The Wonders of Life

Even in the ripeness of time, I find I still am not quite immuned to or saved from the many “wonders” so common and prevalent during innocent youth.

Everyday as I continue to expend the time allotted me on this slowly ebbing mortal coil I continue to wonder about many things I witness in the scenic vistas unraveling before my most acutely inquisitive mind. I cannot be content as passive witness to the march of events as they unfold. I have to know more. It is almost like an addiction to a kind of curiosity that could be bordering on morbidity. It does not compute like it is natural for a person to be so in rapt with such mundane preoccupations. But much though I want to get rid of it or not accept its reality, it is cravenly still there. As big as life, and twice as demanding for attention.

Thus, alone with my thoughts during unencumbered moments watching the busy intersection defining the little neighborhood where our little building is, I absentmindedly observe the gaggle of people and vehicles at almost perpetual near collision in the streets and sidewalks that comprise the cross-road. And my thoughts start racing with the usual wonder-ment.

This lady has a brisk gait tethering a bit in her high heels, with neatly-pressed and mini-skirted rust-color uniform revealing a well-toned body, and long wet hair waffling as she strides. I wonder where she works since I see her quite often walking toward the same direction. I wonder where, since she is heading south and away from where the offices would typically be located – in the poblacion. I wonder if she maybe works in a small office tucked away in some big building located in that area.

Along the intersection where many jeepneys tarry to create an illegal terminal, there is always a boisterous group of shabbily dressed kids, crowding around jeepneys and almost manhandling passersby into riding a particular jeepney. They are called dispatchers, who for a pittance will assist jeepney drivers get people to ride their jeepneys. I wonder where these truant kids come from since they do not look like they come from the neighborhood. I wonder what they make each day and whether it is enough to sustain their daily living.


Observing the parade of people each day, especially women, one wonders if one is inside a big candy shop bursting full with all kinds of goodies. You see all sorts of ladies pass by, and I admit I tend to notice more the nubile variety. All tightly wrapped up in curvaceous packages of assorted clothes wear, and typically all looking fresh having just come out of a shower or bath as evidenced by still wet long flowing hair. I wonder why Filipinas always appear to take baths or showers in the mornings before venturing out of the house. I wonder if they realize that they can be cleaner for a longer period if they instead took baths or showers in the late afternoon or night after returning from work or running chores. I wonder if many do take two showers/baths a day, the second one at night. But then why bathe in the morning before leaving? Does not make sense, you wonder.

And I definitely wonder aloud if these women realize that the common thread (nice pun, eh?) in what they wear is so apparent – they all seem partial to tight almost second-skin type of jeans leaving no living space between body and clothes. I wonder if many have to literally force themselves into those body-hugging attire. The struggle seems to continue all day this time with gravity since the pants sit not on the hips but under where body anatomy starts to taper off. And this coupled with equally tight blouses or t-shirts that almost always never meet up with the uppermost part of the pants. Thus, even for the remotely modest there is the constant tug and pull to keep a moving body covered when sitting down, stooping to pick stuff up, or doing any upper body movement that requires some stretching. And I wonder why the womenfolk have to go to such lengths when there are readily available more functionally logical clothing. And I do not mean those abbreviated shorts which could be considered as appropriate wear only inside the privacy of one’s abode or in a picnic event.

Having described it thus, I curiously wonder how these women now purchase their clothes wear. I can just imagine the Herculean task involved in fitting tightly all these women who come in a dizzying array of different sizes and dimensions. It can’t be simply off the rack material. I wonder what happened to the standard sizing so common during our youth – one was either a small, or a medium, or a large, or if none of those, an extra-large. I was dismissively told that most jeans are now stretchable. Yeah, right. Stretchable but definitely up to a certain point. Unless many of them are pushing tightness in clothing to unequaled heights. Or maybe, all these women make their own personalized alterations to store-bought jeans having learned how to hand- or machine-sew from their doting mothers. Yeah, right. And Cagayan de Oro has very good traffic. Anyway, what happened to the familiar sight of ladies in skirt and blouse? Now one has to be inside an office to see it. Or in school. Maybe at home women still wear “duster” to ease up on the day’s tug and pull, err, hustle and bustle? Don’t see any.

And wonder of wonders, I wonder if we can still say that men wear the pants in the family.

But there is no wondering that humor is still the best medicine.

Ah, the wonders of life!

Not Your Everyday Cloud Formation

After just backing out of the house, saw this rather unusual cloud formation looking up at the eastern skies off Cagayan de Oro at 8:45 on a clear bright morning.

Shots taken by a point-and-shoot camera, filtered by the windshield tint inside the car.

A Child’s Face

One bright morning furtively seated on the warming sidewalk by her lonesome, this forlorn child maybe no more than 10 looks up with those sad eyes, conveying maybe a world of privation, loneliness, and definitely hunger.

But what change a somewhat curt offer of a few pieces of bread can bring to a child’s face. It is definitely enough to warm one’s heart, a truly valuable exchange for a pittance of an offer.

Why We Want To Be SUPERMAN

I just saw Superman Returns, the latest on the caped, blue and red superhero, on HD TV. Overall, it inspired and entertained. (Better late than never.)

In this movie, there is a dramatic scene, where a controllably piqued Lois Lane chides the returning Superman for his earlier sudden departure with nary an adieu; and we learn later that that stealthy departure, more than just a cruel disregard of her love for him, had also left her with child to raise on her own. So justifiably she blurted out in subdued anguish that she did not need a savior. And this she shouted to the world by writing an item that won her a Pulitzer Prize, entitled Why the world does not need Superman.

