Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Rising From the Ruins
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
I’ve been away from some of my online haunts lately. My momentum broke because the week began with a flood. Not the knee-deep flood that is the staple in expanding Philippine cities but the run for your life kind of flood that makes you wonder if the sins of mankind have yet again merited another Biblical Great Flood. This time, the story stars not a local Noah but the embattled conman or martyr (depending on your loyalties) from the people’s palace who came recently with a grin and matching relief goods.
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My blog is distinctly missing a Christmas greeting and it’s not because I’m Scrooge in the flesh. Despite appearances, I am a Christmas fanatic. I studied in Catholic schools where every year, traditional tableaux reminded me of whose birthday it was we were celebrating. For some strange reason, I was never chosen to play Mary, Joseph or one of the three kings. The closest I could get to a role in a school tableau was as donkey alternate.
My home situation contributed too to developing holiday eagerness. I grew up in
So if I love Christmas so much, why don’t I have a post about it? I’ve been preoccupied with worldly, economic concerns. A few months before the holidays, a company beside my husband’s workplace announced that it would let go of all of its probationary employees. Of course, that was not pleasant news but that was still too far from home to cause me more than the expected distress at someone else’s misfortune. Two days before Christmas, my husband tells me they’ve all been put on forced leave. For daily paid workers, that’s some kind of “whoa!” That hit home.
No, we are not about to starve, but all of a sudden, the impersonal, intangible statistical figures on unemployment rates, inflation and falling stocks are singing carols at my doorstep. It may soon be my misfortune and not someone else’s. Today we lost the Christmas ham. Tomorrow we could lose the daily bacon.
That’s why Christmas almost flew past me. It’s a good thing I live in the
*Photo from Download Free Pictures
If there’s one thing in the
It’s that time of year when crime rates are at their lowest, when streets enjoy light traffic and when the MILF declares ceasefires without fail. I’m not talking about Christmas. I’m talking about Pacquiao bouts. This last one with Dela Hoya has done all these plus it has made every enterprising Filipino with a cable connection richer by a few hundreds. If Pacquiao wants to help maintain peace here in the south and encourage some small measure of economic health, he could risk his life in the ring more often. That would make him a true heroic martyr worthy of a tin shrine next to Bonifacio’s desecrated one.
A friend who lives in another island is in need of a watcher, not the type whose job is to make sure that his boss’ vote buying really pays off. I mean the type whose job is: (1) to ring for the nurse in case the one being watched inexplicably turns blue, and (2) to satisfy the billing department’s demand for another down payment before the hospital is confronted with the dilemma of whether or not to take hostages.
I had a similar problem when I gave birth but it was more because of my ignorance than the actual lack of a watcher. I didn’t know until past my second decade of existence that patient watchers in Philippine hospitals are a must. Otherwise, patients will discover the true definition of death by neglect. So I went to the hospital by myself in all my pregnant glory to the distress of the staff who told me I needed a watcher immediately unless of course I were capable of lying in the delivery table, paying the bills, buying medicine and checking for spare blood from Red Cross all at the same time. Fortunately for me, I had in-laws who were so grandchild hungry that they didn’t mind watching over the source of what would become the joy of their twilight years.
My sister had pals who were equally as ignorant as I but they had an excuse because they were Europeans on a vacation in the
This begs the question: Are close Filipino family ties partly the result of hospital systems or are hospital systems the result of close family ties? Moreover, is the poverty of the Filipino condition yet again to blame for our need for watchers? What if every member of the family had to work to pay for the hospital bills? Should one volunteer to be unemployed to watch over the hospitalized?
If only my friend’s hospital allows online watchers in the same way that one funeral parlor now allows online wakes, there’d be no problem. Hehe.
I’ve been told that Yahoo Mail is so last decade and that the sosy ones have migrated to Gmail. I’m not exactly the sosy type but @gmail does sound nicer than @yahoo at least until Gmail becomes the next big stale thing five years from now.
So I signed up for a Gmail account and was a little surprised. Apparently my default mode is in Filipino and even if I try to shift to English, I still get the Filipino translation of everything when I check my mail.
Don’t get me wrong. I love the Filipino language. To me, it is one of the softest and most romantic of languages but it feels weird when you attempt to use it in a technical manner and on an online platform. It seems slightly out of place and incomplete. I still can’t get the hang of Mga Bituin and Kahon ng paghahanap and then there’s Mga Chat and Mga Setting. Don’t we have translations for chat, settings, sign-out, inbox, contacts and spam (ano yun, Karne Norte)? Is there no place in our noble tongue for tech talk?
