In Case You Were Wondering

I'm still alive. I don't exactly know why I've been hibernating this past week or so. It's something I've very cleverly kept myself from comprehending. And since all my little interesting ideas have hidden themselves in the clutter that is my brain, I've decided to write on something every other blogger has already had his say on - The Passion of the Christ.

Disclaimer: I have absolutely no intention of further promoting this already too-publicized movie. I think Mr. Gibson has already paid enough for that. I'm just another someone typing out words and posting them for everyone to see just because I can.

I watched the movie last Friday, more as an excuse to skip yet another boring math lecture than on any religious pretext. Although I did employ this skewed type of logic: since math doesn't matter at all in my life anyway (except as a requirement I have to get through) while Jesus' story is something that should matter to everything to me if I'm to call myself a practicing Christian (which I'm not), then it would be a much more productive use of my time to refresh myself on the major events in Christian doctrine than to mull over statistical data.

And so I went to the cinema, bracing myself for a dose of extreme violence. From all the reviews I read about the movie, I half-expected Roman soldiers to start cutting people's heads off, complete with close-ups of blood spurting out from their necks. That didn't happen, though. The violence I encountered from Jesus' flogging up to his crucifixion was tame compared to other violent movies I've seen. Yes, I admit that I found the sight of Jesus being tortured painful to watch, but the movie didn't deserve people saying the violence was wanton and uncalled-for. It's not as if Jesus' followers and other enlightened people went around grinning and eating popcorn. The violence was completely in context, and any sane viewer who pays attention will notice that the good guys did not approve of what happened. Even Pilate tried his best to prevent the outcome.

What those critics should have noticed, I think, is how the story was humanized and portrayed in a way that doesn't make you want to nod off after the first few minutes, which is what those old Holy Week movies always made me do. Also, I like the realistic portrayal of what happened - the movie didn't try to sugarcoat events or tone them down to make them more palatable.

Despite all that, though, I think the film isn't at all perfect. What I didn't like about it is that instead of focusing on historical accuracy, they added unnecessary dramatics (the crow was an insult, really) that made things seem too theatrical. Besides that, I think the film was all right, and for someone wanting to get back in touch with his Christian faith, it's a good start.

I'm Going Nucking Futs

Once again, my stubborn self is refusing outright to let anything get into my head. I've been here in Manila for a week now, classes started this Wednesday, and already we have two reports due next week. I can almost predict the outcome of my weekend - I'll spend two thirds of the day sleeping, the rest dazedly walking around my room like a zombie, and the wee hours of Monday cramming for two reports I should have spent the whole weekend doing. Here is my sad state of affairs:

1. As yet I know absolutely nothing about the two subjects I'm taking this summer. This must be because I've been coming to class late again and disappearing in between periods to try to regain my sanity.

2. I have a lot of non-school-related concerns taking up space in my head that keep me from getting any real moment of peace.

3. I've been semi-sick the past few days. This is a new type of condition I picked up in the course of my stay here. Just a few sneezes, a few coughs - nothing serious enough to require any medication but enough to cause me unnecessary annoyance. The only good thing about it is that most of the time it just manages to go away by itself.


Faura looks decent at night. The yellow sodium street lamps even make it look almost beautiful.

Another Day, Another Campaign

While walking to school this afternoon I had to stop in this little island in between the lanes of Taft Avenue while a caravan of horn-blasting vehicles that had bright, pink flowers painted all over them passed in front of me. This, clearly, was a campaign device very ingeniously crafted by Presidential candidate Raul Roco (sarcasm intentional). Don't get me wrong - it's not that I have anything against Roco (in fact I think he's an okay person) it's just that the streets of Manila have been saturated by the campaigning of so many would-be politicians and I'm sick of it. Ever since campaign period started I have heard popular jingles converted into campaign slogans pumped out almost daily by mobile loudspeakers, I have seen posters of artificially smiling candidates plastered on every available corner, I've endured political ads full of glowing promises that make me cringe.