The cryptic defense of the visibly unmoved Man of Steel came and ended with the following statements, as paraphrased, and dramatized with the two hovering above the night-darkened clouds. Lois, do you hear anything? After her negative answer, the stoic Man of Steel ends with: But I hear all the people down there, all asking for a savior.

How true. All of us have need of a savior. All of us during countless times in our wearied lives need some assistance or comfort, or rescue – whether emanating from family, from friends, or anybody. Or, God, maybe?

Regardless, our lives are never meant to be lived alone, in the lonely isolation of our little worlds. And in this regard and as an altruistic exercise of our learned Christian charity, we wish we ourselves in return can provide all the assistance and comfort to any and all of humanity. And we do at times wish we were super rich or possessed of mysterious super powers so we are able to provide all the necessary assistance and comfort to as many people as are needing them. We can only imagine the stupendous possibilities if we had those boundless capabilities. The realities that can be had, well beyond the fuzzy worlds of our wistful thinking!

As kids we dream or fantasize about these things simply because of the unbounded novelty, the uniqueness, and the awesomeness of such mythic experiences to our unformed worlds. But as adults?

I look at public personalities like Bill Gates and Warren Buffett. And I truly imagine them as Superman, not simply because of their exceptional accumulated wealth. But more because of the awesome power that wealth can generate and effect in righting this huge globe burdened and precariously listing by vicissitudes galore. Sometimes we wonder if life is worth living. With so much poverty, wars, killings, every conceivable type of violence, etc, at every turn.

But with his billions under the sagacious rein of his huge philanthropic organization, Bill Gates singly can undertake to finance the elementary education of all children in an entire impoverished African nation. He can strategically spread his wealth around in scholarships and commendable projects that will benefit huge numbers of people in places needing assistance.

This is a job for Superman. Up, up and away.

Digits in the Digital Age

An utterly needless and totally unnecessary accident drops one on the knees of utter helplessness, deep trauma, gnawing remorse and frustration. Bringing in bouts of pain, sleepless nights and some depression.

Exactly two weeks ago, one such unfortunate incident visited my otherwise harried but hum-drum life. Topping off a busy day with a flurry of chores needed to enhance our little business enterprise, I was ready late in the afternoon of a humid Saturday to call it a day, on the tail-end of the last chore of cleaning our ominous-looking (in hindsight) dough roller machine.

When from out of nowhere, and certainly not from heaven, I now vaguely recall being conscious of three of my fingers on my left hand being deep inside the two spinning rollers.

Sparing the grisly details of what happened in the next moments, hours, and days, I can only say that now my three fingers are heavily bandaged still, feeling still the occasional throbbing pain, and at times feeling the depressing feeling of self-anger and conscious self-loathing for allowing such a needless and unnecessary turn of events.

Why was I not my usual uber-careful self? What a stupid thing to have allowed such a thing to happen? Now I can’t type, tie my shoelaces, not even go through the usual personal hygiene chores – without the same difficulties only a learning child would typically encounter.

Now I have taken to looking at my right hand (the good one), flexing the fingers every which way, and generally admiring the science behind them. The genius of the opposable thumb! And then sadly turning my gaze on the other. Sigh. How badly I took it for granted, having been reckless in its use! If only time could be pushed back. I would pay money for it to happen. But regrets always trail behind, a hazy image of our life’s rearview mirror. And time does not walk backward.

How particularly crucial your digits have become on this Digital Age. Typing is now an excruciating chore or exercise for me.

No doubt I have discovered new-found respect for my digits.

A loose board of a bedroom cabinet remains untended and unrepaired, staring boldly at and challenging my innate resolve to keep things in the house in good order. Because at this time, I do not have the ability to hold a nail on one hand and holding a hammer on the other to drive the nail.

Oh, brother!

In A Fog: What To Blog

Having wrenched myself away from the secure comforts of home and hearth in Northern California, I am now three months into another extended sabbatical in the land of my birth, immersed again in a life rendered quite removed and different from three decades of living in the adopted country.

Though eternally busy in dealing with all the ennui of the arcane chores of daily living in the old hometown, certain precious times are still available for eking out moments of quiet introspection and reflection into the profundities of life.

Like the eternally relevant and mind-challenging question:

What the hell am I doing here when I should be scouring the pleasure spots of the world trying to find pleasure, what else, in the kind of life most of us work very hard all our productive lives to aspire for and attain?

Or the trite and more mundane query into:

Why does the unbearable heat, humidity really, of the tropics not frustrate enough the people here to want to move to a more temperate climate – like in the mountains or to another country?

Search me.

I am not a wise man neither am I a fool, as one of Elvis Presley’s’ songs goes. Thus, But what I am the way the good Lord made me, the song intones further.

First, sedentary retirement is not an option. In my quaint vocabulary to re-tire is likened to an automobile tire given new life, a retread. Retread for a more useful life. Retread to add more life to one already spent.

And beyond the sublime and surreal, there is the gaping need to try to recoup losses in physical resources such as a home and retirement resources such as pensions and 401ks which both have been equally decimated by the fortuitous onset of the global economic crisis.

So to the first question, everything is on hold. This would be the more appropriate option. And the old homeland still not reeling too much from the rippling effects of the global crisis would be a decent alternative in trying to generate some revenue for any business undertaking, or compound yields for financial assets that can be invested there.

