Noah’s Arc

Whether or not Noah’s Arc is a fact or a fiction and whether or not I am one of the organisms who deserve to be rescued and be given a chance to procreate in hope of producing a good lineage, the people who resided in Manila and the nearby provinces sure needed its sudden existence — as sudden as how the tropical storm Ondoy took around 300 lives and as how it rendered the urban a sea of mud and debris.

Who would have thought that the typhoon PAGASA said was relatively weak and would possibly not call forth any suspension of classes would be this catastrophic? How brilliant is that? It’s not as if they get any forecast correct in the first place, but if these estimates (I know this isn’t the best word to use since this is synonymous to an approximate guess, but for the lack of a better word, allow me to) will still irksomely persist, then might as well they change their acronym first to something discouraging and then quit as an official agency of the Philippine government.

Because of a two and a half hour-long Math long test involving Trigonometry which I more or less messed up, I was left stranded in the campus for almost twenty-four hours, along with other people who still couldn’t believe that time that going home is not among the things we must do, or at least, can do. I am not complaining. That is an odd thing to do, especially when you continually see footages of vehicles stranded (or being moved around by the tempestuous flood) on the main roads and of people getting displaced from the comfort of their own homes.

Though Jacque Bermejo has finally released her official statement, her or rather, her hacker’s Facebook status, is nonetheless partially true. We all sinners, yes, but if there are people who actually deserve what happened (provided they experienced it and not because they are overseas making the most out of their remaining term begging for dough), it would be those government officials who are apparently not coming down from their ivory seat of apathy and indifference. Not all, I know, but how I wish those who are running in the next election would let us have a wee look  at what we can expect from them eight months from now. Now that I think about it, eight months isn’t too long when you face it with optimism and the desire for change.

Well, who am I to talk? I admit that I still don’t know what to do with this school-free week right under my nose. Helping your fellow Filipinos is particularly hard when your parents belong to the part of the society who complain and clamor for change but are doing nothing to alleviate the situation. Maybe I should first start being an activist at home.

Props to GMA and ABS-CBN for the way they handled this calamity. For a moment, I forgot that their evening news have commercials in between, that their World News portion would rather feature a chicken with extra appendages than North Korea’s nuclear weapon and that their Showbiz News is needlessly hyped.

Follow Your Heart

Around three years ago, I remember someone saying that no one should pursue his hobby or interest as his career because eventually, he will be jaded with it. Sooner or later, the tired feeling will creep up to the level of detest and that is something happy ending-sucker Disney would not like.  Coincidentally, this notion also goes against one of the songs included in the Cinderella soundtrack, Follow Your Heart.

See, I’m absolutely positive I chose the right school but I’m not sure if I took the right course. Biology (particularly, the subset that has to do with micro existences) is the subject that almost kicked me from the Director’s List once, my waterloo, my weakness, my flaw. Need I put emphasis on this more? I singled it out because first off, it conjures this highfalutin feel and secondly, I was well aware that only forty students get accepted into this course; hence, it is esteemed. This may be some serious case of histrionic personality disorder but really, doesn’t it feel extra nice when a random person who asks for your academic background all of a sudden treats you with much respect after he hears your reply? Go on, bludgeon me.

It has always been about the prestige and the Handel’s Messiahs you get past the higher hurdle. I threw away journalism four years ago because I knew science or engineering can take me somewhere greater than the tabloids and the senseless evening news whose World News portion would rather feature a chicken with extra appendages than North Korea’s nuclear weapon. It’s the vain nature of humans, ladies and gentlemen.

Ironically though, no matter how hard I try to learn to love my pick, the results never fail to dishearten me. I am slowly taking it into my system and in no time, this post will be nothing but a stupid dilemma as I look back four years from now. I am not quitting.

A Commotion At The Mall

She had that cocky and proud gait that would either, in all likelihood, make you turn your head and stare at her for only half a minute (since doing further would classify you under the adjective impolite), or make you steal quick glances at her, just so you could affirm what you just saw. As someone who was behind her, I knew that she spurred a lot of interest from the chaps walking at the same pace as mine. She easily made her way through the dialogue of those with companions and effortlessly, she caused those without companions to eavesdrop on the mentioned dialogues.