My little trip into Pinoy Gmail just reminded me of how we still haven’t kept up with the virtual trend. While much of the world has completed its online migration, BIR still doesn’t have a more appropriate system for taxing online netizens, schools are still teaching Word and Power Point and small companies still haven’t realized that the future of businesses is in virtual reality.
I can’t blame the structure of our language for being what it is and for not allowing some local versions of foreign words. But I can’t seem to reconcile myself with the idea that there are other aspects of online life that our social systems also do not accommodate.
Maybe I’m just really looking for a genuine Pinoy online experience that doesn’t feel like I left half of my body in some foreign land.
It was reasonable to assume that the day started out on a positive note. The rows of neat tables and boards were laid out in anticipation of an orderly flow of people. They would go in for short chats and go out joyously expectant.
There is only one thing I hate more than fiestas and booze— special occasions and booze. I am not an alcohol drinker but that is not the reason why I have a special aversion for the act of intoxication. I should know better than to discriminate against yellow or brown bloods. I have excellent friends, including my husband, who are fine people who frequently undergo alcohol transfusions.
My husband in particular isn’t someone to complain over. He spends his own money, tiptoes back home in the quiet of the night, prepares his own calming potions, cleans himself up and then sleeps without having to bother me over anything or wake me up for an irrational conversation. If he takes particularly long interpreting the muddled internal map for home, I get a special cholesterol treat from McDonald’s when he does get his map straightened out. It’s an entirely different story though with others who, by virtue of fate and not of choice, I share close ties with.
The first few bottles usually present no problems. If anything else, they seem more jovial and attractive, with their red-tinged cheeks and toothy grins. The third case of six grandes however facilitates the dreaded transformation and because you are related by blood or association, you have no choice but to suffer their perceived heaven or hell, depending on their levels of self-esteem. Those who have life issues from infinity and beyond bombard you with the same sob story you’ve been hearing twelve times a year for ten years. If they are in a particularly good mood, they will engage you in an argument that defies the rules of basic logic. Arguing back, as in my case, would prove that you are truly an even greater fool.
The non-drinker’s saving grace is the omnipresent gem of Philippine entertainment— the videoke. The secret to getting away from a flammable companion is to secretly key in the code to My Way and you will have succeeded in creating a riot over the microphone at which point you can secretly retreat to a darker corner of the room.
But the sigh of relief is short-lived. As soon as the cock starts to crow, they will realize that it is time to retire to their crypts where they must play dead for most of the day or else suffer the pangs of wifely discontent. They drive home at the height of their induced insanity with you in the back seat. You will soon find out that homing pigeons know their way better than the guy on the wheel. It is only by some miracle that you live to see another day.
At noon or in the afternoon, they wake up as if nothing happened. You are left with the strange feeling that the joke was on you.
Thanks to online writing I am fast becoming a Jill of all trades. I’ve learned nearly everything from achieving transcendence to convincing fellow females to go out with me. This week, my assignment has made me an unlikely expert of horse breeds, 75 of them to be exact. Most of these breeds are the result of human intervention. Human meddling in equine affairs has sometimes been so extreme that there have been horses as short as 17 inches and as tall as 6 feet.
Breeders decide which horses can give and deliver reproductive fluids to create horses with physical attributes, performance traits and temperaments that are ideal for whatever specific purpose the breed will be used for. Those that don’t make the cut are culled. That’s just a fancy way of saying Simon (or Wyngard) says they have no talent, earning them unlimited passes to the pastures of the afterlife. Of course, other breeders simply prefer castrating undesirable specimens or locking them away from the company of the opposite gender.
For some strange reason, that is probably the result of my own unusual breeding, horse breeding reminds me of the Olympics. I got the connection after standing on my head for a couple of hours. Try it. The truth is though is that the perceived connection is a hypothetical one. I was wondering if the Olympics could have been used as a “breed” tester of sorts if solid proof had been found to support racist theories. Would the Filipino race have been gradually culled because of the lack of desirable attributes that could lead to a gold medal? As matters stand, most of our champions have already bowed out in
But there is no basis for racist beliefs. The Human Genome Project says we are all 99.9% similar. Although the small fraction that points to our differences may have critical implications in disease treatment, environmental adaptability and PERHAPS even specific task performance (which means slight genetic differences should not be taken lightly in the interest of political correctness), I would like to think that Filipino athletes could have an equal crack at collecting gold in events where we naturally excel in if we had the same opportunity for training as athletes in other countries do. Our failure to go for gold has nothing to do with our “breed.” I highly suspect that if culling had to be imposed, the ones who diverted the funds for sports training should be the first ones in line.
Note: For an interesting account on genetic mapping and the controversy of racial differences, check Race and the Human Genome
Photo Credit: Download-Free-Pictures.com