Transient

This year was off to an exhausting, sputtering start. Towards the end of the previous December we moved (again) and last year's holidays became frenetic, but not because we had succumbed to the trappings of commercialism and had bought senselessly. Moving one's earthly possessions is a task unsuitable for weak bodies and minds. It demands exemplary logistics, interminable patience, and the inexhaustible hope that things shall ultimately right themselves and return to normal.

We've had to move five to six times in the last twenty years or so, and each one put my wife's genius and stamina to the test. She's passed them all with flying colors! I would not know how to survive without her. I'd be totally lost and useless. I feel sorry, though, that I put her through all these, this perennial state of lack and want and enforced mobility. She deserves much better. She never complains, but I always sense her longing for more, for what she truly deserves. She wants to get settled down and not be weary any longer. Unfortunate combinations of my bad decisions, bad luck, and bad timing have led to the loss of my dreams. There simply is no getting them back as everything conspires against it. Time and opportunity lost are lost forever.

Not very unlike my life, this year showed a lot of promise at the start. My wife won a very minor prize in the lottery, and this ignited her superstition that it foreboded a very well-off year ahead. This was somewhat a comforting illusion for me. Desperate men cling to losing propositions. And superstitions. Then an assumably better job seemed to land on my lap. I ended the previous year resolved to taking a gamble and moving on from stagnant work, and for a moment the opportunity presented itself as an answer to my supplications. But then "If it's too good to be true then it most probably isn't" held sway, and the job became my shortest ever. The promising job bolstered our financial confidence temporarily, and we thus ended up with a new car with monthly payments for five years in the garage. Car, like all new cars today, has more technology than is necessary. Overkill, if you ask me. It strongly dissuades me from my tinkering ways, as I might cause some seemingly trivial wire, screw, or nut to come loose or unfasten, thereby rendering the car inoperable. Oh, how I miss our good ole smoke-belcher! Old-school, so easy to maintain in the eleven years it was with us. Never did it let us down or leave us stranded. Not even once. I always managed to keep it running. Occasionally replaced parts here and there, some repairs every now and then, and it always came to life no matter what. Once we complete payments on the technology-riddled car I plan to replace it with something old-school, well-maintained and still reliable, so that I may have some peace of mind. Modernity and technology only apparently make my life better, more bearable and convenient; True, but is the old things that give me anchor. The future doesn't hold a lot of promise for me now, I ascertain, but I can always go back to long gone, happy yesterdays and find some hidden inspiration and perspective. These, I hope, will sustain me until I complete my journey in this life.

I've gotten wind of some people I know, a number of them my contemporaries, who have passed on, falling short of the so-called "ripe old age". I was mildly surprised by some of these occurrences, although for many years now news of death has not jolted or derailed me. I do not mean it hasn't made me feel despondent and miserable because it has, especially when people I hold dear have died; but more like early on I've come to view death as very inevitable, an encounter that will happen sooner or later. Time and this earth move on even when multitudes die. We hardly make a dent in the grand scheme of things. The universe has always existed and will always exist even without our collective dreams and endeavors. I suppose entire worlds have become extinct, and more extinctions are forthcoming, but the whole of Creation couldn't care less. I therefore find it somewhat mysterious (and amusing) that so many among us have an infinite capacity for greed, power, and braggadocio, always wanting and taking more and showing off to the world. It is so addicting. I'm no less guilty, what with the possessions I pine for! When death comes and calls, there is no reprieve or delay, and nothing that we have ever accomplished or possessed or worried about will matter. On life's cessation they all become moot.

It is with this nth realization of this fact that I've developed a taste for another film genre: That of rather old and not-so-old people who make the most of their finite lives. Or at least some of them try. A number of them succeed, and some don't. The latter, though, always manage to find some sort of redemption in the end. I wish that in some ways I can be like these fictional characters, that my previously promising and exciting life now become bland will find some saving grace at the end. It will then have become worth reminiscing.

A New Year

Thankfully, December has passed, and I can now get on with the business of living. While Christmas is not as appealing and magical as it used to be for me, I have to defer to how a large part of humanity observes it. Time seems to stop for a while, most routines are discarded, people become more generous, the disparity between haves and have-nots turns more pronounced, and HOPE is the word of the season. This last one is something the people of this archipelago are famous for. Year in, year out, the surveys report the same thing: Hope is a natural resource in this country, and it appears to have a limitless supply even in the face of everyday crime, natural and man-made disasters, delayed justice, horrendous traffic jams, corrupt politicians and bureaucrats, and hoverboarding priests. I am proud to be among this race of ever hopeful people, although hope has become an on-and-off thing for me, so like the flickering holiday lights I stringed outside our home.

I don't know what to expect this year. It could be that I don't expect anything anymore after years of much expectation and coming up empty-handed. But I hope I can once more breeze through another 365 days quickly and safely, without unpleasant surprises. Of course, I also hope for better things, but at my age and in the light of the history of my life and my prevailing circumstances, "better things" seems to be too grand an aspiration. It will most likely be another year of being preoccupied with day-to-day survival and preserving life and sanity. Money has always been in short supply these past several years, and the trend may well continue this year. A complete upgrade of my fortunes requires nothing short of a miracle. It is becoming easier by the year for me to imagine myself passing away in penury and homelessness. I find comforting the fact that I'm over half a century old now, and it's highly unlikely that I'll go on for another half-century. It's only between sooner or later before the secrets of the universe play out before me like a movie. That'll be the day!