Re the climate portion, indeed why do not people move? There are enough highland areas still uninhabited where heat-challenged people can ease in and enjoy life more, rather than constantly be warring against and always losing in the process with the irritating, debilitating, and paralyzing effects of intolerable heat especially in city or urban lowland living. Filipinos are indolent if this charge is factual for a reason. The heat can wreak havoc to the most industriously diligent human being. Man only takes so much heat. Try measuring the time one can bear to hold one’ hand over a lighted candle against the same action but this time with ice or anything cold. There is no contest.

As once proud residents of the San Francisco-Bay Area in the West Coast, we always prided ourselves on our sweater-weather climate. Any resident or guest desiring to spend time outdoors can almost always count that wearing a sweater would be sufficient enough apparel whether in the thick of summer or the throes of winter. Average temperature is almost always mild and changes are hardly perceptible.

But the sun in the tropics can beat on you mercilessly, whether sans apparel or wearing layers of clothing for protection. There is no escaping the intolerable effects of the hot and humid climate. Whether in the way it burns your skin or the resultant incessant sweat oozing out of our bodies. And this whether in the thick of summer or throes of the most wet wet season.

So there you go. Another abbreviated reflection session terminated, to live another day.

And I still live and the world around me continues to exist and spin.

Give due thanks to the Grand Designer.

Stray Thoughts On A Cloudy Day

When angry winds buffet, timid and fragile sails are furled.

Or so we were told or saw in the many sea-faring movies of old.

Thus, too, this last Friday harried workmen started rolling up the giant billboard hanging on the roof deck of our building.

When queried why this new-found solicitousness over a coming little wind and rain, they cheerfully said that storm signal No. 1 had been hoisted by the local government weather forecasting station, aptly called Pag-asa (literally meaning hope in English), ominously presaging the rampaging onslaught of a good-sized typhoon expected to hit the area that Sunday. And from their explanation, one gathered that the weather station has now been tasked with informing billboard owners when storm signals are up to allow them ample time to take precautionary measures, like rolling up their tarp billboards. So caught a team of high-climbing trapeze artists nimbly clambering the steel structure to unhitch and secure their billboard. In less than an hour, the huge “sail” was securely tied up on top casting a very tiny profile for any angry wind to maul.

A good precautionary measure indeed in a country that is regularly visited by disastrous typhoons, which unwelcome natural calamities almost always bring considerable damage to structures and infrastructures. Blowing away very exposed billboards and their frames has been a commonplace occurrence, sometimes causing also human deaths.

As a relieving end-note, Sunday came and the sun shone mercilessly throughout the day, nary a drop of rain or a wisp of air to blow away a lit candle.

As usual, weather forecasting at its level best. No better, or worse, than a throw of the dice.

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One’s face is usually unerring testimony to the ravages of time and the catalogue of deeply wrenching emotions felt over the years. Leathery or botched skin, wrinkled temples, furrowed foreheads, and more, are what we carry to our graves if we live to be of ripe old ages. These are inevitable and inherited signs of man’s living of life. We can usually not only tell a man’s age by these markers, but how easy, comfortable or difficult one has gone through life. And repetitively doing specific physical activities as part of one’s life usually leaves visible marks in one’s body. A stevedore, or mason, or a carpenter will typically show the accumulated results of their trades in their bronzed and well-developed arms. A doctor, especially a surgeon, maybe by his dainty and exquisite hands and arms?

Aside maybe from a gaunt overall physique, what else does a long-time inveterate jogger or brisk-walker exhibit?

Well, after over a score of years of jogging, here is what I can show to the body parts that I use most prominently running or jogging, usually on hard pavement.










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When nuns gather for a noonday meal at some fastfood center in the mall, you can bet that it will be a happy and holy refection. Caught in a pancake place, of four Assumption nuns taking a little respite from their campus outreach ministry at Xavier University.

A holy meal of tossed salad and smoked fish, and of course, rice.

Man Years Vs Dog Years

Part of conventional wisdom instructs us that one year of any dog’s life is worth seven in man (homo sapiens) and over time we have come to accept that as accepted truth. Well, not so. Even Snopes.Com has weighed in to correct our wrong notions about this truism.

A couple of clear but general benchmarks for earnest dog lovers. Generally, small breed dogs live longer than big breed dogs. Per current history, longer living dogs can live to be over 20 years (record shows one living for 27 years).

Like us, abuse-prone creatures, the life span of dogs also depends on a host of factors. Genetics, environment, life style, and for dogs, even the type of breeds, etc.

And with dogs too, there is the at times forgotten angle to their life spans, that some dogs age slower than other dogs of different breeds. Meaning, two dogs born on the same day may grow, or “mature” differently. Thus, one may be said to be older than the other, though born at the same time.

To be realistic then, many would agree that a typical dog year is more like five years of human life.

Hey, no problem here. So you, Princess, are now two and one-half years old having been born about 6 months ago.

Another six months and you will be considered full-grown or mature. Enjoy the rest of your childhood!

For more on Princess, click here and here.

Garbage Guaranty

UPDATE: (June 28th, 2008)

Now, does that look like "fresh" garbage added on the heap, after a newly-painted garbage drum has been added for the dumpers' convenience?

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One sure way to guarantee that garbage and refuse will be dumped on your vacant lot.

A Path Less Traveled

Dear blogger, ever wonder who visit your blog? And where they come from? Or even what they visit in your blog?


