na ako sa realidad ko.

Kung minsan naiisip ko, ano kaya kung totoong hindi lang iisa ang realidad. Na ang realidad na alam natin ay isa lamang sa napakaraming hibla ng realidad ng isang napakalaking telang tinatawag nating sansinukob. Na ang panaginip ay ang eksatong sandali nagkikita ang dalawa sa maraming hiblang yaon at nasisilip natin ito. Ano kaya?

Helter Swelter

The sweltering heat of the afternoon inspired nothing but boredom from me. It was a summer afternoon not unlike many that have gone past. It was hot. It was humid. Heat was radiating from everything that the sun caressed in the last 8 hours.

I settled on reading books I had long abandoned. Like a ritual, I took each one and wiped the dust off the covers. I flipped to marked pages. I tried to recall where I left off. I realized I had left my books too long that I could no longer recall. I had bits and pieces of the stories in them, nothing more. I settled on one of them, Connecting Flights. I resolved to read it cover-to-cover. As I went along, I discovered missing pieces of what I could not remember fully. I discover new  stories I had originally skipped. I consumed it within an hour.

I picked up another. Pete Lacaba's Edad Medya. I read a couple of poems. The mood was too somber, I could not go on. I might've triggered depression if I did. Most of my old friends would tell you that I suffer from these episodic bouts of depression, which confused many of them, so much so that I've only managed to keep a handful of them. I picked up The Kite of Stars. Memories began to flood my mind. I knew this book well. It imprinted on me so much that the mere suggestion of it's blue cover with gold lettering triggered memories of the stories the lay within it. I will read it again, when I lacked inspiration. There is no better epitome of so great a love than the kite of stars.

I picked up Dream Noises : A Generation Writes next. I read the first three stories and felt a sadness settle in me. I stopped reading and decided I really had to do something else. I have a writer's heart. My skills are not at par with many of the published kind. But I have the heart of one. I read and I understand. No, I feel the stories. They stir in me the emotions these authors felt when they created these works.

I guess this was one of the reasons I stopped blogging, or even writing in general. I did my best work in the most emotionally destitute times of my life. I wasn't the kind that could write the cheery side of everything. I was the kind that fed off my darker side. The sadder I was, the better the prose. I subconsciously begged myself to stop. And stop I did. But you cannot really deny what you are. I need to write again. If only for myself. If only for me to release my demons.

As I started typing this, it started to rain. A light drizzle that belied the true strength of an approaching typhoon. I guess we all need some rain in our life. Otherwise we would not wish for more sunshine, however hot it was..

Dream Upon Dream...

A few weeks back, I had another one of these recurring dreams of mine. I am only reminded of this because of a recent event. Sometimes, the memory is jarred by another dream. Otherwise, it is a circumstance of real life that triggers the memory.

These dreams, they feel like me living someone else's life for a few moments. Weirdly enough, just as strange as it was for John Cusack in Being John Malkovich.

They run along the same themes -- being in a vehicular accident, followed by scenes of some home i don't really know but feel I belong to for some reason. In the past it was a owner-type jeep that turned turtle after I had driven it backwards so fast in a panic over a bridge, as flood waters overcame what was the road I passed. The other time it was a motorcycle that I drove until I realized I was floating slowly up, leaving the motorcycle to careen of into the dirt roadside, me flying over a line of low trees over a sparse forest with nothing but the sound wind whistling in my ear to keep me company.

Dream upon dream, the car scenes were always followed by another, of homes and of places that felt like home. Places I felt I missed, but never really knew. There was this one that stuck to me. As I entered the long roofed garage-way just barely lit to fight off the darkness of dusk, I saw my father who passed many years ago. He was muttering something, trying to find something rummaging through stuffed boxes piled on the floor, absentmindedly nodding my way as though to welcome me home. I was thinking (in my dream of course), if dad was here where could Oliver and Jan be? They must be around here somewhere, playing. This is course being a dream, I was oblivious to how ridiculous it would have been for grown men to be playing. But then again, my brothers had just barely turned into men when they were taken by death. I wander on towards the house and go upstairs. I find a window, open it and start to climb out. There's another window adjacent to it and I try to cross to it. But the gap is just enough to make it impractical to reach or leap to. So I set my foot down on the piece of roofing that bridges the gap between both. I think to myself, in the growing darkness of night, this house feels so much like the house in Concepcion where I spent summers with my brothers. It was a house where we never felt we were strangers even though we were. We were family, but at the same time we were unfamiliar.