I've been bearded for over a year now. I just decided to stop shaving. That was it. I'm still surprised by how spur-of-the-moment decisions can produce varied outcomes. Positive comments outnumber the negative ones, and so I think I'm going to keep the beard. It also partly obscures my sagging cheeks and neck, two very telltale signs of advancing age. All the more reason for me to keep the beard. In addition, I feel (make that "imagine") that it makes me appear more virile, aggressive, and intimidating, thereby upping my beleaguered self-esteem. This would be the best reason for me to keep the beard. And while I tenaciously cling to my facial hair, I've let go of all manner and measure of hope that I can keep my scalp hair. No amount of cajoling, coaxing, pleading, or massaging can ever bring it back to its former lush glory. The strands become shorter, thinner and sparser by the month, revealing a barren and shiny scalp. It's the reason why I need a haircut more often now. My hair only grows along the sides and at the back of my head. At the top, growth is excruciatingly slow, like how life grinds on sometimes. It advertises my mid-life crisis.

Fortunately (and gratefully) I'm still in good health, and I hope I can exert enough to keep the status quo. I remain disappointed, though, with my mid-section. The paunch and love handles remain, even after vigorous exercising. Ripped abs will remain a distant dream, I suppose. I don't have the luxury of focusing on having them. Life's many other concerns bid for my attention.

For this year, and all throughout the remainder of my life, I believe I'll be very much into sentimentality and nostalgia. Many say it comes with the territory of growing old, and it falls outside of what my beard can cover up or remedy. I'm always on the lookout for photos from my favorite eras, the sixties and seventies, and for kindred souls, people who more or less belong to my generation and with whom I can talk reminiscences. But I'm a baby-boomer among mostly millenials. I'm outnumbered and feel out of place most times. I don't comprehend their flimsy and trivial preoccupations and pursuits, and they don't appreciate my tales of the good old days. There is this generation gap. I can occasionally feel very alone and it can get lonely. But during instances when I act somewhat childish, I manage to put smiles on their faces. They probably think I'm trying to belong through acting their age, when in fact I'm just not acting my age. I allow myself to lose it sometimes, if only to break the monotony of my existence. There might come a time when I may not be able to snap out of it and lose it forever.

Many of those who cared for me as a child, those who delighted in my antics, and who thought they foresaw that I would end up being useful to society and make my family proud, have passed away. Only a handful remain. They are now privy to what I've actually become: A balding, bearded, disillusioned man. I've disappointed them, I think, as much as I've disappointed myself. Or maybe they see me as yet another affirmation that there are only a handful in this life who find what they're looking for, and most of us go through life and the motions of living like souls herded by unseen, uncontrollable forces, always at the mercy of life's whim and caprices.

I've just about completed the painful process of abandoning many of my life-long dreams, physically and figuratively throwing away the final vestiges of aspirations that will never be, those sparks of hope and inspiration that saw me through some of my most discouraging days, the ones that lent color to an otherwise drab existence. I'm replacing them with simple, easy, lackadaisical goals that I can immediately dispose of at the first sign of failure. I don't want to be consumed by my dreams ever again. Dreams are manipulative, wonderful, magical figments of the imagination that can haul you off to previously unheard and unthought of places. Beautiful but dangerous. I steer clear of them now.

Last year in November I again offered masses at the Redemptorist Church in Baclaran to mark Mom's and Benjie's passing away, a ritual I've promised to do yearly as long as I can, until such time I'm no longer physically able to do the task. Going to familiar places where memories hold sway is like traveling back in time: My business done, I lingered for quite some time at the church's left side where the parking area and those ancient trees are. As a light plane passed overhead for a landing at the nearby airport, I instinctively looked up and the sight and sound immediately transported me back to Sunday morning masses. I saw our family standing next to one of the massive, heavy wooden doors, in our Sunday best.

It was last year when I discovered the magic and joys of a new hobby, photography. My son had photography class and we had to procure a used camera for him. I very soon realized that I was more keen than my son in discovering the myriad, magical combinations of lighting, subject, camera, and imagination. I found delight in being able to produce manipulated images from my own brand of reality. As a student of this art and science, I'm quite slow, but diligent. My slowness is deliberate, I think. From experience, the novelty in something newly-learned or newly-acquired wears off quite quickly. I can feel proud of my photographic creations for a while, or find sheer joy in wearing a new wristwatch for weeks, but then everything reverts to my original hunger for something new to possess or experience. So I try not to hurry things up, that I may have these small, simple dreams in my head, dreams I can easily manage and put a stop to if I want.

I took photos of the full moon on Christmas night because it was something of a rarity. The last full moon on a Christmas night happened 38 years ago, when I was 17. At the time I didn't know, and even if I did I most probably couldn't care any less. The phenomenon won't happen again until 2034, and at my age now events of this nature become noteworthy. A lot can and can't happen in the span of 18 years. I may still be very much around by that time to again mark the astronomical rarity, or I may not. The same possibility applies to the people that matter to me. And so I told them about the rarity of this one full moon, and they all happily obliged and looked towards the heavens.

