tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71842892024-03-07T14:58:56.510+08:00redplanetchronicling thoughts at the edge of consciousnessthe martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.comBlogger118125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-28064618848995897012019-12-01T01:38:00.001+08:002019-12-01T01:45:07.638+08:00My shadow's shedding skin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Tool's albums playing on the television with its five-speaker set, while coaxing this sluggish mind to compose again for this blog. This old weary soul has found heavy metal music quite to its liking these past few days, with all the stresses at work and the old people's place. Those strong hypnotic beats, deeply layered rhythms that sounded like they could continue forever, lyrics about transcendence and/or personal change via coming to grips with one's dark side (yes, pretty much like what a Jedi master had to go through), some weird sounds thrown into the soup - all contributing to get one through the long hours. Perhaps not so different to the effect created by Mozart, Chopin, Bach, Beethoven, Handel, Vivaldi, Wagner, etc. when their creations allow the mind to block off the outside world for a while, dive into the depths of one's being, and bring forth a life-sustaining nugget of wisdom.</div>
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This existence is aching once more for some change. Maybe out of fear about what the future might bring, in this age of mindless surrender to new tyrannies. And there's still that brooding thought of one's failure to create a better world for the next generations, or at least of being responsible for the peril that life is now facing on this planet. Perhaps some side-effect also of reaching one's half a century on Gaia. Struggled to sustain one's interest in new things these past few years. Imagined building a small virtual community of solitary individuals across the globe, discussing science fiction novels, Japanese films, music, Nietzsche, space exploration, literature, zen, environmental activism, running. But then the era of short status posts came, and this blog was set aside for some time. Tool's song, <i>Forty six and 2</i>, has this line which served as the title for this blog post. It talks about change by digging through one's shadow - representing all the confusion, delusions, insecurities - and coming through to the other side, consumed with this will to live and grow. So here we are again, back to this old journal, with all the anxieties and ramblings and belly-crawling that we could muster. At a recent birthday celebration for a dear teacher in college, this former colleague once more told me how while volunteering abroad, this blog served as his only link (and kept him grounded) to the old realities here at home. Well, here's hoping that resuming with the blogging will help keep such will and sanity intact.</div>
the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-11117173273500519682016-10-20T18:24:00.001+08:002016-10-20T22:30:55.344+08:00Thursdays<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Thursdays have turned out to be one's much awaited point of the week during the past three months or so. It's that day when one gets to pick up the two teens from school. Both their classes are supposed to end sometime in the afternoon, and they often stay on for a while after that for their club meetings. But the road trip for this part-time dad starts early in the morning. That gives just enough time to pass by the mall, buy the regular <i>pasalubong</i> (a box of donuts), browse through those floor-to-ceiling shelves and the waist-level stacks at one's favorite secondhand bookstore, and have that cup of steaming cappuccino while going through the new reading routine: twenty pages per book per day (the reading list consisting of around two to three books). And then the second phase of that road trip, which takes one to the girls' school a full hour or two before their dismissal. In the school's parking lot, one patiently records details of expenses for the day - an old personal finance and budget management practice revived for this period of self-imposed freelancing. Then another intense bout with the books. Lately, one has also taken on the practice of jotting down full-page notes and reflections on the planner (as there hasn't been much meetings or appointments to schedule these past months since giving up that full-time job).</div>
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The long drive (no matter the state of the traffic), those minutes spent just sipping coffee and eating donuts and looking for new books to buy (as many as the new personal income flow would allow), and the quiet hours in the car taking in lines and whole paragraphs - all tranquil moments in these crazy times. One also gets to talk to the kids, a few exchanges now and then, in the car and at their mother's place. Or simply sharing the dining table with the youngest one, with laptops open - the daughter chatting with her friends, while one composes this blog entry. Perhaps not really far from what Tom Robbins might consider as meditative and potentially satori-producing experiences. That state of being beyond hoping and not hoping, beyond accepting and not accepting.</div>
the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-4338072158646841192016-08-12T23:02:00.000+08:002016-08-13T22:50:59.738+08:00Finding the strength to keep on going<div style="text-align: justify;">
Rain pouring outside. Not sure if it's just the monsoon rains, or a low pressure area that is about to turn into a typhoon in the coming days. Here in the living room, thinking of starting a workshop design that was supposed to have been submitted two weeks ago. A side of being which seems to resist taking on this kind of task now - one that would mean doing a presentation, facilitating a discussion, and talking to a lot of unfamiliar and quite opinionated people later. </div>
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My last job drained away whatever self-confidence that was left in this body. Two years with hardly any affirming moment. No time for reflection. Just that daily grind of relating with people who are either too sure of themselves or who couldn't care less. After all those cheerless days, the soul is reduced into this shabby state that shuns any form of human interaction save with family members and a few friends. Longing to do a Steinbeck with a dog somewhere in the countryside.</div>
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Listening to Billy Joel's three-volume greatest hits album. Playing right now from the television, via a USB stick. Drowning anxieties from a fast-dwindling savings account, an uncertain income flow from current consultancies, and upcoming bills that need to be settled. Resisting the urge to open Facebook and add another distraction. Looked instead for the Wikipedia entry on "New York State of Mind" and learned that it was inspired by Joel's return trip to his home in the Big Apple.</div>
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This monkey-mind keeps on hurling disturbing thoughts about the current situation in the country - of the wanton killings, the fanaticism around the president and his irrational pronouncements, the disregard for life and democratic principles, the rehabilitation of a dead dictator's image. Enough to make one swear to shut out such news and information from hereon, and simply focus on staying alive and "sucking the marrow" out of this existence. But you know you just can't.</div>
the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-71286811221466356442015-06-28T03:36:00.000+08:002015-06-28T03:57:35.050+08:00Saved by a fairy tale<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Was about to leave my favorite secondhand book shop, at peace with the fact that I won't be making any purchase, when my eyes happened to catch this slim volume inserted among those stacks of pocket books. Turned out to be a 1974 Farrar, Straus and Giroux reprinting of Hermann Hesse's <i>Strange News from Another Star</i>, an early collection of eight short stories which initially appeared in 1919 as <i>M</i></span><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">ä</span></i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><i>rchen</i> or <i>Fairy Tales</i>. Not very sure at first if I wanted to buy it. I knew I already have one such collection of Hesse's short works at home, bought from another book sale at the university a few years back. Made a quick scan of Strange News' contents - the titles did not ring any bells. Decided to buy it (along with this graphic book adaptation of Ray Bradbury's <i>The Martian Chronicles</i> - another lucky find, which could be the subject of a separate post here).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Eagerly devoured Hesse's first fairy tale, <i>Augustus</i>, with a rich, but lukewarm cup of my favorite cappuccino. Basically a story that tried to answer the question: what if somebody receives this extraordinary gift of being loved and adored by every other human being on the planet? How would his life turn out? Not really that appealing, according to Hesse, with his main character becoming more callous and indifferent through the years, getting practically everything that he desired as favors willingly given by his hordes of fans and admirers. Existence as one unceasing experience of luxury and pleasure, albeit almost meaningless. Things began to unravel for our Augustus when he failed to win the affection of a young married woman whom he met in one of his travels. Incompetent at handling rejection and frustration, he finally spiraled down into this unfathomable depression.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Until he met again his mysterious godfather who gave him one wish (as he had once bestowed it to Augustus' mother). Augustus' wish proved to be an important turning point in his comfortable but drab existence. Amidst the personal suffering that followed, he learned to bring forth and nurture an important facet of his humanity, one that led to his redemption. Hesse's novels - <i>Steppenwolf</i> and <i>Siddhartha</i> - once similarly saved a young man from this life's dark episodes, bringing some understanding and experience of the numinous into those confusing times. His fairy tale has done the same trick now - pulling this old spirit out from the mire of self-indulgent fear, doubt, hatred, and depression into which it had sunk these past few days.</span></div>
