JESSE LIWAG CUTS HIS FINGER

Across the Baltic Sea, or Just Tell It Like It is

2005-12-22T03:47:00.000+08:00

I overpaid for a stack of old magazines from a Binondo Media store in Glorietta. The guy marked down some magazines but I forgot to check them when I paid for it. I lost my 200.00 PHP discount.

Mute, Tricycle, Res, Metropolis, Metalsmith, and Adbusters. (And Gotham for my wife.) All cool magazines that I couldn't afford at newsstand price. I am reduced to this--scrounging around for scraps of good things to read. A small Christmas gift for myself.

Mute: Culture and Politics After the Net (18.00 USD, now 250.00 PHP) appealed to my pretensions and my nostalgia for a lost academic career. I now have to two issues in my collection.

I bought Tricycle: The Buddhist Review (7.50 USD, now 150.00 PHP) to see if the eightfold path can still resonate with me. I managed to borrow one years ago from an aunt--it had an amazing article about Brad Pitt's movie, Seven Years in Tibet.

I avoided Res Magazine (5.95 USD, now 199.00 PHP) every time I used to see it in the magazine racks. This one had me at "Drawn from life: the comics and animation issue". I even opened it before the others, reading it while I slurped down chop suey and cheap tofu (at Chowking).

Metropolis (5.95 USD, now 100.00 PHP) has been my constant companion. It lasted longer than the rest of the original barkada: Wired, Utne Reader, Ms, Sight & Sound, and Doubletake.

Metalsmith (7.50 USD, now 50.00 PHP) is one of those magazines that I buy once just to satisfy my curiosity.

Finally, Adbusters (7.95 USD, now 250.00) was my mentor years ago. Now, I buy it just to see where it's going.

As I go through the magazines, I am reminded how far I am from the life I imagined when I was in high school. I had always assumed that when I grow up and reach the age of my older brothers and cousins, I would live a different life. That I wouldn't be suffering through different jobs just to pay the rent. That I wouldn't be wishing I was earning minimum wage in the freezing weather of Canada.

In 1993, two magazines opened up my world: Wired and Utne Reader. Wired was then talking about computer music, digital typography, satellite phones, online schools, virtual reality, and the Internet. It stood out from the rest because of the neon stripes on the spine. Utne Reader was the reverse of Reader's Digest (like Superman and Braniac). It collected feature articles from the "alternative" magazines. Topics typically included environmentalism, activism, sustainability, feminism, intentional communities, and social change. All the ideas banned from everything I've read so far.

Since then, I've filled my head with all these ideas and possibilities and ambitions and daydreams. I could do this and do that. I convinced myself that there was a world beyond the Makati office building and the nine-to-six job. In 1995, I forced myself to sit through an interview for a corporate job (as an editor for Asian Sources). They asked me to come back for a written test, but I was horrified at the endless and orderly layout of office cubicles. I never went back.

My first real, paid job (200.00 PHP) was being part of a film crew, which led to an assistant film editor stint, which led to a salaried job as a video editor. I was still hoping to end up as a film director, but I burned out and retreated to grad school. After I recuperated, I taught Freshman English and took on writing jobs. I finally ended up with an offer to head up an online magazine, with very flexible hours.

Up until that point, everything was perfect because I was largely living in my head, shaping my own sand castles.

All throughout college, as a Lit major, I couldn't understand why everyone would be excited about job fairs. My friends who were business majors were mapping out their years after graduation. Two years of working at P&G, then MBA, then the ladder to unimaginable success. Unimaginable for me, that is. My world was so small, so conceited, so naive.

Poet, writer, artist, teacher--these were the vocations that I thought were clear in my head. Everyone I admired was one or more of those.

Meanwhile, all around me, everyone else was counting the years for law school, for MBAs, and choosing among job titles like trader, banker, and product manager.

Now I claim to be a web designer, a design manager. But when it comes down to it, I am a manager. A manager who knows things like web design, writing, editing, graphic design, and so on, and so forth.

Manager.

Let's see that list again.

I console myself by fixing my resume, carefully detailing all the small, meager accomplishments that I claim to would-be employers. I did this, and that. I cover my eyes with the few creations that have come out of my career.

In the magazine Mute, Armin Medosch recounts his participation at the 12th International Symposium on Electronic Arts (ISEA) as they take a three-day trip on an cruise liner. I find comfort in his indulgent questioning:

"What is this media arts scene about then? Are we going anywhere, or are we just drifting? Is there anyone still at the helm of this ship?"

I like the idea that others in the world are rather confused, like how I am.

I like to imagine that none of this is my fault, that I couldn't have done any more, that I shouldn't beat myself up on not being courageous enough.

Fear, perhaps, is the word I shouldn't be mentioning here.

Cubao Daytrip and a Tenuous Metaphor About Haunting

2005-10-16T10:50:00.000+08:00

I had thoughtlessly volunteered to help out in archiving some film stored at the Mowelfund Film Institute. I drove to the Marikina Shoe Expo in Cubao on a lovely, sunny Saturday afternoon and attended a short meeting, an orientation of sorts.

I forced myself to go. It was Cubao after all, the commercial center of my childhood.

