"nihita sad sa mga tao ron oi..."
rommy wipes off the sweat from his forehead. he's waited an hour at the ayala terminal for his turn. he counts the passengers in his little multicab. 1 up front, 8 on the right side, 7 on the left. one more, and they're ready to go.
he scratches his head. "nahurot siguro ila kwarta pag sale niaging semana," rommy says to himself.
a girl in a pink blouse and pink perfume arrives. she looks at the multicab's route number, 03Q, then at the passengers. she frowns, realizing she won't be able to get to sm comfortably.
"masulod pa na 'day. walo-walo man ni." all the passengers stare at her. the still frowning girl hesitates, then steps gingerly inside.
rommy knocks on the left side of his multicab. "sikit-sikiti lang na ninyo 'day, para makapalit sad ta'g bisag usa ka luha sa ginamos", rommy chuckles. the girl finds a tiny space materialize between a fat sweaty man and an old woman embracing her bag of groceries, just enough for one cheek of her butt to sit on, and yet manages to break the laws of physics and squeeze herself in.
satisfied, rommy gets into the driver's seat, then turns to the lone passenger beside him, "naa kaha na no? usa ka luha sa ginamos? wa pa ko kita ana da..." the passenger laughs under his breath and gives him a faint smile, then resumes checking his hair from the side mirror.
rommy turns on the engine, and they're off.
they reach the first crossing of his jeepney route. they are about to turn left when the green light quickly turns yellow, then red. rommy hits the brakes. the scorching three o'clock sun is now glaring directly in front of them.
"pagkainita!", rommy exclaims to the passenger beside him, who has now taken rommy's copy of yesterday's super balita tabloid to shield his face from the heat. rommy continues, "gahapon, pirti sad kusoga sa uwan. gabaha gud didto", pointing a finger to his left. the passenger is fiddling with his cellphone, but rommy does not notice. the light turns green again.
when they reach the carmelite monastery, rommy hears the ring of metal striking metal. rommy stops. "bayad noy", and a hand pokes through the little hole behind him, handing him the fare of three passengers, who are now slowly getting off this sardine can on wheels.
they continue on their way. rommy then sees a middle aged couple on the side of the road. he slows down and yells "SM!". they ignore him. "batia rutaha oi, di man sad ta ka pick up!", he grumbles.
they pass by a gas station displaying its prices. "mayra gyud ni ubos na ron ang krudo," says rommy to the passenger beside him, and finds him nodding his head. but then he notices wires oozing out of the guy's ears, a pod person in his own disconnected world. "haaay," rommy sighs.
they reach the stop at mabolo church. a man carrying a wooden box bristling with opened cigarette packs approaches. rommy waves at him, and buys a lone cigarette.
waiting for the light to turn green, rommy slowly rolls the cigarette in his fingers. he reads the word printed on it: HOPE. he takes it to his nose and smells it. he inhales the sweet smell of hope deep into his lungs, hope that when lit, the smoke will carry him the rest of the day. he inhales it again, savoring the sweetness one more time. he smiles.
the light turns green, and they proceed. they soon reach the sm jeepney terminal. the passengers steadily exit the jeepney. rommy finds an empty spot in the terminal, parks his jeepney there, and gets off.
standing beside his jeepney, rommy now finds himself alone with his cigarette. he lights it, puts it to his mouth, closes his eyes, and takes a deep slow drag. he relishes the rush of smoke in his lungs, concentrates on the experience of the cigarette, waiting for the calm satisfaction to envelope him, but then...
but then there is a sudden spasm in his lungs, and rommy coughs. and coughs. and coughs. rommy coughs till he has no strength left.
rommy opens his eyes and realizes he's never felt so tired all his life: tired of sweating, tired of waiting for his jeepney to fill up, tired of grumbling passengers, tired of red lights, tired of the three o'clock sun, tired of yesterday's super balita, tired of the rain, tired of the sound of metal striking metal shrieking at him to stop, tired of his jeepney route, tired of nobody listening to him, tired of coughing, tired of just plain hoping... tired of ginamos. rommy is tired.
rommy hears a creaking behind him. one by one, passengers start filling up his multicab on their way back to ayala. in less than 5 minutes, it is full. rommy gathers what strength he has left and once again gets into the driver's seat. he still has passengers to ferry. he still has a jeepney to drive.
#####################
this is an attempt at flexing my writing muscles to get myself into the groove, inspired by a jeepney ride i had from ayala to sm one saturday afternoon. i also happened to make a cameo appearance here somewhere hehehe guess where i was! ;)
comments/suggestions are very much welcome :)
Friday, December 12, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
a little bit faster: a short short story
her arm is almost thrice as thick as his, but he still manages to clutch it. there is difficulty in her gait, but he slows down for her. the passing people gawk, first at her, then at him, then at both of them, but he ignores it. they just don't understand. they just don't see what's inside of her. they just don't see through all those layers of flab.
they stop by the entrance to the rest rooms. she hands him her bag, and she enters. he stands in the corner and waits.
the mall today is filled with beautiful people. before his eyes pass skinny girls in skinny jeans, walking pond's commercials, photocopies of the FHM girls he used to masturbate to. it makes him dizzy. it makes him doubt.
she emerges from the rest room smiling. he smiles back. he hands her her bag, and he clutches her arm once again. they continue their stroll. but this time, he walks a little bit faster.