the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-31014380428215709602015-06-21T13:19:00.002+08:002015-06-28T00:21:42.554+08:00Running and the thought train<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Came from one of those weekend runs around the university's academic oval. It was late in the morning, but many joggers and strollers were still doing their thing under the oval's dark green canopy of acacia leaves. Telltale signs of summer's end in the Philippines: grasses, trees, and flowers thriving everywhere, drizzle or heavy rain in the afternoon becoming more regular and extending through the early evening, sometimes with loud and frightening thunder or lightning as prelude. Not much sun this morning, which made running easy and pleasant. Though I still had to walk after a few hundred meters to catch my breath and ease my heart's pounding.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtFZRNZFUjGTuElDBh0_cok5hVTau3SiilpJ885AHpzxT83YU4oW4PFmh23Jr5RSVIPBBiDzN7eI7SewtWPD5b9Tv8cBRDV7jDKYoBXv9skHLa3LVN_uWBRmIpl6xEzohJQIq-3Q/s1600/DSC04858.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtFZRNZFUjGTuElDBh0_cok5hVTau3SiilpJ885AHpzxT83YU4oW4PFmh23Jr5RSVIPBBiDzN7eI7SewtWPD5b9Tv8cBRDV7jDKYoBXv9skHLa3LVN_uWBRmIpl6xEzohJQIq-3Q/s320/DSC04858.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkWOzQckndDk21VsEpFYEOqBAzWd0Qn34egYA93uWjwB2wzWcOEkb8y7U4lMbbcOtCyb-DmHCSZ6aC46x27vtG2SBRYZoliVJIUCCOzYnw_UCatq1RMZUNpF99OFoEE3dZba2h6A/s1600/DSC04855.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkWOzQckndDk21VsEpFYEOqBAzWd0Qn34egYA93uWjwB2wzWcOEkb8y7U4lMbbcOtCyb-DmHCSZ6aC46x27vtG2SBRYZoliVJIUCCOzYnw_UCatq1RMZUNpF99OFoEE3dZba2h6A/s320/DSC04855.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">One thing that caught my attention while doing my laps today was how running takes the mind away from the usual stream of thoughts that flows through consciousness. Like what a former boss used to describe as "going into the balcony" and just observing all these ideas, and notions, and feelings parading "below", with all of their antics and noises. Something like reading a good book or watching this movie, with moments of excitement to know what will come next and a determination to persevere and push on, and moments of simply giving up on the whole business altogether and being just this passive, disinterested (though not inattentive) observer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This latter state often proves to be the more interesting one. Physical exertion mixing with a certain level of detachment. Yet the detachment is not complete - but awareness is here linked by a tenuous umbilical cord to being and existence. And its focus broadens, or attains this new level altogether: not anymore concerned much with what has gone by or what is yet to come, but simply noting and letting go while nurturing insights into such mental materials and processes. Insights too about the body, like how that sharp pain in the ankles or those shaky legs, or that tightness in the guts are so intimately connected to recent thoughts of inadequacy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Reflections and thoughts along these lines are what I'm expecting to read from all those books and materials on zen and running. Like this one title in my personal library that I have yet to open in the coming days. Something to include in my daily To Do lists before the next weekend comes, before these feet carry me again through another meditative and self-reflexive journey around the campus. And enjoy the unrelenting thought train from a distance.</span></div>
the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-78022143427936464302015-06-21T01:48:00.000+08:002015-06-21T12:09:43.818+08:00Nirvana day<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifKPdE7FFMW6W20C4YCEwx1vQ7JSimwr1F8I547KGlW5s6Fc6uFa-O5zOIyFXwW9tjbwBgBUSM8Y52hdrfAEjz6XoFh5Q_dDKlZAJ78Ji2XhdQanm9d0tBKEEBVoFKgDiN5lY4-A/s1600/Montage_of_Heck_poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifKPdE7FFMW6W20C4YCEwx1vQ7JSimwr1F8I547KGlW5s6Fc6uFa-O5zOIyFXwW9tjbwBgBUSM8Y52hdrfAEjz6XoFh5Q_dDKlZAJ78Ji2XhdQanm9d0tBKEEBVoFKgDiN5lY4-A/s320/Montage_of_Heck_poster.jpg" width="215" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Today is Nirvana Day.
Spent most of the morning at home, on a gray couch, viewing Brett Morgen's "Cobain: Montage of
Heck". Finished downloading it a few days ago. But
only had time to watch the whole thing today. Loved the film's dark moments
- Cobain's teenage angst about his parents' divorce and that embarrassing sexual
misadventure, those first rapturous forays into the rock band culture, his heroin
addiction, his suspicions about his wife's infidelity - and how all these blended
well with snippets of the cute, and the ordinary, and the happy. Those
crazy doodles and jottings from Cobain's mangled notebooks gave a rare peek to the
the guy's tortured mental life, as well as to his creative (albeit chaotic)
genius. Horrific images of mutilated dolls, drawings of monstrous figures and gory
scenes, those angry words and lines that have been violently covered with cross
hatches, blasphemous and irreverent statements, are mixed in with the lyrics of
famous Nirvana songs, old concert videos, audio recordings, and animations.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">A few more things have to be
said, noted about those animated sequences. Never did like these kind of materials in the
few movies that I've seen recently (such as in one installment of the
film adaptation of this literary series about some teenage wizards and
witches). But this time, the animated portions of Montage of Heck really
did a good job filling in for those undocumented episodes in the grunge hero's
brief existence on the planet. And artistically at that, with this one
meditative, almost spiritual scene of a rainy night in the forest, accompanied by
Cobain's restless guitar playing - a rain drop from the forest's canopy crushing
what looked like a flower growing at the foot of this tree, the purple petals turning to black.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Then watched Nirvana's
unplugged New York session in the evening. It took me just a few hours to
download a fairly decent version through Torrent. Been listening to the
album for decades now. The magic has not faded a bit. The video
in fact heightens the whole experience even more. You've seen videos of those wild
performances, with the band members destroying their instruments and doing all
these crazy stunts on stage, and then you are given this relaxed scene of
Cobain and band mates amidst flowers and candles - Cobain's soul-baring and
gut-wrenching singing providing this excruciating contrast. And you find
yourself transported to a different plane. One of those very rare
occasions when a rock performance is able to effect an enigmatic movement in one's inner experience. My own favorite tracks are Jesus Doesn't
Want Me for a Sunbeam, Lake of Fire, All Apologies, and Where Did You Sleep
Last Night. Each of which could probably inspire and provide enough materials for a full
blog entry here in Red Planet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">So what's next after
today? Well, perhaps it's a Grunge Month. I've already downloaded
several iconic albums from the era. Some creative energy starting to flow
back through these old brain cells, made stagnant by the daily grind at the
office and this most recent bout of depression and insecurities. Mind, bathed
in loud and sludgy music, urging the body to rock on.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">(Image courtesy of Wikipedia) </span></div>
the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-14193630045143672792012-09-29T10:47:00.000+08:002015-06-21T01:53:41.554+08:00Back to blogging<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Inspired by Jessica Zafra's strategy in dealing with procastination at work, started drafting and revising again these blog posts in redplanet. As Ms. Zafra has noted, there is no single path to greatness. Realized that blogging could be as productive an endeavor as writing impressive concept notes, project proposals, and work plans. Definitely more productive than just clicking all those "like" buttons, sharing links from other bloggers, and composing terse status updates in an attempt to capture one's ever flowing state of mind. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Reviewed all our hundred and plus posts, and rewrote most of the lines to fit this new justified alignment (many thanks once more to obsessive-compulsiveness). Reduced the number of tags to streamline the labels' sidebar. Adjusted the pictures' sizes for that more seamless text wrap (and bigger images for more recent posts). Removed some obscure words and phrases (which should be a continuing project in the coming weeks). Changed the entire layout as well, to use Blogspot's new templates (loved that magazine format). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Guess the only decision point remaining now is whether to allow these advertisements and make some money out of the activity. Or just keep the whole blog ad-free and maintain a modicum of privacy, albeit with a little tweak on the content to make it more relevant to the community. Produce some public value so to speak. Be a real citizen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In any event, we're finally back to blogging folks.</span></div>