Sitemeter can be a credible source enough to learn about them. Especially if your blog is pretty much like mine, where unique visits are few and far between. Currently, I get a little less than 40 unique visitors each day.


One or two are quite regular visitors, like fellow blogger PhilippinesPhil, and thus would not be representative for why a typical or casual visitor decides to open up on my site. Phil visits almost all blog entries I write, whether serious, fanciful, or even those which may be woefully adjudged by some as bordering on inanity.

But many (and I say that relatively and advisedly given my blog’s miniscule reach) span the entire globe – from Finland, to different African countries, to Palestinian occupied territories, to most Asian countries including the old homeland Philippines, and even to unfamiliar places like Stoke-at-the-Trent, UK. I have been introduced to so many unheard of places that Google had only been too happy to oblige. And for me it is addedly exhilarating to note that certain things I write about, which admittedly have some profound importance to me, are also sufficiently interesting to other people in the globe.

But what things?

When I wrote a little piece on Cartesian logic, really just a passing reference and a little exposition of its meaning, little did I realize that to this day I continue to get visits from different parts of the world, but more likely from France and neighboring European countries. Of course, this type of logic is oft described as a national trait of the French.

The same thing happened when I started the series on food recipes of the different regions of the Philippines. In any given cluster of visits, I could depend on one or two visits looking for recipes of regions they originally came from, that is, from Filipinos who are now living abroad pining for the local cuisine of their youth.

One time I wanted to find out what could make my blog garner more visits. And early on had decided that writing about a breaking news scoop could be a good vehicle. Try I did about a grisly suicide of an accused husband to a murdered Philippine actress, and immediately tripled my readership. Unfortunately, the spike did not correspondingly elate and elevate my spirits. It was sort of an empty victory. Don’t they refer to this as Pyrrhic victory? I wanted more, more in terms of what I felt was important for me too.

So immediately reverted to my usual tack, writing mostly about things that meant something to me, and as much as possible giving them a positive spin. This way I felt good about myself, and thus motivated me to regularly go back and reread the stuff I had written, not so much as an ego-trip but to try and relive the warm feelings engendered by my writing the entries.

Writing about the genealogies of my father, my mother, and my wife’s mother have also stirred continuing interest. Right now, the genealogy of my father’s family continues to get hits from around the globe which I suspect come from possible relatives who want to learn more about their past and relations.

But beyond this, and more like the wayward but equally delicious crust of a favorite pie, it also made me feel fuzzy to discover that strangers from some distant corners of the world, populated by people who do not even share commonly my background and predispositions could find some of my writings interesting enough to go and visit for a few minutes or so. Like entries about credit unions, some hobbies and pastimes, even deeply personal things such as sketches and drawings.

All these have helped make regular blogging to this day a sustaining effort for me.

Thanks to all visitors. You are most welcomed.

The Lowly Tambis Tree

This morning as I sat on my comfy bench parked on a shaded side of the house, wearied from the early morning heat aggravated by another electric blackout, I espied the tambis tree of the neighbor and was immediately transported to my youth. By the way, this neighbor’s lot used to be owned by an elder sister who was responsible for planting this tree when she still owned it.

The tambis was starting to fruit, laden with a lot of blossoms that will eventually become the pinkish ripe juicy fruits very characteristic of the tambis in these parts. I had though to exert some extra efforts to first of all properly identify the tambis to those unfamiliar with it. Thus, learned second-hand that its scientific name is Svzygium Aqueum. And in the process also learned a bit of confusion about whether tambis and macopa, another local fruit tree, are one and the same. In our old hometown, we had both, bearing different looking fruits, coming from two different looking trees, and definitely not one and the same.

Here’s a bit of the confusion as brought out in this site, and one commentor’s statement was most telling:

Tambis & Makopa are not the same fruits! In the Visayas, Philippines, we have both. They may come from the same family but are definitely two different fruits. Makopa has a smoother skin while Tambis’shallow furrows are more pronounced. Makopa’s fruit is finer but has a faint tart taste. Tambis fruit is coarser & no tartness. Makopa has a deeper red color. Tambis is lighter like pinkish red.

This necessary distraction has made me veer away from the reasons why I was reminded of the tambis and its tree.

So, meanwhile back to the ranch ……

As an adolescent but not quite a teen yet, I was kept mostly indoors or within the confines of our small house, credit a rather solicitous mother for that. Our house stood at the corner of a common lot, owned jointly by two other sisters of my father. While one sister had also built her residence flushed to one side of our house, the other sister who lived out of town left hers vacant. This became our playground, the only playground for nine kids bursting out of a house that measured only 100 square meters.

In the middle of this vacant lot was an old tambis tree, whose age we never bothered to find out so long as it kept bearing fruits when its season was due. As maybe a giveaway for its ancient age, beside it was an old rusted and overturned steel safe that served as planter. It was a remnant of the last war, we were told.

With nine kids composed of 5 precocious boys one can bet that that mute and unmoving tree must have endured some form of abuse from the boys. And it did. I can recall that in instances where I pretended to be the famed swashbuckler Errol Flynn, I would do battle with the unmindful tree, thrusting into its gnarled trunk whatever I had in my hand that passed as sword or rapier. I can even recall using a big Moslem kris that I threw like a knife into its fleshy trunk and not being satisfied until the perfect throw landed the bolo’s tip deep enough into its trunk to quiver and stay in its place like in the movies. Who cared then about the welfare or life of that living flora. So long as it bore fruit when its season was due.