This one a few days back was the strangest in recent memory. You know how they say that you only remember the last parts of your dream? It's probably true. It's probably the parts of your dream that come nearest the near-wake state of your brain. This one was quite long for that period of almost-awakedness. It started off with a dirt-bike. I was driving it, and I was driving it fast through dark empty city streets lined with walled homes. Not very unlike that blind corner on Quezon Street nearest Sto. Entierro, only this long street is that blind corner over and over again. I could hear the roar of the engine as I negotiated the turns one after the other. The turns seemed to come more often as I begin to go faster and faster. I fight off the urge to slow, my mind telling  me to slow down as I barely miss the walls lining the curbs. I struggle harder and harder to keep myself lined up with the street and avoid the walls. And then it ends, a moment before I hit a wall.

What follows is the requisite almost-my-home scene. I'm in what seems to be a wide-roofed patio straight out of an expensive movie. White sheer curtains line the parts of it exposed to the lush-green garden outside. Dark brown colored furniture,  almost all hardwood, lined the place. I then see her. Her face is unfamiliar to me, but yet I feel I know her. She was appropriately dressed for the hot weather. She wore open a white long-sleeved button-down shirt over a white tank top with matching white shorts. I was thinking (in my dream, of course), why not khaki? Her features were clearly Asian. She almost looked like Julia Clarete, only much thinner and with more Oriental features. Her skin was wonderfully brown. Dark some people would say, but just right in my opinion. I start to cry as she approaches and she reaches out to hold my arm to console me. I break down. She nods in silence, as if to say I am forgiven. Then I wake up sobbing in my bunk bed, confused tears running down my cheeks. A moment later, I realize I had not slept in a bunk bed since my brothers died 18 years ago. I wake up again, this time for real, with the blazing afternoon sun shining on my face through the window that lay across the bed I slept in. As I came to my senses, I struggled to remember the dream. I'm not sure why, but I felt a strong urge that I should remember her. That I should remember the girl that forgave me...

My Worn Books and Reflections on Reflecting...

Recently an office-mate was rushed to the hospital. I showed up the next day in his hospital room, bringing with me the health insurance forms from the office, 3 books and a wall charger. He was quite amused with what I did. The books were, as I told him, to get his mind off his illness. The other two items were much more pragmatic, since the forms were a standard requirement for hospitals and the wall wart was for his (and the spouse') phones.

Anyway, the books I brought for him were Edad medya: mga tula sa katanghaliang gulang by Pete Lacaba, The Kite of stars and other stories by Dean Francis Alfar and Connecting Flights by Ruel S. De Vera. All three of these are what I would term are 'reflective' books. The stories can relate to anyone Filipino. Most of us will be able to see something of ourselves in them. Most the stories in these three books either fill us with remorse to rue for our past mistakes, make us want to fall in love again or fill us with empathy for things that happen to complete strangers that we share something in common with.

Sadly, days after, the books were returned to me unread. Well, I try. That's the important bit. Right now, though, I am revisiting Connecting Flights. What's the point of books that have pristine spines, flawless covers and smooth pages if they've never been read? So I always say, read a book. Lend it to someone. Share the joy of reading. Human experience isn't just about what you yourself have had the opportunity to have. It's also about pondering on what other people have experienced or thought of or have made theories about. So for now you could say I am 're-connecting' with Connecting Flights as my main medium.The venue isn't as important as the thoughts that go through my mind as I experience the mental missives of Filipinos missing home as they write from other places.