the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-65343141411892019192012-09-21T13:08:00.001+08:002012-09-22T13:25:36.347+08:00Red dust of illusion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdxygZonukTQJxxZeCEQhuQJTzijbg_qUnn0GPqmrScO9SmjFMtvB5PxZGFnC2SW5nhG1zcRaMbwTnPuXfZF1TO4H8FvePJvX08hKZ0wzPPTu5ITrA0r5veTGr4pecXmKL_UwE-Q/s1600/DSC04088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdxygZonukTQJxxZeCEQhuQJTzijbg_qUnn0GPqmrScO9SmjFMtvB5PxZGFnC2SW5nhG1zcRaMbwTnPuXfZF1TO4H8FvePJvX08hKZ0wzPPTu5ITrA0r5veTGr4pecXmKL_UwE-Q/s320/DSC04088.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Ma Jian's <i>Red Dust A Path Through China</i> brought back all those painful and cruel memories of being slapped hard on the cheeks. Every sensation has vanished save for this loud and piercing ringing in one's ears. And with this sweet numbness on your face came a growing awareness of one's mortality. Pain as a precursor to that eternal sleep.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">From his own sordid existence in Beijing during the early 1980s - with a looming divorce, his girlfriend's infidelity, a failing custody battle for his daughter, and a prison term for nurturing a critical mindset - Red Dust went on to chronicle Ma Jian's pilgrimage through the country's most diverse and dangerous regions. The book thus turns into a bristling record of his encounters with interesting landscapes and people along the way. These included the dubious characters who were out to get his camera, or turn him over to those pesky Red Guards (for deserting his factory collective in the capital). That whole episode when Ma Jian had to pretend to be one of the robbers, get both of them tipsy, and then bash their heads with beer bottles seemed like scenes straight from pinoy action movies. Also unforgettable were those crazy sojourns through the desert - circling a misty lake, visiting cliff dwellers, etc. - with no provisions, just the faint hope of finding another lost soul in that barren wilderness.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Surreal moments of such serene and measured intensity dot Red Dust's pages. Consider for example that chance meeting with what turned out later to be a gold prospector (yup, a rugged individualist type, much like those from a Kerouac novel, right at the heart of communist China) slumped under a rock outcropping near a dried riverbed. Ma Jian was trying to find his way then to this enigmatic Buddhist site (with its thousand Buddha sculptures) nestled in the middle of nowhere - one person in search of material wealth; the other after a spiritual rebirth. At one point, a tingling fear of being mistaken for another prospector, and thus a possible competitor in the business, crossed Ma Jian's mind. So, the two parted ways with not much of a word being exchanged between them. Just this lingering tension. Quite like those uncomfortable silences that one usually finds in a Quentin Tarantino or Robert Rodriguez movie.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Lessons from Ma Jian's Red Dust: So, you want to write another travel book that's destined to be a classic? You should be ready to hit that road with wild abandon - no destination in mind, but simply the excitement of life wasting away in that movement from one point to another. And with really little purpose, but just to record what you see, hear, taste, feel, think, and do. Time to let go of all efforts to gain control, establish order, or get at the heart of things - all illusory. Time to embrace dark chaos and the wild unknown, find comfort and meaning in them. And if you're really lucky, perhaps kill a buddha or two. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">One of these days ...</span></div>
the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-66881606448002808722012-04-24T15:56:00.001+08:002015-07-26T19:31:44.629+08:00Not just another summer<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">My current reading stack of around six books, includes this old copy (with yellowing pages) of Charlotte Joko Beck's <i>Everyday Zen</i>, whose all-white cover reminded me of The Beatles' White album. And like its ethereal musical counterpart, Beck's writings has put me in this melancholic, out-of-this world mood. Her lessons about dissolving every notion of self that arises out of one's thinking, and letting go of all the emotional attachments and desire for action that comes with each thought, have become some sort of mantras these past few days. And yes, that good old Zen practice and thinking (or no-thinking) is suddenly back! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Should be getting drunk now and throwing tantrums at existence with all the recent inexplicable developments at work. This freelancing thing is driving the mind crazy with all its demands for producing outputs and meeting those deadlines, while holding back stringently on the returns. Not earning anything, not being able to shell out a single cent for that vacation, not being able to get a cab for your daughter (forcing her instead to take the crowded bus from the airport), feeling quite useless and insubstantial - why the thought that such things must have happened before? Thinking again of disappearing from the scene (not "no-self", says Beck).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Wondering lately how long this whole episode will last. Tried imagining the point when, as with those mysterious pictures, one would be glancing back at this period and all the emotions it spawned, as aspects of the past you simply had to go through. Really hard at this point. It's going to be a long, hot, and dry summer- the sweat and headaches not helping at all to keep this mind calm and still as you wish it to be. And so, all the lonely days and humid nights are just spent trying to contain this restlessness inside.</span></div>
the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-44351554822557443752012-04-04T11:38:00.048+08:002012-09-21T13:48:07.238+08:00New identities<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqazXJ9PJU7K2-tfmL5rDkyl_YrCOPonKlmcPD7iOOsHxT2VDBB8_OuukHE2X76Pq-Y84Qpa9VvwJwMt_3enHjEKkGtsBLzeeKY8KWe09EKTmvEKlTUaRLGma0QnqSNoE8EvrVJQ/s1600/motorcycle+lane.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727385689040911106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqazXJ9PJU7K2-tfmL5rDkyl_YrCOPonKlmcPD7iOOsHxT2VDBB8_OuukHE2X76Pq-Y84Qpa9VvwJwMt_3enHjEKkGtsBLzeeKY8KWe09EKTmvEKlTUaRLGma0QnqSNoE8EvrVJQ/s400/motorcycle+lane.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">With cash dwindling rapidly these past few days (a common scenario with this freelancing thing) taking a taxi is now simply out of my list of possible transportation modes. Especially since they've increased (or are planning to raise) again the local cab's flag down rate. So, I took this jeepney here in Manila one weekend, going to the malls. At this major intersection along the highway, my ride had trouble moving on despite the fact that the traffic lights have all turned green. After a few minutes, several meters and vehicles towards the front of the line, we got a glimpse of what was causing the whole traffic jam: a big group of motorcycle riders have all gathered around another jeepney, its driver trying hard to smile and defuse the tension while explaining his case to the obviously irritated crowd around him.<br /><br />It seemed that the jeepney driver had made some zigzagging moves going in and out of this newly-established motorcycle lane, and had antagonized several motorcycle riders in the process. It didn't look like the motorbike riders were all traveling in this big group. I think it was simply a case of people spontaneously banding together to face that common foe and assert their rights. With each individual probably thinking: what if I was the one sideswiped by that crazy jeepney driver from hell? Time to take a stand and discipline these <span style="font-style: italic;">pasaways</span> - unruly people in society who love to be whipped into line. Quite a scenario indeed, considering that jeepney drivers here in the Philippines have often been dubbed as the kings of the road. Well, this time around, it didn't look that way at all. Jeepney drivers could probably bully private vehicle owners or even bus drivers. But with these motorbike riders, it's like taking on a hornet's nest.<br /><br />This got me into thinking: really interesting how the state's actions can create identities by merely recognizing people's entitlements and rights. Give them something to fight for, not just demand for. The new identities of course come with the assertion and the demanding, and the link between policy and identity-creation is not automatic. Some laws have come and gone into oblivion without making a dent in society's identity structure. People need to be aware, and to find their voice before they gain such new identities as right-bearers. From that point on, there has to be another cycle of consciousness-raising and taking some concrete actions before they feel the power within themselves. With prices of fossil fuels continuing to rise, motorbikes are fast becoming an economical and efficient mode of transportation along major roads and thoroughfares in Manila and other urban centers within the developing world.<br /><br />And motorcycle riders a new force to reckon with.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 85%;">(many thanks to the MMDA website for the picture)</span></span></div>
the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-45926935222373479542010-01-28T14:40:00.056+08:002012-04-04T16:51:06.935+08:00Old toys<div style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">A happy memory from childhood in the 70s was that of our mother being a part-time sales agent for those Tupperware products. I can still recall the weekend Tupperware parties at our old place that gathered neighbors and my mother's colleagues from the hospital. Had good times looking at all those colorful catalogs of plastic home products, and matching such images with the few samples that mother gets to show to her prospective clients and buyers. But the really fun part of this whole Tupperware selling business, and the one thing that drew the interest of both my brother and me, was the fact that if mother got to sell a certain number of items and earned the required points, she could get us these wonderful toys for free.<br /><br />And that's how we got this set of building blocks which were not really blocks but square tiles, around 1 inch x 1 inch, that came in red and blue colors. A good part of the whole set consisted of white rectangular blocks of connectors with grooves that let you slide in the tiles' edges. The set also included these black round pieces, often used as wheels, but which could also serve as interesting accessories like headlights, lifebuoys tied to the side of ships, round windows, and just about anything else that young playful minds could imagine. These wheels came with yellow connectors that went through the center. So, that's all there was to it really. Not as complicated as your average Lego set nowadays. But with just a box of this Tupperware Build-O-Fun, you can already build a train, a car, a ship, a spacecraft, and an airplane.