For Mama

A year ago today I was on a plane back to Manila, the entire time, praying I'd still make it, I'd still see her. Despite not having gotten any sleep the night before, the quiet 8-hour flight offered my worries no reprieve. Two nights back i awoke from a terrible dream of my papa(grandfather) dying, and not the gentle rolling of the waves outside nor the comforting creaks our ship made at the caress of the ocean could put me back to sleep. In my heart I knew something had gone terribly wrong. When we finally hit land I reluctantly checked my phone messages - Mama was very sick, call home as soon as I can. I did just that and knew from the forced calm in my Dad's voice that she hadn't much time to live.

If you've lost a loved one, or... even if you haven't, you'd still have some idea of how it feels like to be struggling against time to make it to their side before they leave. I literally felt sick, queasy, and on the whole unsure whether rushing to the plane's exit hatch at full speed, yanking it open and jumping straight out would get me home that instant or not. But logic is sometimes merciful and the saner bits left of me told me that probably wasn't the best idea. "Hang on, Mama. I'll be home", became a mantra... consciously, subconsciously screaming out of my soul. I tried to remember how she was, tried to dig up old memories and dust them up like grade school books and uniforms you'd keep in boxes in the spare room. I tried... but I was afraid to stop praying for her soul to hold on... for even a few more hours. I remember I'd read from this paranormal book my dad used to have, of one being able to astrally project the soul to loved ones...or other people... if one concentrates enough. I've tried it on numerous occasions, and have always failed. The book said you (the project-or) should be able to communicate with the projectee... be able to see them; but I guess spirits don't do overseas communications. All I could really do was hope...that on some deeper unknown spiritual plane her soul got the message.

I finally reached Manila at about 2100 h; the moment I landed I whispered I'm home. I'd felt... relieved, in some way, for having already arrived at the same soil, but also... overwhelmingly sad. I would have to wait the night to catch the next plane back to the province. And although my luggage and my heart were heavy I couldn't sleep. I tried to pass the night around the city, drinking in its darkness and depravity; but even its most scandalous scenes could not shake my numbness.

I'd been calling home every now and then, hoping her condition would somehow miraculously improve with my arrival, as it sometimes does in sad-happy movies. Nothing has changed, they told me. I wasn't happy, but fair enough, miracles are hard to come by these days. I had to take another 4-hour bus ride to my hometown, happy (under the given circumstances) that I was nearing my objective. For a moment I thought to head straight to the hospital, but I was filthy, and I didn't want to greet mama in that state, so home I headed.

The tricycle neared the house... my heart was hammering like mad at my chest. The place was slowly...carefully shaping itself into a scene I'd always dreaded imagining in the past. I could see the grotesque blue canvas customarily marking a filipino home in mourning, decorate the outside of our house where once Mama's orchid garden colored. I was feeling then lightheaded, cold and clammy. My head said maybe it just meant they were having some form of party. But The tricycle stopped and from outside our gate I could see candles... lighted candles in the daytime, horribly unnatural in the glow's intensity. My aunt...or my grandpa...took me. I could barely remember who it was, because the candlelight blazed ever strongly... ever more prominently in front of me, and everything else was white noise. I knew I'd been too late. I could feel my heart cave in, just collapse under the sheer weight of absence of the person I'd flown home to see. I was angry... I was furious, that she hadn't waited... that she hadn't held on long enough for me to get home. I'd thought my will was strong enough to make her spirit stay... And for a while there I wondered if she loved me enough, or if she loved me at all.

They said her heart gave several times the past few days, but always, she'd struggle to come back. They told me that when they told her I was coming she smiled. They told me she died the night before.. at around 2100 h - the same time our plane touched Philippine soil, the same time I'd said I'm home. The anger drained from me like caffeine after a coffee high, and I felt weary. She did wait for me. I know that. And although logic is merciful, it still fails to explain why the soul holds on to a promise made from a million miles away. It's been a year ago today, and while the rest of the living world turns, I remember Mama. I too will be home someday.

To Mama on her Birthday

I didn't get as much sleep as I hoped I would. All night last night I thought of my family who so graciously felt they needed to inform me of every Filipino dish they'd cooked for my Mama (grandma) and Papa's (grandpa) birthdays. They had crab, grilled jaw of giant fish, unlucky chicken that strayed into the wrong yard on the wrong day, pork, all the yummy goodness I so sorely miss but absolutely do not need (yeah yeah...enough with the fatty jokes).