Crossing from Shadow to Shadow

It was hot. Like in previous years, it was growing increasingly hotter than the year that came before it. I woke up after dozing off on the sofa for about an hour and a half. I could not bring myself back to sleep. I woke up with lingering thoughts of what work I promised myself I'd do from home during the weekend. Maybe I dreamed of work, I'm not sure. But lingering thoughts they were. And they were nagging on me for a few more moments before I picked up my phone to send a text message to a friend, asking if I already missed a schedule at work.


It was one of those days again when insomnia hit me in the worst possible moment. Coming home from a long night at the office that was preceded by a sleepless day off, I was hungry for sleep. But it didn't come. The kids were asleep. They were having their afternoon nap. It was unusual, but all of them were napping. Most of the time, 1 would resist the urge to nap just to persist bothering me or the sibs. It was one of those 'pesky kids' kind of behavior that survived the millions of years of evolution and gene hand-me-downs that weeded out every bit of obnoxiousness save for the delight one got out of pestering someone else. Every kid goes through that stage at least once in their life.

I stood up to get a glass of water. A glass of cold water was such sweet relief in this weather that I was already anticipating feeling the coldness of it gushing down my gullet 10 seconds before I even drew the water out of the pitcher. It was then that I glanced at the immediate world outside my abode. There on the street was a kid riding his bike. Back and forth he went. I couldn't understand how someone, even a kid, who in his right mind would ride a bike in the punishingly hot afternoon sun. Then I realized. He was riding close enough to the side of the street where the row of houses were casting their shadows. He was crossing from shadow to shadow. It was one of those light bulb moments I guess. If you want something bad enough, you'll find a way to do it. And necessity is the mother of all innovation.


Most days these days, I feel I'm drudging myself forward from day to day. I'm not miserable. More like depressed. Like I am crossing from shadow to shadow. A shadow in daylight is however very different from one in the night. During the day, shadows are an advantage. They draw a shade against the unforgiving sun. So I guess a change of perspective is in order. However tired or sleepy or depressed I am, I need to look at things like I was standing in the shade on a hot, humid afternoon. I much better cope with the cold better than the heat, so any shade is a welcome thing to me.

Sitting down with mug in hand, I looked at my children and realized. My 2nd kid just started Kindergarten this summer. She's already discovering there are people who are more interesting than Dad or Mom. It won't be long before all my kids grow up and they'd have an indefatigable want to explore the world around them like that kid on the street. It won't be long before they find ways to do what they want to do and get away with it. It won't be long before their mettle at making excuses will be tested. And then they will test their way to through my limits and they will wake to strike out on their own out there in the wider world beyond the borders of my embracing arms. All it takes is a few more summers. I kissed them on the forehead while they napped. I might wake up one day a summer too late.

Genshiken: Return of the Otaku

I've been watching Genshiken on and off for the last 3 weeks and I've really been getting into the characters as they evolved through the series. It's common for anyone who watches the anime to want to read the manga. It's the same with the loyal manga fans of any series to inversely want to watch the anime when that eventually comes out after the manga itself.

On one of my visits to Book Sale, one of my favorite stores when it comes to cheap books, I stumbled on their manga section. Curious, I browsed around. I found a few titles that I was familiar with over on the anime side of things. Then I found Genshiken: Return of the Otaku. Flipping through the pages, I was surprised to find it was a novel I was leafing through. Curiosity got the better of my and I bought it for Php160.

After reading through the initial chapters, I found what I was looking for. Madarame and Sasahara were in the club room discussing how 'commercial' the whole manga publishing industry had gotten. Madarame was assailing the novel type manga as just another way for the large publishers to squeeze more money out of a series. Sasahara disagreed and to my estimation he thought of novel type manga as an extension of comic-book style manga, just like anime is an extension through a different medium of the original manga series. Well after reading through Genshiken: Return of the Otaku, I tend to agree with Sasahara.