<br /><br />My brother and I had some really good times building all these things, copying the pictures at first, then moving on to experiment with our very own designs. And this was how one day I created my "inter-dimensional telescope", which, as its name indicated, allowed one to take a close look into other realities and universes. An activity that took up much of my playing time and imagination during the next few days. Pieced together this tube-like object from the Build-O-Fun's red and blue tiles -- a tile for each of the four sides, and about 5 to 6 tiles long. Then I filled it with all sorts of small objects, including a green plastic model of a World War II machine gunner, shredded pictures from a landscape magazine, strands of differently colored threads from my mother's sewing kit, marbles, small playing cards (called "tex"), rubber bands, tiny pieces of broken toys, star apple seeds, pieces from my rock collection.<br /><br />Kept the tile at the other end of the tube slightly unaligned, which left a small slit for one to peer through. And that's how I was able to get a good glimpse of the alternate realities that those cartoon series on TV were talking about. Just had to shake the tube to see a different picture each time -- from the small green arm perched on a rock inside a cave, or a scene from that Tarzan or Zorro tex seen through the distorting lens of a marble-like universe, to the weird multicolor clouds of a gaseous world, and black alien pods in an underwater tunnel. Most of the other kids in our neighborhood will take a quick peek through the slit and either confirm what I saw with this "I need to get mother to buy me the same vitamins he's taking" look on their faces, or persuade me afterward to build a plane or a bus with our Build-O-Fun set. That's when I realized that a toy can be also a personal thing for kids.<br /><br />But if my brother and I had some experiences back then that could be responsible for any iota of creativity or inventiveness that we have now, these should include the Build-O-Fun. Guess one couldn't find this toy anymore in the market. My recent casual search online brought me to this advertisement for a vintage 1966 set (with the box "a bit tattered" but otherwise in excellent condition). Comes to around 10 bucks. But I need to pay another 8 bucks for the shipping costs from Melbourne. I wonder if my daughters will enjoy it.<br /><br /></div>the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-84246739655432179172010-01-22T19:03:00.005+08:002012-04-04T16:48:29.246+08:00Homesickness<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Another day about to end. In a hotel room somewhere in cloudy Jakarta. Mind burdened with thoughts of what the universe had to go through to bring about this existence. Pulling together matter's building blocks out of pure energy. Out of nothingness and chaos. And now a mind that doubts the reality of that existence. Or perhaps the meaning behind it. Been quite a while since the last of these existential anxiety attacks. Where was it? In another foreign country? No, it was back home. In an old room infested by dog ticks. Hundreds of them, crawling on the wall. And under the mat, the thin mattress, the sheets, the pillow. Surrounded by shelves overflowing with books. Music piercing the thick silence of the night. Blocking lonely thoughts for a few seconds at a time. A small electric fan nearby to cool the body and soothe the bites -- the hardening, poisoned layers of skin -- from those pesky little creatures. Making life bearable. Wondering now if everything is just a conjured reality. Like John Irving's story about Thomas Mann's daughter and her dog who plays the piano with its nose. Which is more real -- that drab empty tale of suffering, or this fantastic experience of restlessness that now unfolds in such an elegant room? With its centrally monitored and controlled air conditioning system and cable television. Clean, comfortable bed. Wonderful bathroom. What brought this body to such a place? What decisions and actions, what circumstances and coincidences have led to this crazy turn of fate? Maybe it has to do with aging -- the onset of a mid-life crisis or something. Or, it's probably just fatigue and lack of sleep. Dinner? This pain behind the neck and shoulders. That piece of information from Irving, about Mann's descendant teaching political science at Dalhousie University where a consultant from another project -- another life -- also worked. A connection that really doesn't make sense. Except for those flimsy meanings that the mind tries to create. Much like a universe that conjures energy and matter.</span><br style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br /></div>the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-58887204220872566132009-10-19T01:14:00.083+08:002012-09-21T10:03:28.963+08:00The Age of Stupid<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4ZFhaVygyqF3BJ5shY9EYuAibDFNL95ffeqhPn3QzaSgt-hvw05IEsX5xlNHQlAtF-FfBDNCoRw6yJZfIID1QulFKOkKq7tb2cPfnXLqr7cIdMk12E8I6mpCCLcDX6Ey-0CVEg/s1600-h/DSC02514.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393993806801264482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4ZFhaVygyqF3BJ5shY9EYuAibDFNL95ffeqhPn3QzaSgt-hvw05IEsX5xlNHQlAtF-FfBDNCoRw6yJZfIID1QulFKOkKq7tb2cPfnXLqr7cIdMk12E8I6mpCCLcDX6Ey-0CVEg/s400/DSC02514.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">It was a film about climate change written and directed by Franny Armstrong. Watched the Manila premiere recently, organized by Greenpeace, Oxfam GB, Christian Aid, the World Wildlife Fund and other groups. Found out from the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Age_of_Stupid">Wikipedia</a> that Franny Armstrong also directed the film <span style="font-style: italic;">McLibel</span> in 1997 about that famous court case which pitted these two London Greenpeace (not connected with the more popular Greenpeace International) activists against corporate giant McDonald's. McDonald's, the corporation, sued the activists for passing around pamphlets which claimed, among other things, that the fast food company is responsible for starving people in the Third World, destroying tropical rainforests, selling all these unhealthy and addictive food, even torturing and murdering animals.</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br /><br />But I’m digressing. Back to <span style="font-style: italic;">The Age of Stupid</span>. The movie features actor Pete Postlethwaite (I<span style="font-style: italic;">n the Name of the Father</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Usual Suspects</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Shipping News</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Constant Gardener</span>) as the lone Archivist – one of the remaining homo sapiens in the post-2050 Earth devastated by a runaway global warming. The Archivist stays in a tower-like, multi-storey structure that stands somewhere in the middle of the Arctic Ocean. This futuristic building houses preserved plants and animals in formalin-filled containers, and a whole floor of these computer servers that store all the accumulated knowledge of human civilization. From these electronic files, the Archivist collates and composes recorded messages that he then beams to space for anybody (read: aliens) who may be listening.</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br /><br />The real meat of the movie though are the separate documentary stories that look at climate change issues from the eyes of people in different circumstances around the world: the Indian executive who is setting up the first cheap airline company in the country; the green activist in the UK who faces tough opposition to his proposal of building wind farms in the countryside; the poor African woman who dreams of becoming an excellent medical doctor and of enjoying the good life in the First World; the two Iraqi kids who are trying to deal with the war’s impact on their young lives; the bike-riding geologist who used to work for Shell’s oil exploration business and who had some philosophical insights after losing everything to Hurricane Katrina. By linking and putting such narratives side by side, Armstrong has created a powerful picture of this intricate web of causes and effects that constituted climate change issues and the contradictions that defined efforts to navigate such complexity.</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br /><br />Like that conflict between seeing the film and babbling all night about how powerfully it conveyed the urgency of acting to address climate change, versus actually doing something. Coming out of the movie house, thought about how many of those who watched the film that night for instance would seriously consider cutting back on their plane rides in the coming days. Perhaps the planet would be extremely lucky if there were just one or two jet setters in that crowd who would volunteer to do so. But the very sad fact is that once we’ve come to know the impact of our actions, we seem to always find some clever ways to justify our environmentally destructive lifestyles. Drawing that line between what is stupid behavior and what is not may not be enough to push us out of such complacent attitude to global warming. I would still love to wear that shirt though (if only I could get one: attention Greenpeace).<br /></span></div>