I am tired of the blatant lack of creativity displayed by people running for office in this country. But I would have been willing to tolerate all that if that were their only offence. The problem is that most of the time these candidates prey on the ignorance of the masses. I heard on the news that Gloria Arroyo, current president and running candidate, attended several high school graduations in which she promised free education for the poorest among them, granted, of course, that she gets elected. This, I think, is just plain stupid. First of all, she made no attempt to quantify her statement. Who exactly are the poorest of the poor, and how many of them exactly will the government subsidize? Also, this will ultimately lead to people vying to prove that they are poorer than the next person. As head of state, I don't think this is something you want to happen to your citizens. It's like this policy I read about in the United States where dirt cheap apartment rates were provided for the poorest people, with the result that it was even harder for people with minimum wage jobs to get housing than those on social security!

Another Gloria boo-boo I read about in a newspaper is how she gained voters among the Tricycle Drivers' Association because she supported them when the MMDA (Metro Manila Development Authority) was about to outlaw them. Tricycles are these small, modified motorcycles that carry passengers who don't want to walk short distances. They are also safety hazards on the road because they very often do not have safety lights (much less seatbelts) and are usually parked in the sides of roads, clogging up the sidewalk and even taking up road space. I see her move as another selfish bid to secure her victory.

While my dad and I were on our way home one night in Davao, we had to take a different route because a triangular intersection in the middle of the city was completely taken up by a wooden stage, large posters of the candidates of Arroyo's party, and a crowd of people witnessing the campaign. That was just wrong. To think that Gloria kept on bragging of possessing the 'moral high ground' in the elections. Yeah right.

It might seem like I'm doing a Gloria-bashing here, but I'm really not. It's just that I happen to have a collection of examples of her stupidities. Most other candidates have done much the same. The point I'm trying to make is that Philippine politics is in a depressingly low state. They are no better (and are even worse) than the media, who shamelessly use the masses to further their own moneymaking ends. Filipinos have been promised a better future, one where we can hold our heads high and know that we are actually heading somewhere. But this will never materialize unless there is a radical change in our political system. Right now, while the bid for public office is one big popularity contest, where no move is too low that will secure the most number of votes, where even in the highest places the prevailing attitude is 'be content with little and do the bare minimum in all situations', and where morality serves no purpose except as a front to provide an illusion of goodness to the witless herd, the Filipino nation will remain as it has always been: fragmented, backward, a farce perpetrated by the people on top, our brothers, those who should know better. This is the ultimate betrayal, and it seems we shall always be bound by it.

The Right Kind of Emphasis

I was pleasantly surprised a few days ago when I suddenly heard on the radio this song I really like called Let Your Shoulder Fall by Matthew Jay. Besides the melody, I like the noncomittal way he says the words, like he doesn't really care that much when in truth, it means all the world to him. It's a sad song, and it makes you think, and it's beautiful. Another song I heard before but didn't know the title of is Dare You to Move by Switchfoot. It's inspiring, and it really applies to my situation. Because I am an idealist, because I am so far from what I hold ideal, and because I need to lift myself up and become who I'm meant to be.