#################
if you're wondering, this was inspired by an actual couple more or less fitting the description above that i once saw strolling in a mall while i was sitting down at a cafe :) i had my pencil and notebook with me, so i took that as a chance for a writing exercise hehehe
understandable ba? comments highly appreciated :)
they stop by the entrance to the rest rooms. she hands him her bag, and she enters. he stands in the corner and waits.
the mall today is filled with beautiful people. before his eyes pass skinny girls in skinny jeans, walking pond's commercials, photocopies of the FHM girls he used to masturbate to. it makes him dizzy. it makes him doubt.
she emerges from the rest room smiling. he smiles back. he hands her her bag, and he clutches her arm once again. they continue their stroll. but this time, he walks a little bit faster.
#################
if you're wondering, this was inspired by an actual couple more or less fitting the description above that i once saw strolling in a mall while i was sitting down at a cafe :) i had my pencil and notebook with me, so i took that as a chance for a writing exercise hehehe
understandable ba? comments highly appreciated :)
Thursday, July 10, 2008
the city mouse and the country mouse
i wake to the full volume shrieking from the house next door of, of all the music from all the musicians in all the world, air supply's greatest hits album... for the Nth time, where N is approaching infinity... at 6am in the friggin' morning. my cellphone alarm hadn't even rung yet. i get up, i grumble, i have no choice. then i remember, it's friday the 13th. a good sign. i zip through my bath, my breakfast, my dressing up: a zombie, a machine, a robot. then i step out of the house for my commute to work.
not yet 20 meters away from the door, there is a shrill beeping behind me: a habal2x driver in a hurry. but the already tiny street, made even tinier by the jeepney driver who considered our tiny street as free parking space, is just too tiny for the both of us to pass through comfortably. the driver has no choice but to let me pass first. i continue walking.
i pass through, the habal2x behind me, still beeping. it passes through, and the driver hits his breaks in front of me to block my path. he tells me he was blowing his horn. i tell him yes, i'm not deaf. he tells me maybe i am. i tell him to fuck off. he glares at me, i glare back, then he goes on his way, beeping away all the other pedestrians in his path. my words startle me; did i just say that? i continue walking.
the street is pockmarked with potholes and littered with dog shit and random pieces of trash. to the left, the smells of buwad (dried salted fish) frying and plastic burning mingling with the decay of dog shit. to the right, another house arrayed with giant speakers near its gates, this time pounding the eardrums of all residents within a 200 meter radius with that most infamous staple of mid 90s diskorals: the macarena. and walking toward me, a grimy woman dragging her own grimy son, who is bawling out with all his lungs, and the mother threatening the boy with a broom. ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my neighborhood.
i finally emerge at the eskina, a tricycle waiting to transport me from the hell of my neighborhood to the hell of my office cubicle. i hop on. the driver, not yet satisfied with his passengers, waits, the tricycle's engine humming its impatience all the while.
a man emerges. his hair is wet, combed back and clean. he is wearing a clean blue polo, cleanly ironed jeans, and cracked leather shoes brushed clean. but on his astringent clean face is the bewildered look of a lost man.
in his right hand, a clear plastic envelope. in it, sheets of bond paper, and on the top sheet, a pasted 2x2 id picture, and in big black bold letters, the word 'BIODATA'. he approaches the driver.
in a singsong bisaya spoken in dalaguete and southern cebu, he asks if we were going to the highway. the driver tells him to hop on. he looks at the tricycle like it was some alien spacecraft, unsure of what to do. he takes his seat in the sidecar. the driver revs up his engine. off we go.
it's starting to get hot, and the traffic is running slow and heavy. with the driver deftly negotiating the obstacles of the road, we reach the highway. the bewildered man asks the driver to stop so he could get off. but it was a still a 'no stopping' zone, and a traffic policeman was standing in a discrete corner, a wolf waiting to pounce on its unsuspecting prey. the driver tells him, 'sa unahan' (a bit farther off). another 10 meters, and the bewildered man again asks the driver to stop so he could get off. the driver answers him again, 'sa unahan', his annoyance now ringing clear in his voice.
we finally reach our stop. all of us passengers get off. i hand my money to the driver, mutter under my breath a 'good luck' to the bewildered man, then proceed to the jeepney stop across the street. it takes me a full 20 minutes to get my ride. as our jeepney fights its way through the traffic on the highway, a metaphor for the sad realities of living in the city presents itself to me.