Well, I mean, with a piece of clothing whose surface area is a little larger than the mantles of two usual coffee shop tables combined, who wouldn’t? Her bright red bra peered out (while waving hello) from her back which was insufficiently covered by an apparel style made up of two laces she was supposed to tie securely. While you are probably thinking you have heard the worst, you still haven’t– her red underwear also teased everyone from behind. To be honest, her outer garments failed to live up to their name miserably.

The commotion became louder and as she passed by a group of men, doubts on her biological sex grew in number.

“Babae ba o bading?”

BADING!” she said loudly after turning abruptly.

She (or he, but in this case, I’d like to use female-specific pronouns on account of her long and straight hair) carried on with her swagger triumphantly and averted her head away from the people behind her as if telling you are missing a lot by not hooking up with her. One thing’s for sure, she is a head-turner.

(And you probably thought I was turning lesbian while reading my first paragraph..)

Activist

Ever since I was acquainted to the type of writing wherein having a backbone is a must and new perspectives are better than orthodox ones, I knew at once what I wanted to be and what I am to expect myself to come out to be a decade or two later — an activist. However, kismet is indeed tough for its itinerary varied drastically and in turn led me to the opposite side of the spectrum. Activist and scientist, except for ending both with ‘ist’, I guess there is not much similarity between them (unless you are taking the mulling over to the next level and have decided that both tackle and are social issues).

Five years later and my aspiration is still unchanged or perhaps even greater in intensity, especially since I finally heard and saw Renato Reyes, the secretary general of BAYAN. Surreal. I’m telling you, it was surreal.

Obligatory Birthday Post

Age is just a number, I’m told. That’s true, I suppose, though that statement really underestimates the importance of numbers in civilization. Numbers are beautiful, horrible things, bursting with knowledge and meaning, holding in their cruel grasp the capacity for extreme reduction, and perhaps, the very secrets of the universe. Numbers, even when you attach the idea that they are “just” numbers, all tell stories, both wonderful and frightening.

And there’s everything and nothing, the thinking as pointless as it is unavoidable. We cannot see the future, and the past cannot be revisited. All we have, in the end, is a number, and whatever meaning we choose to give it.

-Phil Dy (2009)

True, further brooding on the matter is pointless, yet don’t you find it sardonic that as we age, that as we add one more year to our lifespan which we are to fete for, it becomes less and less anticipated and celebrated? The greetings have grown to be adequate and the parties abundant with food and guests turn obsolete.. which then makes me reckon that maybe after all, birthday celebrations are exclusively for children, as how using raincoats are solely for first to third graders (or the traffic enforcers and police patrols). But just like the raincoats’ case, we actually don’t know why we outgrew them, when in fact, everyone has the right and discretion to use these pragmatic rain bucklers, no matter how doltish you will appear like donning them.

Sigh, I will end this day with me both thankful and melancholic (with the latter dominating).

What A Lousy World

When the capillaries leading to my gluteus maximus become congested by waiting for an FX in a terminal which is purportedly abounding with it and whose barkers think they could get away by peppering chairs all over the place, it makes me want to smash every clock that reminds me of how long I have been waiting for the vehicle that got lost in time or 45 minutes, to be accurate.

When a bus driver or a driver of any vehicle for that matter honks his horn at me for crossing the pedestrian lane which to his eyes probably camouflages itself as part of the cement it is adding details to, it makes me want to stick my middle finger up at him, at the risk of seeming like a person who irksomely pelts her every sentence– no, phrase with profanities.

When a woman in front of me slumps onto my lap because a child almost steals her gold necklace from outside the jeepney, it makes me want to drag the child off with his ears and torture him to death while instilling upon his mind that he shouldn’t let out his financial frustration on other plebeians who are equally feeling it and that he could have just started young as an activist criticizing the superiors doing nothing to alleviate his situation.

When my travel time is further prolonged by cretins who make their imaginary third lane and who are colossally creative to imagine that there exist a series of white stripes everywhere along a highway, it makes me want to amputate their legs in a non-surgical manner and hand their upper body to the Happy Tree Friends who know of more ways to disfigure an organism.

When a jeepney driver suspects my integrity by doubting my request for a change, not to mention he puts my life twice to the brink of death by nearly producing an elastic collision between his jeepney and a tricycle with his rapid reverse and lead-taking, it makes me want to crush the thing between his legs with Thor’s hammer and feed his entrails to Cerberus.

When all of the things I mentioned above happen to me in just one day, they make me want to write about them.