My mother and I used to regularly go to Cubao, every two weeks, on the dot. We always had a routine. We would park in Ali Mall, visit National Bookstore, cross the street to Shoe Mart, shop a little then go down to the food court to have lunch, usually at Sizzling Plate. Afterwards, we went back to our car in Ali Mall and drive to Rustan's to do our grocery shopping. Then we go home.

There were very few variations. On occasion, we would eat at the sparse food court of Ali Mall or at Goldilock's in Rustan's. One time we tried the Pizza Hut in Fiesta Carnival.

Somewhere in the tight schedule, I would squeeze in my own shopping: Hardy Boys and comic books in National Bookstore, Matchbox cars and music cassette tapes in the dry goods section of Rustan's supermarket, Eskimo Roll (ice cream sandwich) in the Shoe Mart food court.

That was during the early 1980s.

In the late 1980s, Cubao started changing. Significantly, Uniwide opened, offering cheaper groceries, so we shopped there. National Superbranch also opened, a five-floor behemoth spewing out office supplies and books. I was in college by then, and my mother and I still went together.

Cubao was forever changed in 1990: my mother died and turned this messy landscape, with all its malls, buildings, streets, and ugly signage into one painful memory.

By the time the pain subsided, Cubao was a shadow of its former self. It was the old downtown, quaint but way off the shopping fastlane.

I would go there once in a while for some nostalgia tripping and cheap books. The National Superbranch had become a dumpsite of used books, imported from the US (and Canada). The Fiesta Carnival had become a giant warehouse of old carnival rides and sad flea markets. Rustan's had moved out altogether. Ali Mall and Shoe Mart had seemed to be frozen in time, or caught in the past. I felt like a ghost visiting a lost town, eating my crummy Chuckwagon from Sizzling Plate.

Despite my own personal drama, Cubao did move on for everyone else. Now, there's the well-air-conditioned Gatewall Mall and the loud, imposing supermarkets. I also counted about four different branches of Book Sale.

But the best surprise is the Marikina Shoe Expo.

I do remember going there once or twice long ago. My mother and my sisters would shop for shoes, while I get bored in the car. Nowadays, it is the Marikina Hip Expo (Cubao X, they call it), with art galleries, a bookstore, cool gift stores, and an exalted Italian restaurant.

The shoe stores, of course, are still there, providing a convenient backdrop to all this hip-ness.

My meeting was at the Black Soup Project (owned by Neil Daza and Robert Quebral), an art gallery of sorts, just a stone's throw from Booklines bookstore and the Bellini's restaurant. If you have a good arm, you can even reach The Chunky Far Flung Gallery on the other side. This brings to mind one major question: how much is rent in this place?

The meeting lasted for an hour, presided by an old friend (and teacher) from my long-lost Mowelfund days, Ricky Orellana (who might be another owner of Black Soup Project, dunno). He's now a professional film archivist and he's looking for a few film lovers to help catalog about a hundred titles, mostly those that were confiscated by MTRCB in the 1970s and 1980s. (Bomba films, I suppose.)

"Film is like people," he said. "The moment you are born, you start getting older, you start dying. It's the same thing with film. The moment it is made, it starts decomposing. All we can hope for is to prolong its life."

After the meeting, I beelined for Booklines and picked up a book (The Globalization of Poverty), a CD (The Brockas), and two documentaries on VCDS (one one child labor, by Ditsi Carolino, and another on globalization). I was also tempted to buy some High Chair Chapbooks, featuring poets from UST and UP. Maybe next time.

Then I hopped across the street to the building formerly called Rustan's Superstore (now just Superstore) to continue my Book Sale shopping. I quickly got two books, one about William Turner and another about a book design exhibit. As I lined up at the cashier, I saw a friend from high school leave the store.

"Dennis!"--I nearly shouted across the room, but he disappeared quickly. When I got out of the store, there was no trace of him. Could I have imagined him?

Cubao is still full of ghosts like me.

Some Varieties of Volleyball and Childhood Violence

2005-09-06T13:19:00.000+08:00

"Why do you have a chipped tooth?"

Someone asked my friend, out of nowhere.

"I got it when I was in Grade One," my friend explained, "because my classmate pushed me to the ground and my face hit a rock."

I had an instant image of injustice, the universal cruelty of kids against other kids.

"We were roughhousing," my friend added, trying to contextualize the violence.

For a moment, my sympathies were with him. Because of that, he had to endure a lifetime burdened with a chipped tooth. He was about 27 years old now, an office worker, and he always wore a tie to work.

Then, he added, "So I got back at him and punched his face until it was bloody. I was dragged to the Principal's office after that. I had to explain why I beat up our classmate who had polio."

There was about five of us listening to his story and we couldn't believe what he just said. We started asking questions, clarifying the new image in our minds: a small, helpless seven-year old in a wheelchair, with a bloody face.

He continued.

"He had a wheelchair, but he didn't like using it. He was a rich kid and he loved playing volleyball. He had pants with a triple layer of cloth because he usually walked around in school on all fours. On his hands and knees."

I suddenly knew what "black comedy" was.

"He still lives on our street and he's now a Guidance Counselor at our old school." Then he smiled and said, "I still see him sometimes."

That seems right, somehow.

"But we don't greet each other."