Well, what is it about? Genshiken: Return of the Otaku when compared to the timeline of the anime is somewhere between the season ender for Season 1 and the Season 1 OVA. The members of the Society for the Study of Modern Visual Culture disappear one by one, coinciding with a purge being perpetrated by a new student leader that has hidden motives for trying to control the clubs in the school. His secret mission is to find a demon statue that's supposed to give him supernatural powers should he be able to unite it with it's twin statue. Creepy, huh?

Anyway, the story ends with Madarame being the surprise hero. All  is well after another well-timed surprise appearance by the First President of Genshiken. As always, he doesn't get involved but gives the Genshiken a helpful nudge towards the solution to the mystery.

All in all, I enjoyed the Genshiken: Return of the Otaku, even if it was a novel. There were pages though where there were full page illustrations to help tie over the reader deprived of the visuals of the full comic book manga.

The Crooked Man

It was one of those spur of the moment purchases. It's quite obvious by now that where there are book bargains I go to them. I was browsing the buy-1-take-1 aisle as Expressions and bought 2 books that caught my attention. The Crooked Man by Philip Davison and Microchip: An Idea, Its Genesis, And The Revolution It Created by Jeffrey Zygmont. Both are quite dated, but they seemed interesting. I took on The Crooked Man 1st.

The story revolves around Harry Fielding, an understrapper. He does jobs for the spooks at the MI5, stuff they wouldn't want to be traced back to them. Anything from assassinations to snooping on their own people. The story starts with Fielding's confession. He witnessed a murder committed by hist next door neighbor. It was his testimony that got her convicted. Though the only witness, he was supposed to be implicated in the murder. However, he was extricated from jail by his handler.  He was needed on a job and the timing of his jail time couldn't have been worse. So they pulled strings to get him sprung.

He was paid to spy on a mistress. He followed the young lady for a day and while spying on her home he finds out her lover is a minister of parliament. He then witnesses a heated argument, one where she ends up dead. He's able to capture it all on his old camera. He then recovers from his shock and manages to sneak the politician out of the house and calls his handler. Unwittingly, he had to go along and erase all evidence of the murder with his handler.

The story then takes a few twists when he is tasked to kill the reporter ex-lover of the now 'missing' woman who's snooping around and getting dangerously close to exposing his ex's love affair with the politician. After 2 murders, Fielding suddenly develops a conscience and doesn't kill the man. He entraps him, takes the evidence and warns him to get out of the country. Fielding decides to quit his job.

Well, it turned out it he couldn't simply leave his handler. His handler needs someone like him. And he was determined to get Fielding back. Fielding had no choice but to go back after he finds out his young niece went missing one school day. The day he gets back to London to console his brother who was desperately attempting to find the missing girl, he gets news that his friend's hotel that he hid out in was burned to the ground. All the while, he was trying to desperately contact his handler. When his handler knew his message was understood, Fielding's niece turns up in a random police station.

Having been broken, his handler gives him his next job. One drunken night though, he killed a foreigner. That lands him in jail. This time though, he is sprung by his handler's boss. A surprising turn of events, he is contracted by this higher level spook to be his man.

The story ends with Fielding finally extracting his revenge on his handler, managing to make an unwilling accomplice out of the politician whose hide he saved previously.

The twists in this story are quite interesting. It's not your usual spook novel. It's a lot more darker and moody than anything I've read so far. I guess that why I liked it. And I guess the only logical thing to do now is to buy another Philip Davison book. 

Genshiken: The Society for the Study of Modern Visual Culture

I discovered Genshiken when I came across the title on an online playlist of anime themes. Curious, I set about to look for fansubs. Fansubs are always a great source of anime when it isn't available locally. Also, I'm the type who likes my anime in the original Japanese dubs because I think I get more of the emotion from the way the characters are voiced in Japanese. The only problem is I don't speak Japanese, so I mostly rely on fansubs for translations. The other extra feature many fansubbers include is short explanations of the context of some of the conversations. Many cultural nuances can't be captured by the translated English dubs. Fansubs have short notes during the scene to explain what's going on and what the subtle jokes refer to.