there laying on the highway, under the growing heat of the sun: the raw, bloody, mangled carcass of what had been a dog. and no one thinking it worth stopping for: the jeepneys and cars on their morning rush, the trucks and vans going on with their deliveries, the pedestrians on the street waiting in vain to get their ride, the cigarette vendor anticipating the traffic to slow down so he could peddle his goods, another traffic policeman sitting under the shade of the nearby bakery, idly watching the rest of the world on its senseless turning. and no one coming to clean the mess up.
our jeepney finally finds open road, and the driver steps on the gas. the wind in my face, i reflect over the dead dog. then i remember the bewildered man; i hope he doesn't end up as roadkill.
not yet 20 meters away from the door, there is a shrill beeping behind me: a habal2x driver in a hurry. but the already tiny street, made even tinier by the jeepney driver who considered our tiny street as free parking space, is just too tiny for the both of us to pass through comfortably. the driver has no choice but to let me pass first. i continue walking.
i pass through, the habal2x behind me, still beeping. it passes through, and the driver hits his breaks in front of me to block my path. he tells me he was blowing his horn. i tell him yes, i'm not deaf. he tells me maybe i am. i tell him to fuck off. he glares at me, i glare back, then he goes on his way, beeping away all the other pedestrians in his path. my words startle me; did i just say that? i continue walking.
the street is pockmarked with potholes and littered with dog shit and random pieces of trash. to the left, the smells of buwad (dried salted fish) frying and plastic burning mingling with the decay of dog shit. to the right, another house arrayed with giant speakers near its gates, this time pounding the eardrums of all residents within a 200 meter radius with that most infamous staple of mid 90s diskorals: the macarena. and walking toward me, a grimy woman dragging her own grimy son, who is bawling out with all his lungs, and the mother threatening the boy with a broom. ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my neighborhood.
i finally emerge at the eskina, a tricycle waiting to transport me from the hell of my neighborhood to the hell of my office cubicle. i hop on. the driver, not yet satisfied with his passengers, waits, the tricycle's engine humming its impatience all the while.
a man emerges. his hair is wet, combed back and clean. he is wearing a clean blue polo, cleanly ironed jeans, and cracked leather shoes brushed clean. but on his astringent clean face is the bewildered look of a lost man.
in his right hand, a clear plastic envelope. in it, sheets of bond paper, and on the top sheet, a pasted 2x2 id picture, and in big black bold letters, the word 'BIODATA'. he approaches the driver.
in a singsong bisaya spoken in dalaguete and southern cebu, he asks if we were going to the highway. the driver tells him to hop on. he looks at the tricycle like it was some alien spacecraft, unsure of what to do. he takes his seat in the sidecar. the driver revs up his engine. off we go.
it's starting to get hot, and the traffic is running slow and heavy. with the driver deftly negotiating the obstacles of the road, we reach the highway. the bewildered man asks the driver to stop so he could get off. but it was a still a 'no stopping' zone, and a traffic policeman was standing in a discrete corner, a wolf waiting to pounce on its unsuspecting prey. the driver tells him, 'sa unahan' (a bit farther off). another 10 meters, and the bewildered man again asks the driver to stop so he could get off. the driver answers him again, 'sa unahan', his annoyance now ringing clear in his voice.
we finally reach our stop. all of us passengers get off. i hand my money to the driver, mutter under my breath a 'good luck' to the bewildered man, then proceed to the jeepney stop across the street. it takes me a full 20 minutes to get my ride. as our jeepney fights its way through the traffic on the highway, a metaphor for the sad realities of living in the city presents itself to me.
there laying on the highway, under the growing heat of the sun: the raw, bloody, mangled carcass of what had been a dog. and no one thinking it worth stopping for: the jeepneys and cars on their morning rush, the trucks and vans going on with their deliveries, the pedestrians on the street waiting in vain to get their ride, the cigarette vendor anticipating the traffic to slow down so he could peddle his goods, another traffic policeman sitting under the shade of the nearby bakery, idly watching the rest of the world on its senseless turning. and no one coming to clean the mess up.
our jeepney finally finds open road, and the driver steps on the gas. the wind in my face, i reflect over the dead dog. then i remember the bewildered man; i hope he doesn't end up as roadkill.