Later, that night, my father-in-law told me that our local variety of watermelon (the round, dark green one) has a tendency of exploding when rain comes after a hot day.

It happened to a friend of his who had a watermelon farm in Bulacan. A drop of rain would hit a watermelon and instantly crack it open. The whole harvest was lost in a few minutes of afternoon rain.

Red flesh everywhere.

I've been Leaving Pieces of Myself All Over the City

2005-06-28T16:15:00.000+08:00

My skin started peeling two days after our trip to Boracay. From my shoulders, burnt skin came off like aluminum foil around a baked potato. It made a sound as I ripped them off. It made a sound as they dried up and rubbed against the inside of my shirt.

I tried to be neat, collecting the pieces in my hand, balling them up like boogers, and tossing them into the nearest waste bin.

I even bought an 100 mL bottle of Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion (Deep Nourishing) to stave off the itchiness and the mess.

But they fell, by their own will, like giant dandruff, all brown and disgusting. When I woke up in the morning, my bed was covered with pieces of skin. I brushed them off to the floor, only to realize that the floor beside me was covered with them. I had to sweep up before I left for the office.

At the office, even during meetings, I could not help but scratch and pick at the peeling skin. When I stood up, I was horrified. They were on the chair and the floor. I've never had peeling skin like this before. I hurriedly hid the evidence.

"You're like Gorbachev," my boss teased me, pointing to my scalp, where my thinning hair gave way to splotches of burnt and peeling skin. None of the other managers seemed to know who Mikhail Gorbachev was.

I didn't expect this, back when I was offering my body up to the Sun God of Boracay, as I floated on a inflatable bed about fifty feet from the beach, just before lunch last Saturday.

Before the trip, I even bought a very expensive Coppertone Sport Sunblock Lotion, SPF 30, and "ultra-sweatproof". I used it liberally that Saturday, on my torso, scalp, face, and ears. I didn't want to burn myself, but I did want a good tan. I haven't been under the sun for quite a long while.

From since I was a kid, all the way up to college, I enjoyed being under the sun. With my indio blood and kayumanggi skin, I would easily turn brown, and I enjoyed it. It was a natural protection against our tropical, Third World sun.

But when I started working, especially when I worked in the Internet industry, the sun was banished from my schedule. I would wake up, blinds or curtains drawn, while the air conditioning maintained the temperature of my nest. I would quickly jump into my car and follow a virtual shaded (and, again, air-conditioned) tunnel all the way to my artificially-lit, air-conditioned office.

The sun, all these years, had become an inconvenience. My skin became several shades of paleness, yellowish, pinkish, kayumanggi-ish. I avoided the sun, and--for the most part--never even saw it.

During the past year, as my life turned into another view, I would catch myself looking into the setting sun, right above Manila Bay. My office now boasts of a 360-degree view from the edge of Makati City. The sun, I realized, was beautiful in its redness, soaked with varieties of orange, violet, blue, and yellow.

Sometimes I would go out into the parking lot to thaw and hold out my pale arms into the late afternoon sunlight. I already began wondering then--

How would it feel to embrace the sun?

So, when the opportunity to go to a beach came up, I braved it and exposed my big, flabby, pale body to the low-season Boracay crowd. I played in the sand and bobbed in the water, under the hot, searing morning sun. By lunchtime, I was a boiled, red lobster. I didn't realize that I had sunburn. Perhaps, I thought to myself, I overdid it.

Cold showers became a relief and sleeping was a problem, as well as wearing shirts and bearing the straps of my bag. My skin was literally burning. I imagined that my blood was boiling just beneath the surface.

In the end, I simply attributed it all to fate and destiny--take your pick. Boracay marks a turning point in my life, after a journey under the shadows of buildings, office cubicles, and parking lots.

The Boracay trip was actually a family reunion, in honor of my sister who lived in the States and was last in the Philippines back in 1998, right smack when I was moving jobs. I was already fattening up back then and I hardly felt her presence. (This time around, my sister and I reconnected.)

Coincidentally, that same period encompassed the bulk of my career thus far, including my marriage. I am now looking forward to moving on, changing jobs, and changing countries.

I am shaking off my old, tired self.

The first time my new shoulders bared themselves, I was amazed with the quality of the skin. It was new, a healthy light brown, with tiny, tiny specks of light reflecting on it, like pools of water across a great expanse of fertile land.

"Can I peel it?" was what everyone said, my wife, my American sister, my nieces.

And peel they did, to their amazement.

"The skin is so thick!" they said. My sister was sad that her own skin was peeling in tiny, thin bits--hardly peeling at all.

I wish I could just take it all off, like removing a shirt, like how snakes and other animals molt. In one entire piece, one gesture.

Instead, my oldness is falling off in bits, in thick strips. They fall in my office, in my bedroom and bathroom, in my apartment balcony, drifting off onto the streets of Makati. I pick them and toss it outside my car window, letting the wind pick them up, as I drive along EDSA. I would leave pieces everywhere else, in my sister's house, in Ateneo, in the mall, in the ATM booth.

Pieces of me would drop into the pages of the books I read, just before I sleep. And I slept well.

Long, Long Ago, in a Childhood, Far, Far Away

2005-05-21T01:08:00.000+08:00

My favorite was Boba Fett. He had a great-looking space suit and a large gun.

