Inspirations and Motivations

I am writing again. I discovered that I am discovering my poetry. A sign along the lonely road I thread.  

Kalipay kung Taguipusoon

Pananglitan nga rong aton nga daean

Indi eon magsub-eang sa unhan

Sa tindahan rong isda nga mub-ead

Magapadumdum kimo

Nga ikaw ro matuod nga mahae

Owa eon it iba pa.

Pananglitan nga rong aton nga eandong

Indi eon makatao it handong sa hilamon

Sa simbahan rong siga it kandila

Magapadumdum kimo

Ikaw man lang rong kasadya it taguipusoon

Owa eon it iba pa.

Ag pananglitan nga hilipatan mo

Sa madueom, matapo-tapo nga kwarto

Ro binaeaybay it kahapon magapadumdum kimo

Ikaw ratong ginatumod ko, hinigugma nga engkantada

Kalipay ag baeay ku baeatyagon nga nagapadayon

Halin pa kato hasta sa gihapon.

I write poems to express what is happening inside my heart. I write poems when the emotion is strong and wanting release. I write poems to convey my feelings of love and admiration. I write poems to tell you that you are special and I love you.

I write essays and narratives to express what is going on around. I write essays and journal to document the things as they happen that I may remember. I write journal whenever I need to process my coming to be -- a sort of psycho-analyses of the reality as it manifests itself in my consciousness.

I write when I am problematic. I write when the enchantress is nice to me. I write when I am troubled by the events as they unfold. I write to earn a living. I write from time to time to compose a book someday.

 I used to write as a form of prayer. I used to write in lieu of meditating. I used to write to contemplate on the nature of the subject matter of my thought. I used to write as a form of introspection with the hope of reconciling my brokenness and recollecting my shattered self. 

When My Daughter Starts Philosophizing

My 12-year old daughter raised a question while I was nursing a hangover one Saturday morning. "Tatay, what does synchronicity means?" 

I stammered for words understandable enough to her curious young mind. Here is my answer:
Late in 2009, I was finalizing the idea of constructing a blog to be called "By the Jal-o River'.  That title is based on a favorite psalm of mine which begins with this word, “By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept.” I prepared the design of the header in MS Publisher as I was ignorant then of Adobe Photoshop. Hereunder was that design.

Last year, however, a friend based from down under sent me a copy of a book by Paulo Coelho. The title of the book was, “By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept.” I was amused. But what took my breath away and paused to consider this "meaningful coincidence" (Karl Jung’s) are the similarity of the characters' circumstances with my own "personal legend" (Paulo Coelho's).  

My daughter went away, looking satisfied and thoughtful. As for myself, I did some menial work in the orchard so as to force the alcohol out of my body. Late in the afternoon of that cloudy day though, I found myself still nursing such a terrible headache. Terrible Matador Brandy, I should say. 

Nocturnal Visitors - III

      Gipos, my wife's distant cousin, paid us a visit the other day. The "brief" visit progressed into an excursion of various topics ranging from his application for an early retirement as bus driver of Vallacar Transit, Inc. (Ceres) to those nocturnal predators that raided our rabbits and chicken coop.  Gipos self-proclaimed to be one of the pioneers of Vallacar when Ceres Bus acquired a franchise for the Kalibo-Iloilo route more than a decade ago. Prior to that, he used to drive the R&K that once ruled the same route. When the former bought out the latter, Gipos together with a handful few was absorbed by the company.

    Now in his middle 50's and still single, Gipos shows signs of getting burnout and to his mother and siblings exhibits what Dr. Jed Diamond called Irritable Men Syndrome (IMS). He pays us occasional "brief" visit to unwind his frustrations, my wife and I being his shock-absorbers. At times, we would consume some bottles of beer, or brandy if available. Lately, a cup of coffee will do to hydrate the throat.

   On his latest visit, he talked about the ilô (palm civet) that prowl at nights in the area. It happened that there was a blue moon when he came over and the dogs were barking everywhere for some unseen passersby. Now that my wife raises eight dogs, the nocturnal predators are having a hard time sneaking into the chicken coop. But he argued that ilô and maraë (small leopard cat) are agile and arboreal predators that no dogs however many can catch up with them.

Common palm civet in chiku (Manilkara zapota) tree;
(Photo by kwokwai76) (courtesy of The Lazy Lizard's Tales Blogspot)

Yet, on several instances, these agile and sleek nocturnal mammals were ran over by passing vehicles when they attempted crossing the highway  in front of my property. Like rabbits, they seem to freeze when a strong light hit them. They realized too late that they were in a middle of a "man-thing" where those "light-beaming monster" rammed them into pieces.