Jeepneys, Spare Parts, and Masses for the Dead, Not Necessarily in this Order

Yesterday was a Saturday and I departed from my routines a bit. I was first off to Pasay City to purchase parts for the family car which, like mortal remains slowly but surely reverting to dust, is being reclaimed by oxidation and wear-and-tear. I marvel at how it can go on, but it almost always sputters to life when one cranks the ignition, and happily takes to life's daily errands, including to places not so affected by the chaos and sickness of urban living. But I know that one of these days it will simply refuse to come to life and want to die like an honourable man, in which case I will have to go on another Saturday trip to Pasay and procure more parts, so I may bring it back to life and put some more years into it. I'm certain Man will go the way of my car: Body parts and organ systems will all become replaceable, and despite the continuing scourge of morbid diseases and illnesses, immortality will be as commonplace as the seven capital sins.

And who wouldn't like to go on forever? I most certainly don't. I believe that knowing we are mere mortals causes us to be as creative and prolific as we can be, fully aware that anything and everything can be over in an instant. This is the case for those who were destined to contribute significant and useful things to humankind. For those of us who are afflicted and suffer from real or imagined illnesses, and from psychological scars, and the sense of futility and hopelessness, mortality brings a welcome respite from it all.

But the responses to the question will be numerous. Immortality should be very attractive to those who have botox injections, lifts, implants, augmentations, and nip tucks; those who have become so used to the trappings of power; those who have amassed fortunes for hundreds of lifetimes. They will never want to die.

I've decided long ago to keep the car for as long as I can, not only because at the moment I simply cannot see how we can afford to buy a new one, but moreso because, like my beloved Aries in the States, it has always been loyal and reliable. These two qualities are treasures, and to dismiss them would be sheer folly.

From the car parts store in Pasay, I proceeded to the Redemptorist Church in Baclaran on foot. Walking was the best option since taking either a bus or jeepney would mean going the long route around the Mall of Asia and the defunct Uniwide Coastal Mall at the vast reclaimed land now called Coastal City. In the 60s, they started reclaiming land from the sea and they began in the area where the CCP, Folk Arts Theater, and PICC now stand. I recall one weekend afternoon when the family drove to the edge of this reclaimed land, where a new beach had formed. The place had become a curiosity to families in search of new destinations in 60s Manila. The sun was still high on the horizon, and I could see the looming outlines of at least two or three huge dredging barges, like prehistoric creatures risen from the sea, blockading Manila Bay. The new beach was almost devoid of any plant life, save for patches of wild grass here and there, and was pockmarked by little and big pools of accumulated water. I saw several dead fish lapped up by small, slow waves. Looking back on that scene now, it could have been and could still be utilized as a scene in an apocalyptic film.

I'm thankful that I remain in good health, making the long, hot, humid walk to the Redemptorist Church, while lugging shock absorbers and other car parts, bearable and somewhat pleasant. I was thrust in a sea of humanity and mercantile activity; a certain quick pace had to be maintained; hesitating or slowing down meant a mass of men, women, and children coming up from behind. I think when one wanted to look at or buy something, then quickly sidestepping, like a deft gymnast or acrobat, into a small corner, out of the way of the flowing current of humanity, was called for.

My business at the church was to offer masses for Mom's and Benjie's third and second death anniversaries, respectively. Life's concerns make me think of them less frequently now, but never less of them. They're part of many of my fond memories. This church also once held Mom's lifelong spiritual devotion, and a great many of her Wednesdays (with me in tow) were spent at this church, walking on her knees, pleading for I didn't know exactly what. Maybe she prayed for things similar to what I pray for now. Or maybe she was just thankful that our family was in one piece; survivors of life's rigours. I never would have been sure. I was just a child during those years, and it was oft told us that children's prayers find more favor in Heaven, and so I wondered what grown-ups like Mom pleaded for. Perhaps because I feel that life could have dealt me a better set of cards, I sometimes think that the rewards of the earth pale in comparison to what we pray for. Judging from my own entreaties, most people probably pray for fantastical things. Age, or probably disappointment from my numerous unanswered prayers, has mellowed the nature of my pleas somewhat. I now mostly pray for the benefit of loved ones and those they love. I probably have two decades more, three at most, before my own mortality takes me. And it might even be tomorrow or next week or next month, who knows? But so like the human that I am, I've inserted some self-benefiting "contract provisions," just in case. God just might find enough humor in them and grant me my wishes.

I kind of welcome these jaunts that happen once or twice a year, as they afford me the chance to go out of my radius of existence which, comparing to the breadth and width of what others have managed, is rather small and constricted. In the course of my over half-century life, I've only twice traveled halfway around the world, and in my country, only once almost along its entire length. That will be it, I suppose. No other distant, earthly journey is coming my way. I want to go further and more often, to see more, but like my love for watches, my love of adventure is sorely hampered by my limited resources.

The major part of my journey to Pasay City and back was in a jeepney, that outdated, inherently dangerous, polluting, uncomfortable, dysfunctional albeit useful relic from post-war Philippines. It continues to be the backbone of the archipelago's public transportation. My earliest recollections have jeepneys in them, the last glimpses of my final hours might have them, too. I might die in one, or be run over by one, considering how unsafe they really are.