When we were nine years old, my cousins and I would play with Star Wars toys. My cousin, V---, came back from the States to live again in the Philippines. A Balikbayan, he had an American accent and, amazingly, a nearly complete collection of Star Wars action figures.

Ever since Star Wars came out and George Lucas started merchandising it into toys, my cousin had been buying about one action figure a week. Every time they would go into a mall or store, he would come out with a new action figure. For his parents, it was a relief that their son was obsessing with only one thing, one harmless thing, so they indulged it. And for everyone else, it was easy to figure out what to give him for his birthday or Christmas.

We played during summers when school was out, spending afternoons at my cousin's house, right after siesta.

The action figures were packed safely and individually in cases and boxes. The tiny laser guns and laser rifles and, of course, light sabers, were packed together so as not to lose them. This was my cousin's treasure: he dared not lose any of them.

Once we gathered at his house, two or three or four cousins, he would open them all up and generously let us choose one action figure to play with. I always got Boba Fett. Someone would get Han Solo, then Luke Skywalker. No one would choose the Stormtrooper--those bungling idiots in shiny, white Monobloc armor.

But my cousin was the connoisseur, the true believer. He would never get the obvious heroes. He'd pick others, like Chewbacca, Lando Calrissian, a TIE Fighter Pilot, an Ewok warrior. More often than not, he would choose Darth Vader.

This was before anyone knew about Episodes I, II, and III. No one knew about the Sith or the Clone Army or Count Dooku. This was a time of good and evil and space adventures. This was long, long ago, in a childhood, far, far away.

He would choose Darth Vader.

Aside from the action figures, he also had some toys, like the much fought-over X-Wing, the Tie Fighter, Boba Fett's funny, sideways-flying ship, and--my favorite--the Taun Taun.

I've always said that my favorite was the Empire Strikes Back. I loved the snow, the new costumes, the AT-AT walkers, and the Imperial Destroyer. This was when everyone started growing up and realized their destinies.

We kept on playing with Star Wars for a few years, then we left the province and moved to Quezon City to start high school. We stopped playing with Star Wars by then.

Nearly two decades later, when I was much older, I would find out that Boba Fett was cloned from Jango Fett, played by Temuera Morrison. And that under his helmet, he looked like all the other Stormtroopers. They are all the same clones, from the same genes of a Maori, a Kiwi, a New Zealander.

A Jogger, a Boxer, a Dog, and the Lucky Money

2005-05-17T15:32:00.000+08:00

I ran last night.

I ran around the large Legaspi Village parking lot, now being turned into a Meralco substation with garden walks. At 10:30 PM, there was no one on the streets, save for security guards, one street sweeper, and a gang of construction workers unloading cement bags. I was wondering if I could do ten rounds.

There was a dog, which I avoided by getting off the sidewalk.

There were three guys practicing boxing punches.

Throughout the years, I tried reviving my running persona, but I never regained my peak performance. My best run ever lasted about three hours, from my cousin's house in Teachers Village all the way to BF Homes (QC) and back. That was in 1988, when running held the promise of renewal.

Running revives me. It straightens out my muscles, pulls them in. It allows me to think about a lot of things. It can even prevent an oncoming flu and overhaul my body. Sometimes, it can lead me to a discovery, like a road I've never been before.

I used to run back in college, my only exercise. I was young and trim then. Now, I'm a lumbering, balding, overweight man who is gasping along the dark streets of Legaspi Village in Makati.

My last attempt to run in Makati was an absolute failure. One morning, a couple of years ago, I planned on running the length of Pasong Tamo and back. I didn't get very far. It was humiliating.

Last night, I did well--I finished four rounds and capped it off, as I usually do, with a sprint. So I ran into the parking lot.

As I began my sprint, something on the asphalt lot caught my eye. I completed my sprint and walked back. What was it? I must be seeing things. It can't be.

But it was: a 100-peso bill. I picked it up and pocketed it.

Ten feet away, another 100-peso bill. Again, I pocketed it.

I braced myself for someone suddenly coming out from the shadows and asking, "Excuse me, manong, did you find any money here? I think I dropped it."

This is a test, I thought to myself. God is testing me. Maybe the boxers dropped the money.

No one came. No one was coming. I walked around the parking lot and started looking for more money. Lots of pieces of paper, but no more money. I decided to go home.

And God said, "No, I'm not testing you. I'm rewarding you. It's a gift. Two lucky 100-peso bills that will bring you luck."

But I was already too far away to hear that.

Death Brought Me to Ateneo Monday Night

2005-04-21T01:54:00.000+08:00

I nearly didn't go, since I lived in Makati and I was afraid of EDSA traffic. But I promised myself that I should. It was the decent thing to do. It was the last night of the wake for Dr. Pesigan.

As I turned into the dark campus, I had it in my head that the visiting rush would be over. The wake started Saturday, so I was sure everyone had paid their respects. I would meet the family, share my condolences, maybe even chat about the fact that my father also lived in San Pablo City, the home town of Dr. Pesigan. He was my teacher, I would say. He also taught my two eldest brothers, in Ateneo de San Pablo, a lifetime ago.

I had to go because I felt I owed it to him, as a student, as a fellow English teacher. I was there to root for him, to show support, to cheer for the underdog. I still want to teach again someday, like him, like the others, like I once did.