Gipos is not sympathetic to the plight of those wild animals. To him, they are just pests to farmers' chicken coops and coconuts. He advised my wife to clear out our areas as they thrived on thick foliage such as bamboo thickets and tall trees infested by wild vines. He is oblivious of the fact that those animals help in balancing our ecology by spreading the seeds of trees on which they feed not to mention that they also control the population of rats and other small rodents that are equally harmful to fruit agriculturalists.

Kaibahang Butch in his morning talk over DYRU today admitted that he has not seen in his entire life an  ilô or a maraë , much more a singgaeong (bearcat). I for myself, despite my living in an area where many sightings of these animals are reported has only seen dead ones rammed over by passing vehicles. But I am clinging to that hope of encountering them alive and prowling one of these nights.

Wish me luck. And Gipos too.

Never a Quitter

Olympian Rene Herrera (Photo credit:  InterAksyon.com/Joseph Agcaoili)

   He finished last. The diminutive veteran runner and navyman Rene Herrera was the Filipino representative to the 5000 meters race in the 2012 London Olympic. Kaibahang Butch of the DYRU however related that Herrera was much applauded not because he bested the other 20 runners (although he bested himself in the Heat 1 with a record of 14:44.11) but due to his determination to finish the race even if he is the last man running in the stadium. Such attitude is what a true Olympian has to exemplify. It is not to win, but to take part (cf. Pierre de Coubertin). It is as what Agence France-Presse wrote in July 18, 2008 and I quote, "True Olympic spirit is often found away from gold medalists with their agents and sponsorship deals -- it is found in its purest sense in those that come last." 

Rene Herrera did finish last because he never quits. And because he never quits he comes first to the hearts of men watching in that London stadium. 

Paint Me a Somber Sky in Monochromatic Blue

Aragorn misses his Lady Arwen. The heavy downpour sets him in reverie.

Rain. More rain.

A dark gray sky. And yet I saw you smile. And I thought, you are weather-proof. Then something inside told me that I ought to smile back. I did smile back, appearing the fool.

But honestly, I find our meeting a kind of sweet and memorable moment, although bordering to melancholic. You beckoned me to follow you to your place. Our pretext, oh, we do have lots of pretext to justify such meeting. We walked in the rain under the protective cover of your umbrella. That was romantic, I supposed. My subconscious though saw the two of us walking away with our reflections painted on the wet pavement and from a vantage point in monochromatic blue. That scene was lovely and yet lonely; so true and yet flawed. It was a sad scenery of a supposed happy moment worth remembering.

Inside your place, you flooded me with your concerns, subtly informing me that I remain to be the man you can count on; your strong arm in times of trouble.  You made me your hero that carries you always out of the troubled waters.  And yet you worry of my failing health, asking me directly if I still experience those dizziness and nausea.

I remember telling you that I got fired up whenever you requested me to do you some favor. You inspired me even if your presence is an interruption.  You excite me even if you disturbed my quiet. And I am always glad to be by your side. Then I felt strong and whole. Life is meaningful, is beautiful and true.

Even if it rained. Even if the rain flooded our lives.

Rantings Down the Jal-o

The conclusion of the Corona Impeachment Trial reminded me of a couple of stories told down the Jal-o. These stories illustrate two survival techniques espoused by those who refused any of the principles of life being taught by those great minds that have had walked the earth:

Harvesting the produce of the pond

Deny Even if You Got Caught. 

    The fishpond operator is suspicious that some of his harvest are being stolen by an insider. He spoke out his mind in a threatening voice before his turf:

Sin-o kinyo ro kumupit it alimago? (Who among you took interest in my crabs?) 

Knowing that the operator is a mean man, the honest thief volunteered:

Sang saga man lang, Maninoy, ang ginbuoe (I only took about a kilo of them, my dear Godfather.)

The condescending operator thus responded:

Gago! Sayod mong saea, akoon mo! (Stupid! You knew beforehand that it is wrong and you dare admitting it!)