Anyway, going back to the series, Genshiken is short for the name of the club that is central to the story.  It follows the lives of students in a Tokyo university, all members of the Society for the Study of Modern Visual Culture. There's an anime club and a manga club, but no other club could be more otaku than the Genshiken. The club name hints of this. The purpose of the club is to gather together otaku or hobbyists of different hobbies. They are bound together by their love of anime, manga (mostly doujinshi or fan versions of popular titles) and video games. Hence the club's name that alludes to all of 3 mediums of expressions as part of modern artistic expression of visual arts.  Come to think of it, they may be on to something. The love of anime, manga and video games has become so mainstream, labeling it as a sub-culture would be reducing its true influence as too minor in today's society. The club's name may be a bit high-sounding, but yeah it is very descriptive.

The anime is actually an anime adaptation of the manga of the same name. The story starts with Sasahara trying to find a club that would fit his personality. It was awkward in the beginning for him to admit he was otaku. There's a certain stigma attached to being called otaku. To admit being one would be to admit being too obsessive about your hobby. But after spending some time in the club room, he finds the Genshiken to share too many things in common with his personal hobby that the question of joining them or not became moot.

After he joins them, each of the characters are explained in the subsequent episodes. Kousaka, a fellow freshman who joined Genshiken the same semester as Sasahara, is the ultimate gamer among the group. He beats everyone in all fighting games. Madarame is obsessive about his analysis of manga and anime, but he isn't much of a gamer. Kugayama is the most shy of the group, often stammering when he participates in discussions, but he is the only one with a true talent for drawing. Tanaka is a talented and obsessive Plamo enthusiast and Cosplay costume maker. He is a perfect match for Ohno, who is introduced a few episodes in as a returnee from the US. She loves Cosplay and she is their main attraction in school fairs. Her cosplay act is by far their only main club activity during school fairs. Kasukabe is the odd one of the group. Her sole reason for hanging out in the club room is to be with Kousaka. She isn't otaku like the rest, often claiming she hates otaku. But later on in the series, she is forced to cosplay with Ohno and soon warms up to the otakuness of it all.

Overall, I find the reviews to be true. If you are otaku or if you like anime, manga, videos games or tech gadgets or any variation and combination of them, you will definitely relate to the characters of the series. If you have a hard time explaining to friends and family why you're so obsessive about your hobby, this is a good funny anime to show them how it is to be otaku. It is often difficult to admit being one, but if you are one there isn't any use denying it. It is obvious in the way we are sometimes awkward in social situations or too shy to admit we like manga or anime. In the past, I've received comments like "cartoons are for kids" or "you must watch anime because you like cartoon porn". It gets even more awkward when you try to explain it isn't like that at all. But then again, this series does say to otakus out there that it's ok if the rest of the world can't understand you. What's more important is that you're true to yourself.

I'm Still Human After All...

Friday night, I got word. A dear old friend died. After 2 weeks in a coma, she had succumbed.

For the last 2 days I had been trying to come to terms with myself. When I got the news, I was sad. Very sad. But no tears had come. In the years that have passed I had learned to steel myself against grief. I had forced myself to accept whatever disappointment, however big or small, and move on. I had to move on. The rest of the world either didn't care or didn't stop moving despite what I was feeling. I felt expendable an replaceable, nobody was going to stop to help me if I fell behind. I often told myself that whatever didn't kill me made me stronger. Well, the the last 2 days I was already questioning if I was still human. I asked myself if perhaps I had done too much of this rationalizing that I had succeeded in making myself numb and unfeeling.

Early today, driving to the market, I just said it out loud to my wife. "Namatay na si Maya." I didn't take my eyes off the road. She asked, "Kailan mo nalaman?" I replied, "Nung Byernes, pagkauwi natin" I steadied my grip on the wheel as felt a sudden emptiness fill me.