I parked the car and took a book I was supposed to return to another English teacher, who would probably be at the wake. I headed for the chapel in Gonzaga Hall, in the middle of the campus. I heard music. There must be people.

In the hall outside of the chapel, they put up a board where people could sign and write a dedication to Dr. Pesigan. It was decorated with a collage of pictures. There was a pen laying there, waiting for the next kind soul.

I didn't sign on the board.

During this whole time, I was trying to remember any story I can share about Dr. Pesigan. It was so long ago, I couldn't even remember which class I took under him. It must have been grad school. I did remember him telling me that his family was originally from Taal or Tagaytay, but they were forced to move because of a massive earthquake. They settled in San Pablo City, nearly 200 kilometers away.

I signed my name in the Guest Book, putting in my middle initial. I remembered that Dr. Pesigan's middle name is Mangubat--maybe we were distant relatives.

Inside, I was greeted by a song from someone singing at the front of the chapel. A girl, I couldn't see her. Pitchy (as they say in American Idol), but heartfelt. I craned my neck to see the front, where most of the people were. There was about a hundred people, scattered around, all ages, very few familiar faces.

Where was the coffin?

The familiar lamps used for wakes, tall and golden, were off to the side, near the front. I sat at the back, near the wall, waiting for a chance to go and see Dr. Pesigan. Maybe there will be a break in the singing.

In my head, I wondered who was there from the English Department, but I didn't want to look. Then a young man with glasses crossed in front of me. I called to him, "Vince," and handed him the book. He read the cover--Empire Writes Back. He smiled and left.

I saw a student go to the front and stand by the coffin. I took his lead and marched up front, trying to be inconspicuous. I didn't want to be noticed. The singing went on.

Dr. Pesigan lay in a silver coffin. A clear plastic shield protected him. His portrait by the coffin showed a healthy man. During my days, he was slimmer, thinner. I fumbled with my prayers and threw in--"May he rest in peace, Amen." I touched the coffin, as a form of greeting and respect. Goodbye, Dr. Pesigan.

I walked back to my seat and wondered how soon I should leave to go home.

They started a slide show of Dr. Pesigan's photographs, with a melodramatic soundtrack. In the pictures, I could see the rest of the English Department, some I knew, some I wanted to forget. I took my undergrad in that department, my graduate studies as well, plus one token semester as an English teacher.

I picked up a small booklet lying on the empty chair in front of me. There was a set program for the evening and I had just caught the last part of it. We were about to give the final respects. A line formed so each person can scoop up a handful of flowers and scatter them on his coffin.

I waited for the line to finish before I took my turn, so I got to see who was there. Danton, Danny, Cyan, Rica, Gad, BJ, Ada, Philo teachers, Theo teachers, and Dean Garcia. It was only then that I realized the significance of tonight, of this wake.

This was how a life of an English teacher can end--the chapel at the Ateneo, free of charge, the students with their earnest but amateur singing, and your fellow soldiers in the English Department failing to hold back their sobs.

A life that I saw for myself when I was finishing up my master's degree in 1996.

I was ready to say, "Condolence", but I didn't know whom to offer it to. Dr. Pesigan had family, even grandchildren, but I can only guess who they were.

I lined up and grabbed the leftover flowers. I tossed them gently onto the coffin. I wanted to say, "Good luck, Dr. Pesigan" but it seemed silly. I headed for the exit and passed by a group of faculty I knew, but there were all crying. I saw a poet's face, Danton, scrunched and wet with tears. A chat would have been inappropriate. I caught his eye and looked away quickly, hoping that he took that as a sign of empathy.

Back in the parking lot, I took in the night air. Something was over, something had just begun.

Electronic Letters: October 21, 1997

2005-03-11T17:38:00.000+08:00

During the years 1996 to 1998, I got close to having a dream job. I was Editor-in-Chief of an online magazine. We had high-speed Internet, flexitime, and no dress code. Best of all, I was among a bunch of talented and amazing people.

But for every Internet success, a thousand other endeavors fall by the wayside. And so it was with us. We were much too way ahead of the market. We were having too much fun. We were a cost center.

I'm sharing the email I wrote to my editorial team last October 21, 1997 (12:22:53 PM). It's something I need to bring out into the light of day, to remind me. Just to remind me.

----------

K---, B---, M---,

I'm just going to share my ruminations and feelings on the current situation. The walk from SM Megamall to El Pueblo then to Galleria did some good.

Don't say I didn't warn you...

When I first found out about these changes that they were planning, I was indeed pissed off and indignant. How can they do this to our baby? I felt like we were being cut at the knees after a year-long struggle to get where we are now.

And today we were discussing how we were going to deal with it, how it might not be that bad. But it does feel bad deep inside. Change always is something that's hard to take. I've always wondered how it felt to be threatened by restructuring. I've read so much about it, how it happened to other people, to other companies. Now it's happening to us, to me, to my friends. With such a threat, I admit that it seems so convenient to bail out.

But I have always known that if our group was going to dwindle away one by one, I would be the last one to leave. No, it's not a matter of martyrdom. I feel that since I was one of those who started it, who actually said--"Let's go this way"--I would be the last one to decide not to go where I wanted to go to in the first place. I wanted us to go somewhere, and I do know that it's not easy for everyone.