The produced of the brackish Jal-o

 Don't Throw Stones on Your Fellow Thief

The guard reported proudly to his boss. "Sir, I caught a thief tonight."
"What did you do to him?" asked the boss.
"Oh, I shoot him to death, sir."
"Holy cow! We will all be wiped out if you kept doing such thing!" (Gakala-ubos kita sini)

Those That Made My Young Girls Cry

"Who is this Whitney Houston, Tatay?", Vida, my 9-year old daughter asked me one morning while I was watching the news on the TV screen.
"She's a diva, the one who popularized songs like, "The Greatest Love of All" and "I Will Always Love You", my prompt reply.
"Ah, does she own a pet?", came the follow up. I was puzzled where the conversation will lead us. My mind was searching the logic of her rejoinder.
"I don't know. Why did you ask?", I answered sincerely.
"Her eyes were always sad. She must have had been mourning the deaths of her pets."

AV and her pet hen, Iyoy.

Vida and Tat scouting the waterfall in our orchard.

My kids love to have pets. Over the years, they have welcomed into their innocent lives the friendship of mice, rabbits, cats, dogs, pigs, chickens, lovebirds, ducks, fish... They in the process tolerated damaged toys and bitten flip flops, endured the presence of a few lice, animal droppings and the inconvenience of waking early to attend to their needs. Early in life, their young hearts earned tender scars after having been stabbed many a number of times when Death paid them a visit and grabbed out of their small hands the lives of their beloved pets. There would be wailing and door-banging in my household as I sadly and solitarily traced my steps into the guava grove to prepare the place where those beloved pets will be interned.

To process their trauma, I always ask my girls to draw and write some epitaph for their departed pets. That way, after a few weeks their hearts will be ready to welcome another stranger whom again will nurse those tender scars yet in the future will make them cry.

Vita's interpretation of the afterlife of her pets, Sazhu, 
Penelope and Bush

Perhaps, Vida is right about her assumption. Whitney Houston must have some pets whose deaths had made her eyes look so sad. Perhaps, she must had been mourning their deaths many a number of times.

Those Which Are Worth Dying For

                  (Here meet the young Frodo Baggins--er, Huck Finn.)

Tonight, I got the chance to refresh my memory of the film, "The Adventures of Huck Finn" (Walt Disney adventure film) on my TV screen--I've seen it in the wide screen sometimes in May of 1993 in SM Megamall. It is one of those attempts to cater to the later generation Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn. The search of freedom from the conventional society prevails where Huck and his negro friend Jim seek their own way of finding it in their "adventures." The context is the pre-civil war America. The air was parochial. Everywhere, the director (Stephen Sommers) managed to portray scenes of rivers  (Mississippi--not Jal-o, hehe) and swamps, reminiscent of the Twainian panorama.

The search for that which is worth dying for fills the scenes with magic that eludes the understanding of the superficial and the conventional. Huck's passion for adventure would raised eyebrows yet it fills my heart and mind with a sense of awe. Something deep inside asked me: Isn't that what you've wanted to make in your way to the "market place"? Isn't that is what you've always desire to experience, that of being afoot, of being a hiker along the highways of life? If that is so, why not pursue it? Why the reluctance to seek and strive after what you've been dreaming about?

Ah this fear, this rational fear about the possibilities of becoming...

The Unconscious Rowed on the Jal-o River

I SAW myself by the Jal-o River--or was it the Jal-o? I was into a tribal village where the people that populated the area were skeletal. I wondered what became of them for they seemed lifeless. I sensed though that they're all alive and that something evil ruled over them. So sensing the danger, I fled from their place and continued with my rafting into another place.

As I reached my destination, the milieu presented itself as familiar. The place was abandoned for quite a long time. As I surveyed it though, a feeling of déjà vu overwhelmed me. I seemed to recall that I'd been there. Tried as I must, I couldn't figure out when and how.

I was awaken by some noise when I was almost grasping that sense of familiarity.  

Meeting Einstein and the Elves Somewhere in Time

     WE GO BACK to our layman's and contextual erudition about Einstein's Special Theory of Relativity, this time, by taking into considerations those "experiences" of a number of people who were privileged of "straying into elfland".

Consider this one. The other day, I met a weirdo for an old man who claimed that he is already a young man when Balete was made into an arabal of New Washington in 1904. I was conducting an interview to supplement the materials available at hand about my town during the time of the Americans when I chanced to meet the man. Sensing my skepticism, he qualified that the secret of his long life is that he visited elfland when he was just turning 16. He intimated that he had a special relationship with an elfin lady who invited him into her abode for a short visit. As far as he can recall, he whiled the night in that "wonderful place" and hesitantly went home the morning after. Upon meeting his family though, he was surprised to learned that they had been frantically searching for him for more than six months and after a year had given up hope of finding him alive.