I had gone to work Thursday night. Friday morning, I had to pickup Matt at swimming practice. Then after that, we had to go to San Fernando to make our monthly mortgage payments. When afternoon came, I had to go back to work to do overtime on work that had to be finished to meet a deadline. By the time I got home, I had been awake 26 hours. That's when I read the text message. I had been sent earlier but I was too busy to have noticed it. I only read it when I got home. Over the last 2 days, I was busy with out usual weekend chores.

After saying that I knew as early as Friday night, and after my wife realized I hadn't talked about in the last 2 days, I finally cried. The sobs came on their own. I could barely hold the steering wheel straight as I drove. I just drove as I sobbed. I sobbed even worse when my wife put her arm around my shoulder to console me. I had to put my hand up to tell her I had to do this on my own. I had to grieve my loss my own way. As we approached the market, the sobs died down. I felt better knowing I could still grieve my loss.

Long Day, Need Sound Rest

I spent another long night at the office. Really tired. I talked on and on for about 6 hours straight, delivering the same material over and over again. I can't say I didn't enjoy it. I mean why would anyone bother doing something for their job and not enjoy it, right? To do otherwise would be torture. Anyway, I'm just tired. I'm glad to be home. I'm glad I can look over the crib and see my youngest sleeping soundly. I'm glad to be home, welcomed by my sometimes obnoxious 8-year old and my always 'makulit' 2-year old. Together, those two can make for a harrowing experience. But then again you can't really help but enjoy the company of your kids, can you?

Music's usually my cure for long days. This time around I found myself listening to UltraSound - Music for the Unborn Child. I'm not really a big fan of classical, but at certain times it's comforting and soothing. Add to that the fact that, well loud music isn't really going to make my 2-month old all that happy - LOL ;-)

Krispy Kreme and the Conqueror of Shamballa

It has been some time since I had watched the Full Metal Alchemist series (Fullmetal Alchemist: The Complete First Season and Fullmetal Alchemist: The Complete Second Season) and it felt good to finally close the book and see the ending. The Conqueror of Shamballa gives closure to the series' ending by tying up the loose end and reuniting the brothers.


While watching though, I had a case of the munchies and decided to take a Krispy Kreme from the box the missus had brought home. Lest I forget, I must thank my kumare Sharon for the Krispy Kreme gift certificate! Okay, so going back. while biting down on the rich, scrumptous, lemon creme-topped donut, I wondered. How can something that tastes so good be so bad for you? Ah, the contradictions of life!


As the movie went on, it became more obvious that the message of the whole thing was the most basic thing that makes us people human is the capacity for choice. We have a choice of right and wrong. And when people come together as is a society or culture, they may even define what is right and wrong. 


We could choose to follow our principle or compromise it for whatever reason we deem fit. We can choose death as a way to free ourselves of the burden of the world or we could choose to live adn fight on to overcome those burdens. We can choose to be the hero that sacrifices everything or we could cower in for the rest of our lives. 

The movie ended with what could have been the most ultimate sacrifice a brother could ever had done. At the end of the series, he was transported to our world in trade of 'equivalent exchange' for Al's life. Eduard Elric had done nothing but find ways of getting back to his own world. There came a chance in the movie and by a confluence of events he was able to go home to his home world and see Al. They fought the invading our-world army tainted by the evils of the gate. In the end, Eduard decided to go back to the pre-Nazi Germany of our world to close the gate from that end, leaving Al with his last wish to close the gate from their world.

The end of the movie was just as much a reflection of the power of choice. Al finds a way of going with his brother. His counterpart in 1923 Germany, Alfons, died a hero. Reunited, the brothers decide to start anew in this other world of ours and make it their home.

The movie felt so good I just had to get another Krispy Kreme. And again the thought came to me, "How can something that tastes so good be so bad for you"? We live and make choices. Our ultimate realization of life's value come from the appreciation of choice. We live with the consequences of our choices. Mistakes have their own value as well, if we learn from them. Doing the right thing isn't always the same thing for everyone. Choice, my friend. And yes, I did have that 2nd chocolate donut.