A lot of people have left, all of them good people and good friends, and I don't blame them for leaving. If I were in their position, I would have probably done the same thing. But I'm not in their position. In part, I do lead the group. But in real terms, my job is to clarify things--what we need to do, what we can do, what we must do, where we are, where we can go, how we do things, what we can hope for, what we must believe in. That is my position in the group.

When I suddenly started daydreaming of starting a media company, I realized that it was not the products that led me into this daydreaming. More than wanting to create and produce websites and other online products, I yearned to keep our environment for work.

From day one, K--- and I knew that what was most important was to protect the group from the hassles and pressures of a corporate environment. We knew how the whims of upper management can wreak havoc on the lives of those below them. We wanted to fight this state of affairs, to keep a place where we could actually live and work.

I know I'm beginning to sound cheesy here, but I have to impress on you all the primary importance of keeping the working environment healthy and creative. If anything, this is what is worth fighting for.

It's more than keeping the team happy, more than letting them be creative, letting them do good work and have fun in the process. It's about living the way we should be living.

I have always believed that work is not a compromise, that we need not sacrifice our dreams and talents just to save up for our caprichos and pay for the daily expenses of eating and commuting. We work because we believe that it's worth doing: it should be that way.

In this past decade, I have seen how people are forced to take jobs from which they derive no pleasure or in which they find no fulfillment. As in anything, if it doesn't nurture you, it kills you. Your body and heart knows if your job is killing you inside. If you're lucky, you will suffer a breakdown. If not, you will just grow numb, stay in the same job and care much less for yourself.

I also believe that people like us who dream of things bigger than us need not throw away our lives, relationships, and ties to society just to pursue a dream. It's hard to just ditch what we have now and go off into some mountain or small town doing what we love. But it's also as hard to face up to our situation--in this infuriating metropolis--and walk right in, taking the practical worries of money, food, and having "a life" all in to our hands.

This is the exciting part.

It's exciting to confront an entire corporation and speak on how things should be done. In this case, we take the responsibility of our roles to its logical path.

It's also exciting to start our own company, because I think this is the ultimate challenge, the ultimate contemporary adventure. Imagine the possibilities.

But what is my point?

My point here is that what has always been most important to me is the soul of our group, the core values and mission. This is what drives us to do what we do. This is what anchors us in the chaos. Products die, markets change, and people come and go. But what remains the same is that motivating force, that raison d'etre, that soul I'm talking about.

What is our soul? Our soul is creativity with a mission to find better ways of living. The i-Site was never just for entertainment, the i-Data was not just for information, and the Chat Events were never just for building communities. We don't write great articles, make cool graphics, and code top-notch html, just for quality. We do all these because we believe that everything springs from our innate and cultivated creativity, and that we can actually make life better for those who visit and participate in the i-Site.

And finding better ways of living started with what we did with the team. We treated each other like friends and family, so we became friends and family. We didn't share food or celebrate birthdays or go out together just because it improves morale; we did all that because we cared for the person and group.

We urged everyone to have initiative and to be creative not because it'll create a better website, but because we believed in the inherent value and ability of the person.

What I've always wanted and tried to do is institutionalize that soul, to make it part of our daily lives while we work, whether in the office or while we telecommute. This is how a company should be run. This is what we must keep for our group.

When we finally get our own company up and running, I dream that it will outlive all of us. I dream that people will love working for that company, that people will wish they were part of that company, that other companies will admire that company, that society will be better off with that company around. I dream that this stays true for our group as we go on.

In all of these, I am thankful to find colleagues like you who value the same things.

The coming days, weeks, months, and years will be hard, but it will be worth it, if we keep things clear. The way things are can be unfair and outright shitty, and some people will tell us this just to shut us up--but as Jodie Foster said in the movie, Contact:

"Funny, I always thought that the world was what we make of it."

We are creatives--creators, each one of us.

The Absolute Hassle of Renewal

2005-02-24T10:46:00.000+08:00

It was supposed to be easy. Everyone said that it would only take 30 minutes. And then you're done.

Two mornings ago, when I tried renewing my NBI Clearance at one of their "satellite offices" in a Makati mall, I had assumed that all I needed to endure was the long line and I would be scot-free, so to speak.

But I got a "hit".

"A hit?" I asked the girl punching the keyboard. I felt like an unpopular website.

"Someone also has your name," she said.

She kept on punching the keyboard and never looked at me. The line was about a hundred people long. She had a long day ahead.

I had no choice. I was avoiding it. I had to go to Manila and visit the famous NBI Carriedo.

"It's easy to find" an office mate said. "Just go down from the LRT station and you're there."

NBI Carriedo is not NBI headquarters, it turns out. It is three whole floors of a building on top of a Greenhills-type market, full of stalls selling beads, step-ins, bags, and pirated VCDs. Welcome to the New Quiapo Shopping Centre (Carriedo Plaza), aka NBI Carriedo.

"Go straight to Step Three and Four," I remember the satellite kiosk girl saying.

I skip Steps One and Two, and headed for Step Three (computer verification), then Four (picture-taking). So far, so good. I skipped Five and gave my forms to the large man sitting behind the Step Six table.