Apart from being essential public transport, irreplaceable by buses or commuter trains, or other mass transport systems dreamed up by technocrats, bureaucrats, politicians, and other so-called experts in this country, lawyers included, the jeepney exists as some sort of a laboratory. Humans are subjected to the G-forces of sudden lateral acceleration and deceleration, with dear life maintained only by a grasp bar and prayers. Some hold on to the bar and pray, some either hold on or pray, and some let destiny take its course and do neither. I maintain some sense of caution in myself and hold on to the bar. At times I pray, not for dear life, but for some miraculous fortune that can vastly and immediately improve my existence. Like winning the jackpot in the lottery, for example. And then I wonder if I have a kindred soul in prayer among the other subjects in this moving lab.

Passengers in a jeepney share common destinations and, may I say, possibly common destinies. Traveling at breakneck speed, getting off is almost out of the question, and we thus place our fates in the skills and intentions of a total stranger. Which brings to mind that even with current technology, getting off of this planet en masse is still a dream. And even if we could, would many want to be pioneers in a strange, potentially hostile planet with unknown life forms and environmental patterns? The preference for familiarity is very strong in the majority of the species, man included. We only have one place to call "home," really. I thus wonder why many, myself included, cannot be more tolerant and forgiving.

I believe the world will be a better place if it can take its lessons from riding in a jeepney. Elbow room and leg room are practically unheard of, and on a sweltering day, the passenger cabin is a microcosm of different odors: Sweat, body odor both revolting and pleasant, cheap perfume, bad breath, the liberating scent of an enchanting woman and her newly-washed hair, diesel fumes. There have been instances, however, of beautiful women with beautiful long hair, with a vinegary smell. Could be the women or the hair, I couldn't be certain. And yet, for the entire duration of a trip devoid of any measure of comfort, through Metro Manila's hideous traffic, we are able to tolerate each other and our common inconvenient circumstance. Of course, I've been witness to some lively verbal skirmishes between passengers, but these are quite rare compared to the occasions of total strangers trading banter, sharing well-intentioned advice, as if among old friends. Who was it who said that, "Strangers are nothing more than friends who haven't met?" That was a wise guy there. Maybe he had the occasion to ride in a jeepney.

First Day of School

I've taken today and tomorrow off so I can accompany my son to his first two days of college life, mainly to make sure that he knows how to take public transportation to school and to go back home, and that he is well on his way to being more or less adequately settled and independent for this new phase in his young life. I see other parents like myself, patiently waiting for their wards, a bit annoyed by the sticky heat and humidity, but smug in the thought that they are around when needed. I think it is like this for mostly every young man and woman in our overprotective family culture.

I remember that well before my own initiation into college life, Mom made sure that I was sufficiently equipped to keep pace with other commuters each day, that I knew my final destinations, and that I took jeepneys with the correct signage on their windshields. She drilled me on these things, with almost military precision, going through the actual paces, the actual trips, so I could be familiar with the terrain. The breaks from training were, of course, our side trips to the movie houses, to indulge in her favorite activity. At times, I wondered if part of her eagerness to train me was because it provided her with the opportunity to indulge in her most favorite of pastimes. She was such a cinephile.

Not that I didn't myself enjoy those "celluloid breaks," because I in fact did. I loved walking with Mom along Escolta and Avenida Rizal; Azcarraga and Carriedo, too. Along the two former was more frequent. The first of the latter two was to go to movie houses like Dilson, Hollywood, Podmon, and to as far as Cinerama, at the corner with Quezon Boulevard. Such was Mom's stamina when it came to movies. She didn't socialize much, I mean, comparing her with the regular Filipino housewife who, I calculate, spends a fourth of their lives gossiping, I would say she lived a hermetic existence. She avoided pointless banter as much as possible, and when she got cornered by our nosy neighbors who literally barged into our home to gossip with her, she would lament at the day's end that she finished with her chores rather late due to someone's unwelcome insistence that they waste time together.

When I was about four or five, walking with Mom along Avenida or Azcarraga or Carriedo was always a treat. They were meccas of commerce, with every imaginable merchandise for sale, and people who hawk them. At times, out of sheer naivete, as we walked I picked up some of those small plastic toy trucks and cars that caught my fancy, or else a bundle of pastillas de leche or pastillas de langka. I truly thought I could do things like those, that the toys and pastillas were there for the taking. They weren't, of course, and the concerned tindera or tindero came running after us to inform Mom of my deed. I usually got a scolding right there and then on the sidewalk, and when Dad got home, Mom made sure he was fully briefed on the event. He was quite sure, though, that I didn't have the makings of a bank robber or a public enemy (or a politician, for that matter), hence, his often nonchalant reaction.

His nonchalance, however, was not to be mistaken for indifference. It was born of confidence, the kind he imparted to us children on our first day of school each year. He (and Mom, if circumstances permitted) would be present each first day of the school year, just to check on how we were doing. It was the kind of presence that saw us through our growing up years, the kind that made us feel that assurance and help were always nearby. Even as we now have our own lives, which may or may not be as what they have envisioned, looking back at their selfless act provides us with some measure of peace and some kind of hope. We feel compelled to pass this on to our own children, with the prayer that when the time comes, they too shall carry on with the "tradition," if I may refer to it as such. We are forever grateful.