Mulling Things Over

I think that my life ever since I went home for the summer has been one long therapy session with my experiences being the shrink and myself as the befuddled patient who hasn't yet resolved his many internal conflicts. I remember one particular incident when I accompanied my 'aunt', a family friend who's an ophthalmologist, while she went through her rounds before ending her work day. She had three patients confined in the hospital that day. The first we visited was a little girl, about the same age as my sister Maxine, who just had her eyes operated on to correct a congenital deformity. Since my aunt is an expert in reconstructive eye surgery, I don't think the case presented much of a problem. The little girl seemed to be doing well, and though she looked scared and uneasy (she had gauze patches over both eyes and couldn't take them off until the next day), she had her parents around to comfort her. Next was a boy around my age who sustained a major eye operation to clear the mucus that was clogging one of the sinuses close to his right eye. I thought this was pretty silly at first, but I was told that this was his second operation, and that the first one had to be done because the accumulated mucus caused his eye to bulge out. Strange, but true. The last patient we visited was the one that left the most impact on me. He was confined in the Neuro Ward, but there was a curtain separating his bed from the others. This meant I had my first sight of him from quite close by, and I was relieved that my face didn't register my astonishment at what I saw. He was a small, thin boy, maybe seven or eight years old, and his large round head was lined with staples where his hairline would be. I learned that he was run over by a truck on a highway, and though he didn't have any injuries in the lower parts of his body, his skull was fractured in front and his eyes were damaged as well, but I didn't pay much attention to what I was told about what happened the boy's eyes because I couldn't stop staring at his head. It looked so fragile, as if a single touch would cause it to break apart again. And then my aunt mentioned that there was no bone left in front of his forehead and she told me to feel it. I did, and it was so soft that I was afraid I'd press too hard and maybe injure his brain so I quickly pulled away. Throughout all this the boy was awake, and he was murmuring things I couldn't understand. He must have said something funny though, because his mother, who was lying beside him on the bed, laughed a little and asked him about it. While my aunt and the boy's mother were conversing about his treatment and how well he was doing, I thought about how much bravery that mother was showing, that she could bear to laugh and appear to take things lightly for the sake of her child.

Afterwards, I asked my aunt about the details of the accident, and learned that it was a hit-and-run case - the truck driver had sped away right after hitting the boy. The remarkable thing about it was that a witness had managed to recall the truck's plate number, and because of that, the truck's owner, a Chinese businessman, had been identified and besides paying damages was charged to shoulder all the expenses related to the boy's treatment.

The whole story made me think a lot, especially of my decision to become a physician in the future. The truth is, when I was little, I wasn't exactly sure of the one thing I wanted to be when I grew up, but I made up my mind that I very certainly wasn't going to be a doctor. I don't really know why, but that's pretty much how I felt until high school, and by then, I had decided that I was going to become a lawyer. My parents hinted now and then that being a doctor would be an ideal profession for me, but I always dismissed the idea, and being the open-minded people that they are (God bless them), they left me to whatever I wanted for myself, believing firmly that I would put my heart to whatever it was I had chosen.

Things changed, though, when I was informed that I had the opportunity to enter a course that would reduce my pre-Med time to two years and guarantee me a slot in the College of Medicine, which is of course what INTARMED is. It was then that my father had a serious talk with me about what being a doctor is really like, and why he chose it as his profession. You see, my father, like me, had also wanted to become a lawyer. But he didn't do that, and now I can't imagine what life would be if he was one. Anyway, after that, I gradually came to realize that being a doctor was what I wanted to become, and was in fact the best thing I could become. It's like this: As a lawyer, I'd be spending my time studying things created by man, things that are arbitrary, temporary, and subject to interpretation. The law I'd be studying in the Philippines would probably be completely worthless in, say, Pakistan. On the contrary, as a doctor I'd be studying the inner workings of man, a creature created by God by his design, and even if you don't believe that, the point is that the biology of man is constant, in the sense that the same basic principles govern the body of every human, whether he lives in Pakistan or anywhere else. Furthermore, what makes medicine the noblest of all professions is that it very directly upholds the dignity of man, and an understanding of it is ultimately an understanding of the self.

I admit that I have many times been reluctant to face the fact that I am now stuck in Manila and this routine I loathe. This is why I wrote this piece partly as a reminder to my self that I do, in fact, desire to become a doctor. And I do believe in the end result of what I'm undertaking, even if I complain a lot about what happens along the way. The memory of the day I spent with my aunt at the hospital will stay with me as a reminder of why I'm here in the first place - because I want to make a difference, and because I want to do something meaningful with my life. That is all I really need to know.