Mama would have been... what? 78 today? 77? It's sad that I don't even know that simple fact. I think it's because I'm just terrible at dates and ages... and names...and faces... ok so maybe I have premature Alzheimers. No... I think it's because she's always been around all my life... like the mango tree in our front yard. It's been there for so long, God knows how old the damn thing is. But it has always been a constant. All other fruit trees in our yard have fallen... and have been replaced by other fruit trees... the guavas that mama used to lovingly wrap in paper to keep the worms away, have died. Man... those were big-ass guavas. We used to have a coconut tree but it had to be cut down on account of it dropping its nuts at a whim. It didn't even have to be a windy day. We had a cherry tree that had cherries of all the lovely colors of the rainbow in the summer...which we cut off on account of me falling from it. Having fruit trees was convenient if you had a chock-full of kids in the house with nothing to do on lazy afternoons. At least the grownups never worried about us kids stealing fruit from the neighbors. Or we let them think that. As kids there really was no greater thrill than fruit theft.

Now most of these fruits and all of mama's orchids have been replaced by grass and sand and weed...none of us could grow a mad orchid like mama can. It's her birthday today and I honestly can't say how old she would have been. But this is because I never bothered to know. She was there; a constant... something... someone I came home to on Christmas and holidays and school breaks. To me, mama stayed always the same... always there... never growing old. I couldn't tell you how much white hair she had on her head because she always took care to dye it while I watched in fascination as she used a front and back mirror so expertly... when all my spatial coordinates were whacked when I get in front of a mirror. I could not tell you how her skin felt like paper... because she'd always taken the care to lotion up after a bath. I could not tell you how her muscles started to sag at the weight of the years and the mortal body falling hopelessly decrepit under it because everytime I came home from gradeschool...then highschool...and then university...she hugged me so tightly I could only feel her love and joy at my return. I could not tell you how tired she must have felt on Christmas mornings when she had to wake up to make us our hot cocoa, while papa went down to the baker's for our hot pan de sal. Nor can I know how annoying we kids... that's right...like 20 of us... must have been, jumping around her bed when all she needed was peace and quiet for her heart and rest for her tired bones. We never knew because even if sometimes she would yell at us to be quiet she still had on her a smile and a loving touch and the biscuits she kept for us in the afternoon never hurt either.

It's her birthday today and although I try to find solace in prayer and thought and remembrance, I still wish so badly she were still around. If she were I'd never ever miss giving her a single birthday card and a kiss. Thank you. For the cocoa, the white sheets, the mended clothes, the yelling, the embraces, the waiting up, the waiting for us. I would have told her now, Mama... Happy Birthday. How old are you? I never knew because you always tried to hide the years from us.

Photographs are a poor excuse...

Just got back from a trip to Jenolan Caves up at the Blue Mountains. Two days and a half of no contact with the outside world, no phones, no internet... there was just me (and family) and nature. Right now I'm sitting at my computer, looking over the photos I've taken... shot after shot of stones and rock and crystals and fossils, reliving.. no... trying, but failing to recapture the awe of seeing the caves for the first time. The crystal formations were just breathtaking. The cave rooms ranged from the minute to vast domes with high ceilings that rival the Sistine Chapel in its magnificence.
The photo below is sadly one of the best I've taken of the crystals in one of the caves of Jenolan. They are called the "crowned jewels", and rightly so. My photographs hardly do these wonders any justice.


On the second day of our trip i went to 3 different caves, seeing the light of day only briefly for lunch and then back again into worlds unknown. There are over 400 caves in Jenolan, and even now more and more are being discovered. Only a handful of these are sacrificed to the public to satisfy our petty curiosities. I saw underground lakes of the clearest water you wouldn't even know it was there until you look hard at it. The water was just crystal clear, unmoved, untouched... filtered by layer upon layer of earth above. I was looking at and could not help but stare at the fragile shoals and delicate helictites that might have been formed millions..or even billions of years ago.. noone really knows just how ancient these marvels are, and I just felt complete gratitude and thanks and awe wash over me like rain... to the maker of all these, for giving us still the chance to ponder at the unknown and the beautiful. Words and pictures... no camera can capture the beauty of these caves. Thankfully I have memories... but they fade in time and evolve... adding detail, losing grandeur. But there will always be the knowledge of having been there at this one point in time and taking it all in. So if you ever stop to breathe in garden air or bathe in a ray of sun, do say thanks.

constipated

Wow.It has been a while since I last wrote.You'd think it's easier writing when you've all the time in the world to do it. Not particularly so. But I shall try... to relieve this...verbal constipation.
Ugh..must...write..must..
it's easy... one letter at a time..
one word..words become sentences..
sentences..no..phrases..
stutt---stu--stutter..ing
my brain..letters..arrrgghhhh
wwwords..
can'ttt write...
brain
stuck...to.. nothing...