Because when its season was due, it was laden heavy with those luscious fruits, from the low-lying branches to the topmost skyward ones that must have towered two-storey high. The fruits surely were very tempting even to a pre-teen who could not rely on old siblings to do the picking.

So learning to climb that tree was the big challenge, a much more visible and urgent challenge then than learning to ride the big bike of an older sibling. Naturally, the first attempts were tentative and limited to the low-lying branches. But like most things in life, acquiring the most temptingly delicious ones involves more risks and dangers, and more scary heights. Thus a summer or two may have been devoted to the process of acquiring the expertise, but more importantly of generating enough nerve and courage, to climb to the lofty branches where those huge fruits seemed to arrogantly challenge my puny attempts.

The conquests were very exhilarating, and rewarded amply with very juicy fruits that went deliciously well dipped in table salt. Pretty soon, climbing that tree was second nature and the tree itself appeared resigned to its fate, bearing fruits that were easier to retrieve. Though at times unsuccessfully attempting by subtly hiding some of them in the thick foliage, playing a failed hide and seek.

Thus, the once mighty tambis tree of my early youth became the lowly tree of my teens, scarred not only with the ravages of time but with the many unheralded conquests made at its expense.

When my father’s sister decided to build on the vacant lot, that tree was the first to go, trailed behind by the old steel safe that must have been given away or sold for its scrap value.

From vacant lot to spanking new house, the memory of the old tambis tree faded from my memory, replaced with the many more worldly cares and recklessness of teen youth.

Until this day, when the heat of the sun joined by the fruiting season of the tambis tree . . .

November 30, 2012, today found an old picture showing part of the tambis tree of my youth, located on the right side of this picture.  This was our old house where we all grew up.

 

 

 

 

Mirror, Mirror on The Wall..

Who is the most beautiful of them all?

Of Hats And Caps

In this sainted land of overarching consumerism and an unrelenting era of abundance, it is not difficult to understand why people unwittingly become collectors of stuff. Thus, even if bereft of any crazed proclivities an Imelda Marcos would find casual and natural, items fall into one’s lap in great heap-full quantifies especially consumer items that come in differing styles, colors, designs, shapes, etc. And reaching sufficient critical mass, they rightly then could be adjudged as collections. Whether they are shoes, cars, hats, cosmetics, accessories, toys, sports items, matchbooks, etc.

Since a lot of ladies, and I suppose men, too, are fond of personal accessories, we hear how good fortunes are spent on them not only for daily usage but also as prized “collections”. Thus collections of expensive and exquisite perfumes, exorbitantly prized hand-made designer handbags, different shades of lipsticks, etc. do not anymore raise many eyebrows. And imagine what good-sized fortunes are spent to collect either antique or just plain expensive cars? We read that the initial design of Bill Gates’ mansion had a garage that could accommodate 89-100 cars and that was just the initial design in a now completed house that had to undergo so many changes and additions that if they were cosmetic facelifts you would not recognize the finished product.

Click to read more.

How Big Is Your World?

(Stray thoughts corralled during unguarded moments of an introspective round-up.)

A few days ago for some inexplicable reason at about 8:30PM I was all about ready to drop to bed unable to keep droopy eyes opened in spite of the colorful visual perks on TV and the Internet. So off to soft warm comfort I plopped before 9PM, undoubtedly unusually early for me. Before long I was roaming dreamland.

But by 1AM I suddenly nudged and sleep was interrupted, with eyes and mind unerringly flashed back to reality. And the lingering warmth of the prior sunny day was no help in my half-hearted attempt at getting back to sleep. Thus unleashed, the unrestrained mind started racing through whatever figment of any idea floated through.

Suddenly the question. How big is your world? I mean that physical world that you can presently perceive, participate in, personally interact with, and in so doing somehow influence. And on the other hand, I do not mean the world that one has access to either virtually, remotely, vicariously, or from afar. The world that opens up for you when your imagination takes over, or when you turn your TV on, or when you read books, or when one plays video games, etc.

I emphatically refer to the concrete world of reality that we daily have to either enjoy through or labor under, a world we cannot hurry or slow down, a world we may exert some influences on but not really much.

I immediately thought about the suddenly ubiquitous politicians and their surrogates, this being the midst of the political season, and whose political ambitions and boundless rhetoric media have unilaterally co-opted as its addictive business to repeatedly delve into and broadcast wide to all and sundry.

By purpose and choice, the politician’s world has to be big and wide. They have to know and interact with lots and lots of people because of the very nature of their profession. They have to know most of the bureaucratic people in government, the motivated people in their frenetic campaigns, the harried people in business or those stodgy people oozing with money, and in most abundant numbers, the faceless and numberless masses falling under the term, electorate. It goes without saying that they have decided to allocate for themselves the biggest world they can have, acquire, keep, and influence.

And undoubtedly, there are many other equally motivated people who find themselves in likely situations. The smart business entrepreneurs would have the same goals, but for reasons of their own, essentially so their businesses would have extensive exposure and clientele, and the bigger the better. Churchmen and purveyors of religion also have the same though spiritual designs, to reach as many potential devotees as possible.

But for the multitudes of us, we would rather keep our worlds easily manageable, comfortably small, and maybe uncluttered and easy to gather and discern. All in the cozy and safe embrace of the mantle of personal privacy and privacy rights where many of us find shelter and have ordained to keep our domicile. Thus, we are easily incensed when we discover any attempt whether by government or through any private initiative to invade or curtail that aura of privacy, and thus attempt to make our worlds larger. We will fight ferociously to keep our privacy cove clandestinely isolated and intact and its well-guarded boundaries and parameters sacrosanct. We do not welcome intrusions.