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the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-27129013695336751262009-10-11T09:59:00.020+08:002012-04-04T16:41:38.218+08:00Social networking<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My relatively short, inconsequential social networking stint ended officially when I deactivated my Facebook account the other day. Took me about a year to convince myself of starting one. Spent just a few seconds deciding to close it down. Good friends who have created their FB profiles and sites, including colleagues at the office who have all jumped into the social networking bandwagon, made their pitch about its fun features. A blogger these past few years, and quite a slow learner of new things, I became a sceptic and hold out. Just couldn’t imagine that I’ll have time left for social networking with all the emails accumulating in my inbox and the tasks of maintaining my three blogs.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Then one day, suddenly found myself with an FB account. Took me a few days though to build enough confidence and post something in my status. As with my ten or so e-groups, I became a lurker for a while. Buoyed by the interest in other social networking sites that co-workers were trying out, I soon changed my profile picture from one wherein I had my back to the camera to that which had my face in full view. After some time, I was already posting messages, status updates, notes, videos, pictures, and comments on an almost daily basis. Even chatted with friends very early in the morning.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So, what made me give it all up? First, found out that I really didn’t have the constitution for small talk: conversing on just about anything under the sun, what young Pinoys now call <span style="font-style: italic;">chika</span>. I’m just too lousy in keeping up a conversation, even online. Second, I’m just too wordy for FB’s main mode of exchange which is something like a cross of the online discussion board and the instant messaging services. Doing a Hemingway is simply well beyond my writing style with its winding thoughts and convoluted syntax. Finally, realized that there’s little space for reflection in these social networking sites. Everybody’s just busy building their virtual farms, getting their Chinese or Japanese names, peeping into each other’s lives, watching those inspirational or funny videos, advertising their latest fads and causes, or fishing for a partner.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Back to the batcave.</span><br /><br /></div>the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-3903053168588311182009-10-07T17:00:00.027+08:002012-04-10T17:11:08.431+08:00A moon's dark side<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilhbCBCf1E9EaMu69mQLeng6MqLvj-xfV7KwyklqHT5VgnSxjexG1WXn-JNsL3L2cTpATKX05hKOAGvlU3HG2HUxPgjdPeeyBDw4fQDhDypErJB8iMgC714E_jpS0mh0mrE9TCUw/s1600-h/iapetus2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 309px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilhbCBCf1E9EaMu69mQLeng6MqLvj-xfV7KwyklqHT5VgnSxjexG1WXn-JNsL3L2cTpATKX05hKOAGvlU3HG2HUxPgjdPeeyBDw4fQDhDypErJB8iMgC714E_jpS0mh0mrE9TCUw/s320/iapetus2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389785916765081970" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Now that I’ve really thought about it, the only opening line from a movie that I can recall with some certainty is that of the 1990s flick <span style="font-style: italic;">Flatliners</span>. Had to spend several minutes recalling the movie’s title. And had to search Google for the name of that actor who spoke the said line. Only two things kept flashing in my mind: the face and the fact that the guy was in a recent television series called <span style="font-style: italic;">24</span>. Couldn’t remember that Joel Schumacher actually directed the movie about a group of medical students who experimented on experiencing clinical death and being resuscitated back to life. It was the opening line that struck a chord and stayed in my mind all these years like soot on the wall: “Today is a good day to die”. It was fearlessly depressive.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *<br /></div> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Asking her why their organization decided to put up a regional office in Bangkok even though their regional development strategy didn’t really put Thailand in the priority list, a friend just shrugged. “It’s all about leadership in the region. For instance, what has Manila said about the situation in Burma?” I really didn’t know how to answer that. Said I’m not even sure if the Philippines now has proper trading relations with Myanmar (as Burma is called today). But my acquaintance’s comments made their mark. At the airport, I bought myself a copy of this slim volume entitled <span style="font-style: italic;">Finding George Orwell in Burma</span>. By a British author under the pseudonym Emma Larkin. I’m now in page 130, on Orwell’s essay <span style="font-style: italic;">Literature and Totalitarianism</span>. Orwell: “The imagination, like certain wild animals, will not breed in captivity.”</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *<br /></div> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">An afternoon in Manila after a devastating typhoon in the early 21st century: like being sucked into limbo where time seems to be at a standstill. Forcing one’s self to work has turned from tolerably bad to excruciatingly worse. Emotional weather report (with special credits to Jessica Zafra): flatline, with possibilities of dipping into another record low. Should take Nietzsche’s ideas seriously and try to look into the gastronomical reasons for such depressive states. Does it have something to do with the brown rice? Or perhaps the canned milkfish? Was too much sugar the culprit? Surprised at one’s impulsiveness, but felt liberated because of it. Looking forward to a really good run and sweating off all these psychological and spiritual clutter.<br /><br /><br />The image above is from this <a href="http://www.solarviews.com/eng/iapetus.htm">site</a>.<br /><br /></span> </div>the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-41108026744389332652009-09-26T17:57:00.055+08:002012-04-22T21:37:11.315+08:00Protozoan at the airport<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs83bDIGXvdtce4klvrobaUKnA-l4BByqS7dusxko_jiAAybH1EQk8xahA13PtnLlBKu84YFCzOkROpIkrCnCOwPbVoJiBfgz5ws4fXxhFT-Vl5iujvrG_ezOKGjGFFOcuTeCjkg/s1600-h/610px-Paramecium.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385751602240076434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs83bDIGXvdtce4klvrobaUKnA-l4BByqS7dusxko_jiAAybH1EQk8xahA13PtnLlBKu84YFCzOkROpIkrCnCOwPbVoJiBfgz5ws4fXxhFT-Vl5iujvrG_ezOKGjGFFOcuTeCjkg/s320/610px-Paramecium.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 314px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">It happened again! Have this pesky thing that never fails to cause some unfortunate incidents with immigration officials at airports. In the Pinas, old people would have inquired if I had that <span style="font-style: italic;">balat</span> hidden somewhere. The term actually refers to a birthmark that is supposed to make one a sort of magnet to all the unluckiness and negativity in the world. Used to think that it probably had something to do with my appearance. Either I looked like a member of some local terrorist cell, or a plain bloke from the rural areas who had been duped by illegal job recruiters into leaving the country and taking his chances in some god-forsaken place.<br /><br />Guess it's more of the latter. But now I'm quite certain that it has something to do also with the intelligence level of some immigration officials. Like this amazing guy at the immigration counter of the old international airport in Manila who had an IQ level equal to that of a paramecium. When I stepped in front of the counter and handed him my passport and boarding pass, the first thing he asked was whether I'm traveling with this other guy who came before me in the line. Said I wasn't. Discovered later that there was this group of blokes who were all headed for South Africa through Bangkok. And this pea-brained Filipino immigration official was starting to get uneasy with all that data even before I reached his cubicle.<br /><br />Upon seeing my passport and thus noting that it had a South African visa stamped on it as well, he quickly instructed me to proceed to the immigration office together with this group that he and his fellow immigration officials at the other counters quickly suspected of trying to leave the country illegally. Quite in keeping with his limited single-celled thinking process, he didn't even bother to check the date on my old visa. Had he done so, he would have found out that I had been to South Africa almost three months ago and that the visa was expired for more than a month. He didn't ask me for any identification paper, nor inquired about my real destination or my purpose in traveling to Bangkok. Had he done so, I would have shown him my university ID and travel pack that had the addresses of the office in Bangkok where I'm attending a meeting the following day and the hotel where I will be staying for the night.<br /><br />But another nasty thing about these life forms masquerading as intelligent human beings is that they behave rudely most of the time. Much like real protozoans gobbling up other small cells. Asking him why I had to wait and go through the interview with their supervisor, this government official turned, pointed an accusatory finger at me, and nonchalantly announced to the world that I was a liar. After what felt like an eternity at the supervisor's office, everything was finally sorted out and I got the stamp on my passport. Doing my breathing exercises later at the boarding gate, thought about why the Philippine government is wasting our money to pay unthinking scum-dwellers.<br /><br />(Image above courtesy of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Paramecium.jpg">Wikipedia</a>)<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span></div>the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-8221374798675870502009-09-25T17:50:00.024+08:002012-09-21T14:24:44.237+08:00A dialogue at 22,000 feet<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Woman: Perhaps it’s not really jealousy. Maybe it’s just being a bit sad because your partner suddenly becomes interested or shares some time with another person. And besides, there’s still this desire to share the partner with other people, with the world. – Man: I’m afraid it’s still jealousy. The disgruntled philosopher once called it the “lust for possessions”. It’s just the other side of what people usually call love. Though in that case you’re describing, it’s lust by a weaker nature. Somebody who agreed to give up the power over the loved one, power that should have been exerted towards subjugation and exclusion of others in the equation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Woman: Are you saying that love is just a constellation of all these emotions like lust, greed, possessiveness, domination? Is that all there is to it? And no alternatives? – Man: You see, our disgruntled philosopher considered the common folk’s version of love, particularly sexual love, as essentially an exercise of power over other people. Love is something that paradoxically involved both benefiting or hurting the object of one’s power. And, this has been the dilemma for such a glorified notion of love – that you hurt those you care about the most, while showering them with benevolence. The alternative is going beyond this love and wanting a higher ideal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Woman: A higher ideal? – Man: The disgruntled philosopher often calls it “friendship”. Woman: Some kind of open relationship? – Man: Perhaps not really in the sense of allowing oneself to be swayed here and there by the prospects for new conquests. But something based more on a willful and calm acceptance of people's individuality. As with Napoleon’s explanations for his infidelities: “I have the right to answer all accusations against me with an eternal ‘That’s me’. I am apart from all the world and accept conditions from nobody. I demand subjection even to my fancies, and people should find it quite natural when I yield to this or that distraction.”</span><br />