goodbye cruel world

Frozen

I could count with the fingers of just one hand the number of times in a year that I get sick. Today is one of them. As I do all other days I got up at 0540 h, took a minute shower and jumped into my uniform and went to breakfast. But today, unlike other days we had to get suited up for squadron photos up Mt. Ainslie (emphasis on Mt), that means elevation, that means strong winds, that means a good view, that means ass-freezing cold. It was, oh about 1 degree? Felt more like -10 to me. My eyes were watering as I would look stupid closing my eyes for a photo shoot. So, I opened and half smiled while feeling my eyeballs freeze in their sockets. I could barely move my fingers, my face felt like cardboard. My feet... don't even get me started with my feet. They felt dipped in iced water. All in all it wasn't the best photo shoot. By then I felt the beginnings of a cold... aching head, cloggy nose. Thank God for the warm buses that brought us back to the academy. But it doesn't end there. We had to do our physical fitness test (not the highlight of my day) which I passed, miraculously. I was running, sucking in gulps of iced air, feeling the pain but not the good warm burn that normally goes with it. I literally could not feel my legs... and that's not because of the run... I just found that I wasn't sweating at all. I felt like I was wading through icy water. But with a little help from my friends and the Big Guy I did reach that finish line... grudgingly. When I stopped running I just could not breathe, feeling my lungs just staying contracted, feeling all that trapped heat just surging up to my head. I thought this couldn't be good. And it wasn't. Got back to the blocks and sneezed probably 10 times in a span of what? 5 seconds? Hey, that's a record if anything. I'm having a massive headache and a runny nose. The best part is that the day isn't over yet. :(

Nichts ist unmöglich - Nothing is impossible

After class today I got rigged up - reluctantly - to hear the yearly talk to be addressed to the entire academy. I waited in my seat silently psyching myself up to not fall asleep or else I'll get a boot up my ass from every officer standing behind me. A few minutes later a guy in a wheelchair rolled in. His name was Kurt Fearnly. The guy had under-developed legs, being born without a lower spine. At the same time, this guy had won 4 paralympic golds, run probably a thousand marathons, crawled the gruelling 96km Kokoda trail, and has been awarded Young Australian of the Year (you'll have to look him up because I've missed out quite a lot).

I must admit that I'm a bit of a cynic and that I'm my own obsession so I find it hard to find anyone else amazing. But tonight, listening to this guy speak about his experiences and the events that brought him to achieve what he has today, and watching video footages of his races made me change my perspective a little. Never have I been truly inspired. Fearnly's courage, determination, and perseverance were uncanny. He literally crawled through bush and mud and rough ground, down slopes and up hills all because in his mind he just could not not do it. He crawled the 96Km track in 11 days, and everyday seemed harder than the last but each day he got up knowing that it will be over and in the night he would heal so that he could continue the next day.

He said in his speech that being unable to walk has made the choice of pursuing these challenges easier to make, and I suppose that's true. When you're stuck in a high ropes course where the only way down would be to fall and die or plod on towards the finish, it's not fun to choose the latter, but it's the only choice you can make if you want to survive. In this sense a physical diasability should serve to enhance courage. Limitations are not just barriers, they can be motivation to just do or die trying. Another thing he said tonight that I personally identify with was that if he was going to give up his life for something it might as well be something really tough, a challenge really worth the effort. I thought I'd tried my best in college, but now that I think about it I robably didn't, or else I would have achieved so much more; but nonetheless by the end of my senior year I had a whole world of opportunities waiting for me. Did I want to be a doctor? A teacher? a researcher? or... well... a soldier? All these options, all equally good they seemed to me then, and even now I think about the what ifs. Still, we try and face life with minimal regrets. I gave my life up for the military, and so far it has been quite an interesting journey. It has been hard most of the time, but it is not without its perks. I'm able to go to places I'd never even seen myself in, and do things I probably would never have gotten the opportunity to do. I see now that the tougher the climb, the better the view from the top. And every day that we sweat in training just prepares us for something worthwhile in the end.

The Profession of Arms

Another day, another dime; lately I've been feeling the strains of having to work just to barely pass, and the sheer panic when you mull over the day and wonder whether you really are cut out for this shit. Am I just getting too old or are those the pangs of doubt and disillusionment gnawing at my knees, my shins... my sore heels? As I'm running the track for the nth time this week I wonder why I ever leased my life to the state.

In one of the military classes we had a week ago the lecturer stressed upon us the difference between the profession of arms and all other civilian jobs. They say that we uphold the same principles of professionalism, good service, integrity, and responsibility; but why does the military keep such high standards? All professions are expected to clock up early to work, but only in the military can you be charged for being a second late. Doctors are expected to be available when on-call; soldiers are on-call until retirement. Anyone can show up to work in a slightly wrinkled suit, but a misplaced crease on a military uniform can get you extra duties. It just doesn't seem fair, and it isn't. But we do this... the military does this because of the burden of trust placed upon us. While lawyers and policemen can put criminals behind bars; we can virtually blow the crap out of whole masses of insurgents. We are basically given the right to take a life - a job that merits the trust of the people in us as soldiers, as officers, to be firmly ground on what is right and what is just, what is merciful, and oftentimes, what is cruel. And just like continuously trickling droplets of water onto cement dig into and shape it, little habits that enforce discipline will ultimately mold one into a person of steadfast character.