I Just Need To Let This Out

I want to go home. The reason I've been griping about my situation ever since I got here is because I don't want to go through another month having to stress myself so much. I need to transplant my house and my family here. Or I need to transplant UPM and PGH there. I wonder which is easier. The latter, probably.

Another Litany

I did not get to enroll today. There was a problem with the registration - our block was assigned to the wrong classes. This means I'll have to go back tomorrow morning, right before our classes begin in the afternoon. Talk about short notice.

I got my P.E. grade instead. And though I know it doesn't really matter because P.E. is only a pass-fail course and the teacher was kind to me (she even remembered my name!) besides, I still got irked when I found out I only got a lousy 2.25. The teacher said it's because I didn't move so well. Oookay.

Note to self: let go of misgivings over crappy grade in insignificant subject.

Afterwards I told myself, Hey, why not have a nice meal at McDonald's (I hadn't eaten at McDonald's in over a month because it's out-of-the-way from my place) and get that McFlurry you've been craving for? So of I went in a vain effort to enjoy a satisfactory fast-food experience.

The McFlurry was fine. Everything else wasn't. It started right after I paid for my order. I handed the girl at the counter a five-hundred-peso bill. "Do you have a smaller bill?", girl-at-counter asked. "No," I said, slightly apologetically. So girl-at-counter proceeded to give me one hundred-peso bill, two hundred something pesos worth of twentys, and thirteen one-peso coins. This gave the effect that in one meal, my five hundred pesos had been reduced to one hundred-peso bill, a bunch of twentys, and some heavy coins that made my wallet bulge. I was not at all happy.

I took the only available table, which happened to be close to a number of middle-aged people who were having a meeting of some kind (though how people can stand to hold meetings such a crowded place with eighties new-wave music blaring in the background is beyond my comprehension). Big mistake. Apparently, they were discussing a pyramid marketing scheme. I learned this because their 'leader' kept talking about it in a loud, grating voice. Fortunately, I managed to tune him out after he mentioned something about some guy who pawned off his cell phone to get started in the business. I managed this because I started to notice my food.

I opened my yellow styrofoam food container and discovered, to my dismay, that my eighth of a chicken was a tiny, pathetic-looking wing. Also, the rice serving looked like it would only fill a quarter of a cup. The apple pie, too, seemed smaller than I remembered. At this point I had a strong urge to take back my money and spend it instead at Chef D'Angelo's (which, by the way, I do not consider a fast food place, except during peak hours) where I would at least have had a proper meal in front of me. This, sadly, was not a possibility. Faced with my dismal-looking meal of diminished proportions, it didn't take me long to finish eating and then I was out of there, facing the filthy street called Taft Avenue like a convict just released from prison.

Considering that for the next few weeks I shall once again have to patronize fast-food chains of the same kind, I have formulated a few rules that to me are essential for one to survive this particular type of dining experience unscathed:

1. Be prepared to face long lines in front of the counters upon your arrival, reminiscent of the food rationing services provided by the Soviet Republic decades earlier. Remember: You are not there to be serviced by that particular fast-food chain. You are there to add to the profits of its owners, just like the millions of Russians who died to give glory to their Great Proletarian Republic. So wait.

2. Expect your food to look a lot less appetizing than the pretty pictures you see in the menus.

3. Ignore the loud music/noisy people/unpleasant odors/general uncomfortableness of the surroundings. Buy your meal, eat it, and leave. Do not linger, because that might keep the hordes of potential customers from eating in the same place. It is likely that the loud music/noise/etc. were purposely set up by the management to get rid of you as soon as possible. Respect their wishes.

4. Do not expect the employees to have time to cater your needs. They are probably understaffed and are too busy taking orders from the customers who just keep on coming. This also applies to people who expect clean lavatories provided with soap and toilet paper - odds are, you're on your own.