Plain Transition

For the last three years or so now, I've welcomed the new year rather somberly, without fanfare or great expectations; dully even, and very tame compared to when I was much, much younger, full of hope, morally-upright, adventurous, and inured to the blows of misfortune. I have neither used fireworks, nor had resolutions or superstitious rituals. They never did work for me. Evil and misfortune have not been driven out of the world where I move. They're always there, like some vital organ or appendage.

There remains this faint prayer, though (more of a wish, actually), that I may have the courage to go through another year, despite the lack of anything major to look forward to; that January to December transpires in a blur, in order that despair will be brief, and will not take hold; and, of course, my regular pleas for the welfare and benefit of some people, including promises of heaven and earth in exchange for great riches. Might be that Heaven has become deaf to my supplications, or merely testing my resolve? If the former, then I'm done for the rest of my miserable life; if the latter, I'm hoping that all my senses are sufficiently intact for me to enjoy the coming of good things.

I do not wish to live to a ripe, old age, if that would mean being even partially reliant on another person to move the short distance between points A and B; or to purchase even the most basic of necessities; or to even be only marginally happy. Not for any of these. In fact, there are times when I feel I've outlived my usefulness, and that I should just sit back and watch life go by, and let everyone live as they please, and things happen as they will. The opinionated in me, however, often wants to take to the forefront of things. I always have something to say about something or someone, some good, some bad; and all of them are just opinions, some based on facts and some, merely on harsh criticisms. They maintain my participation in life's affairs. At other times, I'm totally disinterested in whether good or bad happens, or if anything happens at all.

I feel I've lost my desire for lofty dreams. Could this finally be elusive contentment? But I'm not really happy, though. Resigned would be the more appropriate word. I've much simpler pleasures now, because they are all I could afford. Every now and then I hear about other people's successes, and I always say to myself those could have been my own. I pined, planned, and lived for them! There is always the tinge of envy there, to be honest about it.

Life, I think, is simply too big a mystery I'm ill-equipped to understand and appreciate. Like my own set of eyes, my view of it is rather myopic. Thinking about it, I've not been very good at having foresight or being forward-looking. I'm this reflex and instinct person, and couple this with my being emotional and sentimental, they spell frequent disaster. My life seems to be a collection of one impractical decision after another, of one mistake after the next. I can't seem to get it right the first, second, third, or even fourth times. I may have been born to be this crass. I dream impossible dreams, and fight lost causes. I'm a man from La Mancha.

At night, as soon as everything falls silent, I hear those familiar sounds, the ones from when failures and uncertainty began. They're swishing, swooshing, thumping, droning monotones (chiming ones on Sunday mornings and afternoons), pleasing to an extent, and which can lull me to sleep, but not before causing me loneliness and regret. I've branded them "the sounds of being left behind."

I'm pretty certain my sins of commission and omission are among the reasons behind my crippled fortune. I've done some of the nastiest deeds on the planet, and have failed to do some of the most rightful ones. I've also broken many a mirror, and if the superstition holds some water, combining this with my sins would entitle me to more than a single lifetime of bad luck. My prospects are genuinely dim then.

Last new year's eve my son must have noticed my moroseness, and flatly declared that waiting for the new year wasn't as exciting as in years past, that there were less fireworks, fun, and anticipation. I told him that was rubbish. He is going to start college this year, and that marks no less than another exciting stage in his young life. So there. I've not outlived my usefulness yet after all. Someone still looks up to me for guidance and inspiration. I think now my own folks did the same thing. Our life wasn't easy, but at the time it sure looked like it was. They worked their magic and us kids saw life and the world with eyes of amazement and hope. I can't recall seeing them look defeated; pensive, yes, but never hopeless. I think they understood their roles and our expectations of them. They are a hard act to follow. In my eyes they will always be among the finest of the human race.

And so I must remain steadfast, firm in the midst of alternations of hope and hopelessness, with the latter taking a bigger chunk each time in its cycle, and the former gradually becoming unrecognizable and extinct. I must be firm (or at least appear to be), for the sake of those who still think I can pull them through life's quagmires, the small dedicated few who have nary a clue as to my ineptness and unworthiness. I must be around for them for still quite some time.

I'm aware I'm on a journey, as everyone else is. Long ago, I was awed by a lot of things along the way. It was a natural consequence of experiencing things for the very first time. I thought I would never run out of them, but right now I feel I already have. Or maybe there are still some left, and that they are more hidden now, not readily obvious or apparent, and so I have to look harder. There may still be a few laughs out there. Could be. We'll see.

A Fondness for Watches

I don't care at all for jewelry or the like, as I consider them to be women's domain, although from some of my readings, during the earliest days of recorded tribal history here and in other parts of the world, men fancied jewelry, trinkets, ornaments of precious and semi-precious stones and metals, as much as women did, linking these to their social status, or to skills in hunting or waging war. Over time, on the road to present-day, modern man, the jewelry have been replaced with other things, like fiefdoms, harems, slaves, gadgets, liquid assets, fast and exotic cars, and Cialis-aided sexual conquests. But there are those who still cling to the old norms; or maybe not: They're probably just vain or effeminate, or both.