A visualization of the Lorentz transformation
(Photo credit: Wikipedia org) 

Tay Jose Dandoy, in a separate interview I made in 2000 explained this phenomenon based on the cosmology of our folks mapping out our world into 7 layers (sanib) with our existential world being in the middle of it (We are from the middle earth, not Frodo Baggins, mind you. Hehehe). He avers that to "wander" into the other layers then requires us to travel in the speed of light. The old man and his relatives must have had experienced what physicists termed as "Lorentz transformation" where their respective frames of reference had affected their sense of time. Is that possible?

There are other fantastic stories from a number of people who claimed to have visited elfland. The common denominator for such claim is that they all lost track of their time in the sense that time seemed to run slower "in there" than in our world. The other denominator of course is the sense of deja vu and the sweet voice in one's "pocket watch" that pleads: "Come back to me."

My One Attachment to 2011

A screen copy of my entry at WCJ

I received a notice from the publisher of my other personal blog informing me of the following:

Dear author,    After nearly 5 years and more than 7 million words written,WcJ is ceasing service. In order to give you a chanceto retrieve your writings if you so desire, WCJ is nowavailable again until the end of 2011.
To retrieve the contents of your journal(s), you should visit thesite and login and then select the journal you'd like to retrieve.Then click the Print button, and a new page will be shown with allyour journal entries, in "New to old" order. If you'd prefer to seethem in the order you wrote them, just click "Old to new" at the topof the page.
When you're happy with how that looks, you can use your web browser tosave the contents of the page, or you can click Print to print it, orto save it as a PDF if you have that functionality available.

Kindest regards,
The Team

Reading it, something inside stirred and I felt my heart is being gently stabbed once again. Really, saying goodbye is a hard thing to do. But goodbyes are meant to be said, no matter how and even if it caused so much pain.

Nocturnal Visitors

Sleepless night.

Sartre came with a bottle of brandy. From the house of Pedro Domeq, I like to believe. I prepared and served grilled cured tapas--a product of my inquisitive mind and something that he won't find nauseating. By and by, Camus' Facel Vega parked rather dramatically on the road shoulder in front of my house. With him was rather an unusual companion--Sisyphus who is still burdened with a load of rock! So I stood up and produced two extra glasses for the new arrival. "Wow! What a company I have tonight," I said to myself.  I wonder how will it be if Nietzsche and Prometheus join us.

The beauty of being human is that one can always reconsider, take time out, socialize, recreate, wait and see for things to manifest themselves.  The quality of something is best tested by time. Wine for instance. But tapas, oh you have it consumed while it is still warm. Otherwise, Sartre will vomit it with the diluted ale. And oh, forget about the Facel Vega and try counting the times Sisyphus climbed the hill with his rock on his back.

Sleepless night indeed.

Fearing the Dark

There are some dreams that ought not to come true--or better still, that one should prevent from materializing.


Some dreams should not even be spoken of, or written down for others to know. Dark desires of Freudian nature which are disturbing, making one afraid of the secrets hidden in the darkest corner of one's subconscious mind.

Farmville in Balete

When Panay Telecommunication Company (Pantelco) finally set foot in Balete on October of last year (2009), it brought along with it a virtual reality called "Farmville". Those Baleten-ons with access to the internet and who happened to have a Facebook account know what it is--or at least those who were innocently enticed by the gifts received from some "friends" or by those who invited them to be "neighbors".

The game, I supposed, was developed for the city-dwellers who dreamed of the idyllic life in the farm, who are exhausted with the hustle and bustle of the urban setting, oppressed by the monstrous traffic and the indifference of crowd to the affairs of each person. A form of escapism actually; something to entertain or distract boredom and angst out of one's psyche.

But the Farmville mania has invaded Balete, a rural/agricultural community which is regarded by those who visited it, both local and foreign as "paradise", "a beautiful place to retire", "simply beautiful". Why is this so could perhaps be attributed to its familiarity to these "farmers". While for those passersby, Balete's beauty maybe is a treat, to them, it is just ordinary--something they got to endure everyday, just like traffic.

Yet if that is so, why Farmville when they could choose some other virtual realities far different from the rural setting of Balete? Could it be that by their playing it they unconsciously satisfy their innate desire to have lands to till and call their own? (Some sort of transference, so to speak.) Could it be taken then as a social indicators for policymakers to consider?

I was amused to receive a note in my homepage from the Municipal Treasurer commenting concerning Farmville. His comment will surely elicit a lot of reactions.