Monday, July 07, 2008
the necessity of storms
an old essay i sat on for a couple of weeks... took me some time to polish, but here it is... #################################
saturday morning dawned cold, wet, and windy. evening had been terrible. the storm signal no. 2 winds drove the rain to seep through the windows, drenching half my bed. the whole night my blanket and my pillows were all giving me moist reminders of my misery as the wind howled outside. some water had even engulfed part of the floor of my room, and i had to enlist the help of all the rags and old, torn t-shirts i could muster to stem the deluge. but at least, this morning, frank's worst had already passed us.
but then frank had not yet totally left. it was still too rainy and windy to make any trip outside comfortable. and my room, already a mess before frank came roaring, was now a disaster area. books stacked higgledy-piggledy to avoid getting wet, scattered stacks of yesterday's news, various pieces of plastic that used to hold old purchases, random papers and magazines. piled on my little table were receipts of long ago transactions, old electricity and credit card bills, empty deodorant and rubbing alcohol bottles, more pieces of plastic, expired mcdonald's coupons; in short, the beginnings of a mountain of garbage. to top it all off, soaked rags all over the floor, the curtains dripping wet, and on the corner of our roof, a loose iron sheet moaning its fragility.
and not just the state of my room, but also the state of my head; the rain had not just seeped through the windows to drench my bed, my pillows, my blanket, and my floor, it also flooded my brain, soaking my bones, drowning my lungs with helplessness. there i was reduced to a distraught shivering wreck, desperate to escape the disaster of my room, yet too scared to face what remained of frank outside. something had to be done: defy nature to escape my more immediate horrors, or fix my room. the answer was obvious.
as to how i allowed my room to reach this state of desperation, i can't really say. or maybe i'm just too ashamed to admit. this time, driven to the edge of insanity, i was forced to fight back one way or another. since i was no match against nature, it had to be my personal mess that i should confront.
first off, i had to wipe off all the water that had overrun the floor, then take out all the wet rags. my floor now reasonably dry, i turned my attention to the most visible mess: my books. after sorting them into three tidy stacks, it was on to sorting everything else: the magazines and the old newspapers, the old receipts and bills, the little pieces of plastic and trash, each in their own pile.
but sorting revealed a new problem: i had no more space. the contents of my crowded shelves were just groaning with the effects of overpopulation. a revolution was inevitable: i had to throw things out. now came the hard part.
first the old receipts and pieces of plastic, the expired mcdonald's coupons, and the empty plastic bottles, all had to go. these little pieces of trash were the easiest, yet, ultimately inconsequential: i still couldn't create enough space. i had to throw the old newspapers away.
i had to be careful though. some of the issues here had my articles printed on them, and some with memorable essays that i had formed an attachment to. an ardous hour of sorting and checking, separating what to keep from what had to be thrown away, and i was done. my trash can couldn't have been any happier.
i ponder over the contents my trash can, and over the stack of old newspapers. why is it that i hang on to all this trash for so long? why is it so hard to just... let go?
my room finally having achieved a semblance of order, my body sweating, my hands dusty, the tips of my fingernails blackened by the dirt that i scraped off the skin of my arms, and yet oddly, i felt clean: as clean as having taken a thousand baths, as clean as emptying my bowels of all literal and metaphorical shit, as clean as having all my sins forgiven. no wonder they say cleanliness is next to godliness: the act of cleaning up is, in itself, a religious experience.
i sat on my chair (which had also been cleared of its own share of chaos) and surveyed the restored glory of my personal sanctuary, then thought to myself: let frank blow what fury it has left my way, i no longer care. i had my room back. and it took a storm to make me look inside and clean up my own mess.
saturday morning dawned cold, wet, and windy. evening had been terrible. the storm signal no. 2 winds drove the rain to seep through the windows, drenching half my bed. the whole night my blanket and my pillows were all giving me moist reminders of my misery as the wind howled outside. some water had even engulfed part of the floor of my room, and i had to enlist the help of all the rags and old, torn t-shirts i could muster to stem the deluge. but at least, this morning, frank's worst had already passed us.
but then frank had not yet totally left. it was still too rainy and windy to make any trip outside comfortable. and my room, already a mess before frank came roaring, was now a disaster area. books stacked higgledy-piggledy to avoid getting wet, scattered stacks of yesterday's news, various pieces of plastic that used to hold old purchases, random papers and magazines. piled on my little table were receipts of long ago transactions, old electricity and credit card bills, empty deodorant and rubbing alcohol bottles, more pieces of plastic, expired mcdonald's coupons; in short, the beginnings of a mountain of garbage. to top it all off, soaked rags all over the floor, the curtains dripping wet, and on the corner of our roof, a loose iron sheet moaning its fragility.
and not just the state of my room, but also the state of my head; the rain had not just seeped through the windows to drench my bed, my pillows, my blanket, and my floor, it also flooded my brain, soaking my bones, drowning my lungs with helplessness. there i was reduced to a distraught shivering wreck, desperate to escape the disaster of my room, yet too scared to face what remained of frank outside. something had to be done: defy nature to escape my more immediate horrors, or fix my room. the answer was obvious.
as to how i allowed my room to reach this state of desperation, i can't really say. or maybe i'm just too ashamed to admit. this time, driven to the edge of insanity, i was forced to fight back one way or another. since i was no match against nature, it had to be my personal mess that i should confront.