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the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-6033789715807576712009-09-22T08:07:00.017+08:002009-10-11T15:19:51.084+08:00A book, a miracle, and fate<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwhH2s45miHrmNYpqna00xcH00mE4BhlNzZ0mPZv5AOCuFqGKlDQC0oSHf5yuOIE1Ys4picTMx5026_RxxcF0a4QHjKI29IeVk5JEcnGk6BtVtephqIhrr9T1qJPt_l1bpoL1n7w/s1600-h/DSC02506.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwhH2s45miHrmNYpqna00xcH00mE4BhlNzZ0mPZv5AOCuFqGKlDQC0oSHf5yuOIE1Ys4picTMx5026_RxxcF0a4QHjKI29IeVk5JEcnGk6BtVtephqIhrr9T1qJPt_l1bpoL1n7w/s320/DSC02506.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384080337748097298" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><br />Been reading <span style="font-style: italic;">The Milagro Beanfield</span> War by John Nichols these past weeks. Read it once before. Or, more accurately, started reading it and stopped somewhere in the middle. A few characters’ names still sounded familiar, like those of Joe Mondragon, Amarante Cordova, and Ruby Archuleta. Though quite distant by now. This was the only trilogy that I read from the third volume down to the first. And not because I still haven’t bought the other books in the series. Already had the complete set of pocket-sized editions from my favorite secondhand bookshop before I began poring over <span style="font-style: italic;">The Nirvana Blues</span>. And for no apparent reason. It’s just that intuitive side telling me that I should start there, at the end of this hilarious tale about common folks struggling against the rich and powerful.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Couldn’t recall anything now from both <span style="font-style: italic;">The Nirvana Blues</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">The Magic Journey</span> except that there were enough materials there to keep me going until the middle of the first book. The <span style="font-style: italic;">Milagro Beanfield War</span> shared the same propensity for wild story-telling. The main plot started with Joe Mondragon’s revolutionary act of illegally tapping into the old Indian Creek and diverting it to his puny bean field in the small town of Milagro. But sprinkled along this main storyline are quite a load of interesting small town tales that could make up several episodes in a television series. There’s this mini-tale on the insane Cleofes Apodaca who drowned in the pit he kept digging to free his lost dog that he believed was trapped somewhere under the earth. There’s the story of old Amarante Cordova who for several years kept on calling his children for those final family gatherings before his supposed demise, but who just wouldn’t die.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Then there was the young Herbie Goldfarb, draft-evader and community development volunteer, and his crazy misadventures in that tension-filled season in Milagro. Couldn’t help recalling my own undergraduate fieldwork among poor rural folks here in Pinas. Those nights of finding our way through banana fields, soaking wet from the rain, dead drunk from all those shots of <span style="font-style: italic;">lambanog </span>that the local farmers kept on offering to us. Got this new Owl Book edition of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Milagro Beanfield War</span>, printed in 2000. Was in my room one day at my parents’ house. Saw my old copy of the book, with the black cover and the smiling skeleton figure of a Mexican revolutionary in front. Picked it up and thought of starting again with John Nichols’ trilogy. This time, with the first volume in the series. Later, found the Owl Book edition with the author’s afterword written in 1993.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It was only during my third visit to the bookshop that I finally thought of buying my new copy of the first book in the New Mexico trilogy. Almost halfway through the book now. Been planning to go through that John Nichols autobiography after this, before I go through the next titles in the trilogy. It’s like being addicted to watching this television series called <span style="font-style: italic;">Northern Exposure</span> back in the 90s (but that should be the topic for another blog entry). Now I’m finally starting to write some blog entries about the whole experience of reading the trilogy. And something at the back of this head tells me it’s destiny at work all over again.<br /><br />(Re-posted from <a href="http://lectiograph.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Lectiograph</span></a>)<br /></span><br /></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span>the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-66692394741852229242009-07-12T10:17:00.013+08:002012-04-04T21:47:48.545+08:00Excerpt from zazen journal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1uOsqludjkcDHpLmXygtfIA6h-PTUmZBK10Ex3gUyqSE2jhmIuJLt9Emool-ireK0GsCce_ff5-89BVHciv08M-sxtQ17quo7QrIz5DvLR0gyuGdkr0OgktQhNO5-eunpZ45OpQ/s1600-h/DSC01857.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357393039506318034" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 320px; cursor: pointer; height: 240px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1uOsqludjkcDHpLmXygtfIA6h-PTUmZBK10Ex3gUyqSE2jhmIuJLt9Emool-ireK0GsCce_ff5-89BVHciv08M-sxtQ17quo7QrIz5DvLR0gyuGdkr0OgktQhNO5-eunpZ45OpQ/s320/DSC01857.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />9 July 2009<br />Thursday<br />8:58 a.m.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Still had a continuous stream of thoughts. About work, relationships, a dream of waiting at the airport (on the way to a place somewhere in Cambodia or Myanmar), the sitting itself. But a big difference from the previous zazen: the thoughts seemed to have less power this m</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">orning. And it was easier pulling back awareness to the breathing and the present. There was the same heat or warming up of the body toward the middle of the sitting. Felt it at the back first. Then it radiated to the abdomen and the arms. The pain from yesterday's workout lessened with the onset of this warming effect. There were some distinct moments of stillness, of open space. Came with two or three breaths at a time. Much focus on the breathing and the now. And everything seemed to have retreated in the background.<br /><br />Much peace and tranquility.<br /><br /></span></div>the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-66890623275751269852009-07-05T13:46:00.023+08:002012-09-21T16:05:29.646+08:00Pop icon<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">You were just this fourteen or fifteen-year old kid then growing under one of Asia’s long-running dictatorships back in the 80s. One fine day, some of your classmates in high school, probably bored with their lessons on conjugating Spanish verbs, started having this nasty notion that you bore an uncanny resemblance to the zombie-looking Michael Jackson in that famous Thriller video. Must have had something to do with those big deep-set eyes and bony sunken cheeks. How do you think would your pubescent self-concept take it? Well, as one of the nerdy bunch then, you just tend to take everything in stride. Besides, you might have provided everybody quite a clear idea of what a walking corpse looks like, but that scary apparition is still Michael Jackson. Every adolescent who has some iota of a desire for coolness back then must be into MJ’s songs and dance moves. MJ is hip personified. And if you have to resemble even somebody from the pits of Hades to be identified with the guy, so be it. And that's true especially if you don’t have a single piece of a performer’s genes in your body.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Fast forward to the present, 2009. You go to breakfast at this hotel’s café somewhere in Manila, with a slight hangover from two cans of beer the previous night. Your Cambodian friend at the other side of the table tells you in garbled English that some famous person died. Was that MJ’s name he just mentioned? Yes, it was. He mentioned the name several times to make sure he got it right. But nothing seemed to sink in. Finally, back in your room, you put up your laptop’s browser and there it was. The King of Pop is really gone. One part of your brain tells you that everything is fine. Francis M., a local icon, died in his early 40s. There are only two Beatles left on the planet. MJ is dead at 50. People die. It’s not really about the number of years you spent breathing on the planet man. But there’s that other part that clings to the surreal in what had just happened. Icons are not supposed to fade away and then stop breathing just like that. They either die at the height of their glory and turn into legends, or they simply become legendary. Period. So you’re in this state of disbelief for a few days.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">And then you think about getting that 3-CD compilation of MJ’s songs. Just to hear “Ben”, “I Will Be There”, “Heal the World”, “You Are Not Alone”, and "The Girl Is Mine" (with ex-Beatles Paul McCartney) a few more times. Before they fade in your consciousness. </span><br />