To arrive at some proof or validation, I did start to take stock of my own personal situation to determine what size my world was.

The idling mind then ambled to its next likely chore, trying to determine for me how big or small my world was, especially in these new environs where we have purposely decided as migrants to install ourselves in. We did choose this place to be near our immediate family members, our married kids and their families. A married daughter and her family are only 5 minutes drive away in the same city. But aside from them, the nearest relatives are at least 50 miles away in different directions and contacts are essentially through the phone. We do attend church services, but beyond communal prayer and worship, we have not really had deep social interactions in the different groups available in the parish. And we do shop regularly in some retail stores for our daily needs, but nothing much beyond just having nodding acquaintances with a few sales people. Even within the tight housing development we are in, we cannot in honesty really say that we have acquired new friends, and mind you it is not due to a simple lack of trying. And mark another nil in the work environment, since I have not really sought any local employment, while the wife preoccupies her time taking care of a family member a couple of miles away. Any other sectors missed?

All things considered, it is quite a narrow miniscule world I inhabit, if I may say so. Although being first generation immigrants (regardless of the considerable length of stay here), we still regularly interact with the old world we left behind in the old homeland, through regular protracted visits.

Inversely, we inhabit other worlds which in some ways may not easily lend themselves to size measurements. The daily and at times prolonged incursions in the unfathomable depths of the Internet allow the subject not only access but real-time interaction with a vast uncharted world of differing interests and subjects, encompassing whatever drives one’s fancies and curiosities. The regular sessions in front of TV serve up a plate-full of worlds just as varied and exotic, and all this in high definition. Newspapers, books, magazines, even those colorful business ad flyers collectively derided as spam, bring one to worlds that could stagger anyone’s vivid imagination in terms of its diversity and volumes of subjects.

We do include the mystical and vertically-oriented world we visit during prayers and worship, during solemn times of spiritual contemplation and introspection, where we leave the world of reality and ascend to one more ephemeral and ennobling.

And lastly and almost needless to state, I do have bouts with my fertile imagination as venue, seeing myself soaring through the air above some remote verdant canyons in the province of Bukidnon, expertly maneuvering and guiding my trusty gyrocopter through cascading treetops and adroitly outflanking shifty winds, etc. A world suspended in eager anticipation of the day when my real-life preparations for such activities will have been undertaken and accomplished.

What exactly is the relationship between these twin-category worlds, the real and the virtual? Do they grow or constrict in inverse proportion to each other? Or do they both grow side by side, complementing and supporting each other?

This might be the next interesting avenue to explore come next time when the same fertile mind is given free rein anew during moments of quiet and idle introspection.

Personally then the early but interrupted sleep was parlayed into a meaningful purpose for me. Gave for me new meaning to the cliché, sleeping on one’s problems.

Graphics:
1. Sculpture made by G. Ruggeri, from Tuscany, Italy. 14" statue of Blessed Virgin with infant Jesus. Made of bonded Carrara Marble and Alabaster, and finished by hand with remarkable detail, and hand painted.
2&3. Clarinet set, dismantled and in case.

A Special Tribute: US Major Andrew Olmsted, R.I.P.

Major Olmsted was one among three of the first casualties in Iraq for the New Year. He was also an active blogger in his own blog, for other blogs and the Rocky Mountain News.

Olmsted, 38 years of age, died from small-arms fire when his unit was ambushed.

Why the special tribute?

Before dying, Major Olmsted starting writing his last blog post, with instructions to a friend to post after his death. Read it here. While the posthumous act itself was quite unusual, more awe-inspiring were the ideas that he committed to words for that last post.

But more significant for me were the words that came from somebody else:

“…it was important to know that Olmsted died doing what he loved to do — not just being a soldier, but posting his blogs for The Rocky and other sites.”

Now, isn’t that what life is all about? Doing what one loves to do. Regardless of the amount of time involved. Maj. Olmsted was 38.

Aside from what was mentioned in the quote above, Maj. Olmsted loved seeing his favorite baseball team win the World Series twice. And he was mighty proud of his extensive 80’s songs library, downloaded and ready to be listened to.

About the moustache? Was he going for the macho look? No, he just thought that Iraqis did not look too kindly on those without facial hair.

This fine soldier died in a war-torn country so the rest of us in the comfort of our homes and in the fullness of time can give pause and ponder on the wantonness of this soldier’s early demise.

This fine soldier died so the meek and gentle can gather thoughts and ask why with the utter uselessness of wars they are still breaking out in the world, with regularity and almost with necessity.

This fine soldier died so the rest of us can think and express ourselves in whatever way we desire, with freedom and without fear.

This fine soldier even died for those who may find dread or be squeamish about the brutally violent nature of a soldier’s job.

But as always things still fall neatly in place, since to each life there is a season.

Rejoice, Ye Bloggers: We Have Bigger Heads!

And I do mean literally, at least 20% bigger than our ancestors.

Which ancestors? Cro-Magnons? Neanderthals?

No! What about our medieval peers of 650 years ago.

Credit a BBC report for this exhilarating revelation, which announced the results of studies on our European ancestors of 650 years ago, which would be in the 14th century. Comparative analyses showed our earlier peers as having smaller cranial vaults compared to the exalted present version, giving new meaning to the common observation of our having bigger foreheads. And by extension and/or implication, we therefore have bigger and more cranial matter, that gray goo that fills our head above our eyes. And thus smarter and/or more intelligent?