first off, i had to wipe off all the water that had overrun the floor, then take out all the wet rags. my floor now reasonably dry, i turned my attention to the most visible mess: my books. after sorting them into three tidy stacks, it was on to sorting everything else: the magazines and the old newspapers, the old receipts and bills, the little pieces of plastic and trash, each in their own pile.
but sorting revealed a new problem: i had no more space. the contents of my crowded shelves were just groaning with the effects of overpopulation. a revolution was inevitable: i had to throw things out. now came the hard part.
first the old receipts and pieces of plastic, the expired mcdonald's coupons, and the empty plastic bottles, all had to go. these little pieces of trash were the easiest, yet, ultimately inconsequential: i still couldn't create enough space. i had to throw the old newspapers away.
i had to be careful though. some of the issues here had my articles printed on them, and some with memorable essays that i had formed an attachment to. an ardous hour of sorting and checking, separating what to keep from what had to be thrown away, and i was done. my trash can couldn't have been any happier.
i ponder over the contents my trash can, and over the stack of old newspapers. why is it that i hang on to all this trash for so long? why is it so hard to just... let go?
my room finally having achieved a semblance of order, my body sweating, my hands dusty, the tips of my fingernails blackened by the dirt that i scraped off the skin of my arms, and yet oddly, i felt clean: as clean as having taken a thousand baths, as clean as emptying my bowels of all literal and metaphorical shit, as clean as having all my sins forgiven. no wonder they say cleanliness is next to godliness: the act of cleaning up is, in itself, a religious experience.
i sat on my chair (which had also been cleared of its own share of chaos) and surveyed the restored glory of my personal sanctuary, then thought to myself: let frank blow what fury it has left my way, i no longer care. i had my room back. and it took a storm to make me look inside and clean up my own mess.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
the fable of the lost shoe, revised version
after comments and suggestions from my workshop mates and from sir larry ypil, here is the revised form of my poem "the fable of the lost shoe", inspired by a shoe i found on the road on my way home. comments, suggestions, (constructive) criticisms highly appreciated :)
#################################################
the fable of the lost shoe
amidst the 9pm rush
of man and metal
a shoe
lays on the street
bathing in that sickly light of the night.
it must have fallen
from a passing car
or from someone's bag.
the shoe, forgotten
friendless
amidst the 9pm rush
of man and metal
a shoe
rests on the street,
and it dreams
that a foot still filled it with purpose
and another shoe just like it beside
amidst the 9pm rush
of man and metal
a shoe
stirs on the street
as a tramp with a sack on his back
comes to find the shoe
and says, 'finally!
a pair for my other shoe'
he takes it home
where it awakes
to find its dream
come true in ways
it did not even dream of
#################################################
the fable of the lost shoe
amidst the 9pm rush
of man and metal
a shoe
lays on the street
bathing in that sickly light of the night.
it must have fallen
from a passing car
or from someone's bag.
the shoe, forgotten
friendless
amidst the 9pm rush
of man and metal
a shoe
rests on the street,
and it dreams
that a foot still filled it with purpose
and another shoe just like it beside
amidst the 9pm rush
of man and metal
a shoe
stirs on the street
as a tramp with a sack on his back
comes to find the shoe
and says, 'finally!
a pair for my other shoe'
he takes it home
where it awakes
to find its dream
come true in ways
it did not even dream of
Monday, April 14, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
territorial integrity, or, a loner's dilemma: how to preserve one's solitude without becoming a complete asshole
my personal air space was invaded last saturday. you know, that implicitly declared perimeter surrounding our persons, which, when crossed by other parties, causes alarm bells to sound in our heads. THAT space. i was having my coffee in my favorite spot at bo's coffee club sm branch, committing my thoughts to paper, when this lady and her kid comes up to me, violates my borders, and disturbs my peace.
but before i continue, let me explain why that spot is my favorite piece of prime real estate at bo's coffee club sm branch. the spot isn't your usual cafe setup of 2 or 3 hard wood chairs surrounding a small coffee table. it's actually a complete sala set, with the table, a sofa, and 2 chairs, the sofa and the 2 chairs thick with foam and covered in leather. but what makes it really valuable is what makes prime real estate really valuable: location, location, location. it's situated near the entrance, with a cinematic view of the flow of humanity just strolling by the mall, making it an ideal spot for contemplation, and for spotting chicks. can you imagine it now? ok... let's continue...
so there i was having my coffee in my favorite spot, committing my thoughts to paper, when this lady and her kid comes up to me, violates my borders, and disturbs my peace. she looks at me, sees that i'm alone, then promptly plants her butt on the empty chair across me. THEN she asks me if i had companions. i say no. i ask her if she had other companions. she says she's just waiting for something. wrong answer. i look around and see at least 7 other vacant tables visible from my spot, with probably more at the back. but what really got my goat was that she never asked me if it was ok or not, to take that seat across me.