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the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-27757156931858114082009-06-18T18:21:00.029+08:002012-09-21T16:55:49.822+08:00100th post: An African memoir<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqyzqcWBUhiQRO-3gmRCezmU3THoY-LYbewC5HlKNK2zxAMrUwxSRXgzXF0hkFoI2G3rqYV3Z0lqFYM08ApVIDIAXO-Rrle0D1JY2zo2RzeQhg7xrMHLYiWEP4K50u_u48_f1f2A/s1600-h/DSC02073.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348614703346795042" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqyzqcWBUhiQRO-3gmRCezmU3THoY-LYbewC5HlKNK2zxAMrUwxSRXgzXF0hkFoI2G3rqYV3Z0lqFYM08ApVIDIAXO-Rrle0D1JY2zo2RzeQhg7xrMHLYiWEP4K50u_u48_f1f2A/s320/DSC02073.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1jUJU17oBGuAOMYTR0ARgC70HK4g3Yb4H7KlX_cZe-F944mUHuy0bsNfAOJq9NUQQiamLpIekeFIF4qhshdnz8UdWzaqB22qLlNDjhS7JVPWDctzpPlLMiWmGLTHdw4AjqvrAZA/s1600-h/DSC02129.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348616577384952402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1jUJU17oBGuAOMYTR0ARgC70HK4g3Yb4H7KlX_cZe-F944mUHuy0bsNfAOJq9NUQQiamLpIekeFIF4qhshdnz8UdWzaqB22qLlNDjhS7JVPWDctzpPlLMiWmGLTHdw4AjqvrAZA/s320/DSC02129.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Brought out of my drowsy sleep during the long flight from Singapore to Johannesburg by muffled sounds of footsteps on carpet. The plane’s lights came on again prompting the crew to head for the meal storage section and begin preparing breakfast for passengers. Both eyes were still having some difficulty adjusting to the bright lights. Tried looking out of the window through which the soft morning sunlight was starting to pour in. And there it was, </span></span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">the vast African landscape below me. Nothing but miles and miles of flat and grassy land all the way up to the horizon. Wondered how this immense landscape influenced the African people’s psyche. For someone who came from an archipelago, where only a few hours of travel to any direction would take you to the land’s edge, this realization of the African continent’s breadth is simply an amazing experience. Really mind-expanding and disconcerting at the same time.</span></span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">A few hours later, our group was driving through a s</span></span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">mall section of this landscape, somewhere in </span></span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Johannesburg. I was sitting beside this American lady who was the big boss for our project with the Bank. My unconscious mind, hoping to start a conversation, was busy trying to retrieve some compromising bit of information from Naomi Klein’s book <span style="font-style: italic;">The Shock Doctrine</span>. Something about how the Bank had helped impose the Milton Friedman brand of unhindered market capitalism to developing countries through its structural adjustment programs and created havoc in these countries’ economies. My conscious mind was indifferent to these machinations of its naughty counterpart and was still absorbing the South African landscape. There were just brown grass, and scraggly bush, and all these stunted savanna trees everywhere. In some areas, the blackish remains of extensive bush fires were still evident. And, as if echoing my heretical meditations, there were the large public housing areas and sprawling communities of informal settlers.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I’m not sure if my seat mate recognized those makeshift cube-like dwellings of the poor black folks made from scrap aluminum sheets. Perhaps the chilly air of the South African morning has created in her the anticipation for hot coffee and warm beds at the hotel. In the end though, she would still beat me to the small talk with this curt noncommittal question about how I was taking in South Africa so far and whether it was my first time to be in Johannesburg. I gave affirmative answers, trying hard to sound genuinely excited and interested in our exchange. Nothing more would follow. Our van was soon within the premises of this rustic hotel-cum-country estate which would be our residence for the next two weeks or so. After depositing my luggage and backpack in the room and putting on additional layers of clothing, I was out in the nearby fields, taking some pictures of the buildings and the trees. My unprotected hands were freezing in the cold spring air and I would soon be having trouble pressing the shutter of my phone’s camera.<br /><br />But a certain mystery in the landscape egged me on.</span></span></div>
the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-88709567705907121102009-05-27T19:33:00.035+08:002012-09-21T15:42:13.137+08:00On democracy<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Been attending this workshop on leading democratic reforms in the Philippine bureaucracy since Monday. The group had an interesting discussion this afternoon on the nature of democratic changes that civil society organizations (CSOs) and reform-oriented bureaucrats should be aiming for. A fellow participant from the private sector proposed a return to an "ideal" version of representative democracy: with majority rule as one of the fundamental guiding principles, electorates essentially giving up part of their decision-making powers to chosen representatives within government, and citizen participation in public governance to be seen as an extraordinary measure that should be removed as soon as an effective representative system has been attained. Everybody was squirming in her seat, and the discussion dragged on for another hour or so. My free market ideology detector was busy reflecting on possible links of such views with the tenets of the Chicago School of Economics' version of capitalism.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Had another round of discussion afterward on the same topic with my colleagues at the School of Government. By the time we parted, my mind had come out with three reasons why I'm not in favor of such type of democracy for the Philippines. First, on a pragmatic level, said proposal goes against the recent trends in democratic governance and practice. Even bureaucrats and politicians in the more developed countries have recognized the expanding gap between citizens and government, the growing incapacity of government to deal with complex social problems, and the increasing need to bring back people's trust and their direct and sustained involvement in governance. Second, the persisting poverty, disempowerment, and marginalization in many countries like the Philippines has effectively disenfranchised some groups or sectors whose voices are therefore not heard in crucial government decision-making processes. And strictly representative systems do not appear to provide effective mechanisms to correct such existing power imbalances within society.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Finally, like my colleagues and former comrades, I want to see an expansion of the democratic project to other areas like the economy. And being able to choose your representatives in government during periodic elections is really meaningless if you're surviving on less than a dollar or two each day, or if you're living in slums under bridges or beside huge garbage dumps. For whatever it was worth since it took over autocratic monarchies as the preferred governance system by many societies, representative democracy has shown us many limitations and most democracies all over the world have tried to move beyond such form of government.</span></div>
the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-9473325358382098902009-05-27T00:21:00.027+08:002012-09-21T17:07:03.669+08:00Waiting game<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnMxMixj9V6-Fud5UmnwKcZcgHd1DNQWgFGWxsENoJZ5mUf4lTXO4Obr6tflL7LqzLOC4_EVzNBxtP9oE3A6EazMcXsYju-0iGYSggnKxySehCrc4PGoptbs75lwbRCvxrD3mrRg/s1600-h/DSC01234.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340171060448480434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnMxMixj9V6-Fud5UmnwKcZcgHd1DNQWgFGWxsENoJZ5mUf4lTXO4Obr6tflL7LqzLOC4_EVzNBxtP9oE3A6EazMcXsYju-0iGYSggnKxySehCrc4PGoptbs75lwbRCvxrD3mrRg/s200/DSC01234.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 150px;" /></a><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">It is still probably the Philippines’ most picturesque volcano. The near-perfect cone sha</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">pe seemed unsullied despite several eruptions and restless rumblings through centuries. There’s this local belief that an unimpeded view of Mt. Mayon’s tip would be a lucky sign especially for non-Bicolanos like me. Recalled a quite similar folk story about the cloud cover that is supposed to alternate between the peaks o</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">f Mts. Banahaw and San Cristobal in Quezon (something more to do with the good and evil theme, like that of the yin and yang). But the image which immediately came to mind </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">with the Mt. Mayon version was that </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">of a shy native girl of the olden days who dutifully covered her pretty face in the presence of male strangers or suitors. That rare </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">unhindered </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">glimpse of a smile or the face can be taken as a propitious signal by a m</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">an with amorous interests.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ZwToskC8ACOel2I0XbI7Kd05Qhncxe8sydSmDR_TKe5XDW3ncrrgI4ft6E1fYt3m1mfzOHXQtyIFMxMc6II0cf65WlDnPKEBOZYms8FK9c3ijeeL2a99rmLDXg0K78eH6Jn7sQ/s1600-h/DSC01238.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340171473325717106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ZwToskC8ACOel2I0XbI7Kd05Qhncxe8sydSmDR_TKe5XDW3ncrrgI4ft6E1fYt3m1mfzOHXQtyIFMxMc6II0cf65WlDnPKEBOZYms8FK9c3ijeeL2a99rmLDXg0K78eH6Jn7sQ/s200/DSC01238.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">The first time I</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">w</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">e</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">nt</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> to see Mt. Mayon was from the now famous Cagsaua site with its </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">half-buried church bel</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">l to</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">w</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">er a</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">nd ru</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">ins. True enough, the first few pictures I took of the volcano had the peak always lost so</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">m</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">ewhe</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">re behind a thick cloud cover. With my 2.0 megapixel cellphone camera in hand, I tried to imagine </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">cajoling the mountain to show her complete form. But, sad to </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">say, I didn’t get my wish. I</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">f I had been wooing a girl back in college, friends would have said I’ve been busted or <span style="font-style: italic;">basted</span>. Which back then would have called for several bottles of beer. However, five months later, I was coming dow</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">n from a plane at the Legazpi airport when I noticed many of the other passengers taking pictures as soon as they’ve set foot on the tarmac. I turned around upon reaching the ground, and there it was: the uncovered peak.