5. Finally, whatever your circumstances, always compare your situation to the worst possible scenario. Then just grit your teeth, take a few deep breaths, and repeat the words 'this could be worse' in your head until you feel a bit better. If this doesn't work, go far, far away. You aren't in the right disposition to sustain other similar encounters. Better stick to home-cooked meals.

I think that this rip-off from something JFK said best illustrates the fast-food philosophy:

Think not what your fast-food chain can do for you, rather, think of what YOU can do for your fast-food chain.

Holy

Yesterday was Easter Sunday and I went to mass for the first time in three months. It took a little longer than usual. The priest had this Presbyterian from Norway profess his faith along with the rest of us and that was supposed to convert him into a Catholic. The priest asked everyone to give him a round of applause afterwards. I didn't. In my head I was wondering why on earth anyone would want to convert to the Catholic faith.

When I was studying in a Catholic school, masses and other religious services were imposed on us regularly. When the time came to recite the profession of faith (I believe in God, the father almighty, etc.) I couldn't allow myself to include the phrase 'the holy Catholic church'. I just didn't believe in it.

What I hate most about the Church is that it used to be a worldly, power-hungry institution that opressed the masses (the giving of indulgences and the Spanish Inquisition were acts of pure evil) and if there is anything I hate, it's someone, or something, that's oppressive and power-hungry. Even today, when the Church has made feeble attempts at making things right, I still observe priests and many self-righteous lay people acting exactly like the Pharisees Jesus so passionately condemned. I don't mean to say that the Church teaches people to act that way, but since a Church is supposed to be a community, I'd rather not be a part of it. Also, I agree with Martin Luther on many counts (like the issue on the adoration of Mary) and though I am not a Protestant, I very certainly do not want to be Catholic.

I agree that no religious denomination is perfect, which is why I prefer not to align myself with any and I consider myself a plain Christian. I read the Bible and I believe in Christ. I don't put any worth on tradition because Christ didn't either.

With that issue settled, my faith went on a roller coaster ride these past two weeks. I thought I got over my issues but now they're still here. I think, though, that I'll be able to deal with them in my own time and I don't need to convert denominations to put my mind to rest.

Relief

This is one of the days when I regret all the more that this country was not subjected to a dictatorship under Lee Kwan Yew. I just got back from Davao (I had to leave, there's no way around it) and endured a one-and-a-half-hour flight with an infant wailing incessantly throughout the duration. This is not something you want to happen to you when you need to take a rest. I wouldn't have been so pissed off if it hadn't been for what happened right after - it took exactly 29 minutes from when the conveyor belt started running before I got my only piece of luggage. I checked. And because of that wasted time, I'll have to postpone my enrollment for the summer term tomorrow. I remember Lee saying he made it a priority to make sure airline travelers got their luggage as soon as possible so there wouldn't be any unnecessary waiting. This is a concern our short-sighted politicians wouldn't even dream of addressing. If things had only gone differently, and Singapore got Marcos while we got Lee...

Unfortunately for me, more annoyances followed. After claiming my luggage I suddenly realized I left the book I was reading in the plane, a book which would have been of great use to me and which I most likely will not get another copy of. Stupid me. And then, when I got back to the building I stay in, this creepy taxi driver practically begged me for a large tip which I grudgingly gave him in case he did anything crazy.

Now, though, I am comfortably settled in and I'll be spending the rest of the day relaxing and giving myself a well-deserved rest.

Tomorrow is a new day and a new beginning and I'll see what life has in store for me.

Here is Good

I have come to the conclusion that home, indeed, is synonymous to rest, relaxation, and total comfort. I almost broke down when after three long months of (self-imposed) exile I was finally reunited with my big, brown, comfortable bed in my room that after all this time still exudes its the-great-Lyle-has-been-here-for-prolonged-periods quality. Never mind that my desk was replaced with piles of boxes in my absence. Never mind that the computer had to be reformatted which is why I am in yet another net cafe to get this entry published. In my mind's eye, there is, truly, no place like home.