but she seemed like a nice enough lady, so i tried to be cool with it. i breathed in, put my pencil down, and stared at the people walking outside, hoping it would be quick. then her coffee arrives. wonderful.
apparently, she had some business with the coffee shop people, something about a broken fridge. one by one, the coffee shop people come and talk with her. i try glancing at the lady every now and then with a sad (not angry, not annoyed, not VERY sad, just a bit so) look on my face to try and communicate my discomfort as gently as possible. unfortunately, but with an uneasy look on her face, she tries to ignore me. she just sits there and crosses her arms over her chest in between sips of coffee and talks with the coffee shop people, while her little boy sits beside her playing with packets of sugar and creamer.
at last, the 'something' she was waiting for (another one of the coffee shop people) arrives. they talk for about 10 minutes, then they leave. but before doing so, she faces me and says 'thank you'. i nod. ahh finally... peace...
is it so much to ask to be left alone? ok, i admit, i am not a very friendly person. i do try NOT to be an asshole, i'm just NOT FRIENDLY. plus, i don't feel very comfortable around strangers. and i usually prefer to be alone.
and it IS perfectly within my right to demand to be left alone in my spot. i think i bought that right together with my coffee. true, i don't own a title over the place, but i do 'own' it, at least for the duration it takes me to finish my coffee.
on second thought, maybe i AM being an asshole. the lady wasn't really THAT rude. and she DID thank me for sharing my spot with her. some people may find my annoyance funny. you may actually be laughing at me right now. some people may not even find it an issue to share that empty seat in front of them. i am certainly NOT one of them though. maybe i'm just being too selfish, no?
is it really that big a sacrifice to share the untaken seat in front of me? it's not like i'm gloria arroyo allowing china and vietnam to explore philippine territory for oil. dude, for crying out loud, that chair is NOT the spratlys.
is it really possible to preserve one's solitude without becoming a complete asshole? hmmm... i guess it IS possible. but only if i climb on top of some mountain to eschew any human contact, and stay there for the rest of my life.
as i write my thoughts on paper, fate suddenly decides to test the resolve of my new found 'epiphany'. about 30 minutes after the lady with the kid left, 3 oriental looking people approach me, a man, a woman, and a teenage girl, probably father, mother, and daughter. i see that the cafe is almost full. the girl, in halting and thickly accented english (which is not to say it's 'bad' english, she was perfectly understandable), asks me if i had any 'friends'.
i almost burst out laughing. she probably meant 'companions', but it's a good question nonetheless. just when i admit on paper that i am not a friendly person, here goes someone asking me if i had 'friends'. how appropriate.
while assuming that she DID mean to say 'companions', i say no. she asks if it's ok that they take their seats there with me. i say yes. they take their seats. at least, this time, they asked.
but before i continue, let me explain why that spot is my favorite piece of prime real estate at bo's coffee club sm branch. the spot isn't your usual cafe setup of 2 or 3 hard wood chairs surrounding a small coffee table. it's actually a complete sala set, with the table, a sofa, and 2 chairs, the sofa and the 2 chairs thick with foam and covered in leather. but what makes it really valuable is what makes prime real estate really valuable: location, location, location. it's situated near the entrance, with a cinematic view of the flow of humanity just strolling by the mall, making it an ideal spot for contemplation, and for spotting chicks. can you imagine it now? ok... let's continue...
so there i was having my coffee in my favorite spot, committing my thoughts to paper, when this lady and her kid comes up to me, violates my borders, and disturbs my peace. she looks at me, sees that i'm alone, then promptly plants her butt on the empty chair across me. THEN she asks me if i had companions. i say no. i ask her if she had other companions. she says she's just waiting for something. wrong answer. i look around and see at least 7 other vacant tables visible from my spot, with probably more at the back. but what really got my goat was that she never asked me if it was ok or not, to take that seat across me.
but she seemed like a nice enough lady, so i tried to be cool with it. i breathed in, put my pencil down, and stared at the people walking outside, hoping it would be quick. then her coffee arrives. wonderful.
apparently, she had some business with the coffee shop people, something about a broken fridge. one by one, the coffee shop people come and talk with her. i try glancing at the lady every now and then with a sad (not angry, not annoyed, not VERY sad, just a bit so) look on my face to try and communicate my discomfort as gently as possible. unfortunately, but with an uneasy look on her face, she tries to ignore me. she just sits there and crosses her arms over her chest in between sips of coffee and talks with the coffee shop people, while her little boy sits beside her playing with packets of sugar and creamer.
at last, the 'something' she was waiting for (another one of the coffee shop people) arrives. they talk for about 10 minutes, then they leave. but before doing so, she faces me and says 'thank you'. i nod. ahh finally... peace...