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />A few days later, I was back at the airport. And the peak was still bare. There was even a thin wisp of smoke coming out from the top. Strangely, instead of the girl, I had this image of the solid stillness of a mountain during my zazen practice. </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">The word “enlightenment” also appeared and got stuck in my thought bubble. The mountain reveals itself, unmovable and tranquil.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmtz81ruXDdmAFS2C2Tg3MFRqTdr9IZEInWD4JAltESNDKe8xjK4zJx6KvgdtxJwFnQA36G2awwJNYltZfS0FvVvfWNQ8u5pOgfbKokwjUeYdh6Y20lxOUBTKwDSjVLsmZto35w/s1600-h/DSC01869.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340172303271316882" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmtz81ruXDdmAFS2C2Tg3MFRqTdr9IZEInWD4JAltESNDKe8xjK4zJx6KvgdtxJwFnQA36G2awwJNYltZfS0FvVvfWNQ8u5pOgfbKokwjUeYdh6Y20lxOUBTKwDSjVLsmZto35w/s320/DSC01869.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBH2rXddO-p33-OcOHkb8JlVGz6r1nJ_4wa9Z4X4yjgAT0vH70moa3kUbzwSQmFTJU46hTLfNJMj_F106Uzf5aJTmp1YHfzP1vgujmtsDeIj0L_JoShKomRxNgggRQ5lacVmG9ZQ/s1600-h/DSC01999.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340173262095300866" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBH2rXddO-p33-OcOHkb8JlVGz6r1nJ_4wa9Z4X4yjgAT0vH70moa3kUbzwSQmFTJU46hTLfNJMj_F106Uzf5aJTmp1YHfzP1vgujmtsDeIj0L_JoShKomRxNgggRQ5lacVmG9ZQ/s320/DSC01999.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a></div>
the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-41467679699844112522009-05-22T23:53:00.012+08:002009-10-09T13:30:18.657+08:00Blog ranking<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Growing tired of this site that ranks blogs by Pinoys according to th</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">e number of unique hits or visits within a given period. One thing that initially interested me about this top blogs site was the counter that they provide to site members. The counter tells them basically what position their blog occupies in the ranking. Used to be in the top 300 to 500 of the ranking for personal blog</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">s with my redplanet. Lately, found out that my blog's ranking has taken a nosedive below the 800-mark. Tonight, I realized that I've been bumped off the enti</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">re list altogether. So, my problem right now is how to get back to the ranking. Have a feeling that posting </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">pictures along with the actual texts for each entry have a large role to play in staying at th</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">e top. I've actually thought of taking out the counter (again) and dropping off from this ranking game before it gives me the aneurysm. But then, thought I should tak</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">e this as a challenge and aim to be number </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">1 instead. So, for starters, I'm pasting some pictures here from my recent trip to the beach somewhere in the Bicol region. By the way, there's absolutely nothing wrong with your laptop or PC -- it's just my sepia p</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">eriod. Should go well with this blog's color scheme.</span></span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9-j_aZTOY-9jAz6TE4gd3mefPwXv3dMzO5OQmUSfQGYU7N4vpgJZzIW_P_iK97AjURW5Bz2NTuFr23Vh9jmcFtGHADav7ysCN0yM3ngqtAhXeeHkwlybZXdjebE3qqg7hOKvHvA/s1600-h/DSC01904.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9-j_aZTOY-9jAz6TE4gd3mefPwXv3dMzO5OQmUSfQGYU7N4vpgJZzIW_P_iK97AjURW5Bz2NTuFr23Vh9jmcFtGHADav7ysCN0yM3ngqtAhXeeHkwlybZXdjebE3qqg7hOKvHvA/s320/DSC01904.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338692659460945362" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmdfCdqqbc4aszcTvrDu70KblFPaR0B6LoiJRYZA1mtodGwiJ-JjIO1hcGWheHertQgvZFCa2NvKaDwPUwEcOuilD80R453QQQlnMVvCUQwdZ6R7GZgWkUQ6Oil62R1liJ-ddLQ/s1600-h/DSC01884.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmdfCdqqbc4aszcTvrDu70KblFPaR0B6LoiJRYZA1mtodGwiJ-JjIO1hcGWheHertQgvZFCa2NvKaDwPUwEcOuilD80R453QQQlnMVvCUQwdZ6R7GZgWkUQ6Oil62R1liJ-ddLQ/s320/DSC01884.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338691636059968178" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOx-GovyJXIgH5XDUL35rrKmS6NnwE9rz8-8QIJqPQYJyCbPTn7IGocc9fdSqM4XaiDKJaAUSIbtPg6MHHxG8slNxMM67Y3TBzj6WhSC0UNR_EpCJ2_hkwzrP9SDe1L-TAT3trxQ/s1600-h/DSC01924.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOx-GovyJXIgH5XDUL35rrKmS6NnwE9rz8-8QIJqPQYJyCbPTn7IGocc9fdSqM4XaiDKJaAUSIbtPg6MHHxG8slNxMM67Y3TBzj6WhSC0UNR_EpCJ2_hkwzrP9SDe1L-TAT3trxQ/s320/DSC01924.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338692219129223970" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin3sL1hPVzvhZdpEVeX7qWnPYlYDzFxKoRiQ-JNL8ScvJIO-Y5m5uxA9WtMDXrKfA3XlLgZ3A_7X_HEOzOPVjpKSbVx3jV-GaG2L3viUEuRidx-8qdAJuYSVZmDplSWZrGgQsU5A/s1600-h/DSC01939.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin3sL1hPVzvhZdpEVeX7qWnPYlYDzFxKoRiQ-JNL8ScvJIO-Y5m5uxA9WtMDXrKfA3XlLgZ3A_7X_HEOzOPVjpKSbVx3jV-GaG2L3viUEuRidx-8qdAJuYSVZmDplSWZrGgQsU5A/s320/DSC01939.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338693390625822210" border="0" /></a>the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7184289.post-52470751943485453562009-05-11T00:51:00.048+08:002012-09-21T16:06:49.531+08:00Staying afloat and alive<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPvaplal5thhhURfhi-0oySeW446nRhQVeKnteNoV4RavIr0iiPJ5NXgbHdVSpmY1ExdM62LZb2M_9Ug2uAglTphAvlFEXigb7WeyD4yh_QNcfOhdNsBVoz9B7uUvPub9gHGfmLg/s1600-h/DSC02046.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339368567803937074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPvaplal5thhhURfhi-0oySeW446nRhQVeKnteNoV4RavIr0iiPJ5NXgbHdVSpmY1ExdM62LZb2M_9Ug2uAglTphAvlFEXigb7WeyD4yh_QNcfOhdNsBVoz9B7uUvPub9gHGfmLg/s320/DSC02046.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">My music listening life reached a kind of fork on the road yesterday. Was initially thinking of getting myself a copy of the Grammy award-winning collaboration by Robert Plant and Alison Krauss. But then this feeling of being a bit bored with commercialized mainstream sounds hit me with the same force as a fifth vegetarian burger in three days. You know you can still take another one. But on second thought, a break would be such bliss. Realized that this aural craving for the uncommon had been going on for some time now. It started last year with Marcus Adoro’s surfing-inspired debut <span style="font-style: italic;">Markus Highway</span> and Dong Abay’s post-Yano obra <span style="font-style: italic;">Flipino</span>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Anyway, in my regular weekend scouring of record stores yesterday, found myself suddenly taking some interests at these stacks of quite unfamiliar albums by new indie artists. Went immediately into my obsessive-compulsive mentat mode in deciding which one to buy. Read the black sticker in front of each album that had nuggets of information about the artists and the songs. And in just a few seconds, my thoughts were transfixed on this album that the sticker described as dealing with isolation and the struggle of the individual to fit in. Themes that struck a chord or two. Went to a nearby internet shop to check out the artist’s blog. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Some minutes later, had a copy of <span style="font-style: italic;">How to Swim and Live</span>, which is supposed to be Little Name’s debut album. Contrary to my gut notion, the album was not the work of a band. Little Name is probably as much as to Lee Barker of Liverpool as The Martian is to this blog’s author. And the angst is not that obvious the first time you listen to the songs. The melodies are unabashedly pop with some jazzy guitar, synth, and trumpet sequences mixed in. Result: tunes that are like 60s tracks by Burt Bacharach, sucked into a wormhole and ejected to an early period.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">As with any work that tries to pack in some substance, the real secret though is in the lyrics. It gives a crisp description of alienation. It has that distinctive sarcastic color. Sometimes, it's depressing. Which all contrast sharply with the cute tunes one hears from the album. My favorite lines are from track 8, <span style="font-style: italic;">Nobody Loves You</span>:</span><br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="color: #003300; font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I always thought that it would be much easier,<br />To get away with murder,<br />Than to get through you.<br /><br />I thought someday, we'd put our</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">differences aside,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">And run away to Ambleside,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Raise chickens by the lake.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Nobody loves you,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">And it's easy to see why,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Nobody wants you baby,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">And it's all because of lies,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">And your tissue thin disguise,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">That hides who you really are.</span></span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />Just a few playback and found myself already singing the chorus line. Talk about stickiness factor.</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> Lee Barker’s easy-going rhythm makes everything quite chewable though, as if you can stay forever above the murk. Which is enough to make How to Swim and Live one of those remarkable first efforts. And Little Name an artist to watch in the coming years.</span></div>
the martianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08472997496021783579noreply@blogger.com0