I must admit, though, that up to the age of 11 or 12, I fancied those hand-made rings of either kamagong hardwood or stainless steel that could be bought from souvenir shops at Mines View Park in Baguio City. I bought them, not for looks, but for functionality. I wore them as I considered them handy in case I had to punch someone in the face, and be able to inflict some considerable degree of pain. No, I was not particularly a troublemaker, but I believed there are certain situations in life when you have to make your point using brawn. But my fancy for rings was rather brief, and from then on it was my desire to inflict pain thru other, more creative, more effective means, like hurtful words and deeds, or indifference, for instance. I realized that inflicting pain through pure muscle produces damage that is sharp but rather short-lived. It heals, like all physical wounds do. But the pain and wound from words that cut, and evil deeds that slice, are like stubborn, gangrenous sores that curse lives for good. My modus of hurting has evolved into something finer and more brutal.

And so in the natural process of growing old (though not necessarily becoming more mature), I progressively outgrew stuff, like clothes, games, toys, friends, ideas, beliefs, desires, and even dreams. But never my fascination with wristwatches. I don't know, but maybe I was born with it; it's in my genes. I am firstborn, and my coming into the world may have caused my parents much excitement. Or anxiety. Either way, they may have glanced at their watches more often than was usual, and (allow me to postulate a theory) this might have rubbed off on me as some sort of fetal imprint. I'm not so sure if this has sound scientific basis, but it is one of Man's passions to find every conceivable explanation for everything. It matters not if it proceeds from a logical premise, or is totally insane; there simply has to be one. It seems almost inescapable. Its lack is deemed as ineptitude, or guilt. We always try to explain ourselves, or to blame others, so long as it answers the question of why.

The very first wristwatch I ever owned was a gold-plated, manually-wound, Swiss-made Lyric Galaxie, with a white dial and leather strap. I got it for my 8th birthday, when I was in the third grade. It was rather smallish, perfect for a boy's wrist. It was also one of life's happiest moments, to finally possess my very own wristwatch, to be able to tell time at a glance, to be one with the watch-wearing crowd. I was among the handful in my class who wore a wristwatch, and it made me very proud. I always looked forward to wearing it, the final and most special part of my dressing ritual. I thought it looked becoming on my thin, pale wrist, complementing my entire being with an air of sophistication. I maybe glanced at the time on my wrist every three minutes or so, or whenever I could, always checking if time was ticking as it should, or if a speck of dust obscured its handsome face. Whichever it was, it wasn't really about doing a time check, but plainly wanting to look at the watch and enjoy its every curve and corner. It was actually an obsession.

The Lyric was hard-earned, the result of a promise and a child's determination. Mom promised that if I could tell the time at a glance she would buy me a wristwatch. It was a challenge difficult to pass up, considering my relationship with wristwatches. I then proceeded to perfect my time-telling skills. The drill consisted of being able to tell time instantaneously, knowing which hour is marked by the small hand, even if it's between two numbers, and which minute is marked by the big hand, without counting by fives, "five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five,..." I was drilled (by Mom and Dad, of course) at random times in the day, and at random locations. What time is it now? The question could have popped up as I awoke very early on a school day, with disheveled hair and morning breath and those "funny things" in my eyes Mom called "morning stars;" or as we prepared to leave for Sunday mass, as Dad backed out of the driveway' or as the priest gave his final blessing, signaling the end of the service, which was (and up to now) my favorite part of a church service. I've always thought that the majority of priests dole out long, boring, irrelevant homilies, and to endure an hour or so of it should be considered an act of penance in itself, thus absolving me of my wrongdoings. This is my opinion, of course, and the priests have their own respective ones, and they are always miles apart from mine. I've long stopped looking up to priests and their homilies as sources of inspiration. A good lot of them fraternize with my most hated animals - politicians and their minions - and generously dispense divine blessings to the rich and powerful, for the express purpose of getting favors in return. From these, their deeds, one can come to the conclusion that society's dregs, the impoverished, have limited or difficult access to the promises of Heaven.

I was resolute in winning my prize, and so did my best to pass the drills which lasted for some several months before my 8th birthday. The promise was fulfilled, and the determination, rewarded. The Lyric was on my wrist for the most part of my waking hours; at school, at home, to church, to kin's homes, on errands to the neighborhood sari-sari store, during family meals, and while struggling with homework. About the only place where I didn't wear it was inside the bathroom, I think. I never forgot who were instrumental in providing me with my new-found joy, and was grateful at every opportunity. Mom didn't have to call me twice to run an errand for her, and I shined Dad's office shoes for free. Benjie and I earned 25 centavos for every pair shined, and this was how we earned some money to buy all those things children like to buy from a sari-sari store.