He filed my forms and stamped my receipt.

"Come back at 3:00 PM," he said.

What?

"Come back this afternoon?" I asked. He was already looking away, signaling to someone across the large room. "Can I come back another day?"

He continued to ignore me.

Then he said, "They need you there."

What?

He pointed at me, "You want this guy?" He was talking to someone else.

I was in NBI territory and they want me. I was ready to have a minor panic attack.

"They want me?"

I looked across the room, where the Step Six man was looking. Amidst the crowd, I saw a familiar and smiling face. Thank goodness. An old acquaintance, the NBI husband of a former office mate.

"So, you're the boss here?" I said to my NBI friend. We shook hands.

He said he was just passing by--for some secret NBI stuff, I assume. He asked what my NBI Clearance was for. "Are you going to be a seaman?"

Seaman? There must be joke here somewhere.

"No, I'm applying to New Zealand."

"Really?" he said. "My brother and mother are in New Zealand. They've been there for four years."

After a month of working there, his brother bought a house, then a second-hand Honda Accord. Things he couldn't afford here as an engineer for PLDT. What an amazing coincidence. Proof that people do go and live in New Zealand.

"Do they like it there?"

"They love it there," he stated.

I noticed that he had a gun strapped to his waist.

A Few Seconds Deliberating the Merits of Traditional Chinese Dance

2005-02-09T13:29:00.000+08:00

"Happy New Year," I greeted him as we shook hands in the Lobby Lounge of Shangri-La Makati hotel.

I was a bit early. They (he and his brother) were still meeting with someone else at another table, across the room.

"Don't worry," I reassured him. "No problem."

"Happy New Year," I thought to myself, as I picked a table where I can wait and plug my laptop. I didn't dare try pronouncing "Kung Hei Fat Choi". Apparently, as they said on TV last night, that's in Fookienese. In Mandarin, it's said another way.

I also caught the live broadcast of the celebration in Mandarin Hotel. They showed several dance performances. Recalling all the movies I've seen, and Discovery documentaries, I began thinking that there's a signature move in traditional Chinese dance.

In Indian movies, especially the Hollywood spoof, The Guru, traditional Indian dancing has a lot of torso, shoulder, and arm movements. And swaying.

What was it with traditional Chinese dance?

And there it was: their heads snap to the side, their legs kick backward, their arms askance. They were like happy deer in a Disney movie. (I had explained all these to my wife. "Watch this," I said as I demonstrated.)

Later, as we wrapped our meeting, I asked, "How often are you in the country?"

"Every two months."

"So you're just here for the vacation?"

"Yes," he said, then he explained that in China there are three major holidays, each of them with a one-week holiday, instituted by the government to encourage consumer spending. There's New Year, Labor Day, and the National Day.

"National Day?"

He gave me a sly smile, as if he was about to deliver a punchline. "The day they founded the Communist Party, of course."

His brother comes back from the washroom and I give my good byes. Thank you. Have a safe flight back to Shanghai. And Happy New Year.

Our Time in Eden: Part 2

2005-02-01T13:39:00.000+08:00

Half past eight in the evening. I parked beside the organic market in Greenbelt, where the old fine dining resto, La Primavera, used to be. Past Netopia, past Books For Less, past Max's Fried Chicken. I crossed the street and headed for Dulcinea to meet old friends from college.

"He had leukemia while I was pregnant," said my friend whom I haven't seen since 1998.

They met online, got married twice, here and in the US, and settled there. I was invited to the wedding, but couldn't go. I've since forgotten my excuse.

I met her in the hot summer of 1991. We became classmates for PE 101, part of a group of people who wanted to get this subject out of the way. We were practical people, hoping to put our summer to good use.

She was already part of Heights, the college literary journal. I was a new Lit major (transferred from PolSci) and joining Heights was in my plans. This was before she played the lead in a Shakespeare production.

One time, while waiting for class, she recited Romeo and Juliet for me. But soft what light through yonder window breaks and all that. Line upon line, she handed it to me, without blinking, without pausing. I then realized what that phrase meant--"knowing it by heart".

A year after, I joined Heights as well, and confirmed what I guessed before. She was a literary person, an artist, but she had decided on becoming a doctor. Now, she's practicing family medicine in Missouri.

"We live near Smallville," she joked, referring to the TV series.

It was about them, that night, her and her husband, not about the rest of us, we locals. I had one question, I realize now, that wasn't really answered.

"Did you change?"

She seemed the same. Sounded, looked, smiled, all the same way. We all did, it seemed.

What I didn't dare ask was this--Do you still write poetry?

"You look more mature" I told another friend and she rolled her eyes. "I mean, you look more sophisticated."

"I have short hair now," I joked, in a gesture of self-deprecation, conjuring up the image of my ponytailed youth. I am balding, fatter, and bearded, and miles away from our shared past.

Our Time in Eden: Indulging in Reworked Memories of Friends from College

2005-01-30T02:38:00.000+08:00

The small crowd parted to reveal familiar faces I haven't seen in years.

I was attending a launch for a new comic book title, Jam, from Mango Comics, owned by a good buddy. A couple of writers and an artist were old friends from college. A few of the guests and one very special guest were also from college.