is it so much to ask to be left alone? ok, i admit, i am not a very friendly person. i do try NOT to be an asshole, i'm just NOT FRIENDLY. plus, i don't feel very comfortable around strangers. and i usually prefer to be alone.
and it IS perfectly within my right to demand to be left alone in my spot. i think i bought that right together with my coffee. true, i don't own a title over the place, but i do 'own' it, at least for the duration it takes me to finish my coffee.
on second thought, maybe i AM being an asshole. the lady wasn't really THAT rude. and she DID thank me for sharing my spot with her. some people may find my annoyance funny. you may actually be laughing at me right now. some people may not even find it an issue to share that empty seat in front of them. i am certainly NOT one of them though. maybe i'm just being too selfish, no?
is it really that big a sacrifice to share the untaken seat in front of me? it's not like i'm gloria arroyo allowing china and vietnam to explore philippine territory for oil. dude, for crying out loud, that chair is NOT the spratlys.
is it really possible to preserve one's solitude without becoming a complete asshole? hmmm... i guess it IS possible. but only if i climb on top of some mountain to eschew any human contact, and stay there for the rest of my life.
as i write my thoughts on paper, fate suddenly decides to test the resolve of my new found 'epiphany'. about 30 minutes after the lady with the kid left, 3 oriental looking people approach me, a man, a woman, and a teenage girl, probably father, mother, and daughter. i see that the cafe is almost full. the girl, in halting and thickly accented english (which is not to say it's 'bad' english, she was perfectly understandable), asks me if i had any 'friends'.
i almost burst out laughing. she probably meant 'companions', but it's a good question nonetheless. just when i admit on paper that i am not a friendly person, here goes someone asking me if i had 'friends'. how appropriate.
while assuming that she DID mean to say 'companions', i say no. she asks if it's ok that they take their seats there with me. i say yes. they take their seats. at least, this time, they asked.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
five degrees of separation
three thugs on a motorcycle. a girl with a cellphone. a gunshot. a headline.
anyone who'd been following the local cebuano news the first week of march has probably heard of that tragic story, the robbery and murder of ruby jade ruba, a 20 year old nursing student, just 3 weeks shy of her graduation. all for a cellphone.
it was late wednesday afternoon i heard. i was chatting up my friends on the internet when my friend chick broke the news. he said that a batchmate of his brother's girlfriend had just been shot the other night, around capitol site. then came the rest of the story, how the victim was weeks away from graduating, that she was working on her term paper late that evening, that she was returning to her apartment with another friend when the robbers found her, that the robbers grabbed her cellphone, shot her, and then fled on a motorcycle. 'is she alive?', we asked. 'no, she died', he said.
emoticons showing a virtual shaking of our heads filled our chat window one by one. chatmate ryan expressed concern for his own girlfriend, who usually got off from work late in the evening, and whose office was near the scene of the crime.
i was pretty alarmed, too. the place was a quick walk away from my office, and much quicker of you were riding a motorcycle. and i also happen to go home late in the evening. i never knew the victim, but the fact that we were separated by a mere four degrees (she being the batchmate of the girlfriend of the brother of my friend) made it all seem so much closer to home. if it could happen to her, i see no reason why it could not happen to me also.
public shock and outrage followed when the news spread. mayor tomas osmeña announced a P30,000 reward to anyone who could help in solving the crime. several suspects were arrested, one of them claiming that he killed the victim so he could extort P50,000 from a truck driver.
then came the headlines morning of the following monday. police have caught 3 suspects who they could confidently say were involved in the crime, aivan barabat, mark anthony gabriel and karl marx carticiano, the first 2 having confessed to doing it. those 2 were also said to be members of the local chapter of the crips gang. the 3rd, who the first 2 suspects say was the driver of their getaway motorcycle, was arrested when he voluntarily came to the police station to deny any involvement. a 4th person was arrested, to whom the first 2 suspects say they sold the cellphone for P3,000. in a congratulatory pat on their collective backs for the quick resolution, police declared the case closed.
makes it all seem like P3,000 is worth nothing. makes it all seem like a life is worth nothing.
"Trip ra to. Gikan mi nag-inom. (It was just our trip after drinking)," the papers quoted them as saying.
from hongkong, my ofw friend tope had also been following the news that morning. after reading of that story, he told us over the same chat window of his shock over the discovery that he knew one of the accused, aivan barabat. he used to work as the 'boy' or 'alalay' in his old office.
that announcement finally drew the connection from victim to suspect, making the crime all the more tragic. victim - girlfriend of chick's bro - chick's bro - chick - tope - suspect. as far as we know, just five degrees separating them, five measly degrees, before the crime was committed. it may even have been smaller. and in a grim irony, the crime shrunk that separation from five degrees to just one: victim - suspect.
had that suspect known, would he have done it? had that suspect known, would it have mattered to him? had it occured to him that their prospective victim may be their friend's girlfriend or sister or mother or cousin, would he have done it?
makes you think, no? maybe that person sitting across you on the jeepney is a friend of a friend. or maybe the person asking you for directions could be your classmate's cousin. who knows, that person who you just saw drop his wallet is your neighbor's bestfriend. or the old jeepney driver who gave you five pesos more than the change you expected is your officemate's grandfather.
in his 'small world experiments', stanley milgram theorized that everyone in the world is connected to everyone else by an average of 6 degrees. and to think, that was in 1967. technology today has probably shrunk our world even smaller than it was in 1967.
i am sensing that, at least here in cebu, it's much, much smaller than six degrees. the least we can all do is play a bit more nicely with each other.