I remember the time when we were invited for dinner by the Ellises at their home in Dasmariñas Village, along Pasay Road at the corner of Pasong Tamo. Jim Ellis was an American expat and was my dad's colleague. Together with his wife, Marsha, and daughter, Julie, they lived out a quite ordinary life in the Philippines. I thought Julie was cute, with her beautiful, expressive eyes framed by prescription glasses. She was blond, too, and was about my age. And I also thought she had the most magnificent toy, a battery-operated television which could automatically feed and show picture slides! I always looked forward to the family being invited over to the Ellis home, as each invite gave me an opportunity to seek out Julie and her toy TV. Not necessarily always in that order, though. Sometimes it was only the toy TV that mattered, at other times, only Julie. I believe I was at that age when my psyche was trying to strike out a balance between toys and the opposite sex, when it was constantly trying to decide which was more important. When I was courting my wife, that same psyche had fully developed, and neither TV programs nor movies, for that matter, held any sway, if you get my drift. I distinctly recall one time, while at the Ellis dinner table, Marsha asked me about my Lyric and who gave it to me. Not wanting to embarrass myself through an inappropriate response, I stared at the food on my plate, as if trying to look for clues and help in the rice and meat morsels. It took me some seconds to answer the very simple question, and our hosts and my folks probably thought I didn't hear, or that I was too shy. Or plain dumb. I took a glance at my Lyric and declared in grammar-perfect, Paco Catholic School English, "My mother and father gave it to me." Hooray.

The Lyric was my reliable accessory for many years, up to the time I graduated from high school. And when the original strap broke (I was about 12), I replaced it with a wide, brown, leather strap, something that was very fashionable in the early 70's. The two were together for something like two years, and when that strap broke (and went out of fashion), I replaced it with something ordinary and mainstream, something made of nylon. Looking back, the watch was a mute witness to some of our family's happiest moments (and sad and difficult ones, too), and to my awkward transition from young boy to early manhood, including my two episodes of being left behind at school and having to walk home, enabling me to discover hitherto hidden strengths, strengths that probably keep me going despite failures, disappointments, and a never-ending procession of gloomy scenarios.

I went through a succession of watches after my very first one, which I was forced to retire due to its glass case developing a crack and then popping out entirely. Mom's elder sister from Canada, whom she called "Diche," and who is also my godmother, presented me with a Timex watch during one of her homecomings. It was gold-plated, had a squarish case, and was self-winding, a technological upgrade from my Lyric. While it was nice, I was not totally faithful to it. I ached for the latest at the time, the Octo electronic digital LED watch. Its face was totally black, and the time was displayed as red, piercing, pulsating digits when one presses one of the two or three protruding crowns. It was space-age! The watch stores along Avenida Rizal each teemed with inventory of the Octo, square and circular cases, gold-plated and stainless ones, all very expensive and out of reach. I made up for my inability to purchase an Octo by making an almost daily detour to Avenida on my way home from the university, to ogle at Octos behind glass display cases. It's the story of my life, I think; always on the outside looking in, never on the inside.

Other watches came into my life, but I haven't been able to keep them all. One, a Titus Jetpower Super with 77 jewels, given by my maternal grandfather to Dad, and which I acquired through a combination of annoying persistence and creativity (actually a trade for my second Lyric Galaxie, also manually-wound but with a stainless steel case and stainless steel bracelet), burned in the Harrison Plaza fire sometime in the late 70's. I left it with a watch repair shop to have the cracked crystal replaced, but I was never able to get it back. Then in 1979, after Mom and Dad's sortie in the U.K.and the U.S., on a combination business and pleasure trip, Benjie and I were the more-than-happy recipients of Citizen LCD watches, the latest at the time. They were elegant, stainless steel, functional beauties, and we wore and showed them off. They don't make them like those anymore. Even Japanese watchmakers have fallen victim to the outsourcing phenomenon, and the Chinese now make or assemble their watches.

I have a dozen or so watches in my small collection, and I'm quite certain I will reach the end of my allotted time without being able to make it significantly sizeable. My dream watches are simply unattainable. Collecting watches isn't really for someone hampered by a lack of funds, definitely not for someone who has to make hard choices between buying watches and putting food on the table. Or who, if he chooses the former, becomes tormented by guilt for quite some time. But I maintain my attachment to watches, and there's no stopping it. Whenever I chance upon a watch store or a display case of watches, I must stop and take a look. It feels as essential as breathing.

One of my prized watches is a Seiko automatic chronograph, with stainless steel case and bracelet. It was a pasalubong from Dad, during one of his overseas trips. He was often on official travel as part of his job. This was in 1980, and this makes the watch rather vintage. I did some homework and discovered that this watch came out in 1969! The watch still keeps good time, having been serviced sometime in the late 90's by a master horologist in Bacoor, Cavite. I first brought the watch to the official service center, but the technician advised me that they no longer had the needed parts for it, and so he referred me to his mentor, one of the country's foremost watch experts.

Another prized watch is a Rado Diastar, black dial, gold-plated case and bracelet, and with small diamonds for numbers. It was a Christmas present from my wife in 1996. She spent a great deal of money on that watch, and although its price seemed incongruous to our economic stature back then (moreso today), it is a testament to how she will go to great lengths to cater to my every desire and whim. I'm one lucky bastard, for sure. And for sure I don't (and never did) deserve one of this world's most wonderful persons. For the reason that I have a most precious gift, I'm wanting in other things, and have failed in many respects. I've always held the belief that no single person is the recipient of every good thing Life has to offer. For each stroke of good fortune, there has to be a failing or misfortune somewhere. For every stroke of genius, there must be a disability or any other debilitation. It is never perfect. There is no perfection. There is always this gnawing need after the latest acquisition or conquest, and it makes our happiness short-lived, and our life, incomplete. Whenever I pine for something, the waiting and the dreaming are, to me, the most exciting parts of the pursuit. I'm still waiting for something, I know, but what?