Then again there is to this a more fundamental difference. This is the awareness of our potential losses, and what we have put at stake. What is optional service to all other individuals is demanded of us, that is, our very lives. No, I'm not just talking about dying for God and country on the battlefield. I mean this: Johnny left home at 16 with barely a stubble on his chin, a smattering of maths... and language, well, he wasn't too good at it. Didn't want to work at the local gas station, and guns have always been cool. Joins the army, gets his ass beat for a year, kicks other kids' asses for three. In that time he finds a girlfriend, plus four - the ladies like men in uniform. Little Johnny is a man, out of military school now and is raring to "blow shit up" in Iraq. Two months in the field is nothing like the years of harsh training; it is much harsher. Anticipating a landmine to go boom at every step is nothing like anticipating every blow from an upperclassman; it messes up his spirit. 5 weeks on the job and he gets a call from home. His dad's just died, bad fall. No, he decides to stay. The gunblasts numb his pain; the fear stays his worries. 8 weeks in, girlfriend number one calls to say she saw the discount abortionist, she couldn't possibly raise the kid alone. The night raids become more frequent, his knife slashes the enemy necks a lot deeper. Six months, he pops a few extra rounds into those suicidal fucks just for good measure. Time to go home, Johnny. The world's moved on without him he sees when he gets home. But his world's stopped at every bullet that whizzed by him. He drinks to jumpstart his life, drinks just a little too much. Battery's dead. He remembers the pow pow of the guns and bombs and realizes that he's utterly stuck. The world goes on while his own has stopped.

Giving up our lives doesn't quite stop at that moment of death. That is far too trivial, and we are far too insignificant. Giving up our lives has encompassed giving up little freedoms that had made us part of the normal populace. Self-sacrifice includes giving up memories that could have been made of a sweeter life and a family. But all this we gladly dedicate to mothers and fathers, brothers, sweethearts, friends, comrades, widows, country. I think about this, and I know I'm in the right place.

Hate spreads

In my previous post i have written a few things i'm not proud of saying. A testament to the efficiency of the Phelps in spreading hatred and lies. But no, I don't blame just them. I have allowed myself to sink to their level of evil. The thought sickens me, so I have resolved to let it go and focus on all the beauty and wonder that God has created. I know this may be surprising to some who know me, but yes, I do believe there is a God, and that every tiny detail in our lives, He knows. How we worship I believe is irrelevant; what religion we belong to... really, is too petty compared to the immense magnitude of God. The petty little crimes we do... lies, secrets, thefts, wouldn't they all just be specks in the vastness of His mercy. But then again, who am I to know? and who am I to judge.

To hate mongers(The Phelps)

When I first saw you on YouTube I was shocked. No, I was mortified, that in this world such hatred could exist. I read a lot about serial killers and other such perverts but none of them have by far surpassed your degree of evil. At least they were true to their calling. They killed, thus, they deserve our loathing. But you people, you sanctimonious perverted shits... you who mask yourselves as a church, as believers of God, you are something far far more evil. God is Love. God gave His only son Jesus to die for our sins, and you presume to have the authority on who God hates and loves. God immersed himself with the sinners through Jesus Christ and his disciples, or did you miss that chapter? I am from the Philippines and I am in our Navy, and to know that people... no, monsters, like you have the gall to defile funerals of people who gave their lives for love of their country and all the ideals and freedoms that you enjoy is just sickening. When your children die... those children you brainwash to hold placards screaming hate at insanely and even randomly picked out people, will you still think that that was an act of God? That that was God's justice? When you so self-righteously believe that you are the God's chosen ones. When one of your sweet little children is diagnosed of cancer, or AIDS maybe from a contaminated needle, what will you stand for then? Yes, my country is wracked with poverty, corruption, calamity. Haven't you stopped to think that these street children deserve not your condemnation but your used clothes? your canned food? They do not choose that life. Prostitution, corruption... these things are everywhere. It is in your hearts. I thought i'd seen hatred in genocide, but no... you are something more vile. You, your hate mongering, your idol, Fred Phelps (because that is what he is to you), how long until one of you decide that protesting isn't enough, and that maybe you should start killing. Fred Phelps wished that more had died in every calamity and in those mass shootings. Wow. You put Satan to shame, you sorry old man. When you die the rest of the world will wish you got flayed, your corpse got picked at by ravens and dogs, your testicles mutilated, your eyes which see only hate, plucked out of their sockets, and your tongue which has spread so much evil is ripped from your mouth by dogs.