Another angle to this revelation is an apparent repudiation of our common perception that Darwin’s evolution takes a much longer time to process and show results, and that 600 years in that context could be considered very little time.

Which by the way, while the vault has broadened and become more prominent, man’s other facial features have become less prominent. This I suppose includes his nose, cheeks, jaws, mouth, eyes, etc. On a side note, wouldn’t this suggest that in the same vein, man has to develop more hair to cover the enlarged skull? What about the typically larger than necessary ego that modern man is prone to display and parade around? Has it gotten bigger, too? (HeHeHe)

While the physical changes are undeniable, one can’t help wonder what crucial factors brought about these accelerated changes. Or whether these remarkable changes are simply an aberration of nature rather than an expected progressive step in the ladder of evolution?

Some would point to better nutrition and the much improved overall living conditions as very crucial contributing factors for the increase in size, the same remarkable increases that we see in man’s overall physique – bigger, taller, faster, stronger, better looking, and what have you.

This finding also brings others to suggest that his may account for the remarkable explosion in man’s creativity and inventiveness in the intervening years. Stupendous advances in the sciences and technology, and of course, the overall equally robust advances in civilization.

Finally, this does give us pause to recognize and honor the womenfolk who have had to bear the physical brunt of this phenomenon – the physically exacting process of giving birth to babies with bigger heads!

Although to a universally acceptable extent, the menfolk already recognize and adore the current womenfolk’s enlarged pelvic bones which have carried over externally to more abundantly well-defined and temptingly sensual hips. The Classic Coca-Cola body!

Graphics Credit

Tracy Skyscape

The intense summer heat notwithstanding, Tracy can be a riveting visual delight. The chocolate-colored hills from the distance. . .
(Click images to enlarge)




. . .and the mute explosion of colors in its twilight sky.

Different Strokes, Different Folks

In the wake of the brutal dogfighting scandal that has imperiled the career of Atlanta Falcons’ Michael Vick, the following story on illegal cockfighting somewhere in rural Polk County in Florida came out, this time highlighting the illegal and shady underground world of professional cockfighting here in the US. Aside from the brutality of the sport, this activity has been judged illegal in all states, except in Louisiana.

With this high-profile case about dogfighting, the good likelihood is that it will push legal initiatives addressing all forms of cruelty to animals in arranged encounters masquerading as sports. The concomitant monetary dimensions may also likely provide the needed inertia to slow the process down because these activities also partake of big-time gambling. So let’s wait and see, after all cruelty to humans as we see in many of those extreme fighting events is going the other way – on the rise and gaining more participants/viewership.

But now across this big pond we call the Pacific lies the archipelago nation of the Philippines that has very deep cultural ties (and monetary, too) with precisely this “sport” of cockfighting, so deeply ingrained that all strata of society willingly and with no qualms, participate in this legal activity. Even before Magellan in the 1500s discovered the islands, its indigenous peoples were already steeply engaged in it, placing it as a central part of their social recreation. In the big cities down to the lowliest towns, the presence of the unmistakable cockpit is ubiquitous and during Sundays, pious attendance to religious ceremonies in the largely Catholic country competes with the boisterous sessions at the cockpit.

And its popularity appears to be at inverse proportion to the country’s economic conditions. The poorer it gets, the more cockfighting is being done. As I recall growing up in that milieu, cockfighting was legal only during Sundays, or on rare occasions sanctioned by the local authorities, either as a celebratory dispensation like during fiestas, or to commemorate special occasions that bring more people (and money) to the locality. And these were held exclusively in a sanctioned cockpit under “regulatory supervision”. But even then, there were illegal and clandestine cockfighting sessions called tupadas, sprouting in remote and inaccessible areas.

But now as I understand it, the market holds sway, meaning it is held as often as the market can bear. Which could be daily. And as an undeniable measure of its popularity and acceptance, the same coliseum where the Ali-Frazier fight was seen by the entire world, the same place where the last pope said the Mass that echoed across the globe, is the same place where cockfighting “derbies” are regularly held and where the richest aficionados match the skills of their cocks with their bloated pocketbooks, and as reported with wagers as high as $400,000 per day.

As reported by LA Times, this “sport”, or call it game or industry, economically benefits the entire country annually to the tune of US$1 billion. As many as 5 million gladiator cocks are used each year for this.

One wrinkle that may separate the Philippines from the rest as reported is the manner of disposition of the “loser” cocks, or locally called bihag, which in most instances are not either thrown away or buried, but brought home and eaten. I recall as a kid that one could go to the cockpit and savor menu derived from their carcasses, rich and nutritious soup or stew dishes since cocks are not only fed and treated well but they regularly ingest vitamin pills to prepare them for battle. Or one could buy them dressed and brought home to be cooked as desired.

It is interesting to note also that during that time the much preferred breed was called Texas, primarily because they were imported from the US. And local breeders since then have been exerting their best to produce the best fighting cocks from that mix. I was told of late that in Stockton one could purchase breeders for export to other countries. However it has also been reported by the LA Times, that the president has signed a law making it a felony to transport across state lines, or export, chickens used in fights.

Like the sport itself, cockfighting lingo is also rich and colorful – inilog and biya, masyador or kristo, quatro diez, siete ocho, llamado and dejado, sunoy and sabungero, tari for razors or knives, etc.