I know this fondness for watches will be with me up to how old I'm destined to be, until death swallows me up, turning me into dust, but not my watches. If they take an interest, then my children can have my meager collection, and I hope they find either pleasure or utility, or both, in each of these fine, little, exquisite machines.

Heavenly Food

Since it is the holiday season or thereabouts, food will be on the agenda of most, the overnourished and undernourished alike, the overfilled and the continually hungry, the obese and the emaciated. It is the gauge of our happiness and success (or the lack of them); it is one of the repositories of my memories, and the aroma of certain food can bring me back to happier, more hopeful times.

I'm not particularly attracted to artsy food, prepared by chefs and those who pretend to be chefs. I think they're more of form, design, and presentation, rather than delicious taste. I come from a rather big family, and art in food had no place on our table, nor was it practical. Meals were like plates and spoons and forks set down on their respective spots, and on the middle were the big pots of rice and a viand (or ulam, the term in local parlance). Most often, at every meal there was only one ulam, except when we had ginisang munggo, a very versatile dish, I should say, because it is a thickish soup that can do as an ulam on its own. It has become somewhat of a culinary tradition that when you have ginisang munggo you should also have fried fish. At this point I think I can venture a theory on how this tradition came about. Catholicism, the country's dominant faith, observes several Fridays of abstinence from meat, all culminating in the week of Lent. On these Fridays, lunch and dinner at home were unfailingly ginisang munggo and fried fish. I eventually discovered that this tradition was (and still is) observed in Catholic households, including office canteens. I would say this is something unique to Catholic Filipinos, unless someone will tell me otherwise.

There are dishes that I so miss, the ones that I will never ever taste again. Their creators have all passed away. They did not leave their recipes behind, and even if they did, I don't think it'll ever be possible to faithfully re-create any of these simple, nameless masterpieces. Nanay, my maternal grandmother, had this fried chicken I've never tasted anywhere else. She used what we call "native" chicken, free-range, essentially, and consistently ended up with a masterpiece so juicy, tender, and indescribably delicious. And as if this was not enough, she sauteed the chicken's gizzard, heart, and liver to come up with a sauce all her own, not thick or watery, and which I treated as a separate dish that could do tasty justice to hot, freshly-cooked rice. At my age, I consider it prudent to watch what I eat, shying away from anything fatty or greasy, but fried chicken destroys my resolve, like money and power corrupting even the most well-intentioned people. My ongoing love affair with fried chicken is probably a consequence of Nanay's creation, as I subconsciously look for even a semblance to it. Tatay, her better half, could whip up the best garlic fried rice in the grain's culinary history. During instances when fried chicken and garlic fried rice were served together, as a very listless child I became unusually quiet and well-behaved. The closest ever to Tatay's creation is the garlic fried rice that used to be served during breakfast at the Rose Bowl restaurant in Baguio City. And even now I'm not certain that the standards have been kept.

Mom had masterpieces of her own, and one of note was her pindang,her version of beef jerky. She marinated thin beef slices in a recipe only she knows, and quick-fried them in very little oil. Her pindang was perfect for our packed school lunches and family picnics. The same can be said for her pork and chicken adobo, which were unlike any versions I've ever tasted. They were almost dry but not quite,with just enough remaining sauce and oil combined, but not too much as to be watery, just enough to put on rice and have blissful eating. She was also quite an expert with relleno dishes, i.e. stuffing anything with everything good, and I went through my childhood and teenage years savoring her rellenong itlog (egg), rellenong bangus (milkfish), and rellenong alimasag (crab). I remember that Benjie and I were her "assistants" in removing the tiny fish bones from the stuffing for the rellenong bangus, and we cherished the chore as it gave us the opportunity to surreptitiously take choice morsels from the intended stuffing. Mom knew this, of course, and she pretended to scold us, most probably to discourage us from taking more than we should, and decimating the stuffing considerably. And during rainy cold nights, how can I forget her version of picadillo, a delicious steaming broth of beef cutlets, diced potatoes, onions, garlic, and sampalok (tamarind)? I now think that it is not depression I feel on rainy days, but nostalgia for Mom's cooking and those wonderful, carefree years.

My mother-in-law was not to be outdone. I initially labeled her dishes as exotic, because they were totally new to me, and may I add, deliciously so. They were, of course, more of regional dishes, southern Tagalog, the spicy kind. She introduced me to sinantol, grated santol fruit cooked in coconut milk, allowed to simmer until almost totally dry, with all the flavor and spice locked in. Then there was her chicken feet adobo, somewhat glutinous and sticky, and very spicy. Not very appetizing to look at, I have to admit, but once I tasted it, I was hooked. Savory staples of the annual town fiesta and Christmas were her special spare ribs recipe, pininyahang manok (chicken cooked in pineapple), and a soup-dish made with prawns and coconut meat. The recipes of these last three were requested by several people, after having tasted the dishes, so presumably they've found their way into other households, into other parts of the world even, but I'm quite certain only close reproductions were produced, and as with all copies, they do not have (and never will) the "heart and soul" of the original creator.

I think these dishes are forever gone now, the ones who created them having passed away. I'm just thankful I was privileged to know the people behind these magnificent creations. Oh, the delicious and happier times back then! How I wish for them to come back.