########################
published in the philippine daily inquirer 4/12/2008
http://opinion.inquirer.net/inquireropinion/columns/view/20080412-129894/Five-degrees-of-separation
anyone who'd been following the local cebuano news the first week of march has probably heard of that tragic story, the robbery and murder of ruby jade ruba, a 20 year old nursing student, just 3 weeks shy of her graduation. all for a cellphone.
it was late wednesday afternoon i heard. i was chatting up my friends on the internet when my friend chick broke the news. he said that a batchmate of his brother's girlfriend had just been shot the other night, around capitol site. then came the rest of the story, how the victim was weeks away from graduating, that she was working on her term paper late that evening, that she was returning to her apartment with another friend when the robbers found her, that the robbers grabbed her cellphone, shot her, and then fled on a motorcycle. 'is she alive?', we asked. 'no, she died', he said.
emoticons showing a virtual shaking of our heads filled our chat window one by one. chatmate ryan expressed concern for his own girlfriend, who usually got off from work late in the evening, and whose office was near the scene of the crime.
i was pretty alarmed, too. the place was a quick walk away from my office, and much quicker of you were riding a motorcycle. and i also happen to go home late in the evening. i never knew the victim, but the fact that we were separated by a mere four degrees (she being the batchmate of the girlfriend of the brother of my friend) made it all seem so much closer to home. if it could happen to her, i see no reason why it could not happen to me also.
public shock and outrage followed when the news spread. mayor tomas osmeña announced a P30,000 reward to anyone who could help in solving the crime. several suspects were arrested, one of them claiming that he killed the victim so he could extort P50,000 from a truck driver.
then came the headlines morning of the following monday. police have caught 3 suspects who they could confidently say were involved in the crime, aivan barabat, mark anthony gabriel and karl marx carticiano, the first 2 having confessed to doing it. those 2 were also said to be members of the local chapter of the crips gang. the 3rd, who the first 2 suspects say was the driver of their getaway motorcycle, was arrested when he voluntarily came to the police station to deny any involvement. a 4th person was arrested, to whom the first 2 suspects say they sold the cellphone for P3,000. in a congratulatory pat on their collective backs for the quick resolution, police declared the case closed.
makes it all seem like P3,000 is worth nothing. makes it all seem like a life is worth nothing.
"Trip ra to. Gikan mi nag-inom. (It was just our trip after drinking)," the papers quoted them as saying.
from hongkong, my ofw friend tope had also been following the news that morning. after reading of that story, he told us over the same chat window of his shock over the discovery that he knew one of the accused, aivan barabat. he used to work as the 'boy' or 'alalay' in his old office.
that announcement finally drew the connection from victim to suspect, making the crime all the more tragic. victim - girlfriend of chick's bro - chick's bro - chick - tope - suspect. as far as we know, just five degrees separating them, five measly degrees, before the crime was committed. it may even have been smaller. and in a grim irony, the crime shrunk that separation from five degrees to just one: victim - suspect.
had that suspect known, would he have done it? had that suspect known, would it have mattered to him? had it occured to him that their prospective victim may be their friend's girlfriend or sister or mother or cousin, would he have done it?
makes you think, no? maybe that person sitting across you on the jeepney is a friend of a friend. or maybe the person asking you for directions could be your classmate's cousin. who knows, that person who you just saw drop his wallet is your neighbor's bestfriend. or the old jeepney driver who gave you five pesos more than the change you expected is your officemate's grandfather.
in his 'small world experiments', stanley milgram theorized that everyone in the world is connected to everyone else by an average of 6 degrees. and to think, that was in 1967. technology today has probably shrunk our world even smaller than it was in 1967.
i am sensing that, at least here in cebu, it's much, much smaller than six degrees. the least we can all do is play a bit more nicely with each other.
########################
published in the philippine daily inquirer 4/12/2008
http://opinion.inquirer.net/inquireropinion/columns/view/20080412-129894/Five-degrees-of-separation
Monday, March 03, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
sinulog 2008
it's sort of late... but here are some of my pix during sinulog 2008 :)
sinulog 2008 fluvial parade pix
sinulog 2008 grand parade pix
sinulog 2008 fluvial parade pix
sinulog 2008 grand parade pix
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