Let me introduce them: M, J, X, K, L, K.

M. An artist, now a comic book artist as well. When we were in college, she gave me an unexpected gift: a watercolor painting of me, on the beach with my dog. I had my ponytail, my favorite shirt, and a dog I never had. The most valuable art for me is the one made by someone I know. I haven't seen her since 1993, when I left college.

J. A poet. I have a photocopy of her first award-winning poem, the one about Rizal--handwritten, direct from her writing journal. She will be happily married this April. I last saw her in 1998, when she was still worried about dating.

X. Another artist, but he now calls himself, "a consultant". We launched a website together back in 1996, without ever meeting until months after. I probably saw him last in 1998 during a editorial meeting for a now-defunct literary journal.

K. A writer, now living her dream as Editor-in-Chief of a music magazine. I still listen to the tape she gave me, a copy of 10,000 Maniac's Our Time in Eden. I last saw her in the launch of Darna, also from Mango Comics.

L. A poet, but it's a big secret. In college, when her poem got published, I made her sign my copy. She wrote: "You're weird." I bump into her once in a while.

K. An artist and poet. A rare combination. Now a comic book publisher. He was best man in my wedding. I don't see him enough.

You know who you are. (Consider that a blessing.)

Midnight Bus: Epilogue and Introduction

2005-01-19T16:57:00.000+08:00

I found the reboot button. This blog looks the same but it is not same.

Years ago, when I began my life after college, I found a new form of therapy, only for a couple of hundred bucks. I would take the Dagupan Bus from Cubao at midnight and head off to Baguio City.

By morning, as stores open, I would be walking on Session Road, finding my way to the Baguio Cathedral to perform my secret Roman Catholic rituals. Afterwards, I hunt for breakfast.

With all the preliminaries done, I would have before me, one entire, beautiful day, all to myself, no pressures, no errands, no familiar faces. Just me and my beloved Baguio.

I would walk all over and around the city.

When I was by myself, it was the Baguio that I was intimate with. A personality that no one else knew, that she hid when I was with people.

What exactly happens?

At that moment you step out onto the sidewalk, Baguio holds your hand and guides you around. She tells you stories with the panorama and music of the city's daily life. She hugs with you with her cool holiday wind, kisses you with her September rain, and pokes you with her mountain sunlight. Without you knowing, it happens.

The world stops for you.

Morning becomes afternoon, and your feet are tired. Deep inside you will be exhilarated. Your mind is clear and you feel you will be ready soon, to go back to the speeding, spinning world.

By evening, I would be booking my trip home, again on the midnight bus. During those days, Mario's was perfect for dinner, fine dining on Session Road. At around eight or nine o'clock, after dinner, as I burp from my mushroom soup, I start saying my good-bye's and thank-you's, and wait it out in the bus station.

Tsunami Have Killed Thousands Over Years

2004-12-28T13:49:00.000+08:00

This devastating "Asian Quake" brings back memories of our own earthquake back here in the Philippines, last July 16, 1990.

I was just starting out in college, it was an afternoon, and we were finishing some posters in the ground floor foyer of Faura Hall. The table started shaking and people were going down the stairs from the upper floors. In a few seconds, everyone was rushing out of the building.

I was left at the table, holding a bottle of Elmer's Glue and sipping a can of Coke. My groupmates were gone.

But it's not finished yet, I said.

There was a giant trophy cabinet on the far wall and all the trophies started jumping off their shelves. Glass was breaking.

Oh, okay, I said to no one in particular.

I picked up my bag and followed the screaming crowd.

I didn't see my Coke can tumble and fall off the table, creating shockwaves inside, too small to be noticed.

93% of Caregivers in Canada are Filipinos

2004-12-08T10:51:00.000+08:00

Years ago, I've had romantic fantasies about being a live-in caregiver in London. I would suffer, of course, as all artists, especially struggling writers, must suffer.

Wiping the bums of some old farting fogey. Forcing them to take their meds. Pushing them around in their wheelchairs. Then hieing off to museums and art galleries and theaters during weekends and holidays. At night, I would have written what will eventually become my London collection. Maybe essays, perhaps poetry.

An artistic caregiver in London surely has better prospects than a brain-dead middle manager in Makati City. This was the fantastic fantasy that my wife and I entertained.

How about an artistic caregiver in Canada? Duped by a recruiter, sold into virtual slavery, abused physically, (maybe sexually, I wonder) and with little hope of escape. Canada, after all, refuses to reconize the rights of caregivers, least of all artistic caregivers. But, as a writer, struggling of course, that will be all material for a potential Booker Prize runner-up. Canada is part of the Commonwealth.

Despite Atwood and Coupland, Canada seems to be a bleaker place to live in. Despite the wilderness, the otherness to America, the Mounties, the American TV productions, the guns, the free education and dental plan.

Lionel Ritchie Sings Hello

2004-12-06T15:26:00.000+08:00

To the mountains and valleys and treetops. To the temples, to the walls. To the zoos and alleys and bakeshops. This is our rallying cry; this is how we pretend to be literary. You and me and this blog.

Yesterday, I caught a fish. The other day, I killed a cockroach. And somewhere in between, the world opened itself up and revealed itself to me, like a dining table.

And last night, Lionel Ritchie sang "Hello".