Graphics

The little Prince

He wonderfully intrudes in our lives, most times on visits unannounced and barkingly noisy.

(Click on pictures to enlarge.)

Then upon entry to the house, frenziedly races like crazy through the carpeted areas of the house, liked he owned the house. And worse, like the entire house was one labyrinthine dog track that he can practice on, weaving, zigzagging, and jumping through furniture, corners, and what have you. Fervently hoping that you catch on to his game.

But most times, this all-white hairy fur ball is quiet, still, and stays close to any human in the house, preferring to lie motionless close to the feet. Or if allowed, to sit on laps, always ready and available for the obligatory coddling and fondling. And yes, including tickling his underside. And he is known to jump into one end of your bed when it's time for you, including him, to go night-night.








And his all-whiteness is interrupted only by the dark spots under his eyes, caused by dried tears. He is continually tearing and once dried, it discolors the fur underneath his eyes.

I know I have been told what kind of pedigreed dog he is.

But for us, he is simply the little Prince.

And yes, Prince is his real given name.

Update:
Prince is a Bichon Frise (pronounced, BEE-shon Free-ZAY).

This breed is typically colored white, but cream, gray or apricot hairs can sometimes be found.

CORRECTION:

Prince may actually be a Maltese, which breed is related to the Bichon Frise. But Maltese are also called Bichon Maltaise. So there you go.

Anything Goes: On The Last Phases Of A Two-month Trip

I hate it when people obligatorily inquire what I have been doing on my extended vacation to the old homeland. For one thing, it has been everything but a vacation; it never was planned as one and all those trips back over these many years never were nor did they develop into anything other than harried working trips.

I am no workaholic, neither am I obsessed with work. But simply because of pressing realities, I have been constrained to take those trips, including this one, to attend to business that required my presence and decisions.

Still, without meaning to random incidents and activities manage to insert themselves unobtrusively into the trip timeline, to spice up a bit what otherwise would be a very serious, somber, and boring succession of business activities that had to be attended to and resolved.

Thus, related hereunder under no specific chronological and/or priorities order, are certain interesting recorded trivia during this trip, enlivened with some pictures.

18th Century Residence














This plaque is prominently and permanently plastered close to the corner side of the building which fronts our old home site in Cagayan de Oro, which family dwelling was earlier demolished to make way for an awkwardly towering three-storey concrete commercial building, made taller by a mezzanine and a partly-roofed roof deck. This historical landmark plaque recognizes and details the importance of this ancient building built in the late 1800s by a local Chinese resident who used imported stone masonry from his old hometown in mainland China, Shipped in the dark and damp hulls of trading ships plying between China and the Philippines, cut stones made of coralline served as the main component of the Chinaman’s residence in what was then a very remote part of the archipelago, in the island of Mindanao. The present building reveals very little traces of the original building since it has over time been plastered over with new materials and has been resourcefully incorporated into a larger and more modern multi-storey commercial building.

The text on the plaque is in the Pilipino language, which I assume does not sit well with the local residents who speak a different dialect, Bisayan. And much like dredging old wounds, it speaks about the heroic deeds of some “revolutionaryos” who fought against the foreign invaders in the early 1900s, and the latter would be the Americans who occupied the entire archipelago after imperial Spain lost the Spanish American War. And morosely reveals that many of these unfortunate “revolutionaryos”, hapless casualties of the resultant war, were buried in the back of this old house on supposedly unmarked graves.

Mountain Grandeur














Pictured here is the tallest crest on the Kitanglad range which sits majestically on the plateau of a province called Bukidnon, which in the dialect means, mountainous. At over 9,000 feet it is proudly ranked as among the top tallest mountain ranges in the entire country, maybe overhauled only by Mount Apo, another tall monument in Davao, way further south in the same island. When the US armed forces still held sway locally, it had maintained a sophisticated tracking system on its peak, euphemistically referred to as a weather station. But now the peak is dotted and punctuated with many commercial pylon structures, though its sublime heights continue to exhibit an almost surreal atmosphere. Nature’s way of obliquely providing cover for many of its grandeur?

We have been quite fortunate that we bought some farmlands that lie just below the foot of this awesome natural wonder. Atop 1100 meters, we are blessed with the cool climate of a temperate country and yet it is no more than an hour away from the jungle-like city bustle toward the north.

Mountain Retreat














And tucked in a cozy ridge liberally planted with green cool pines is the story-book actualization of a mountain retreat – a new subdivision quite unlike many urban development. It has big lot cuts ideal for truck gardening on the side. Aptly named Mountain Pines, its big clubhouse from nowhere is pictured above. And we share our dream images of the stately Kitanglad range with its prospective residents.

A Timely Reminder and A Cause For Hope














Now, what the heck are gravestones, locally referred to as lapidas, doing in this entry?

When one has been away from a place for too long, it is not unusual for stray thoughts to wander into the distant past – of close relatives dead and gone. A quick visit to the local cemetery, or what are now called memorial parks, helps to soothe these aching thoughts. A timely and apt reminder also of one’s oncoming mortality.

But on a more hopeful note, a helpful revelation about how one generation has improved much in terms of lifespan, both expected and actual, does elevate one’s time-worn pulse a bit. My paternal grandfather died at age 54, my father at 57, his younger brother at 55, an older sister at 48, and a cousin died at childbirth.

But my generation has not only set the bar of life higher but many have hurdled way past above it. Hooray!